The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(77)

“The shipbuilding five years ago on the Sea of Glory,” Charris whispered. “The provisioning levies for more troops than we actually have.”

“Indeed.” Charris heard pride in the Prince’s voice. “With aid from our allies, these ships have all made the long journey ’round the northern continent, through oceans of floating ice and other hazards too fantastic to name. We lost many, but more survived. And now nearly every one has arrived with a bellyful of fierce barbarian warriors. The Kisuati will be most surprised.”

Charris struggled to make his mouth work. “When?”

“They set sail tomorrow. I’m having their resupply rushed as much as possible. Akolil assures me they can make the Iyete Straits in a single day, and be at Kisua’s northeastern coast in an eightday, or perhaps a few days beyond. Much earlier than I’d intended, of course, thanks to Niyes and Kinja and lovely, treacherous Sunandi. And I’d meant to have twenty thousand troops instead of just ten; the rest won’t arrive for weeks or months. But ten should be sufficient for the first wave. Kisua isn’t ready either, after all.”

Charris turned to stare at him, too stunned to censor himself as he normally did. “You really intend to do it. Kisua is twice our size—”

“But we have twice the wealth. And Kisua’s isolationism has earned her enemies among the northern tribes, who resent the way Kisua hoards trade to the south. The northerners became eager to fight once I promised them control of that trade.” The Prince smiled, turning to gaze eastward. “Though I’m not sure I’ll hold to that agreement. All of their troops are going to die, after all. It will be Gujaareh’s swords which ultimately subdue the Kisuati beast.”

“Going to die?” Charris blurted it, trying to think through the numbness of his thoughts. War. On such a scale, war to engulf the whole eastern half of the continent and the northlands as well. Only an eightday away.

“Of course. Our mad friend has developed even faster than I expected, which is fortunate as my hand’s been forced early. Everything hinges on the Reaper.”

And then, suddenly, Charris knew what the Prince was going to do.

He must have gasped, because the Prince gave him a sharp look. Then smiled at his horror.

“Dreamblood,” said the Prince. He clapped Charris on the shoulder, companionably. “In the end, it all comes down to that. No longer will my lineage be slave to the Hetawa. And no longer will Gujaareh be a mere crossroads for trade. We can become the center of a civilization that spans continents, bringing peace and prosperity to all. And I shall give the people a living god, one of flesh and not mere dreams, to worship. Do you understand?”

Charris did. And for an eternal instant as he stood there, Niyes’s treachery paled before his own hunger to draw his sword and strike the Prince down.

But then the urge passed. He was zhinha, a true son of Gujaareh, and the Prince was the Avatar of Hananja. To attack him was more than treason; it was blasphemy. And so he knelt, raising his arms in proper manuflection.

“I understand, my Prince,” he said. “My life is yours.”

“As it has always been,” said the Prince. He turned back, then, to admire the view.





29





Those who honor Hananja are expected to obey Her Law. However, those who dwell in the lands of unbelievers are permitted to conceal their faith as needed to preserve peace.

(Law)





Kisua.

The capital city seemed as unending as the ocean. It was easy to see the shared history with Gujaareh in Kisua’s sun-baked white walls and narrow brick-paved streets, but there the resemblance ended. There were also great sprawling edifices, some four or five stories high. There were gold-leaf lintels, brightly colored tile inlays, and sturdy locked, ornately carved darkwood doors. Vines grew wild over most of the buildings, their flowers scenting the warm, humid air with perfumes so heavy that Nijiri could breathe them blocks away. With the scents mingled strange sounds: raucous laughter and furious arguments, the calls of merchants hawking their wares, lullabies and love songs long since forgotten in Gujaareh. He could taste the city’s three thousand years on his tongue, rich and thick as an elder’s dreams.

Behind him in the curtained chamber, Ehiru slept. He had not spoken since the incident in the desert; he acted only when Nijiri guided him; his eyes tracked nothing, lost in some other realm. On the way into the city, Nijiri had been able to keep Ehiru’s condition hidden from the soldiers, though he suspected Sunandi had noticed. She’d made no protest when he insisted upon sharing quarters with Ehiru, even though her house was large enough to have many guest chambers. The servants had brought food and fresh clothing, then left them undisturbed, giving Nijiri the time and privacy to bathe Ehiru and attend to his own toilette.

So at sunset Nijiri had knelt on the balcony to pray and seek peace within himself. He meditated until the Dreamer rose fully, its four-hued light a comforting and familiar companion. Finally he went into the guest chamber’s bedroom. Ehiru lay amid the translucent hangings, restless despite Nijiri’s dragonfly jungissa on his forehead. Nijiri parted the hangings and sat down beside him, reaching up to remove the jungissa. With his fingertips he traced the frown etched into his mentor’s brow. It seemed there was no peace for Hananja’s favorite even in sleep. There was only one way Ehiru would have peace ever again.