The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 3

  He sat up. Beneath this sky the world had turned gray and strange: leached of color, the shadows gone sharp and too deep to see into. As Wanahomen’s outer robe fell away, he saw that all his dusty Banbarra clothing was gone—replaced by a loinskirt of fine tailored linen, a feathered waistcloak, and a collar of lapis teardrops. Clothing befitting a prince.

  “As it should be,” whispered his father’s voice.

  Wanahomen turned. The Banbarra encampment was gone; Charris was gone. Wanahomen’s pallet and fire sat on the filthy bricks of a Gujaareen street, in a high-walled and shadowed alleyway. Near the back of this alley, where the shadows were thickest, a form at once familiar and hideous lurked. Its head listed to one side; he saw the gleam of teeth. And yet—

  “Wanahomen,” the specter whispered.

  He got to his feet, filled with the certainty of dreaming. “Father.”

  “My son, my heir.” The voice was soft, airy, yet Wanahomen would know its timbre anywhere. He bit his lip and took a step closer, wanting to close the distance. Knowing, despite ten years’ absence from Gujaareh, that this desire was foolish. The land of dreams was incomprehensibly vast; it would take aeons for the souls of the dead to fill it. Most of the people seen in dreams were merely reflections of the dreamer’s own thoughts and fears.

  But …

  “My reborn soul.” The shadow of his father shook its head; dirty, limp braids swung back and forth. “Where is the Aureole, Wanahomen? Where is your kingdom?”

  “In enemy hands, Father.” He could hear the hate in his own voice, echoing from the alley’s walls. “They’ve taken everything from me.”

  “Not everything. Not hope. Not Her favor.”

  Wanahomen shook his head, smiling bleakly. “Does She even know me, Father? I’ve made no offerings and enjoyed no blessings for many years.”

  “Blessings will come.” Something in the voice, at once sly and amused, made this less a promise and more a warning. The figure lifted one crooked, palsied finger skyward. “They have come already, see? Such powerful blessings. They will shake all Gujaareh, waking and sleeping, and drown the weak in their own dark dreams. Her suffering knows no limits.”

  Wanahomen looked up at the grinding sky and shivered, though there was no wind. “Do you mean the Goddess? I don’t understand, Father—”

  “Don’t you?” The shadows shifted as the shape lowered its arm to point at Wanahomen, stepping forward enough that the firelight illuminated its flesh at last. Wanahomen’s gorge rose as he saw purple-black sores mottling skin that had once been the pale gold of desert sand. The rot of death? No. These sores looked more like some sort of sickness.

  The thing that had been his father uttered a thick, clotted chuckle. Following its finger, Wanahomen looked down at himself and gasped to see that his own torso bloomed with the same sores. Revolted, he swept his hands down himself to brush them off. But his skin was whole; the sickness was beneath it. Inside him.

  “Hurry,” his father whispered. “You see it has already begun.”

  Wanahomen opened his eyes again. The cavern and the Banbarra were back. The dream was gone.

  No. Unlike most of his countrymen, Wanahomen had never been trained in the techniques of proper dreaming—his father had not permitted it. Yet it seemed some things were innate, training or no training. This much he could feel: some dreams were more than dreams.

  He closed his eyes, but did not sleep again that night.

  3

  The Maiden’s Test

  Tiaanet, daughter of Insurret, maiden of the shunha caste, was legend in Gujaareh. Poets and songstresses had composed hymns in her honor; sculptors and painters used her likeness in their finest work. Those who spoke with her noted that her wit and grace matched her physical beauty, and no one could deny that the household had been run smoothly since her mother apportioned some of the management to her. So too were the family’s investments profitable and well chosen. Some—lovestruck fools, mostly, but a few others besides—whispered that in her perfection, the shunha’s godly ancestors were reborn.

  So it was that as the season of third harvest began, in the tenth year of the Kisuati occupation, word spread throughout the higher castes of a momentous happening: Lady Tiaanet at last sought a husband. No one had expected such restraint from her powerful, influential family—for while women of the shunha rarely married as early as lowcastes or country folk, the river had flooded four times since Tiaanet’s majority at age sixteen. Between her natural gifts and future wealth—for like the Kisuati, the shunha passed inheritance through the motherline—it was virtually guaranteed that every man of worth in the two lands would come calling on the next social occasion. This happened to be the funeral of Lord Khanwer, a cousin to Tiaanet’s father.

  Per tradition, Khanwer’s funeral rites were held at the house of his nearest living relative, culminating in a Moonrise-to-Moonset celebration. In flagrant disregard for shunha tradition, however, it was not Tiaanet’s mother but Tiaanet herself who served as hostess for the event—a great responsibility for so young a maiden, and a terrible scandal. Shunha did not disregard tradition. The elders of the caste would doubtless send her a letter of censure, and she would doubtless visit them to apologize, before continuing to do exactly as she pleased.

  Tiaanet took care to maintain a sedate and graceful pace as she moved among the gathered guests, keeping cups full and conversation flowing. More importantly, she noted the eyes of the male guests, which strayed often to her throughout the evening. On her father’s request she had worn her most alluring gown, linen woven so finely that it was all but sheer, and meticulously pleated so that it conformed to every curve of her body. The men’s lips parted as her unbound breasts swayed beneath the translucent cloth; their gazes lingered on the soft curve of her belly, trying to pick out the dark triangle below. She had seen several of them approach her father throughout the evening, speaking in low, urgent voices and glancing toward her. But her father would only nod politely through these conversations, his smile growing wider with each new proposition as if it were he, and not Tiaanet, to whom they paid court.

  “How tedious this must be for you,” said a white-haired man as Tiaanet refilled his cup. She looked up to find him smiling at her, which surprised her—not for his smile, which was kindly, but for the fact that there was no lust in it.

  “Not so very, my lord,” she replied. A servant approached, offering her a fresh carafe of wine; she nodded thanks and exchanged it for her nearly empty one. “It pleases me to honor the passing of such an esteemed man.”

  “Hmm, yes. The last of the true traditionalists was Khanwer. Gujaareh has lost a champion.” The man sipped the wine and paused to savor its taste for a moment, his eyebrows rising in appreciation. “This is a southern spirit? It’s exquisite.”

  Tiaanet inclined her head. “Daropalm wine, made in Sitiswaya. Rare and difficult to procure, but my father has many Kisuati merchant friends.”

  “How convenient. So many of the nobility are out of favor with our overlords, these days.” He paused for another sip, closing his eyes in pleasure. “Yet I’m told your father was at odds with Khanwer before his death. Surely he was not out of favor?”

  With a sidelong glance, Tiaanet examined the man again, wondering what he was about. Probing for information, certainly, but without knowing his status she could not guess why. Brown as nutwood, neither dark nor pale; he looked like some middling caste rather than nobility, and no lowcaste would have made the guest list. An artist, perhaps. And something about his attire—a plain robe of white hekeh—struck her as out of place amid the finery of all the other guests. Yet he would not have been present if he did not hold some importance in Gujaareen society. Tiaanet knew her father better than that.

  She replied carefully, “Khanwer was kin, my lord.”

  “But of course. You would not speak ill of him to a stranger. Forgive me for prying.” He paused and gave her another of those peculiar, kindly smiles. “You need not call me lord,
by the way.”

  Abruptly her mind bridged the gap. “You are of the Hetawa.”

  He raised both eyebrows and chuckled. “Oh my, that is humbling! I’ve grown accustomed to being recognized these past few years.”

  Not just any templeman, then. Tiaanet bowed low over both flattened hands in apology. “The error is mine. I have often believed that living here in the greenlands, luxurious as our estate is, keeps our family isolated from the important events and personages of the city—”

  The Superior of the Hetawa, leader of the Hananjan faith across every kingdom that honored Her, shook his head at once. “You’ve been a gracious hostess in every way, Lady Tiaanet, especially under the circumstances. How is your mother?”

  “Resting, Superior.”

  “I’m told she’s been ill for some time.” He glanced about and then leaned close to her with such artlessness that every guest in the vicinity must have noticed. “I don’t suppose your father would be amenable to a visit from a Sharer?” he asked in a low voice. “The chronic ailments are often easy to heal. It can be done discreetly.”

  Tiaanet favored him with a cool gaze, warning him off further pursuit of the matter. “We are shunha, Superior.”

  He sighed and straightened. “Well, please inform him of the offer, in any case. He wouldn’t be the first shunha to quietly break tradition.”

  “I shall convey that.” And her father had begun to watch them from across the room. She inclined her head to the man again and turned to leave. “Enjoy the rest of the evening, Superior—”

  “Wait.” He performed another of his too-obvious looks about; this time Tiaanet tensed inwardly, feeling her father’s scrutiny as an almost palpable prickle along her spine. “Tell me, daughter of Insurret. Have you heard anything of how Lord Khanwer died?”

  Ah. A Servant of Hananja might have little taste for women, but secrets? Not even dreamblood could erase that.

  “He died in his sleep, Superior,” she said. She smiled, which caused him to draw back, an uneasy frown flitting across his face. She did not smile often, for this reason. “As every good and faithful follower of Hananja should wish.”

  She walked away then, before he could ask any more awkward questions, and before he could get her into further trouble. Though as she poured wine for the next guest, she caught her father’s cool expression and suspected it was already too late for that.

  Some while later, the last colored sliver of the Dreaming Moon slipped below the horizon, leaving only tiny white Waking Moon and the winking Lesser Suns in the sky. With tradition satisfied, the guests one by one took their leave. Tiaanet saw to those who didn’t feel like making the journey back to the city or their own estates, directing them to the house’s guest chambers while her father exchanged farewells with the rest. Thus it was Tiaanet whom one of the servants approached, whispering that her mother required aid.

  She glanced toward her father; he was engrossed in conversation with two other shunha lords. Nodding to the servant, she headed for the north chamber.

  There were no sounds from within as she stopped at the heavy doorway curtain and nodded to the servants standing watch on either side. “Mother? May I enter?”

  There was no answer, though she had expected none. Passing through the curtain, she found the chamber beyond in complete disarray—cushions and clothing strewn all over, a wooden chest overturned and spilled, one rug flung against the far wall. The oxbow seat near the window, where her mother usually sat, lay on its side. Amid the chaos her mother stood rigid, a small wooden statue of Hananja clenched tight in one fist, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the window. She did not turn as Tiaanet entered.

  Tiaanet bent to pick up a cushion.

  “Leave it,” Insurret said. Tiaanet left the cushion where it lay.

  Keeping her voice low, Tiaanet asked, “Shall I fetch you anything?”

  In profile, her mother’s smile was sharp as a winter-Moon sliver. “Your father, when you’re done with him.”

  “He’s with our guests, Mother.”

  Insurret glanced at Tiaanet over her shoulder. “And you came to see to my needs? Such a good daughter you are. Perhaps someday you’ll have a daughter as fine.”

  Tiaanet said nothing in response to this, waiting. She usually tried not to leave before Insurret dismissed her. A good daughter stayed to do her mother’s bidding.

  “Does your father mean to let your sister out for the party?” Insurret’s smile was venomous. “With so much light and noise, there could be no danger.”

  “Tantufi is in the field house, Mother.” As Insurret well knew.

  “Yes, yes. Another good daughter for me.” Insurret’s eyes abruptly grew vague; her smile faded. “Such good daughters.”

  There was no point to such conversations. Tiaanet sighed and turned to leave. “The servants will clean up in the morning, if you allow. Good night, Mother. In peace—”

  The statue of Hananja struck the wall just past Tiaanet’s head and broke in two. She stopped.

  “Never wish me peace,” Insurret snarled. “Serpent. Fawning whore. Never let the word peace cross your lips in my presence. Do you understand?”

  Tiaanet crouched to collect the pieces of the statue; these she set on a nearby shelf, then crossed her forearms and bowed her head in manuflection as an apology to the Goddess. “Yes, Mother. Good night.”

  Her mother made no reply as she left.

  Outside the room, her father was waiting. She stopped, searching for any signs of anger in his face, but he was watching the curtain of Insurret’s room with a weary expression. “You did well,” he said.

  Tiaanet nodded. It was impossible to do well with Insurret, but there were degrees of success. “Have all the guests been settled?”

  “Yes.” He nodded to the guard servants and offered her his arm, which of course she did not refuse. He began walking her toward her room. “What did the Superior want?”

  “To know how Khanwer died, Father.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That our noble cousin died in his sleep, Father.”

  He laughed, patting her hand. “Good girl. I received many compliments on you this evening.”

  Seeing his good mood, she dared a question. “And how many of those compliments came with offers of marriage?”

  He grinned at her. “Four this evening alone. Auspicious, hmm? And more to come, once the men go home and tally their wealth to see if they’re worthy of you. I’ll keep a few of them dangling awhile, but never fear.” He patted her hand again. “You won’t be wasted on some paltry official or merchant. I have a finer suitor in mind for you.”

  Some Kisuati nobleman? Tiaanet wondered, though she knew better than to ask. That would make her appear interested, eager to leave. Which of course she could not possibly be.

  They turned a corner and entered the corridor that led to her bedchamber.

  “The Superior also offered to send a Sharer for Mother,” she said. Perhaps it would distract him enough. “I reminded him that was not our way.”

  Her father snorted. “The man is a fool. His predecessor, now—that one got things done, which is probably why the Gatherers killed him. Ah, these days the Hetawa is too eager to appear harmless, too conciliatory to the Kisuati and everyone else …” They reached Tiaanet’s door; he turned to her and cupped her cheek. “Enough politics. Are you tired?”

  She made herself smile, wishing that her smiles disturbed him as they did so many others. “Very, Father, after so long an evening.”

  “I understand.” He smiled, pulling aside the curtain for her to enter. “We’ll be quick—and quiet, too, so that our guests don’t wake. Yes?”

  For a fleeting instant, the urge to scream rose in Tiaanet’s mind. The house was full of guests; one cry would alert them all. Had the Superior stayed the night? If she accused her father of corruption in front of him, in front of the guests, the Hetawa would surely investigate. The Gatherers would come. She could show them
poor, damaged little Tantufi as proof; perhaps even Insurret would be lucid enough to confirm her accusations. Perhaps the Gatherers would kill the whole family to rid Gujaareh of such a pestilence. Then Tiaanet and Tantufi could at last be free, one way or another.

  But that urge, like a thousand others of its kind, faded as quickly as it had risen. She had not felt true hope in years. Most days—good days—she felt nothing at all.

  So Tiaanet went into the room and over to the bed, keeping her eyes on the far wall. Behind her, he closed the curtain and came to join her.

  “I love you, Tiaanet,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said.

  “My good girl,” he replied, and leaned down for a good-night kiss.

  4

  Sleeplessness

  Sunandi Jeh Kalawe, Voice of the Kisuati Protectorate and governor of Gujaareh on the Protectors’ behalf, was not a sound sleeper. Any movement woke her during the night. Even a breeze that stirred the bedhangings too often could keep her wide-eyed until dawn. In the years since her marriage she had adapted to this tendency, keeping a pot of watered honey beer on the nightstand, banishing her husband to the sitting room couches whenever he snored, or defecting to those couches herself to avoid disturbing him. She did sleep—just fleetingly, snatching rest in quick, insufficient rations. Sometimes she woke more tired than she had gone to bed.

  Invariably there were nights when soothing drinks and counting by fours did no good. At such times she would go to her study to work so that at least the time would not be wasted. Or she went to the balcony of their apartment in Yanya-iyan to gaze up at the Dreaming Moon, drinking in her silvery, multihued light and thinking of nothing.