The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(89)

This is what we fight for, Nijiri would think in such moments, waving and smiling at a farm child or pretty maiden. This simple, ordered life was Hananja’s truest peace, which priests of the Hetawa had devoted their lives to protecting for generations. This was what it truly meant to be a Servant of Hananja.

Then he would look at Ehiru and remember what awaited them in Gujaareh, and whatever peace he had found would vanish again.

Thus did he pass the days as the villages became trade-posts, and the trade-posts became towns and smaller cities, and at last on the tenth day the towers and sprawl of Gujaareh’s capital began to grow in the distance.

The barge captain—a former Kisuati army officer—was sanguine about the risks as the crew prepared for the end of its journey. “I’ve smuggled more than my share of contraband through Gujaareh’s gates,” he said to Nijiri as they stacked goods for the tax assessors. “You’re no different from the rest, so relax.”

But Nijiri could not relax. The sight of Gujaareh’s familiar walls had stirred both homesickness and dread within him, and as they drew nearer, the dread grew. This was not dread for the inevitable duty he faced when the time came for Ehiru’s Final Tithe; that particular misery was a steady, omnipresent thing. The new feeling was at once sharper and more alarming.

Troubled and restless, he went to Ehiru, who manned the second longoar so that they could steer more precisely now that other vessels had begun to appear with greater frequency around them. All the river’s traffic had increased as they approached Gujaareh’s gateway port; the crew joked that soon they would be able to cross the river by stepping from boat to boat.

“My heart flutters like a moth in my chest, Brother,” he murmured, taking hold of the pole to assist Ehiru. “I’ve never had a true-seeing, but everything in me is frightened of returning to the city.”

“We have no reason to fear,” Ehiru said, keeping his voice just as low. “No one is looking for us, or at least not here. Gujaareh has grown wealthy by treating traders kindly; we have only to be calm and we should pass the gates with no incident.”

“And once we pass the gates?”

“I would prefer to seek out our pathbrothers, but I don’t know how we can reach them in the Hetawa without others—those I no longer trust, like the Superior—knowing of it.” He looked briefly sour, then sighed. “For now, we have surprise on our side. That will count for something.”

Nijiri frowned, then inhaled. “You mean for us to go to Yanya-iyan directly, then. And do what, Gather the Prince straightaway? Without—”

“Yes, Nijiri,” Ehiru said, throwing him a hard look. “I mean to do just that.”

A Gatherer destroys corruption—and power, if he must, Rabbaneh had said. And he’d been right to remind Nijiri to stop thinking like a servant-caste. True peace required the presence of justice, not just the absence of conflict.

So Nijiri bit his lip, stifled the part of himself that quailed at the idea of doing something so audacious, and set his mind to the task at hand. “We should seek Sister Meliatua,” he said. “She and the Sisters have many allies around the city; they may be able to help us.”

“Hmm.” Ehiru seemed to consider this. “If she can get a message into the Hetawa… or hide a person…” He glanced at Nijiri, and abruptly Nijiri realized what he was thinking.

Nijiri scowled. “You will not enter Yanya-iyan without me.”

Ehiru opened his mouth to argue, then apparently thought better of it. He shook his head, eyes creasing with amusement. “You have become a willful, rude apprentice, Nijiri.”

“I’ve always been so, Brother.” In spite of his mood Nijiri could not help grinning. But the moment was fleeting. Ehiru sobered and gazed out over the water. It wasn’t difficult to guess the direction of his thoughts.

“Ehiru-brother.” Nijiri hesitated, then blurted, “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps you could go before the Council of Paths. If you could face the pranje again, within the peace of the Hetawa—”

Ehiru took one hand off the oar and held it out. Even over the gentle bob of the barge, the tremor in his hand was pronounced. Nijiri caught his breath and Ehiru took hold of the oar once more, gripping it tightly to conceal the tremor.

“You see,” Ehiru said. He turned his gaze to the river; his face was expressionless. “Within another fourday, I shall be as useless to you as I was in the desert. So I must act quickly.”

It had been twelve days since he’d killed the soldier, but already Ehiru’s reservoir was empty again—had probably been empty for days, if his hands were that bad. Shaken, Nijiri resumed turning the oar.

As they drew nearer the city, the river traffic grew thicker yet, forcing them to slow and even stop on occasion as boats gathered into knots and lines leading up to the looming arch of the Blood Gate. The crew murmured in annoyance. Pulling himself out of sorrow enough to pay attention, Nijiri watched as the captain called out to another boat nearby to ask why the traffic was so much worse than usual.

“Heard they’re searching boats,” the man replied with a shrug. “For contraband, maybe, or smuggled goods. Who knows?”

“Mnedza’s Tongue,” said one of the crewmen, frowning. “Why in the shadowlands would they tie up half the river with boat searches? Are they mad? It’ll be Moonset before they go home tonight.”