Free The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) by N. K. Jemisin

deigning to live as a mere Servant of Hananja when caste and family connections promised so much more.
    She read his face and lifted an eyebrow. “Your own mentor is a brother of the Prince, Gatherer-Apprentice. No one knows the circumstances—Ehiru has always been private about such things—but he was the last child of the Sunset claimed by the Hetawa. Did you not know?”
    Half-overheard whispers flitted through Nijiri’s memory, butstill the truth was a shock. He had guessed that Ehiru’s origins were highcaste—who could notice that fine black skin, those angular features, those elegant manners and speech, and think otherwise?—but never so very high as that. He dared a look up at the seated Prince again and tried to visualize Ehiru in his place, beautiful and regal and perfect as a god. The image fit so well that a secret, shameful thrill flitted down Nijiri’s spine before he banished it.
    From the corner of his eye he spied Meliatua watching him. Realizing that half his thoughts must be obvious, he flushed and drew his hood closer about his face. “We all belong to Hananja now, Sister.”
    “Indeed we do.” She took his arm then, startling him badly. He could do nothing but follow as she tugged him into a stroll.
    “Where is your mentor, Gatherer-Apprentice? He should be at your side, protecting you from the likes of me.” Her teeth gleamed in the firelight.
    “He wished me to spend some time on my own, Sister.” Nijiri felt the softness of her breast press against his elbow and fought the urge to nudge it back to see what would happen. He had a vague notion this would offend her. “Gatherers must blend in among people of many kinds; I am therefore to observe and learn.” He glanced at her, hesitated, then dared humor. “Perhaps comfort is
my
sacrifice tonight.”
    To his relief she laughed, causing the scar-patterns on her cheeks to dance in the firelight. He admired the way the scars ornamented her beauty even as he realized with some surprise that he did not want her at all. She was a sculpture: to be observed and perhaps even touched, but not a thing one could take home.
    “You should become a Sister if you’ll miss such a small thing,” she said. “Our business is comfort, after all. Although truthfully, there’s little even we can do tonight.”
    Surprised, Nijiri followed her gaze and focused on his fellow revelers. It took him a moment to fathom the Sister’s meaning, but now that she had pointed it out, the signs were obvious. A darting glance from a man who wore rich scholars’ robes, at Nijiri—at his shoulder, which bore his new, just-healed Gatherer tattoo—and then away. A young zhinha woman, laughing at some joke by her companion, faltered silent for an instant as Nijiri and Meliatua passed. When she resumed laughing, it sounded forced. A tall soldier with a face like sandy foothills nodded gravely to Nijiri; there was a terrible sorrow in his eyes.
    Meliatua shook her head. “And another measure of comfort is offered up to Hananja. They make proper sacrifices without meaning to.”
    “No one has ever looked at me with fear before,” Nijiri said, troubled. “But then, I am a Gatherer now.”
    “Only the ignorant fear Gatherers on sight,” the Sister said. “The rest know
when
to fear. There are no Gatherings on Hamyan Night.”
    This was true, and it was why Ehiru had been willing—after days of inactivity—to come out tonight. He was willing to train Nijiri, pray and spar with him, do everything an apprentice Gatherer needed him to… except Gather. That, however, was a different problem. “Then why do they fear me?” he asked.
    “Observe, Apprentice, as your mentor commanded. Learn.
Listen.
”
    So he did, falling silent as they wended their way through thecrowded courtyard. At first he heard only snatches of words amid the babble. Gradually his ears sifted sentences from the mass, then finally snippets of conversation.
    “—The shipping manifest didn’t even