The third was a small jar of scented oil, which he sniffed and nearly dropped in amazement. Myrrh; could it be? But there was no mistaking the fragrance. Such an expensive gift could only have come from his soon-to-be pathbrothers. And that, no doubt, had been how the other acolytes guessed the news; one of them would’ve been dispatched to bring the gift to Nijiri’s cell, and that one had apparently gossiped the whole way. Nijiri grinned to himself.
The fourth gift was a tiny statue of the Sun in his human form, carved in darkwood and polished to a fine gloss, right down to the prominent erect penis that any Sun statue bore. A popular gift between lovers.
Furious, Nijiri threw the thing across the room so hard that it broke in four pieces.
All his pleasure at passing the final test had soured, thanks to one tasteless, ill-considered gift. What did the other acolytes think of that? he wondered bitterly. But with the sunset hour coming, it was either go now or be late to his own oathtaking. So, fury banked if not fully extinguished, Nijiri hastily dressed in a plain loinskirt and sandals, though he also took the time to dab himself with the myrrh-oil and apply a bit of kohl to his eyes. It would not do to look ungroomed, or ungrateful for his new brothers’ gift.
The Hall of Blessings—the massive, graceful pylon of sandstone and silver-veined granite that served as the entry to the Hetawa’s complex of buildings—normally stood open to the public. As the main temple of Hananja in Gujaareh, and the only one within the walls of the capital city, the Hetawa was unique in housing only priests, acolytes, and those children who had been dedicated to the Goddess’s care. Layfolk in Hananja’s service were permitted to visit, but did not dwell within its walls. The lesser business of the Hetawa was conducted elsewhere in the city: schools for teaching children dreaming, law and wisdom, writing, and figuring; storehouses where tithes of money or goods were tallied; more. So during an allotted period by day, and again in the small hours of the morning for those who worked at night, the Hall was busy as the faithful came to do Hananja’s greater work. They offered their prayers and dreams to Hananja, submitted commissions for healing or the Gathering of relatives, or obtained healing themselves for illnesses or physical complaints. Thus did all Gujaareh find peace. But at sunset, the Hall closed for all public purposes save dire need, so that each path of Hananja’s servants could take its own communion with the Goddess of Dreams.
As Nijiri arrived, he found the Superior waiting on the tiered dais at the Hall’s heart. Flanking him were the same two Gatherers—and behind them, above them, loomed the great nightstone statue of Hananja Herself. Nijiri fixed his gaze on the statue as he approached, trying to fill his heart with the sight: Her outstretched hands, Her white-flecked blackness, Her eyes perpetually shut as She dreamed the endless realm that was Ina-Karekh.
His realm, soon.
Such thoughts settled Nijiri’s spirit at last, and by the time he reached the dais and bowed over his downturned palms, he felt sure of himself again, and calm.
(But where, he wondered again, was Gatherer Ehiru? Away on Hetawa business, perhaps. He fought disappointment.)
Silence fell, measured and still. When a proper span of time had passed, the Superior finally spoke. “Raise your head, Acolyte. We have something to discuss.”
Surprised, Nijiri did so. Was this part of the oathtaking? As he looked up, the two men beside the Superior lifted their heads as well, each pulling back his hood.
“Your relationship with Teacher Omin,” said the taller man. Sonta-i, he of the dead eyes and ashen-dark skin, eldest of the Gatherer path. “Explain it.”
Everything in Nijiri went still. He stared at Sonta-i, too stunned even for alarm.
“Explain it please,” said the other man, smiling as if that would soften the blow. He was stockier and younger and redder than Sonta-i. Curling copper ringlets trailed from his topknot, his eyes were a shade of brown that glinted red in the evening light, and even the tattoo on his upper arm—a four-lobed poppy—was the color of blood, where Sonta-i’s nightshade had been done in deep indigo. Gatherer Rabbaneh, whom Nijiri had always considered kinder than Sonta-i. Until now.
Omin, you useless, greedy fool. Nijiri closed his eyes, thinking most unpeaceful thoughts. Anger had always been his weakness, the thing he strove most to control in himself. But now he could not help it, for if Omin’s folly cost him the goal he had spent ten years striving toward…
“There is no relationship,” he snapped, looking each man in the eye. Sonta-i’s face remained impassive; Rabbaneh raised his eyebrows at Nijiri’s tone. The Superior looked sorrowful—and by that, Nijiri guessed that he thought Nijiri was lying. This made Nijiri angrier still. “Though not for lack of trying on the Teacher’s part.”
“Oh?” asked the Superior, very quietly.
Nijiri made himself shrug, though he did not feel nonchalant at all. “The Teacher offered me favors in return for favors. I refused.”
The Superior said, “Explain in fullness, Acolyte. When did this begin? What favors were offered, and what did he expect in return?”
“After I chose to leave the House of Children. The day I reported to him as an acolyte; he was to test me in numeratics. He found my knowledge acceptable, but he commented much on my face, my eyes, my walk. He said I was very pretty despite looking so lowcaste.” He fought the urge to curl his lip, remembering that day and the way it had made him feeclass="underline" low and weak and sick and afraid. The fear had changed, though, the longer Omin pressed him. He had grown angry, and that had always made him strong. So he took a deep breath. “Superior, now I must speak of that we do not discuss.”
The Superior flinched. Rabbaneh’s smile did not falter, but it grew harder, sharp-edged. Sonta-i did not react, but there was a palpable additional coldness in his voice as he spoke. “You imply that Omin made promises with respect to the pranje ceremony.”
“I imply nothing, Gatherer.” He watched that news settle in among them, and saw Omin’s death harden on brows and tightened lips. At that, Nijiri did feel a moment’s guilt. But Omin had brought this on himself—and Nijiri had his own future to consider.
“Continue,” Sonta-i said.
“The Teacher offered me safety, Gatherer, from the annual selection of pranje attendants. In exchange, he made clear his desire that I attend him, in the small hours of the morning, at some location in a disused corridor of the Teachers’ Hall. I do not know the place, since I refused him, but he said that he had used it with other acolytes, and there we would have privacy.”
The Superior muttered something to himself in Sua; Nijiri, whose Sua was only passable, did not catch it. Rabbaneh let out a long sigh. For him, that was tantamount to a desert skyrer’s shriek of fury. “And why did you not accept this offer?”
“I don’t fear the pr—that we do not discuss.” Silently Nijiri cursed the lapse. He had hoped to seem cool and controlled like a Servant of Hananja, and not a nervous child. “Why would I need protection from something I don’t fear?”
The Gatherers looked at each other. There were no words exchanged between them—not that Nijiri could tell in any case. Rumor had it Gatherers could speak through waking dreams in some manner. But by that unvoiced agreement, Sonta-i abruptly moved away from his pathbrother and the Superior, coming down off the dais. Moving, his pace slow and steady and full of warning, to encircle Nijiri.