Lady Hariawan stood off to one side. The pale light of coming dawn illuminated her face, revealing the return of her statue-like stillness. Her gaze was dull, not so much faraway as empty. She seemed unaware of the slave now that he was out of her arms.
“Come, my mistress,” Sairu said gently, approaching Lady Hariawan and taking her by the hand. “You’ll ride my donkey now. We’ll be there soon.”
“Ah,” said Lady Hariawan, slowly turning her liquid eyes to Sairu and blinking slowly. “Ah. Ah, ah.”
Perhaps she was trying to speak. But Sairu hadn’t the patience to try to discern her words. She firmly propelled her lady to the waiting donkey, helped her to mount, placed the ever-ready Sticky Bun in her arms, then took her own place at the mule’s head.
“Now,” she said, turning to their guide. “Take us to Daramuti.”
The wood thrush called across the boundless:
Won’t you follow me, Jovann?
Gladly! Oh, how gladly he would follow! Anything to step out of this cage of pain in which he existed!
So Jovann slipped into the white and, pursuing the call of the wood thrush, stepped across emptiness and onward. He saw the arching branches of two tall trees, saw the gate they formed. Beyond stood the Grandmother Tree and the circle of forest he had seen so many times before.
He escaped to it now, his mind racing from his body, out of his own world and into the Between. He passed through the tree gate, and now there was no white emptiness behind him. Only Wood before, behind, and on all sides, extending in green shelter forever.
Jovann drew a deep breath and let his mind assume the shape of a body; his own body, but not as he had left it. Here, he could be whole again. His back was not scored with the fire of whips and rods. Here his blood did not pump infection through every vein, leaving him crippled in agony. He breathed deep of the calm Wood, of its agelessness. The Grandmother creaked enormous branches in welcome.
And the wood thrush, singing sweetly, flew down to the ground at Jovann’s feet.
“Welcome, Jovann,” said the bird.
“Don’t send me back,” said Jovann. He knelt so that he could better meet the bird’s gaze. It was an intelligent gaze, brilliant even, and not one Jovann could fully understand. “Please, my Lord,” he said, once more addressing the bird in the most respectful terms he knew, “let me stay here. Let me stay here forever. I do not want to return.”
“It is not for you to spend eternity in the Between,” said the bird. “You must face your pain. You must face your future.”
“What future?” Jovann demanded. “I will surely die back there. I can feel death creeping up on me like a stalking panther.” His face twisted with anger. “Sunan did this to me. Sunan has always hated me, though I pretended otherwise. It was he who sold me to those slavers!”
“Hatred of Sunan will not heal your hurts,” said the bird. “Hatred will only cause them to fester.”
It spread its wings then and flew up into the Grandmother Tree’s branches. Jovann, startled at this sudden movement, leapt to his feet and hastened after, standing at the base of the Grandmother’s massive trunk, staring up into the leaves. He saw a flutter and a flash of white, and he knew the bird was still near.
“Please!” he cried after it. “I have seen what the future holds. You have shown me the fire my father will wield. You have shown me an image of myself standing above the emperor, my enemy. But how can this come to pass? I have failed to bring Father the secret of Long Fire. And how can I, a slave, ever stand before an emperor?”
“These are questions to which you will never find answers,” the bird replied, “so long as you remain in hiding here. You must return, Jovann. Return and trust me.”
With that, the bird took flight again and vanished beyond the circle of trees. Jovann, desperate, ran after it but stopped on the edge of the Grandmother Tree’s clearing. He had never ventured beyond into the shadows of the endless Wood. He did not know what he would find and, though he hated to admit it even to himself, he was afraid. He stood now, his fists clenched, his jaw set, staring into the darkness as though he could somehow force himself to see the bird. As though he could somehow draw the bird back by his own will.
“Please!” he whispered. And louder he cried, “Come back! Come back to me! Where are you? Why have you left me here?”
He realized to his horror that he was weeping. The men of the Khla clan did not weep! Hastily he dashed his hand across his face, cursing harshly. He cursed himself first, then Sunan, but he felt no better for the cursing. And the tears welled up again, infuriating him still more.
He turned away from the Wood and moved back to the center of the clearing where the Grandmother stood. He did not know what he would do. He could not bear to return to his own body yet. Taking a seat amongst the Grandmother’s roots, he leaned his back against the trunk and stared up into the green-leaf canopy above. “Why have you left me here?” he whispered.
Then, suddenly, a voice he had never heard before spoke.
“I heard you. I heard you calling. I came as fast as I could.”
Jovann was on his feet in an instant. The trunk of the Grandmother Tree was so huge, he could not see who stood on the other side. And there shouldn’t be anyone! This was his world! This was his secret place hidden within the depths of his mind! No one, no one should be able to enter here without his invitation, without his knowledge!
His heart in his throat, Jovann cried out in an angry voice, “Who are you? Who is that speaking?”
And someone stepped out from behind the Grandmother Tree. Someone more beautiful than Jovann had ever dared to dream.
She did not speak. She did not need to. Jovann, at first sight of her, felt that his heart was no longer his.
“Who are you?” he gasped.
Slowly she raised a finger to her lips. “Hush,” she whispered, and her voice was like the shush of forest leaves under a gentle rain. “Hush. No names. Names are not safe.”
Jovann stared at her. Then he took a step, his hands outstretched. “How did you come here? How did you find me?”
She did not seem to move, but he could not reach her, could draw no closer to her. She stood beyond his reach. And she said, “No questions either. Your waking body is sick and must heal.”
With that she turned. He realized with a start of horror that she was walking into the Wood beyond the Grandmother’s sheltering reach. “Wait!” he cried. “Where are you going?”
She paused on the edge of the clearing and looked back at him once more. “I have never been able to reach this Wood. Never before now. You led me here. I will find you again. Wait for me.”
“I’ll wait,” he promised. “I’ll wait forever. But please tell me your name!”
She shook her head. Then she stepped into the trees and was gone.
“It takes me three days,” their guide, who introduced himself as Brother Nicho, informed Sairu as they began their ascent of the mountain trail. Morning mist rolled down from the higher slopes, and the going was treacherous from the beginning, even in the lower reaches. “I move swiftly on my own. But all of you and this sick man . . .” Brother Nicho clucked and shook his head. “It will take us five days and more.”
“No. Not five days,” Sairu said. “We’ll make it in three.”
Brother Nicho bowed and bobbed and murmured, “As you wish.” Sairu could see that he did not believe her, that he thought it only a matter of time before this little, unknowing girl learned the hard truth.
But he hadn’t reckoned on Sairu’s smile. Her smile, which encouraged obedience, which pushed and prodded and motivated lagging feet. Exhausted though they all were from a sleepless night, they continued on and on until the sun was quite high and Sairu permitted them an hour’s rest. Then she urged them to their feet, and on into the mountains they climbed. The pace seemed to her unbearably slow. She could not ride but led the mule all the long way, afraid to mount for fear she might fail to see any ruts in the road and accidenta
lly ride over them, which would be disastrous. So far, her sapling-and-sling rig had held together even over the rougher terrain. But she scarcely trusted it and was careful to lead the mule around more difficult passes. When worse came to worst, she made the temple slaves carry the poor stranger for short stretches. But this seemed to cause him more pain even than the jostling he experienced in the sling.
He looked sicker than ever as the sun set. His skin, which was tanned and roughened from years of outdoor living, now wore a sickly sheen, grey and unnatural. Though Sairu ground her teeth, wishing to push her little crew onward even into the darkening evening, she gave the order to rest. She needed to check the injured man’s wounds.
Brother Nicho led them to a place where the road was especially broad, though a steep drop on one side plunged down to a forest far below. It was a safe enough place to pitch their tents, however, and soon the temple slaves had several campfires built and humble meals stewing (of which Brother Nicho took part with great smacking of his lips).
Sairu erected Lady Hariawan’s shelter as always, and after she placed her mistress safely inside and shoved a wafer or two into her hands, she made Tu Syed and Tu Domchu help her carry the injured man inside as well. Then she dismissed them, lit a lamp, and turned to work on the slave’s back.
His wounds were raw and red with fever and infection. Pus had built up under the skin in many places. She sterilized a knife over the flickering flame of her lamp, gliding the blade back and forth through the fire. Then she slid it under the pale skin and released the infected matter.
All this she did without a smile. All this she did with her mind firmly locked against the images of Idrus and his slain companions. But she could feel them, the ghosts of them, pounding at the locks; and she knew that when her work was done she would see their dead faces, and she would sleep little that night.
The poor man moaned, the side of his face pressed into the woven mat beneath him, and his eyelids twitched. He neither slept nor wakened but hovered between the two states. Sairu bandaged his wounds. She lacked the proper herbs to make a salve, but she washed his back as gently as she could, cringing at the sounds he made, then used clean cloths to bind it all. They must reach Daramuti in two more days if there was to be any hope for him.
She dared not roll him over but left him lying on his stomach. It was difficult to read anything of him from the side of his face, twisted as it was in pain. Princess Safiya would find it sufficient, but Sairu struggled.
“He’s no peasant, no servant,” she whispered as she looked at the line of his cheek. His lips curled back, revealing strong teeth. Whoever he was, he ate the choice cuts from among his people. A Chhayan nomad for certain, but a clan leader’s son, she thought. A prince of his kind. How could he have fallen afoul of slavers so very far from Chhayan territory?
He moaned again, and the sound cut her to the heart.
“He longs to Walk,” said Lady Hariawan.
Sairu looked up. Lady Hariawan sat where she had been placed, still holding her uneaten wafers. The flickering light of the lamp played gently on her face save across the hand-shaped burn, which looked alive and full of pain. But her features were as quiet as ever, her eyes watching Sairu’s every move. “He longs to escape the pain. But he must not Walk. Not yet.”
“What do you mean, my mistress?” Sairu asked. “He’s not going anywhere. He is too weak even to stand.”
He moaned again. Lady Hariawan’s eyes flashed. “Help him,” she said. “Help him with the pain.”
The words were as good as a command. Sairu turned back to her patient, momentarily at a loss. She didn’t like the feeling. She was a Golden Daughter. She always knew what to do, when to do it, and how. But here on this dark mountainside, kneeling before such agony, she felt more lost than when the cat had left her in the forest the night before.
She put her hands on the back of the slave’s head. His hair was dirty and matted with blood, but she did not pull away. She closed her eyes and murmured. “The pain is here. In your head. The pain is here. Draw it down.”
She did not know if he heard her, but somehow she thought he did, through the roaring of the fever.
“Draw it down, draw it down,” she said, and moved her hands down to the back of his neck. She felt his body shudder under the movement. “The pain is here beneath my fingers. Draw it down. Draw it down.”
She moved her hands, one onto each of his shoulders, still whispering, “The pain is here. Feel it here. Draw it down, draw it down.” And so she slid her hands down his arms to his elbows, which lay on either side of his body. She felt him shudder again. Gently she bent his arms so that his hands—large hands, strong hands accustomed to hard labor—lay on either side of his head. She turned them so that the palms faced up. She placed a finger in the center of each palm and again felt his body tremble in response. His eyelids fluttered.
“The pain is here. The pain rests in your hands. Hold it. Hold it here. Hold it in the palms of your hands. Hold the pain. Hold the pain.”
His eyes flew wide. For a long moment he looked up at her and she held his gaze, her own face intent. She spoke in a voice of command. “Hold the pain in your hands. Hold it tight. Hold it there.” She pressed into his palms with her fingers, pulsing a time.
And suddenly he was breathing deep. Long breaths into his nose and out his mouth. Rhythmic and controlled, he breathed in time to the pulse she beat into his hands. She knew then that he held his pain there, drawn from the rest of his body and focused beneath her fingers. He breathed, and she whispered, “Hold it tight. Hold it tight.”
Then he was asleep.
Sairu sighed and sat back, wiping sweat from her brow. She smiled weakly and looked over at Lady Hariawan. “It is done, my mistress. He is resting now.”
But Lady Hariawan did not answer. She was staring into the flame of the lamp, and her face was blank as a sheet of new parchment.
In another, colder part of the world . . .
The knock rang through the empty corridors of Lord Dok-Kasemsan’s home, finally reaching Sunan where he crouched over his work in a small chamber in the very back of the house. He startled and glanced at the patch of light on the floor, quickly gauging the time. The carrier wasn’t supposed to arrive for another three hours. Someone must have come to the wrong door. It must be a mistake.
Sunan shrugged it off and bent back over the document he was meticulously copying. Copying was rather beneath his dignity as a Tribute Scholar. Despite his inability to rise in the Center of Learning, Sunan was qualified to work with city chancellors, even to set up a small consulting business of his own. But to do so would be to admit that he had not passed the Gruung. To do so would proclaim to all the world his failure.
So sometime in the last few months he had found himself taking work as a copier for a small-time lawyer in a less-respected sector of Suthinnakor. And so he made pennies and survived.
The knock sounded again. Surely whoever it was would realize his mistake and go?
No one went to answer. Old Kiut had long since abandoned the household. When word arrived of Kasemsan’s incarceration in Lunthea Maly—and the king of Nua-Pratut’s refusal to become involved in a dispute with his much more powerful neighbor—the whole household staff had vanished overnight. Sunan suspected they had gone to join his uncle’s wife and family on the coast.
One way or the other, Sunan was alone now in the great house, surrounded by luxury not his own. He didn’t touch any of his uncle’s things. He would have died of starvation before selling so much as a single porcelain urn. He barricaded the doors against thieves, took a set of servants’ rooms for himself, scraped a small living copying endless pages of legal documents (many of them so full of lies and deceit they made his head spin), and . . .
And waited.
At night before he slept, he saw the face of the Mask in his mind’s eye. But the Mask hadn’t returned, not yet anyway. Why then did he always feel as though someone watched him? Even in the deepest re
cesses of his uncle’s empty house, with every door and window blocked and scarcely room for a breath of wind or sliver of sunlight to slip inside . . . why did he always feel as though someone stood mere steps behind him?
His hand trembled. He had to stop his work and wait for the trembling to pass. It took him much longer to finish any task these days, for he was painstaking, refusing to allow these intermittent tremors to disturb his flawless script. When the shakes came, he would set aside his brush and wait. They always passed eventually.
Another knock.
He would have to go check the outer gate at some point. The bolt must have come loose to allow whoever it was through to the courtyard. Usually he made the carrier wait on the street outside. He would make his way to the gate punctually each evening and slip the copy through the spy-hole without ever having to deal with anyone face-to-face. He had made similar arrangements with a local grocer and an egg-seller. He didn’t like to step beyond the gates of his uncle’s house unless absolutely necessary.
But someone was at the front door. And growing ever more insistent. The knocks were one long, continuous stream now, indicating a willingness to go on all day and into the night if necessary.
Well, assassins don’t knock. Or do they?
The tremors were too bad to continue his work, so Sunan gathered his robes and hastened through the quiet passages of the house, up a little flight of stairs, and on to the door. Boom! Boom! Boom! A large fist beat a steady rhythm, and Sunan could see the whole door shaking in its frame.
“Who’s there?” he called. His voice cracked from little use and he was obliged to clear his throat and try again to be heard over the thudding. “Who is there?”
The fist stopped. A deep voice with a thick Chhayan accent—though not an accent of the Khla tribe, Sunan noticed vaguely—spoke. “Are you Juong-Khla Sunan?”
“What do you want?” Sunan asked. He felt the tremors moving from his hands up his arms and into his shoulders.