The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(78)

Nijiri shifted his hand to lay a finger on each of Ehiru’s eyelids.

Ehiru had failed the pranje’s test. To Gather him now would be a kindness—far kinder than letting him wake to face the enormity of his crime. It was Nijiri’s duty as Ehiru’s apprentice, his duty as a Servant of Hananja. In the Hetawa Ehiru would have been sent onward already. And yet…

Nijiri’s hand trembled.

In the Hetawa Ehiru would not have faced the test in the midst of a battle, surrounded by chaos and enemies. How could the test truly measure his control under such circumstances? Even Nijiri had killed—not with narcomancy, but murder was murder. And because of that, because he had been off protecting a tithebearer-in-abeyance and not attending Ehiru as he should have done, Ehiru had faced his moment of greatest trial with no one to help him. The failure was as much Nijiri’s as his.

“Brother—” He snatched his hand away, overwhelmed by an anguish so intense that its weight seemed to crush him. Pressing his forehead to Ehiru’s he wept helplessly, great racking sobs that echoed throughout the guest chamber and probably beyond, but he was past caring what Sunandi or her servants thought of his grief. He wanted only for Ehiru to wake and shush him and hold him, as he had on that long-ago day when they’d first met. I would die for you, he had thought on that day, and instead he had learned to kill, to walk in dreams, to dance his soul’s joy. He had done it all to make himself worthy of this man, who was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. The closest thing to a lover he had ever wanted. There were no words for what Ehiru was to him; even Sister Meliatua had not fully grasped it. God, perhaps. Far more than Hananja had ever been.

The tears spent themselves after a time. As the tightness in his throat loosened, he pushed himself up, taking deep breaths to try and regain control. Twin streaks of wetness painted Ehiru’s face. Nijiri brushed them away and then did the same to himself.

All the hard-won peace he’d achieved during the evening’s meditation was gone. Sighing, Nijiri got to his feet and rubbed a hand over his hair, turning to pace—and stopping as he saw the silhouette in the doorway. Sunandi.

She walked in without asking to enter, her bare feet making no noise on the woven-grass mats, the moonlight illuminating her face in flashes as she passed near the windows. Though she had probably heard his weeping she made no mention of it, not looking at him as she passed. He was too weary to feel grateful.

When she reached the foot of the bed she stopped, gazing down at Ehiru for a long moment. “Will he die?”

Once upon a time Nijiri would have hated her for that question. Now he only looked away. “Yes.”

“When?”

“When I do my duty.”

“Must it be now?”

“He deliberately took a man’s dreamblood and gave no peace in return. By our laws, there’s no higher crime.”

She sighed, folding her arms. “He sleeps well for a criminal.”

“A minor sleep-spell. If he were himself, I’d never have been able to cast it on him.” He looked down at the jungissa in his hands, turning it by its fragile-seeming wings. It had been owned by countless Gatherers down through the centuries—and before that, the stone from which it had been hewn had flown through the sky, spinning among the gods themselves. Perhaps it had even touched the Dreaming Moon before falling to earth as magic made solid.

“Deprivation has greatly weakened his umblikeh,” he said softly. “The tether that binds a soul to its body, and to the waking world.”

“And now that he is no longer… deprived?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, with time, the tether could heal.”

She threw him a sidelong glance. “He will have no time if you Gather him.”

Nijiri shook his head. “In the Hetawa he might have managed it—over months, in isolation. Out here, amid all this madness…” Nijiri gestured toward the balcony, Kisua, the world. “No. Even leaving aside the matter of his crime, it’s hopeless.”

He felt her eyes on him as he went to the balcony door and leaned against it, gazing out at the city and wishing it were Gujaareh. Wishing too that the Kisuati woman would leave. He had so little time left with Ehiru.

But she said nothing for so long that he finally turned back to see if she was there. And stiffened, for she had dared to sit on Ehiru’s bed, stroking the fuzz of his unshorn hair with one hand.

She glanced up, saw his anger, and smiled. “Forgive my familiarity. He reminds me of someone I once knew and loved dearly.” She took her hand away. “He should have the choice.”

“What?”

“The choice. Of whether to die, when to die. I could accept the terrible things your kind do if you did them only to the willing.”

Nijiri scowled. “You believe he is unwilling? A Gatherer of Hananja?”

She winced. “Perhaps he is willing. Still, his city prepares itself in secret for war, his brother schemes to use evil magic, a Reaper stalks the shadows, and he will live to see none of it resolved. That seems crueler than merely killing him outright.”

Nijiri’s hand clenched on the curtain. “You only want him with us when we stand before the Protectors tomorrow.”

“That I cannot deny. But that serves you as well, for it will help me save both your city and mine. Whatever you might believe, I have no desire to see war between our lands. And too, it pains me to see the two of you suffering like this.” Nijiri made a sound of disbelief, but she ignored him, still gazing at Ehiru. “When he told me about Lin… I hated all your kind. Everyone who uses magic. Now I begin to see that it is your Hetawa that is wicked, and not you.”