The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(91)
(Law)
Deep beneath Yanya-iyan lay Yanyi-ija-inank, the Earthly Thrones of the Immortal Kings. Row upon row of shelves lined the silent, winding corridors, each shelf housing the funeral urns of Gujaareh’s past Princes. Interspersed among the shelves were murals in embossed lacquer depicting each ruler’s time upon the Throne of Dreams, accompanied by formal pictorals delineating his or her name and accomplishments in Hona-Karekh. In testament to the ambition of Gujaareh’s founders, fewer than half of the shelves and walls had been filled in the thousand years of the city’s existence—this even though many shelves bore the urns of favored spouses, acclaimed soldiers, and other noteworthy folk granted the honor of resting alongside their rulers. It would take thousands more years for the catacombs to fill completely.
But a temporary use for the empty space had been found, Ehiru saw. Three small, hastily constructed cages stood against one of the blank walls, marring the catacombs’ graceful architecture with ugly iron latticework. The sight filled Ehiru with affront even as the soldiers pushed him into one of the cages and locked the door.
Nijiri yelped as a soldier prodded him ungently into the cage after Ehiru. Their hands had not been bound, but the soldiers seemed well aware of the dangers of physical contact with a Gatherer, using the butts of their spears to goad them along. Nijiri glared back at them and rubbed a fresh bruise on the back of one thigh as he crouched beside Ehiru. “What now, Brother?” He sounded tense but calm, and Ehiru suspected that his tension was as much eagerness as fear.
“Now we wait,” Ehiru replied, examining their surroundings while the guards took up duty outside the cage. The cages were nothing more than flat grids of forged iron bars, tied with oiled lengths of twine to form a cube; the door was just a rough sheet of bronze, laid over an opening between the bars. The soldiers had to roll a carved wheel-stone in front of the thing to seal the door. The whole structure had been tied to iron rings set into a nearby wall of the catacombs, because clearly it would list wildly and perhaps fall apart otherwise. Flimsy in appearance, but nevertheless difficult to escape.
The cage nearest theirs was empty, but the furthest cage held one occupant. In the dim torchlight Ehiru could make out no details of the huddled form, which might have been only a pile of rags for all that it moved.
“Just wait?” Nijiri glanced toward the guards outside the cage, raising his eyebrows. They could not speak freely, but there was nothing to be said that their enemies did not already know.
“The Prince will be along soon enough,” Ehiru said.
It did not take long for him to be proven right. After an hour’s passing or so, the soldiers snapped to attention as the halls echoed suddenly with the rumble of chains and massive metal hinges. This was the mechanism which opened the heavy stone doors that sealed the catacombs during floodseason. A gust of fresh air and the jingle of sandals heralded the Prince’s arrival, along with four of the Sunset Guard and the child who bore the Aureole. Two other child-servants trailed behind the guards, each carrying an armload of heavy iron chains.
The Prince, resplendent in armor of bronze scales and a blood-red linen skirt, drew to a halt before the cage.
“Ehiru,” he said, smiling warmly. “I’m pleased to see you again.”
“I am not pleased to see you, Eninket,” Ehiru said. Eninket raised his eyebrows, smile fading.
“I see the Kisuati have filled your head with lies before sending you back to us.” He sighed. “If only you had killed the woman. I could have spared you so much suffering.”
“No more lies, Eninket,” Ehiru snapped. “You have planned war, unprovoked and to suit your own greed, in violation of our every law. I name you corrupt—”
“You name me nothing.” As quickly as the smile had vanished from Eninket’s face, now a glare replaced it. “I should never have left you with the Hetawa, once I learned they had you. Better you had died with all the rest of our siblings than grow up to become another of their puppets.” He stepped closer to the cage, though still not within arm’s reach; Ehiru forced his tense muscles to relax. “Do you know what they did to our father, Ehiru? I saw him grovel once, abject as the most humble servant-caste, at the feet of a Hetawa priest. He begged, he wept, he promised to do whatever they asked, if only they would give him dreamblood. And they gave it to him, laughing at his humiliation.”
Beside Ehiru, Nijiri made a strangled noise. Ehiru frowned, startled out of anger, disbelieving. “No,” he said. “Dreamblood is used for healing.”
Eninket threw back his head and laughed bitterly, the sound echoing throughout the tombs. “Healing?” He spun away, beginning to pace in his anger, fists tight at his sides. “Dreamblood is the greatest secret of power in this land, Ehiru! You and your pathbrothers collect hundreds of tithes every year; do you honestly believe all of them are used just to comfort grieving widows and ease injured farmers’ surgeries?”
Ehiru stared back at him, aware in that instant of a terrible, instinctive dread building in the back of his mind. This was not at all what he had expected. I do not want to know this, he thought.
But Hananja’s will could never be denied.
“Dreamblood is sweeter than any wine or aphrodisiac, more powerful than the purest timbalin,” Eninket said. He had stopped pacing. His voice was edged as a sword—but soft, too. Like a Gatherer’s. “A single draught can heighten the mind, soothe the heart, and make the body impervious to pain, weariness, even age, at least for a short time. But too much too often and even the strongest man begins to crave it. To need it. He will do anything to get more. You know this better than anyone.”