Read Online The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) by N. K. Jemisin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: N. K. Jemisin
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hurt like nightmares. That did not trouble Wanahomen half so much as the Sua-speaking soldier, who planted a hand on Wanahomen’s chest to shove him in passing. Wanahomen stumbled back, though he managed to keep his feet with an effort.
The soldiers walked on, laughing between themselves. Before Wanahomen, the red-draped girl exhaled in relief, then crouched beside the merchant. Others came forward as well, so solicitous, so helpful, now that the danger was past. For an instant Wanahomen curled his lip in the same contempt that the soldiers must have felt—but his was compounded by shame that his people could be so weak.
But he had no right to get angry at them, he reminded himself. They had no weapons, no training for battle. They had spent their lives in the service of peace, and most had never even witnessed violence before the Kisuati’s arrival. It had been the duty of the army and the Guard and the Hetawa to protect them—and the duty of Gujaareh’s Prince as well. It was not their fault if they were helpless now.
Which only added to Wanahomen’s bitterness as he turned away.
“Wait.”
Frowning, Wanahomen turned. The red-draped girl. She stepped around the merchant to come to him. Up close, he saw that despite the masculine dress she was pretty, in a lowcaste sort of way: small but sturdy-built, her face broad and high-boned, with skin the ocher of ripe pears.
“You tried to help me,” she said. “It wasn’t the peaceful thing to do, I suppose, but… I thank you, nevertheless.” She bowed over one hand; the other was already stained with the merchant’s blood. “If you wait a moment, I can heal your arm. This man needs my help first, but it won’t take long.”
Wanahomen stared at her; it took him a breath or two to reconcile her words with her obvious femininity. “You really are a Sharer?”
She blinked and then ducked her eyes. “Sharer-Apprentice. Yes. My name is Hanani.”
This was too much. The Kisuati had already inflicted their violent ways on his land, and now they were infecting the women of Gujaareh with their mad notions of a woman’s proper place. Times had grown dire indeed if even the Hetawa had been forced to compromise its ancient traditions.
But if things are so dire in Gujaareh, who is to blame for that?
whispered Wanahomen’s heart, again.
He scowled, and if he spoke more sharply than he should have, it was because guilt and anger made uneasy allies.
“You’re a fool,” he said. The woman flinched back from the coldness in his voice, looking hurt; Wanahomen did not care. “If you truly are of the Hetawa, run back to it and never step outside its doors again. Servants of Hananja should be stronger than you.”
He turned away, ignoring the mutter of his conscience and the feel of her gaze against his back, and walked off.
* * *
By the time Wanahomen entered the nobles’ district, some of his temper had cooled. He reached his destination just as the sun began to set, painting the walls of the city in rich strokes of red-gold and amber. Before him stood a sprawling house, two floors high and the whole block wide. In style it was mostly Gujaareen, with walls of baked white clay and pathways paved with round river stones, but there were foreign touches here and there: a roofed side-area wherethe family greeted guests, lintels of dark southern wood. Kisuati touches, for this was a shunha house, and the shunha never forgot their origins.
A man of perhaps fifty floods sat fanning himself at a table under the guest-area roof, a flask and two cups waiting before him. After a moment’s silent observation from the corner—making certain there were no soldiers or other undesirables watching—Wanahomen came to the house and stopped at the edge of the sitting area. He bowed over one hand, which was more than the man’s rank merited relative to his, less than the common laborer he appeared to be should have offered. In formal Sua he said, “My greetings,
The soldiers walked on, laughing between themselves. Before Wanahomen, the red-draped girl exhaled in relief, then crouched beside the merchant. Others came forward as well, so solicitous, so helpful, now that the danger was past. For an instant Wanahomen curled his lip in the same contempt that the soldiers must have felt—but his was compounded by shame that his people could be so weak.
But he had no right to get angry at them, he reminded himself. They had no weapons, no training for battle. They had spent their lives in the service of peace, and most had never even witnessed violence before the Kisuati’s arrival. It had been the duty of the army and the Guard and the Hetawa to protect them—and the duty of Gujaareh’s Prince as well. It was not their fault if they were helpless now.
Which only added to Wanahomen’s bitterness as he turned away.
“Wait.”
Frowning, Wanahomen turned. The red-draped girl. She stepped around the merchant to come to him. Up close, he saw that despite the masculine dress she was pretty, in a lowcaste sort of way: small but sturdy-built, her face broad and high-boned, with skin the ocher of ripe pears.
“You tried to help me,” she said. “It wasn’t the peaceful thing to do, I suppose, but… I thank you, nevertheless.” She bowed over one hand; the other was already stained with the merchant’s blood. “If you wait a moment, I can heal your arm. This man needs my help first, but it won’t take long.”
Wanahomen stared at her; it took him a breath or two to reconcile her words with her obvious femininity. “You really are a Sharer?”
She blinked and then ducked her eyes. “Sharer-Apprentice. Yes. My name is Hanani.”
This was too much. The Kisuati had already inflicted their violent ways on his land, and now they were infecting the women of Gujaareh with their mad notions of a woman’s proper place. Times had grown dire indeed if even the Hetawa had been forced to compromise its ancient traditions.
But if things are so dire in Gujaareh, who is to blame for that?
whispered Wanahomen’s heart, again.
He scowled, and if he spoke more sharply than he should have, it was because guilt and anger made uneasy allies.
“You’re a fool,” he said. The woman flinched back from the coldness in his voice, looking hurt; Wanahomen did not care. “If you truly are of the Hetawa, run back to it and never step outside its doors again. Servants of Hananja should be stronger than you.”
He turned away, ignoring the mutter of his conscience and the feel of her gaze against his back, and walked off.
* * *
By the time Wanahomen entered the nobles’ district, some of his temper had cooled. He reached his destination just as the sun began to set, painting the walls of the city in rich strokes of red-gold and amber. Before him stood a sprawling house, two floors high and the whole block wide. In style it was mostly Gujaareen, with walls of baked white clay and pathways paved with round river stones, but there were foreign touches here and there: a roofed side-area wherethe family greeted guests, lintels of dark southern wood. Kisuati touches, for this was a shunha house, and the shunha never forgot their origins.
A man of perhaps fifty floods sat fanning himself at a table under the guest-area roof, a flask and two cups waiting before him. After a moment’s silent observation from the corner—making certain there were no soldiers or other undesirables watching—Wanahomen came to the house and stopped at the edge of the sitting area. He bowed over one hand, which was more than the man’s rank merited relative to his, less than the common laborer he appeared to be should have offered. In formal Sua he said, “My greetings,
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