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.”
He opened his mouth to curse her blasphemy, then recalled the look in the Superior’s eyes when they’d taken Ehiru away in a rogue’s yoke. “Not all the Hetawa.” Oh, that was weak.
“True. You and your mentor, and even the Reaper who took my Lin… you are the victims here. The most pitiful victims of all, because you believe.”
Nijiri stared at her, then finally sat down on a nearby chair. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Maybe you’re right.”
She fell silent, perhaps out of surprise at his agreement, perhaps just respectful of his pain. When she spoke again, she kept her voice soft the way a Gatherer would. “Let him live until tomorrow. Let him hear what the Protectors have to say. I don’t know what sort of information they can give him, but by speaking with them, he could help to seal the breach between my land and yours. Perhaps that will give him some extra measure of peace before…” She hesitated, groping for some delicate way to say it.
“Before he dies,” Nijiri finished for her. He looked her in the eye and offered a bleak smile. “Death does not trouble us, remember.” He focused on Ehiru and sobered. “He will not be pleased with me when he wakes.”
“Endure it,” she said, getting to her feet. “Your kind make decisions about other peoples’ lives—and deaths—all the time, do you not? Perhaps it’s time one of you learned to face the consequences of such decisions, instead of simply killing those who object.”
It was another insult—but there was a note of kindness underlying the acerbity, and he saw in her eyes that this was as near as she could come to a peace offering. He nodded to her; there was no anger left in him now, only grief. “Perhaps it is, Speaker.”
He saw her eyebrows rise at his use of her proper title; after a long moment she returned the nod. “Rest well then, little killer. In the morning the Protectors will see us. Be ready.” She turned and walked out, leaving Nijiri alone with Ehiru and his thoughts.
After a few moments of silence, Nijiri pushed himself up from the chair. Crossing the chamber to Ehiru’s bedside, he lifted the covers and climbed in, nestling himself into the crook of his mentor’s shoulder. Lulled by the steady beat of Ehiru’s heart he slept for the rest of the night—not quite at peace, but blessedly without dreams.
30
All who give of themselves to the Hetawa are entitled to its care and comfort.
Ehiru opened his eyes to the first hint of dawn’s light.
I am still alive, he thought, and despaired.
At his side Nijiri murmured in his sleep. There were dried tear streaks on the boy’s face, Ehiru noted, and spots on his own chest as well. That drove back some of the anguish, for it was selfish of him to forget that his death was also Nijiri’s test. Sighing, he wiped the streaks from Nijiri’s face. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and the boy sighed in response.
The empty ache inside him was gone, filled by the dead soldier’s dreamblood. Yet he felt none of the usual peace or satisfaction that should have come after a Gathering—which was no surprise, since what he had done to the soldier could in no way be called “Gathering.” He closed his eyes and saw again the soldier’s face: angry at first, then terrified as he realized Ehiru’s intent. He remembered the feel of the man’s soul as it struggled to escape his hunger, as ineffectual as a moth fluttering in hand—and that, too, had fired Ehiru’s lust. Even now he shivered to recall his excitement when he’d destroyed that soul, to be rewarded by a dizzying spiral of pleasure whose peak had been more exquisite than anything he had ever experienced in his life. Mere Gathering paled beside it… and that was the proof of his irredeemable corruption. He had taken no such pleasure in killing Charleron of Wenkinsclan. In his heart he laughed, humorlessly and bitterly, at his earlier conceit; had he believed himself too soiled to serve Hananja then? What must She think of the suppurating filth he had become now?
The thought left him too anguished even to weep.
“Brother?” He opened his eyes and saw that Nijiri had woken. The boy’s voice was hoarse, his face puffy. “Are you with me again?”
“Yes.” He fixed his eyes on the mosaic ceiling, unable to meet his apprentice’s gaze directly. Why had the Superior ever made him the boy’s mentor? He had never been fit for such a responsibility.
But Nijiri lowered his eyes, and abruptly Ehiru realized the boy blamed himself for what had happened. “I would have done my duty last night, Brother, but I thought… today… the Protectors…” He faltered again, then took a deep breath and visibly reached for calm. “I thought perhaps you would want to see at least that part of it through.”
“Few dying people have the chance to resolve their affairs,” Ehiru said, keeping his tone neutral. “Gatherers should receive no special privileges in that respect.”