The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(68)

“Corruption,” Rabbaneh said. He scowled. “On the Sunset Throne.”

“It has happened before,” the Superior said, taking care to keep irony out of his voice. They were already angry enough. “A certain amount of corruption is inherent in any position of power. For the peace of the city we tolerate it. But what is relevant in this case is that the Prince, as a result of our attempt, tasted dreamblood. He demanded more.”

Sonta-i was staring at him with narrowed eyes, perhaps sensing his prevarication. To avoid the Gatherer’s probing gaze, the Superior drank the last of the liqueur, which delved a pleasant fiery trail down his throat.

“You didn’t give it to him?” Rabbaneh’s eyes were wide as he understood—or thought that he understood—the danger. “In quantities sufficient to heal…”

The Superior sighed. “A Prince who can slay his own mother is capable of many things, Gatherer Rabbaneh.”

It took a moment for understanding to sink in for Rabbaneh. When it did he caught his breath. “He would not dare threaten the Hetawa! All Gujaareh would rise up against him.”

“He would never threaten openly. But make no mistake; though the Hetawa and the Sunset Throne purport to share power in the city, along with the highcastes and the military, the Prince is stronger than any one of those groups alone. Ordinarily we have the support of the people to balance this weakness in our favor; any attempt to control the Hetawa, by any power of the city, would be seen as an affront to Hananja Herself. Even the servant-castes would take up arms on our behalf. But in this case, the Prince had a weapon to counter that as well—the weapon we had given him. He would claim that the healing marked the Hetawa’s attempt to control the Throne.”

He saw the quintessential horror of that sink in for both of them. The Hetawa, publicly accused of corruption? Unthinkable. Intolerable. They were both so very, very pure.

“So now the Sunset controls the Hetawa of Hananja.” Sonta-i folded his arms. “Foul as this circumstance is, it doesn’t explain your secret meeting with the Prince in the small hours of the night, like some skulking criminal. Or the fact that the subject of conversation was our brother. You will explain.”

The Superior’s fingers tightened on the glass. Clever Rabbaneh, not just following him but eavesdropping as well. So much for protecting them, then. He prayed their faith would survive the truth. It had taken many years for his own to recover.

“It is in part that Ehiru is his last living brother,” the Superior said. “I believe he enjoys having his brother’s life in his hands at last. The rest of it… Understand, my Gatherer brothers, that even I didn’t realize the lengths to which the Prince was willing to go. I thought if we kept him in dreamblood that would be enough. As Superior, I have all but bathed in corruption—yet always I have tried to keep it from soaking through my own skin. The good of the people, the will of Hananja; these things I have kept foremost in my mind.”

“Corruption is a disease of the soul,” Sonta-i said. The Superior had expected no mercy from him. But when he looked at Rabbaneh and saw the same hardness in the younger Gatherer’s eyes, he knew Hananja’s judgment had fallen upon him at last.

So be it.

“Tell us the rest of it, Superior,” Rabbaneh said, very softly. “Tell it all.”

“Dreamblood,” the Superior said. “In the end, it all comes down to that.”

May Her blessing wash me clean, he thought as he began his final confession, and the Hetawa along with me. May I find the peace in Ina-Karekh that I have never deserved. And may you, my Gatherers, my brothers, find the strength to save us all.





25





The shadows of Ina-Karekh are the place where nightmares dwell, but not their source. Never forget: the shadowlands are not elsewhere. We create them. They are within.

(Wisdom)





The first half of the journey to Kisua had been filled with routine—dawn waking and breakfast followed by twelve sweltering, mind-and body-numbing hours on camelback as they forged their way across the golden dune sea. But then had come Tesa, the halfway point, and after that the routine changed. A new sense of urgency seemed to have gripped Gehanu. She drove the caravan across the desert at a pace that left even the most experienced of the minstrels complaining at the end of the day. They began before dawn and finished well after sunset, stopping only when continuing would have threatened the camels’ health.

Nijiri was thankful, despite his own exhaustion and soreness. Because of the brutal pace, few of the minstrels noticed Ehiru’s shivering despite the day’s heat, or his unfocused stare. Or the prayers that he continually murmured under his breath, a litany against the swirling chaos of sound and vision that had surely begun to overtake his mind. It was the beginning of the pranje—out here in the wild desert, miles from any center of civilization where a suitable tithebearer might be found, with no hope of privacy or solitude to ease the Gatherer’s suffering during Hananja’s test. And surrounded by unbelievers, for even the Gujaareen among the minstrels were the sort who worshipped Hananja only in word and not heart. They would not offer themselves to a Gatherer’s need, no matter how much they revered Hananja’s highest Servants. So what could Nijiri do but lie beside Ehiru at night, whispering prayers to help him focus on reality? By day he rode alongside Ehiru, assisting his brother when he could and using all his guile to turn aside the chance attentions of the minstrels.