Epilogue
Hananja’s city burned beneath the Dreaming Moon.
Flanked by eight Kisuati soldiers, Sunandi walked through the debris-strewn streets with her face a mask and her heart full of grief. Here was the crafters’ market, several stalls already destroyed by the fires that had flared in the city over the past several days. There was the hall where the famous chantress Ky-yefter performed, its facade destroyed by a stray catapult stone. Although the Unbelievers’ District and parts of the southernmost wall now lay in smoldering ruins, the majority of the city remained relatively unscathed. The Gujaareen army had not fought hard before surrendering, for their Prince was dead. Since then, the Protectors had been adamant that there be no looting or rapine, and General Anzi had been ruthless in enforcing those instructions among the Kisuati troops who’d come north to see to the occupation. They would have a difficult enough time controlling Gujaareh as it was.
Yet it was clear that even with the Protectors’ caution, something vital had been damaged in the city. Sunandi glimpsed some of the citizens forming water-brigades to combat the fires, but far more simply milled about in aimless confusion, their faces haunted and lost. Along the main avenues some of the citizens loitered with their fellows while watching the Kisuati soldiers move through their streets, but most sat or stood or rocked alone. In the pleasure quarter the Kisuati had found several raucous parties under way, with music and dancing in the streets. Gaudily painted timbalin-house women and youths beckoned to the soldiers, some lifting loindrapes to show nothing underneath and some wearing nothing to begin with, all of them smiling and friendly. But Sunandi had seen the haze of drugs or dreamseed in their eyes; she had heard the edge of fear in their sweet invitations. And among the whores she spied the yellow-clad figures of Hananja’s Sisters, standing silent watch amid the revelry. Then she understood: Gujaareh’s pleasure-givers offered themselves to the conquerors so that Gujaareh’s weaker citizens might remain unmolested.
“They’ll strike at any Kisuati-looking face,” Anzi had warned Sunandi, when he heard of her plan to tour the city. “All our people will be targets for their vengeance—a pretty woman like you even more so.” Clever of him to slip in that flattery, she reflected. Transparent, but clever. Well, he was handsome enough. Perhaps when the dust had settled and Gujaareh was firmly in hand… But not yet.
See them, Anzi. Do you still fear vengeance? This city’s spirit has been wounded, perhaps mortally. Gujaareh waits to see if death comes.
They entered the Hetawa square.
Here alone something of Gujaareh’s old peace lingered. The square was crowded with people of all castes and professions, some of them carrying bundles or pushing carts of belongings. The street directly in front of the Hetawa had been turned into a makeshift infirmary, with pallets laid out on the cobblestones. Family members and Hetawa acolytes moved among the pallets, tending burn victims and wounded soldiers. Other folk lingered nearby, some scratching notices on the walls of nearby buildings, some huddled on the steps of the Hetawa itself. Yet despite the crowding of the square, Sunandi perceived a curious stillness in the atmosphere—an intangible sense of comfort that could be glimpsed on nearly every face. For a moment she puzzled over the feeling, and then abruptly understood: there was no fear. Gujaareh had been defeated, Gujaareh might die as an individual nation, but Gujaareh was not afraid. Not here, at its heart.
In spite of herself, Sunandi smiled.
She headed across the square. On the steps she stopped and turned to the soldiers. “Wait here.”
The troop-captain, possibly acting on orders from Anzi, stared at her. “Impossible, Speaker. To let you go in there alone—”
“Do you imagine the Servants of Hananja would take her hostage? Or harm her in any way?” said a quiet voice nearby, speaking in heavily accented Sua. They turned to see a stocky red-haired man on the steps, watching them with a faint smile. Something about him stirred an immediate sense of recognition in Sunandi, though she could not recall seeing his face.
“Perhaps such things are done in barbarian lands,” the man said, “but not here.”
The captain bristled, but Sunandi threw him a stern glance and he subsided. “You must forgive us, sir,” she said to the man. “It’s a soldier’s job to worry about even the most unlikely possibilities.” She spoke in Gujaareen; his eyebrows rose in surprise and amusement.
“So it is. But I assure you, some things are not possible—not in the sight of Hananja. And if they were…” He glanced at the captain and although his smile never vanished, there was a momentary hardness in his eyes which, abruptly, Sunandi recognized. “There are only eight of you here. If we wanted Speaker Jeh Kalawe as a hostage, it would be simple enough to take her.”
The captain looked ready to draw his sword, though the man’s gentle warning had clearly had its impact. He glanced around at the square crowded with Hananja’s faithful—most of whom were watching the tableau—then set his jaw and fixed his eyes straight ahead. Sunandi let out a held breath and turned to the man.
“It would seem my reputation in Gujaareh is greater than I thought,” she replied. “Though of course it must be nothing to yours, Gatherer…?”
“Rabbaneh,” said the man. He inclined his head to her, then turned to walk up the steps, gesturing for her to follow. “Nijiri notified us shortly after his return that you’ve been judged innocent of corruption. He suspected you might return to Gujaareh—though not so soon—and wanted to be certain you received no… unwanted blessings, shall we say?” He chuckled. “Very diligent, is our Nijiri.”
She returned a sour smile, not entirely certain she liked this Gatherer’s sense of humor. “For which I’m quite grateful.”
“So are we all.” He glanced over at her, examining her carefully. “I understand you and the others who were at Soijaro have mostly recovered.”
Sunandi shivered at the memory. “A few died. Those already wounded or ill, several elders, a handful of others. But all the rest—yes, we have recovered, at least physically. I can’t say how well any of us sleep at night.” She sighed and made herself smile. “If nothing else, the tales of that monstrous event should keep Kisua safe for many years. The northern soldiers nearly fell over themselves getting back on their boats and fleeing home.”
Rabbaneh’s eyes were solemn, clearly seeing through her attempt at levity, but he smiled as well. “A peaceful result, then. Good.”
The double doors of the Hetawa’s main pylon had been thrown open. A line of people filed through it, spilling out onto the steps. Inside, the line ran down the length of a vast colonnaded hall whose ceiling was nearly out of sight above. But though the hall awed Sunandi, it was the sight of the titanic nightstone statue that made her stop and gape like a wonder-struck child.
While she stared, Rabbaneh stopped to wait, somehow radiating both nonchalance and possessive pride without uttering a word. After several long breaths, Sunandi swallowed and tore her eyes away from the Goddess with an effort. “I thought Yanya-iyan magnificent when I first saw it,” she said. “I should have guessed that in Gujaareh, the Hetawa would be the greatest wonder.”
“Yes,” the Gatherer replied with a smile. “You should have guessed.”
He headed into the shadows that ran behind the columns, walking sedately toward the back of the hall. Sunandi hurried to follow, trying not to stare at the columns and their carved tales, the sconces where moontear vines spilled down the walls in full bloom, the faceted glass of the massive windows. Between the columns she could glimpse other Hananjan priests in red-dyed loindrapes, guiding people into alcoves on the other side of the hall. Collecting tithes to heal the wounded, she realized. Of course.
The Gatherer stopped at a heavy curtain that led into what was clearly a different area of the Hetawa—the corridors, grounds, and buildings kept hidden from the public eye. Here Sunandi hesitated. But Rabbaneh smiled again, this time sincerely and with no hint of mockery. “Nijiri has told us many tales of his travels in the eightday since his return, Speaker,” he said. “He’ll be glad to see you again, I think.”
She was not so certain of that. Nor was she certain she wanted to see him, now that she had come.
“We found Ehiru’s body in Kite-iyan,” she said. She noticed that one of her hands was fidgeting, unnecessarily smoothing a fold of her dress, and stopped herself. “The Prince was there, and the other… the Reaper too.”
Rabbaneh nodded. “Our brother put his apprentice to a hard test. But Nijiri passed it, as we knew he would.” He paused, then added more gently, “Come. It will be good for both of you.”
What was it about Gatherers, Sunandi wondered, that could make her feel as though they cared about nothing in the world more than her? Was it the dreamblood that made them this way? Or did they deliberately seek out successors who possessed that fascinating, terrifying mixture of empathy and ruthlessness?
She pulled back her shoulders, nodded stiffly, and passed through the doorway.
The curtain opened into a vast courtyard at the center of the complex. Covered walkways edged the perimeter of this and crossed it here and there, each linking one building with another. Sunandi made an effort not to gawk, acutely aware that she had entered a world seen only by a privileged few. Still she could not help noticing some things. They passed vaulted storechambers whose shelves were stacked with a treasure trove of scrolls, stone tablets, and wooden placards. At the sandy far end of the courtyard, a stern-faced warrior in black stalked down a line of adolescent boys posed in some arcane combat-stance. Nearer by was a fountain surrounded by grasses and flowers, around which younger children chased one another and played in joyous, astonishing silence.
Within these walls, where peace was protected by the Goddess, the war might as well have never occurred.
Then the Gatherer led her into a new building, this one with walls of dark gray marble rather than sandstone. The halls here were completely silent, and utterly still but for her and Rabbaneh.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Instinctively, in such a still place, she kept her voice low.
“The Stone Garden,” Rabbaneh replied. “He meditates there in his free hours.”
They reached the building’s atrium and passed from cool dim corridors into a space of sand and light. Two huge, irregular fingers of rock dominated the scene, one carved from nightstone and the other from white mica, each standing in a corner of the atrium. A handful of smaller boulders occupied the remaining space at random, some small enough to be used as seats. On the centermost of these, with his knees drawn up, sat Nijiri.
Rabbaneh stopped here, inclining his head to Sunandi. “I’ll leave you in his hands.” She nodded, and he disappeared into the corridors’ shadows.
Silence fell, remarkably comforting. She felt herself relax, which seemed strange as she thought of the chaos and despair beyond the Hetawa’s walls. Perhaps that, too, was Hananja’s doing.
“I’m surprised to see you here, little killer,” Sunandi said at last. “Have you been out there? Gujaareh’s streets are anything but peaceful tonight.”
It was difficult to tell from the angle and with only the Moon’s illumination in the Garden, but she thought he smiled. “We’ll go out soon, the three of us,” he said. “The disruption in the city is terrible, true, but it can’t be helped. Certain matters have kept us in the Hetawa these past few days.”
“Such as?”
“Finding the Prince’s co-conspirators. The Superior was dealt with by my brothers several fourdays ago, but there were others who abetted him.” He sighed. “You were right, Speaker. The Hetawa had indeed become riddled with corruption. But we’re working hard to make it clean again.”
Knowing what that meant, Sunandi cleared her throat uncomfortably. “The Protectorate may want a few of the criminals for public trials. That’s not the Gujaareen way, I know… but some things must change now.”
“I understand. I will speak with my brothers. We’ll keep a few alive for you.”
She hesitated. “The Protectors will no doubt try to change you, too. You realize that?”
His smile returned. “Yes, I know.”
He might have been speaking of the wash for all the concern in his voice. Shaking her head in consternation, Sunandi took a seat on a nearby boulder. Nijiri stirred from his meditative pose to face her.
For a moment Sunandi barely recognized him. He hadn’t changed physically, but then it had been barely a month since she’d last seen him. There was nevertheless a new maturity in his features now. The weathering of experience, perhaps—or more likely a lessening of his youth. Gone was the frustrated restlessness that had been omnipresent in him before; gone too was the anger that had always churned beneath his calm facade. Now he was a Gatherer. Now there was only peace. But through the peace she could see sorrow, too.
“Tell me,” she said.
He gazed at her for a long moment, then did.
By the time he finished the tale of Ehiru’s death, she was weeping. He had spoken quietly, without embellishment or artifice—but there was no need for more. Even the simplest words conveyed the agony of Ehiru’s final descent into madness, and the utter loss that the boy now felt. But to her surprise, Nijiri smiled when the tale was done.
“You grieve for him?” he asked.
For Ehiru. For Nijiri. For Gujaareh, which would never be the same. For herself. “Yes,” Sunandi replied.
He got to his feet and crossed the sands to stand before her. “Then share this,” he said, and cupped her cheek with his hand.
In that moment her body—her mind, her whole being—was suffused with a joy more powerful than anything words could capture. It warmed away the lingering scars of the Reaping and Lin’s death, filled her with hope almost too keen to bear, blazed like a thousand suns in the core of her soul. Tears were not enough; laughter was not enough. Both at once were useless but she wept and laughed anyhow, for it would be criminal to leave such absolute joy unacknowledged, unexpressed.
When she once again became aware of herself, she found that she had pressed her face against the boy’s chest, clinging to him because he too knew the bliss within her. That made them one. His arms around her shoulders felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“This is his peace,” Nijiri said into her ear. “Now you understand.”
She did. At last she understood so much.
He held her until the tremors stopped, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nonsense words all the while. When she finally looked up, he stepped away, gracefully shunting aside the inevitable awkwardness that followed a moment of intimacy. When he offered his hand to her again it was as Nijiri, the rude fierce youth who had protected her in the desert, not Nijiri the Gatherer. The former was easier to deal with, so he had become that for her—even though the latter was his new reality.
She took his hand, and he helped her to her feet.
“Go to Yanya-iyan, Speaker,” he said. “Tell the fools Kisua has sent to rule us how to do things. Hananja abhors clumsy transitions. Gujaareh will not resist if you treat us with respect.”
She nodded, still too moved to speak. He led her out of the Garden then, and back to the hall where Hananja’s statue stood watch over Her people.
Looking up at Her, Sunandi said, “Thank you.”
“It’s a Gatherer’s duty to bring peace,” Nijiri replied. When she focused on him again, Rabbaneh had joined him, and after a moment a third man with Gatherer’s eyes stepped out of the shadows. Once upon a time she would have shuddered in their presence, but now she only smiled.
“Do your work well,” she told them. “Your people need you.”
Nijiri only nodded, though she saw warmth in his eyes. Then he turned to follow as the other two walked away. She watched them cross the Hall to the dais, where the Sharers immediately stopped their work and moved aside. Together the Gatherers knelt and bowed over their hands at Hananja’s feet; a moment later they rose and left the Hall. They would exit the Hetawa by the Gatherers’ Gate, she knew, and not return for many hours. They would leave corpses in their wake. But by their efforts, the soul of Gujaareh would once again find peace.
Nodding in satisfaction, Sunandi left the Hetawa and went forth to do her part.
Acknowledgments
My thanks here are mostly for resources rather than people, but only because the list of people to thank would be another book in itself.
The list of helpful resources would be, too, but I’ll single out a few for particular note. First is Mythology: An Illustrated Encyclopedia by Richard Cavendish, a coffee-table book that attempted the impossible—a survey of all the world’s myth systems. It had some notable problems of cultural bias and the usual problems of any broad survey, but it was helpful in one way: when I first read it, I began to see the common structure underlying most human cosmogonies. I used this common structure, as I did in the Inheritance Trilogy, to create the gods of Kisua and Gujaareh.
Also, On Dreams by Sigmund Freud, and The Red Book, by Carl Gustav Jung. The latter I was able to see “in person” at last thanks to a lovely exhibit at the Rubin Museum in New York. Early psychoanalysts got a lot of things wrong in their studies of human nature, but in their partly spiritual, partly intellectual quest to understand their fellow human beings, I got a sense of how a faith can be born. To some degree, Gujaareh’s founder Inunru—er, sans mass murder and megalomania—is inspired by them.
Also, the Brooklyn Museum’s Egyptian and Nubian collection. The British Museum’s collection is much bigger and more impressive, but I don’t live in London, and that museum was too crowded and anxiously guarded to allow the hours of close study I needed. No quick visit can give you a real sense of the day-to-day life of ancient city-dwellers: how they combed their hair, how they cleaned their teeth, how they traveled from home to work, how they gossiped about that guy down the street who looked at them crosswise and didja hear he worships that god? In Brooklyn nobody cares if you sit in one place and stare at something for hours, as long as you don’t then get up and shoot somebody.
Oh, and I’ll allow myself one bit of people-thanks: to my first writing group, the BRAWLers, who were the Boston Area Writers’ Group until we decided we needed better branding. You guys tore this book apart and put it back together better, and you loved it and cheered for it before anyone else. (No, Jennifer, they did not have sex.) Thank you.