He reached out and caressed Una-une’s bowed head with a tenderness that had nothing to do with affection.
“When our armies and those of Kisua meet on the battlefield,” Eninket continued, “their bloodlust and pain will draw the Reaper’s hunger like a moth to flame. But this moth will devour the flame, and through him so shall I. Una-une will die at last, burned out by the power… but I shall become as eternal as a god.” He paused, then gazed at Ehiru for a long solemn moment. “Then, however, I will need a new Reaper.”
Ehiru’s blood turned to stone.
With a soft sigh, Eninket turned away. “Rest well, Brother,” he said. “I’ll be back from Kite-iyan when the war is done. The guards will inform me when the necessary changes have taken place in you.” He started to leave, then paused and glanced at Nijiri. “You may think this no kindness… but at least the boy will be a willing first victim.”
With that, the Prince of Gujaareh walked away, gesturing for all the guards, even the ones who’d caged them, to follow. The children hooded the Reaper and coaxed it to its feet. It shuffled away between them, docile for the moment.
“Eninket,” Ehiru whispered. He did not know if it was a curse or a plea. If Eninket heard, he gave no sign.
The great stone doors rumbled shut once more, sealing them within the tomb.
FOURTH INTERLUDE
Have you fathomed the secret yet? The thread of folly that eventually wove our doom?
There is a reason we Servants of Hananja vow celibacy. There is a reason the Princes were leashed. These were raindrops in a waterfall, a grain of sand flung at a storm, but we tried. True dreamers are both geniuses and madmen. Most lands can tolerate only a few, and those die young. We encouraged ours, nurtured them, kept them healthy and happy. We filled a city with them and praised our own greatness. Do you understand just how beautiful, and how dangerous, that was?
And yes, I knew. I’ve told you I was a talekeeper; I have always known the answers to these questions. We train our children to keep their own counsel. When I became a Gatherer, I watched, and would have spoken if the need had come. Fortunately there is no need. Is there?
Is there?
Ah, Superior, even without speaking, you are a poor liar.
Will you tell my brethren, at least, that I died? Ehiru. I should have told these tales to him, not you… but he has always been fragile, despite his strength. His faith sustains him—and faith is so easy to break.
So tell him I died. It will be true by the time you’re done with me. And tell him that I love him. He’ll need that in the time to come. And those words, I know, will be true until dreams end.
35
Speak all prayers in Sua, the tongue of the motherland, that we may remember always who we were.
Speak of all dreams in our own tongue, that we may embrace who we become.
Amid the thrones of the dead, the pranje begins.
The first day.
“I’m not afraid, Brother. I can help you—”
“St-stay away from me.”
The first night: metal scrapes against oiled twine.
“What are you doing?”
“Forgive me for waking you. I thought perhaps I could cut some of the knots holding the ironwork together. If we can get out of this cage…”
Silence for a moment. “That was your hipstrap-clasp. The one your mother gave you.”
“It was a child’s thing.” More scraping. “Are you thirsty, Brother? There’s water, though no food.”
“No.”
“You haven’t drunk since—”
“No.”
After a sigh, the scraping resumes.
The second day: morning, or what passes for such among the thrones of the dead. Slow, even breathing overlaid by whispered prayer.
“Forgive me, forgive me, Hananja I beg You, I should have offered You my tithe after the Bromarte, I know it now, forgive my pride and selfishness, please please please do not let me kill him.”
The second day: afternoon. A brief draught of fresh air and the fading echoes of guards’ boots.
“At least we won’t starve. Here, Brother.”
“I want nothing.”
Silence.
A reluctant sigh.
“Now drink. Your mind will fight harder if your body’s healthy.”
“Have you forgotten your promise, Nijiri?”
“… No, Brother.”
“Then why do you delay? You see what must be done.”
“I see that you must eat and drink, and when our meal is done you must pray with me, and then while you meditate I’ll resume work on those twine hinges. It may take several days, but I think—”
Unnatural fury splits the air. “Foolish, wicked child! Do you enjoy my suffering? Will you force me to perform another of those—perverted—”
“I want anything but your suffering, Brother. But if you take me it will be a true Gathering, because I offer myself willingly.”
“Already my thoughts… the visions… I cannot…” A deep breath, a struggle for calm. “You gave your word, Nijiri.”
“Have you considered what will happen if I take you, Brother?”
“What?”
“It might take longer with me—or it might go faster. I don’t have your strength. But in the end, one Reaper will be as good as another to the Prince.”
Long and terrible silence.
“Drink, Brother. When we’ve won our way free—and when there’s no chance of either of us becoming the Prince’s plaything—then I will send you to Her. That I vow, with everything that I am.”
The second night: silence in the halls of the dead, but for scraping.
The third day: morning. Harsh and shaky breath.
“Brother?”
“The bars. They constrict. They, they will crush us.”
“No, Brother. It was a vision—”
“I saw them.”
“Then come sit beside me. Death is nothing to fear, is it? Over here, the bars will take less time to reach us. Come.”
Sandals shift on stone, slowly and reluctantly.
“Good. Feel my hand. I have calluses now, do you see? Camel reins, barge-rowing, twine-scraping… who knew the life of a Gatherer would be so hard? Gods, I should’ve stayed a servant-caste.”
“You.” The voice is gravel, groping for itself. “You are… too willful for that. You would’ve been… forced to find a new master every other day.”
A rich chuckle. “Too true, Brother. I should be grateful at least that the Hetawa doesn’t beat its children.”
The harsh breathing stutters, then slows, calming.
After a long while—“Thank you.”
No response, although a voice begins to hum a gentle, comforting hymn.