The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(70)

“How dare you use him for your… your…” He groped for the words, almost too outraged to speak. “Your filthy, corrupt games—”

“Lower your voice, little fool!”

He did so immediately, his anger chilling as he noticed the curious glances of the other caravanners and realized his outburst had been overheard. But he let his gaze show his loathing, glaring at the woman as he would never have done at a Sister. “If only he would revoke your abeyance,” he said. He kept his tone gentle, though the words were vicious. “That would save him. But he’s too honorable to take even the likes of you without being sure of your corruption.”

She smiled, and in spite of himself he was amazed by her steel. “And I appreciate that consideration,” she said, “which is why I’m willing to help you save him. He needs death, yes? There’s a hospital—think of it as a temple, but only for healing and not worship—in the town of Tenasucheh, just on the other side of the Kisuati border. I can bring him there, speak to the healers. If he kills someone already dying I may be able to justify that to the Protectors.”

To save Ehiru-brother— Hope, after so many days without it, struck so fiercely that it seemed to burn in Nijiri’s belly. “It must be someone willing to die. Otherwise he may refuse.”

Her eyes rolled. “Willing, then. Though a dying man should not be so picky.”

“He’s not like you. To a Gatherer, death is a blessing.”

“But not to you.” She gave him a cold, knowing smile; he flinched. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. You would do anything to keep him alive—so you shall take this chance, even though you despise me. And then you shall stand beside him in the Protectors’ Hall and beg them for help, knowing that your every word increases my power. Then they will listen to me even though I’m only Kinja’s too-young, unseasoned daughter. We must use one another now, little killer, if we are both to achieve our goals.”

Nijiri flinched at her words and their implications—far beyond the petty schemes she imagined. It was as the Teachers, even lecherous Omin, had warned him: those who consort with the corrupt eventually become corrupt themselves. Evil was the most contagious of diseases, so virulent that no herb, surgery, or dream-humor could cure it. One’s sense of what was normal, acceptable, became distorted by proximity to wrongness; entire nations had succumbed this way, first to decadence, then collapse. Sunandi, and perhaps all Kisua, was well advanced in the throes—and now she had spat this sickness onto Nijiri. Only his will would determine whether the sickness passed and left him stronger, or consumed him wholly.

But he would keep others’ needs foremost in his thoughts, as Gatherer Rabbaneh had taught him. He would risk corruption, if that was what it took, to see that peace was restored and justice done. Because that was what a Gatherer did. And if it cost his soul to do so… well, at least he might save Ehiru. That, alone, would be worth it.

“So be it.” He turned away to go tell Ehiru the news. Perhaps, knowing that this hospital was near, his brother could hold out a little longer. But then he stopped.

Ehiru was on his feet. He had stepped out of the makeshift lean-to that the minstrels used to shield themselves from sun at the midday rest, and stood now facing north. To Nijiri’s eye the deterioration was obvious in the way that Ehiru swayed slightly as he stood, and in the hollows of his face; he had no appetite these days. But his back was straight and his eyes—though dimmed at the moment by a slight confusion, as though he doubted something he saw—were for the moment lucid. Nijiri felt hope rise a notch higher. Surely Ehiru could last another day or two.

“Something is out there,” Ehiru said suddenly. The minstrels glanced around at him in surprise. He took another step onto the hot, rocky sand. “Someone is coming.”

Nijiri went to him, Sunandi forgotten as he touched his brother’s arm and spoke in a low voice. “Is it a vision, Brother? Tell me what you see.”

“Evil,” Ehiru said, and for a sick instant Nijiri wondered if Ehiru spoke of him. But the Gatherer’s eyes were fixed on the horizon.

“No. Gods, no.” The Kisuati woman stood nearby; Nijiri saw that her eyes too had fixed on the horizon. Puzzled, Nijiri followed their gazes and finally saw for himself: a row of dust-shrouded specks amid the wavering heat-lines, flickering and solidifying and flickering again—but growing closer.

“Evil, and blood,” Ehiru said, and then he turned to Nijiri. “We should run.”





26





A Gatherer shall submit himself to Her test once per year. He shall purge himself of all tithes, and travel between dreaming and waking with only Her favor to guide him. He shall endure in this state for three nights, or until death draws nigh. At the height of this test, he shall be attended by one who does not begrudge Hananja’s tithe. If even once the Gatherer claims Her tithe for his own selfish desires, he shall fail.

(Law)





In the borderlands between Ina-Karekh and Hona-Karekh, a voice whispers.

For a time Ehiru could ignore the voice, as he had long ago learned to do. Deny a vision and it has no power. This one is easy to deny. It is soft, sometimes inaudible, rambling and gibbering when he can hear it. But it never stops, and every so often it says something so provocative that he cannot help responding.