“Boys his age will have their secrets, pathbrother. Even we are permitted a few of those.”
With a soft sigh that was not—quite, Nijiri thought—disappointed, Sonta-i released him. “Very well; I agree.”
“And we know Ehiru’s feeling on the matter.” Rabbaneh clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at the Superior with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.
“He meant well, I suppose,” the Superior said, nodding, though Nijiri heard a hint of reluctance in his voice. “And peace was achieved among the acolytes, if by unorthodox means, and if only temporarily.”
“He’s still young.” Rabbaneh shrugged, his smile returning at last. “If we had nothing to teach him, what need would he have of us?”
“What, Gatherer?” Nijiri had begun to feel very stupid.
At this, even the Superior looked amused. “A necessary final test, Nijiri. There is peace in submission, but sometimes greater peace—lasting peace—in resistance. We needed to know that you understood this.” He shrugged. “There are many paths to peace.”
“We shall simply have to teach you to think farther ahead on that path, Apprentice,” Rabbaneh added, smiling again.
Apprentice. Apprentice. Nijiri stood there, trembling; he barely noticed when Sonta-i shrugged as if losing interest and stalked away, returning to the Superior’s side. Apprentice!
He wanted, very much, to leap into the air and shout, which would have been not only a mistake, but an offense to Hananja, here in Her hall. So instead he stammered, trembling for a moment with the effort to control his joy, “You honor me, Gatherers, to bring—to consider—” He couldn’t think enough to form words.
“Yes, yes.” The Superior glanced at the Hall’s narrow, prism-glass windows, beyond which the sun’s light still marked the western sky. The Dreamer had not yet risen. When it did, the Hall would fill with its silvered light, refracted further still by the windows into shifting, layered colors. That would help the moontear vines, which would not otherwise bloom indoors. “Please rise; we still have your oathtaking ceremony to complete, and then the Gatherers’ dedication. And there’s an additional matter we need to discuss.”
Nijiri swallowed and nodded, feeling quite as though he could deal with anything now. He struggled not to grin like a fool. “Y-yes. What matter, Superior?”
“Ehiru,” said the Superior. “You may have noticed his absence.”
The Superior’s grim air—and its sudden, sober echo on Rabbaneh’s face—abruptly made Nijiri realize that Ehiru was not just away on Gatherer business.
“He is indisposed,” Sonta-i said, “because two nights previous to this, he mishandled a Gathering. The umblikeh was severed before the tithebearer could be pulled from the shadowlands; the soul was lost in the realms between waking and dreaming. What dreamblood could be Gathered was too tainted with fear and pain to be given to the Sharers for distribution.”
Nijiri inhaled, stricken. No Gatherer had mishandled a soul in his lifetime. It happened, and everyone knew it; Gatherers were fallible mortal men, not gods. But for Ehiru, who had never failed to carry a soul to peace, to falter now—Nijiri licked his lips. “And the Gatherer?” He cannot have chosen to end his service, not yet. The whole city would be in mourning if he had. They would not be talking to me of him if he had.
Sonta-i shook his head, and Nijiri’s belly tightened. But then he added, “Ehiru has chosen to seclude himself so that he may pray and seek peace. We believe he will choose to remain among us, for now, but…” He sighed, looking abruptly weary. “Well. What are your thoughts on the matter?”
Nijiri started. “My thoughts?”
“He was to have been your mentor,” said Rabbaneh. “He is, after all, the most experienced of us now that Una-une has gone into dreaming. An apprentice should learn from the best. But given Ehiru’s lapse…” He grimaced delicately, as if to apologize for his indelicate words. “So. Who is your choice, to replace him? Sonta-i, or me?”
Relief spread through Nijiri—and with it came a curious sort of eagerness, not dissimilar from what he had felt in the sparring circle, facing four Sentinels. Of this, if nothing else, he was certain. “If I was to be Ehiru’s, Gatherer, then I will stay Ehiru’s.”
Rabbaneh raised his eyebrows. “A Gatherer can take months, or years, to recover from such a lapse, Apprentice. If he recovers. For Ehiru in particular this incident has been a blow. He’s convinced that he is no longer worthy to be a Gatherer.” Rabbaneh sighed faintly. “We’re all prone to pride. But perhaps you should reconsider.”
Rabbaneh and Sonta-i were trying to do right by him, Nijiri reminded himself; they meant well. They did not understand that Nijiri had made his choice ten years before, on a humid afternoon thick with the stench of suffering. Ehiru had shown him the way to true peace that day. He had taught Nijiri the beauty of pain, and that love meant doing what was best for others. Whether they wanted it or not.
How could he not repay Ehiru for that revelation, now that the chance had finally come?
“I will be Ehiru’s,” he repeated, softly this time. “I’ll be whatever he needs, until the day he needs me no longer.”
And he would fight Hananja Herself, if he had to, to keep that day at bay.
4
It is the duty of the shunha to uphold tradition. It is the duty of the zhinha to challenge tradition.
General Niyes’s home was in the spice district, where the evening breezes smelled of cinnamon and inim-teh seed. The house had been built Kisuati-style, with a roofed sitting area in the side-yard, and elaborate patterns laid in colored tile about the front door—though the ubiquitous Gujaareen river clay, sun-baked to near-white, covered the outer walls. A necessity, in this land of yearly floods; the clay kept the water from soaking the house’s support beams. Still, the design was familiar enough in style and function that Sunandi felt right at home as she stepped out of the carriage.
The additional sight of the general’s family, all of whom stood waiting on the steps, reinforced the illusion. The general himself was beaming in open welcome, a far cry from the usual Gujaareen reserve. His two children wore brightly-colored Kisuati wraps, though the boy had fastened his at the hip rather than in front as was proper. By her elaborately coiffed and beaded hair, Sunandi judged that the heavyset woman beside the general was his wife. Likely the only one, since the shunha nobility of Gujaareh prided themselves on maintaining the traditions of their Kisuati motherland.
“Speaker, we welcome you to our home.” The woman spoke in flawless formal Sua; Sunandi was pleased by the use of her proper title. “I am Lumanthe. You will be my daughter for the evening, and my family your own.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome, Lumanthe-mother. With this beautiful home and such perfect guest-custom, you might even tempt me to stay!” Sunandi grinned, too pleased to keep to tradition. Lumanthe raised eyebrows in surprise and then laughed, shedding her own formality just as easily.
“It must be difficult for you, Nandi-daughter, living here among the half-barbarian folk of this land.” Lumanthe moved to stand beside Sunandi, taking her arm companionably. “It’s hard enough for we who keep the old ways, but at least this is home for us.”
“Not so difficult. After my apprenticeship with Master Seh Kalabsha I spent three years as the Protectors’ Voice in Charad-dinh.” She smiled. “Gujaareh at least has proper baths. In Charad-dinh I had to bathe in the local waterfall. It was very beautiful, but very cold!”