Free The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) by N. K. Jemisin Page B

not my father.
And when was it appropriate for a goddess to kneel? Only when a higher god stood before her.
    Sanfi put a hand on Wanahomen’s shoulder, and he flinched out of staring at the woman. “Ten families of the shunha, and eighteen of the zhinha, have agreed to support our cause,” he said. “For the Prince’s son—for
you
, my Prince, they will commit their troops and resources. Between them and your Banbarra allies, the total will be small compared to the Kisuati army… but a small force can be effective under the right circumstances. The Sunset Throne could be yours again.”
    Then you could have a woman like this.
The words were not spoken, but hung in the air between them, an implicit promise. And as Wanahomen gazed down at Tiaanet’s bent head, he heard again her dark-wine voice naming him Prince, and saw himself seated on the oxbow throne with the Aureole of the Setting Sun behind hishead. Tiaanet would sit beside him as his firstwife, and their children would cover the steps below, living ornaments to his glory and her perfection. It was the sweetest vision he’d ever experienced outside Ina-Karekh.
    “There is an old, old tradition in guest-custom, my Prince,” Sanfi said, his voice soft at Wanahomen’s shoulder. “It has long fallen into disuse even in Kisua, but it seems fitting to revive it now. Once, long ago, a pact between men was sealed by more than hands.”
    Tiaanet lifted her eyes, gazing into what Wanahomen feared was his soul. She reached for his hand and took it—the softness of her skin was almost a painful shock—and got to her feet.
    “We can discuss the details later,” Sanfi said. He released Wanahomen’s shoulder as Tiaanet stepped back, pulling Wanahomen with her. “In the morning. Rest well, my Prince.”
    What—?
Wanahomen mustered enough wit to throw a look back at Sanfi, certain he had misunderstood. But Sanfi was smiling, and now Tiaanet’s hand was on his cheek, pulling his face back to her. When she saw that his attention was once again hers, she nodded and resumed backing away, leading him along.
    They reached her room and shut the hanging, and in her arms Wanahomen was Prince again, if only for a single night.

The Shadow
     
    Hanani was still trembling when she reached the Hetawa. The sun had set by that time, for she had detoured through two markets rather than take the faster route through the artisans’ district. Most artisans worked nights when it was cooler, which made the district relatively quiet—they would be just waking—but Kisuati soldiers would be on patrol there nevertheless: they were everywhere in the city. She was safer on the market streets, where there were more people around as the stalls began to shut down for the night.
    She was glad that Anarim was no longer on duty as she trotted up the Hetawa’s steps. His replacement barely gave her a glance. Had Anarim known that Kisuati soldiers were openly assaulting people in the city? No, if so he would have commanded, not suggested, the escort. She had heard rumors—they all had—but she’d thought that the Kisuati were at least trying to maintain a discreet semblance of respect for the Law and Wisdom that governed Gujaareen society. If the Sentinels did not know things had changed, then perhaps the Gatherers did not know either.
    It was her duty to tell them.
    She stopped in the shadow of one of the Hall’s pillars, putting herhand to her breast as if that might slow her racing heart. She did not want to tell the Gatherers. Her reluctance was irrational, irresponsible—but just thinking of those moments brought back the sound of blows striking the merchant’s flesh, the cruel eyes of the soldiers, the sour taste of her own fear. It had been her duty to intervene. Yet she understood, now, that if there had been fewer people on the street, the soldiers would have beaten her as well—or done worse. What should she have done, what could she have said, to stop them? Even now she could