She saw a burn. A red, ugly mark across Lady Hariawan’s right cheek. A burn shaped like a hand.
Would the priests brand a Dream Walker? No, certainly not. Who then? Who would dare? And, more to the point, who would come close enough to have the opportunity?
The burn looked new, and though it had been treated, must still cause a great deal of pain. Sairu’s heart began to race, and her wrist throbbed suddenly with the memory of her own branding. But that had been nothing in comparison: a momentary bite of heat leaving a minute scar. Lady Hariawan’s beauty, however incomparable, would be marred forever by that enormous mark.
For the first time in her life, Sairu knew rage. Whoever had dared to harm Lady Hariawan would never have a second chance! She would see to that. She would make him pay.
“My lady,” she said, her voice slightly thick in her throat. “My lady, I am Masayi Sairu, Golden Daughter of the Anuk Anwar. If you will have me, I pledge my life to your service and protection. I will guard you with all that is in my being. I will care for your needs, tend your hurts, punish your enemies. If you will have me, I will be more than a slave, better than a sister to you. This I pledge upon my father’s name and the name of the Golden Mother.”
It was a simple speech, rather different from the one she had been trained to give. For that speech was intended for a husband, to be spoken at the commencement of the false marriage into which every Golden Daughter entered, and was more formal, grand, and full of promises. But it could not be more sincere.
The lady remained still as stone, and the light moved softly across her frozen face.
The Besur cleared his throat. “Lady Hariawan is sick and, for the sake of her health, is to travel from Lunthea Maly. She will go north to Daramuti Temple in the Khir Mountains, to the care of Brother Tenuk, the abbot there. You will accompany her and watch over her in her convalescence.”
“I will watch over her for the rest of her life,” Sairu said, rising slowly, folding her hands, and addressing herself to the Besur. She was quite short, but Princess Safiya had taught her how to face a man as though she towered over him. “Tell me, Honored Besur, the real reason for her journey to Daramuti.”
The Besur did not move or blink for a long, silent moment. At last he said, “I will not. And you will ask no questions. Not of me. Not of Lady Hariawan.”
So that’s how it would be. Well, Sairu did not need to ask questions in order to learn answers. She smiled demurely and inclined her head. “Very well, Honored Besur. But if I may, I do have one unrelated question, if you would be so good as to answer.”
“And that would be?”
“How many of my dogs may I bring with me on this journey?”
The Besur’s well-plucked brows slid down into a puzzled frown. “Dogs? I—I don’t think—”
“As many as you like.”
The jeweled pendants on Lady Hariawan’s headdress caught the brazier’s light and refracted it against the walls in little star-like pinpoints as she raised her burned face, her eyes still closed. “I had dogs as a child. I shall be glad of them.”
“Lady Hariawan!” exclaimed the Besur, flinging himself at her feet. “My lady, you are awake! You are present with us once more?”
But Lady Hariawan did not acknowledge him. Instead, she opened her eyes, which were startlingly deep, dark, and full of secrets. She met Sairu’s curious gaze. “Bring as many dogs as you like,” she said.
“Thank you, my lady,” Sairu replied.
Some hatreds burn bright and hot, flaring up in sudden passion then sinking back like a banked bed of coals to smolder, sometimes for years. It is too easy to forget such hatreds, to believe even that they’ve gone for good and are no longer a controlling influence.
But no more than a few stokes are needed to send these hatreds raging into full, all-consuming life, taking a heart by surprise. And it is in surprise that sudden decisions are made, changing the course of life and death forever.
Sunan, caught in the grip of surging hate he had believed long dead, moved like the shadow of a storm through the halls of his uncle’s house, outwardly silent, even benign, but dragging thunder in his wake. How could it be that all these years later—years of refinement, of learning, of fine-tuned restraint in the pursuit of true high-mindedness—one evening could dash his stoicism to pieces and leave him a callow boy once more, unprepared to combat these emotions?
When he shut his eyes he sat beside his mother at the secondary fire, eating leftovers from Jovann’s pot. The night was dark and hot, full of stinging insects, the deep-bellied grumbles of the buffalo, and the murmured conversations of Juong-Khla’s tribe, the Tiger People, at their own fires surrounding. Little worlds of light in the darkness of eternity.
But Sunan’s world was set apart, if only in his mind. And he watched his brother, Jovann, the second son, born of the second wife, sit at Juong-Khla’s right hand, eating the choice cuts of the day’s hunt.
“It will destroy you, my son,” his mother warned him. “If you do not confront and defeat this hate, it will first transform and then destroy you.”
And she would take him by the hand and speak to him of the Pen-Chan practices of meditation and the emptying of emotions to the attainment of harmony. But though her words were fair and wise, Sunan, even now in his memory, could see his own hatred reflected in her eyes.
He slid the door of his private chamber shut behind him and stood rigid in the half-light. The day was nearly done, the day that marked the apex of his shame. And when it ended, what then? What purpose might he strive after now to prove himself, to prove his worth, to create meaning for his life? The stoicism with which he shielded himself shuddered, and he could almost feel the cracks running up and down his spirit, ready to shatter and leave him exposed to all torment.
He took a step into the room. Something crunched beneath his foot. He looked down.
It was the overseer’s scroll. The little scroll sealed in gold which had been handed him at the base of the stairs to the Middle Court. How it had come to be on the floor by his door was a mystery swiftly solved. Sunan glanced to his bed where he had tossed the Gruung robe, but it was no longer there. Old Kiut must have spirited it away to be washed or burned; it hardly mattered which.
But the scroll had fallen from the sleeve to wait here for him. He picked it up, turning it between his fingers, mildly curious and glad of a distraction. What was it the Honored Overseer had said?
“Should you choose to read it, you will face another choice: a choice of life or instant death.”
Would the overseer be true to his word?
A bitter line marred Sunan’s brow, the only outward sign of the loathing within. Oddly enough, not loathing of his brother, though he may not have recognized as much at the time. No, he hated not Jovann but Sunan, his own wretched self. The blood polluting his veins. He had done everything right. Everything. He had fulfilled every task, honored every test, worked himself to the bone. And for what?
“Life or instant death,” Sunan whispered, and the gold on the seal seemed to flash with its own inner light before his eyes. “Is there a difference?”
With a reckless sneer, he broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and read.
His eyes widened.
For a heartbeat he could not move.
Then he whirled around and stared into the face of his death in the form of a man standing behind him, sword upraised.
Sunan didn’t scream. He recalled enough of his highly tuned restraint to smother any sound before it burst from his open mouth. But he fell back, tripped over his own feet, and landed flat. He smashed the open scroll in his fist, his other hand upraised, a feeble shield against the weapon suspended in the darkness above his head.
The man spoke. “What is your choice, Kasemsan’s kin?”
“D—don’t! Don’t kill me!” Sunan gasped. If his father could have heard him then, he would have disowned his son for a coward upon the spot. But then, his father had never lain at the feet of a Cro
uching Shadow.
The ghastly image above him was more real than real, and not until many hours later did Sunan realize that the face he had gazed upon in such terror was an elaborate mask. It was a mask reminiscent of those worn on feast days, depicting the visage of Anwar; save where the masks of Anwar seemed to smile, this was a death’s rictus painted black as night. In that moment Sunan could have believed the figure before him was no man at all, but the very incarnation of death.
Although the Mask lowered his sword, something about his stance, the turn of his head, bespoke his eagerness to slay. “So you accept,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“I have no time for foolish questions,” said the Mask without raising the sword. But he took another step into the room. Sunan tried to scramble back, but his feet caught on the edge of his robe, pinning him in place. “Do you accept the terms, Kasemsan’s kin, or would you prefer to die now?”
“I accept!” Sunan cried.
The Mask’s sword lashed out. Quick as a darting swallow it struck Sunan upon his upraised hand, neatly slicing one finger. A thin ribbon of red beaded and spilled long before Sunan felt any pain. He stared at the wound as though it were fatal.
“Say it again,” said the Mask. “Say it again with blood.”
“I—I accept the terms of your proposal,” Sunan whispered. “I am—I am at your service.”
“Excellent.”
With that, the sword vanished and the stranger in the mask crossed his arms, still standing above Sunan. Sunan made no move to rise, though he felt the disgrace of cowering before his enemy. Chhayans did not cower. They died before they bowed their heads. But, with the warmth of his own blood spilling swiftly now down his hand, palm, and wrist, soaking into the sleeve of his robe, Sunan knew that, despite the shame, he was not ready to die.
“Until further command arrives from our Master,” the Mask said, “you will remain in this city. Should you attempt to leave, it will be seen as a breaking of your blood oath, and your life is forfeit. To me.”
Sunan nodded. “My uncle?” he managed to ask.
“Presumed dead. You must honor his name. You must finish what he began.”
“But—but what did he begin?”
The Mask did not respond.
Sunan persisted. “The stories are true? You are an assassin?”
If a mask could sneer without moving a carved muscle, this one became suddenly disdainful. “A mystery such as the Crouching Shadows is not so easily explained.”
“Not an assassin then?”
The Mask’s clothing was dark and blended into the very air, leaving only the mask itself to catch small highlights. Thus it looked like a disembodied head as it lowered, and Sunan found himself staring through the eyeholes, desperate to catch some glimpse of the wearer beyond, but failing.
“Make no mistake, Kasemsan’s kin,” said the voice behind the cage of carved teeth, “assassin or not, I will kill you if you betray your oath.”
“I won’t betray my oath,” Sunan said, though the words could scarcely squeeze through the tightness of his throat.
“Excellent,” said the Mask again. “And to prove that we are a fair order, I am commanded by our Master to grant you a wish. Tonight I will fulfill the dearest dream of your heart. Tomorrow you will thank me. And you will be glad that the Crouching Shadows have chosen to call you friend.”
“What wish?” Sunan asked. His finger was beginning to throb. The slice of the sword was so thin and precise, he suspected it had gone to the bone. He felt light-headed, as though he’d taken too much fine wine.
Now the rictus seemed to smile. It was not at all a pleasant smile. “The wish that even now galls your spirit with longing.” The Mask bowed gracefully, darkness bending darkness. “Tomorrow you will thank me.”
And then Sunan was alone. He sat staring at the place where the Mask had been. Slowly his eyes turned to look at the seeping blood of his wound.
He realized slowly, almost painfully, what the Mask had said.
Suddenly he was on his feet and crying out, “Don’t kill him! I beg of you!”
He could not say why, either then or later. After all, he hated Jovann. But he stood now in trembling darkness, his voice fading to nothing. He whispered one last time, “Please. Don’t kill him.”
He did not know whether or not the Crouching Shadow heard.
Dawn had not yet taken hold of the new day, but the innermost courtyard of the Crown of the Moon was crowded with servants and donkeys and supplies and priests (these last, out of a desperate need to feel important, issuing cross-purposed commands). Lady Hariawan, wrapped in elegant fur-lined robes against the early chill, was seated in an alcove to watch and wait until they were ready to mount her up and send her into exile. Despite the fine cut and cloth, her garments were far humbler than those Sairu had seen her in the night before, and a flat hat with a thickly veiled brim covered her head after the fashion of a pilgrimess.
Sairu, standing beside her chair, sensed a nearly palpable shield hammered out of the silence surrounding her new mistress.
Someone touched her arm. Sairu turned without surprise and smiled at the Besur. She could see by the expression on his face exactly what sort of conversation they were about to have, and she sighed, though the sigh did nothing to taint her smile. Long ago Princess Safiya had warned her and her sisters of the likelihood of these sorts of conversations.
“Dangers abound beyond Lunthea Maly,” the Besur said, his voice a whispered hiss.
Sairu fluttered her lashes. “Really?”
She watched the muscles of his throat constrict, watched the twitch of his lower left lid. “Lady Hariawan must be protected at all costs,” the Besur said, as though she couldn’t discern as much for herself. “I wish to the Lordly Sun this journey were not necessary, and only the gravest need would push me to such an extreme. But between Hulan’s Throne and Daramuti Temple, any number of perils might set upon you.”
“Perils?” Sairu said. “Highway robbers? Hustlers? Cads, perhaps? Pickpockets? Pestilence?” Her brows lifted, her eyes widened. “Toll gates?”
The Besur paled. She could see him churning through a number of calculations, and half expected him to call off the entire journey there and then. No concern of hers if he did! She could protect her lady equally well from within the Crown of the Moon.
But the Besur did not seem to think this a worthy option. He grimaced as though in pain and spoke through his teeth. “I wish you would allow me to send an armed escort. It would be better—”
“If you wanted an armed escort,” Sairu interrupted, her voice dripping honey, her face full of simple innocence, “you should have hired a pack of mercenaries rather than a Golden Daughter.” Her smile grew. “Reverend Besur, do you not trust me?”
He opened his mouth but had the good sense to close it again.
“An armed escort would draw undue attention to Lady Hariawan’s departure. If you want a covert removal to Daramuti, then covert you must be. I will see my mistress safe far better than any number of ruffians you might barter a little coin for. You have my word and the word of the Masayi.”
The Besur was silent. Then, in a voice near a snarl, he said, “You have never been outside Manusbau’s walls.”
It was an accusation, or as close to one as the High Priest dared deliver. And, though she hated to admit it even to herself, Sairu’s stomach dropped. Doubt and fear were not permitted into the thoughts of the Golden Daughters, and Sairu could not honestly recall the last time she had doubted herself in any given context. But then, those contexts had all been orchestrated and arranged by Princess Safiya who—no matter how heartless she might seem to an outsider—ultimately desired only the best for the girls in her charge. Thus, no matter what test Sairu had faced, it was always with the knowledge that one who cared for her had arranged it.
But this was no test. Princess Safiya was no longer in charge.
Sairu dropped her gaze demurely, her head bowed, as subse
rvient as any handmaiden of Manusbau. Then her eyes flashed up to meet the Besur’s, and he drew back from her renewed smile.
“Reverend Besur,” she said, “have you ever found a snake in your bed?”
“What?”
“Found a snake in your bed,” she repeated. “Have you ever entered the safety of your chamber, undressed yourself, and slipped beneath your blankets only to feel the brush of dry scales? Then pain. Fire. And, worse than fire, terror rising up inside you, from the pit of you, drowning and choking. And as the pain increases, so does the terror.”
“I—Honored Daughter, I don’t—”
“And you know it’s a test, because everything is a test, and if you fail the test, you die. But this doesn’t decrease the terror or the pain, which is now, mere seconds later, so overwhelming that you are certain it cannot get worse. But it can.
“Have you ever thrown back your coverlet and seen the face of evil flicking its tongue at you? The face of your death?”
“Please,” the Besur murmured, glancing at Lady Hariawan as though concerned she might overhear, “I would prefer—”
“And though, a moment before, you had thought yourself afraid, suddenly you know that you never knew the meaning of fear until this moment. Have you experienced this, Reverend Besur?” She took a step toward him and watched him back away. “Have you taken that snake by the back of its head and crushed its skull on the stones of your floor, beaten it until it went limp in your grasp? Then taken your knife and skinned it then and there, though your hands are shaking and your vision is blurring and each breath is like knives in your lungs? And have you then wrapped the skin of that snake—that very same snake—around your thigh and pressed and pressed and pressed, Reverend Besur, until you see that skin turn green with its own poison drawn from your wound?”
He looked sick now, as green as the poison she described.
Sairu blinked slowly, her eyes twinkling. “I have never stepped beyond Manusbau’s walls. But I know how to deal with snakes of all kinds.”
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