The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(75)
The Kisuati riders split, the bulk of the troop continuing on in pursuit of the Gujaareen while a four veered off and slowed to ride among the minstrels. Sunandi glanced down at Talithele, torn.
“Put me down,” the old woman whispered. Her voice had gone hoarse. “I will be fine.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Sunandi crouched and helped Talithele to lie down amid some sacks of northern herbs, whose savory fragrance did little to cover the smell of death around them. They had left all their lean-tos behind when they broke camp, so she pulled some of the mangled palanquin debris over the pile and jammed one broken pole into the ground, hooking a cloth over its end to give the old woman some shade. Then she turned and raised her fists. One of the Kisuati riders, a lean, large-eyed man with a slashing scar across his face, spurred his horse over to her.
“I am Sunandi Jeh Kalawe, First Voice of the Protectors assigned to Gujaareh,” she called as he drew to a halt. She lifted the sleeve of her robe to reveal the gold band around her bicep, detaching the polished half-orb of agate set into it as a decoration. Its flat side was inscribed with a formal pictoral of a stylized double moon above four trees: the mark of passage granted to all Kisuati high officials.
He raised his eyebrows and said, “You’re a long way from your assignment, Speaker. What happened here? These aren’t the usual bandit scum.”
“Gujaareen soldiers.”
“Gujaareen! But how…?”
“I believe there may be a garrison hidden somewhere in the desert.” She stepped closer, reaching up to put a hand on his saddle. “They attacked to stop me from bringing that secret back to the Protectors, but I have more secrets to deliver, all equally important.”
His eyes widened, then hardened. “You shall deliver them, Speaker. When my captain returns I’ll tell him, and we will escort you to make certain of it.”
“These people need help first. They—” Grief and guilt struck then and she bowed her head. “They have suffered much because of me.”
The lieutenant nodded and signaled his three riders to begin aiding the wounded. Sunandi assisted as much as she could, moving among the minstrels to perform the unpleasant task of sorting the all-but-dead from those who could still be saved.
“You’re not to blame, Nefe.” Gehanu’s voice drew Sunandi out of the numbness. Kanek lay dead across Gehanu’s knees, his chest a mass of red. Tear-tracks had dried on Gehanu’s cheeks. “The people behind this don’t care what they unleash to get what they want. We were just in their way.”
Sunandi sighed and turned away.
*
Barely two fours of their party survived—a third of the number that had started out from Gujaareh. Like a pittance from the gods in compensation for their earlier cruelty, many of the wounded would survive thanks to the Gujaareen in their party. Nijiri revealed to the others that he was a Servant of Hananja and asked for tithes of humors to help heal the wounded. He could perform only simple healing—closing wounds, easing shock—but even that much helped greatly. The three Gujaareen minstrels who’d survived immediately let him put them to sleep and siphon whatever he needed from their dreams. He did not tell them what sort of Servant he was, Sunandi noted, and they did not ask. Nor did they censure him for lying to them, for Servants of Hananja often went in disguise for various reasons. The power of faith, even in Gujaareh’s expatriate children, was strong.
The Kisuati troop returned to report that the Gujaareen soldiers, after a pitched battle, began to turn their swords on themselves when it became clear they would lose. Those who hesitated were cut down or shot by their captain, who managed to mortally wound himself before they disarmed him. He’d died as they tried to question him.
“Those two will be accompanying me as well,” Sunandi said, nodding toward Ehiru and Nijiri. Ehiru sat on some baggage nearby, slumped in apparent exhaustion; Nijiri crouched near him, offering him water. The boy glanced around as they spoke, listening.
The captain assessed them in a glance and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Gujaareen?”
“Yes. I have promised to present them to the Protectors.”
“They might be assassins.”
Sunandi smiled thinly. “I assure you they are not.”
The captain looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “There are plenty of extra horses from the Gujaareen troop. We’ll need some to carry the bodies, but you and your companions may have one each. The rest I’m giving to this caravan to compensate them for their losses.”
“I thank you,” said Gehanu, overhearing and coming over. Her face was dry now, but its lines had deepened. She looked old and tired. “That will help.”
“Gehanu…” Sunandi groped for something to say. Gehanu gave her a weary smile, reaching out to grip her shoulder.
“Go,” she said. “Suffering and death are part of life. We’ll be fine.”
Sunandi’s throat tightened. My fault. She began to turn away, mourning Kanek, and mourning her friendship with Gehanu since it could hardly survive such a blow. But Gehanu made a sound of irritation and abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace. Sunandi stiffened, then could not help bursting into tears, as the captain tactfully withdrew behind them.
“You’re still the daughter of my heart,” whispered Gehanu. She was trembling, Sunandi noticed; trying very hard not to cry herself. “That will never change.”