The Besur’s heart began to race. He felt it, back in his physical body. He breathed deep, trying to draw in more harimau, trying to block out the fear which he knew would, any moment, hurl him back to his own world. His mind sought for the support of his brothers’ chant, but it was becoming more and more lost in this new sound, this new darkness.
The mist parted. He saw a great gate supported by two posts, one carved in the likeness of a dragon, the other uncut and ugly. He uttered a shout of fear.
“Besur? Besur?”
Anxious hands slapped his cheeks, chafed his wrists. The Besur groaned as consciousness stole back into his mind, bringing with it a headache to rival the worst headaches he’d ever had after a night of drinking sacred brews.
“Is he awake? Is he alive?” the voice of the emperor demanded with more curiosity than concern.
The Besur opened first one eye then the other. He found that he lay on the floor in the emperor’s chamber, surrounded by braziers and priests. The emperor had crawled to the foot of his bed and looked down over the edge.
“Ah! So you’re not dead.”
“No, Imperial Glory,” said the Besur, carefully, for his own voice rang too loud in his skull. “I am happy to report that I yet live.”
“Did you see my dream? Did you find it?”
Groaning again, the Besur allowed several slaves to assist him first to sit up and then to stand. He leaned heavily on one of them, whose knees buckled beneath the high priest’s bulk. The Besur addressed himself to the emperor and spoke with great dignity.
“Imperial Glory of Noorhitam,” he said, “I was unable to find the dream by which you suffer. Nor could I discover an interpretation.”
“Anwar blight it,” snarled the emperor and flopped back across his bed in an attitude of great despondence. “I shall die for want of sleep! I shall! And then you’ll all be sorry,” he said, casting an arm across his face.
Bintun exchanged glances with a fellow slave then, with a sigh, moved to his emperor’s side and gently stroked his forehead. “There, there,” he said, without much conviction. But it seemed to soothe the Imperial Glory.
The emperor sat up, clutching his blanket with sudden vehemence, and fixed an angry eye upon his high priest. “Perhaps,” he said, “you simply lack the proper motivation.”
“If you please, favored Son—”
“I’ll tell you what,” the emperor said, not interrupting because emperors never interrupt. When they speak, all others are silent. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you incentive. If you, or any man in this kingdom, can find and interpret my dream, I will . . .” He paused, considering. Then his eyes lit up with inspiration. “I will make that man my chief vizier, and the entire province of Ipoa will be his and belong to his children and his children’s children hereafter. And,” he added with enthusiasm, “I will give him the hand of a princess in marriage!”
The priests looked at one another, their eyes round. None of them, officially, should be tempted by such an offer. They had all made vows to forgo such earthly treasures in favor of Anwar and Hulan’s service. But every one of them saw the light of his own greed reflected in his brothers’ eyes.
“This is my offer,” said the emperor. “Let it be written in stone.”
“Lady Hariawan could do it.”
The Besur, seated in his private chambers, rubbing his throbbing head with one hand while his other gripped a cup of strong, hot tea, growled in response to Brother Yaru’s statement. Brother Yaru, unperturbed, continued his thought processes, which tended more toward rambling as his age advanced. These days he was almost impossible to listen to. But he was the Besur’s oldest friend, and so he was permitted into the high priest’s chambers when all others were ordered out.
“Of course,” said Brother Yaru in his most musing tone, “she would not be able to marry a princess. Our Imperial Glory has failed to consider this.”
“Our Imperial Glory does not know that any woman can dream-walk,” said the Besur through his teeth. Then he added, “You Sun-blighted fool.”
“Perhaps a prince, then?” Brother Yaru continued just as though he had not heard (which he probably hadn’t). “There must be a good dozen or more princes by this time, and some of them are of an age to marry. And Lady Hariawan is, after all, remarkably pleasing to look upon, so I can’t imagine any prince would object—”
The Besur snarled suddenly and sat upright, the knuckles of his hands turning white as he clenched the arm of his chair and the bowl of his teacup. “Lady Hariawan is gone. Gone, don’t you remember? Missing, vanished, beyond our reach!”
“Oh. Is she?”
“Yes, you idiot! We received the message only just this morning from Daramuti. You were there. You heard as well as I. She disappeared, it must be three months ago now, and no one knows what has become of her.” He added in an undertone, “I’d like to strangle that Masayi girl. With my own two hands!”
“Perhaps she is on her way home?” said Brother Yaru, his toothless mouth working with the effort of thought. “Perhaps she is even now approaching Lunthea Maly? That sweet young woman will protect her.”
“That sweet young woman probably slit her throat and left her in a ditch somewhere,” said the Besur.
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” said Brother Yaru. “She had such a charming smile.”
The Besur, recalling Sairu’s smile, shuddered and buried his head in his hand once more.
“What of the other message from Daramuti?” Brother Yaru said. He approached a small table upon which a porcelain tea set was arranged and poured himself a cup of tea. He swirled it in the cup, watching the tiny whirlpool created. “What of the slave boy Brother Tenuk sent you for sentencing? They’re still holding him in the granary, I believe.”
The Besur shrugged dismissively. “Tenuk is a fool not to have hanged the boy himself. Why should he bother me with such nonsense? String him up, for all I care.”
Brother Yaru sipped his tea, found it too hot, and licked his burned lip. “Well,” he said in his slow, dreamy way, “it does seem unfair to hang him without at least looking over the case.”
“I can’t be bothered,” the Besur growled.
“It won’t hurt a thing to put him in the dungeon until you have a spare moment to address the matter,” Brother Yaru continued. “Besides, he would be good company for Lord Kasemsan. The poor lord is in such a bad state these days, my heart quite bleeds for him! A little company would cheer him.”
The Besur snorted. “Nothing is going to cheer him. That blighted Golden Mother has been at him too long.”
“Yes,” Brother Yaru agreed, “she’s certainly not contributed to his well-being, poor man. I doubt he’ll live another week at this rate. But perhaps a friend at the end of his life would be a kindness. Hulan does bless those who show an extra kindness.”
Once more the Besur shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said. “Send the boy to the dungeons. Hang him. Set him weeding the onion bed. Do what you like, but don’t bother me with him again, do you hear?”
“I hear,” said Brother Yaru. He remained where he stood, sipping at his tea and saying nothing until his cup was empty. Then, with a bow and murmured, “Good night,” he slipped from the Besur’s chambers.
Agony had become a close, an intimate friend over the last six months. Closer than fear. Closer than memories. Closer by far than hope, which had indeed forsaken him. Agony was all, save for one final truth to which Lord Kasemsan clung.
Devotion.
Devotion beat in his breast now, keeping steady pace alongside agony’s throb, even as he lay in the darkness of the dungeons beneath the Crown of the Moon. He cradled a broken hand to his chest, not with any hope of help or healing, but simply because he did not know what else to do with it. It had been broken too many times to even look like a hand anymore, and indeed, Kasemsan would not have recognized it for his own had it not still hung limp on the end of his arm.
Worse than the brokenness was the infection.
Despite all Princess Safiya’s express orders, the keepers of the dungeon—the so-called physicians employed in this hellhole—had been unable to prevent the infection which spread slowly through his body. He knew, with a certainty almost akin to joy, that he would soon die.
But until he died, he would remain devoted to his cause. Devoted to the service and protection of Hulan.
Princess Safiya, with all her cunning, had not been able to wring from him his true purpose. Oh, she had certainly gathered some facts from his face, from his screams. She knew he had come to Lunthea Maly intent on discovering the Dream Walker, and what’s more, she knew he had intended to kill that Dream Walker.
She did not know why. And she never would. When Lord Kasemsan declared that he would die before he betrayed his cause, he meant it.
So he lay in darkness made more horrible because it was not complete. In utter darkness, he might have been able to fall into oblivion, hide from his own agony. But no. The lantern they left hanging from the high ceiling cast the cell into lurid clarity around him, illuminated every twist of his mutilated hand, and showed him the ravages of gangrene. He doubted very much that his own wife would recognize him. She certainly would do nothing to comfort him but would shrink away from the horror he had become.
He wondered, vaguely, if she mourned his loss. But he could decide on no definite answer to this question.
He heard footsteps approaching even before the door beyond his cell grated open. Leaning back against the wall, his legs splayed before him, his wounded hand held in his one good arm, Kasemsan slowly lifted his chin from his chest to observe those who entered.
For a moment so surprising it shot through him like a surge of renewed life, he believed he saw Sunan pushed through the cell door and into the lantern light. But no. It wasn’t Sunan. This young man was shorter, broader at the shoulders, and looked as though he would be strong were he not still recovering from recent illness. He also boasted a distinctly Chhayan complexion. Sunan, only half-Chhayan, was much paler than this lad.
Two strong slaves hauled the stranger between them, and he, his spirit long since broken, put up neither fight nor protest. The prison-keeper, entering behind, went gruntingly to work, fixing chains in place and removing the ropes which had bound the new prisoner’s arms. The prison-keeper turned and leered down at Kasemsan. “A friend for you, my lord. With the Besur’s compliments,” he said.
The two slaves fixed the young man’s chains to the wall beside Kasemsan. The young man turned his face away, perhaps glimpsing the gangrene and unable to bear the sight of it. The prison-keeper grunted again, tested the chains, then motioned for the slaves to follow him out. Once more the cell door grated, shutting firmly into place. A bolt fell.
One of the slaves had struck the lantern with his head in passing, and it still swung to and fro, casting light and shadows in weird patterns for some while until it finally settled. Kasemsan, observing his new companion, watched how he shut his eyes against the whirling light and saw by his pallor that he was fighting against the heave of his stomach.
“Who are you?” Kasemsan asked. His voice was raw and scarcely sounded human. The young man startled, and for a moment did not look as though he would answer. Then he said shortly:
“Juong-Khla Jovann.”
“Ah,” said Kasemsan. “I wondered. You are my nephew Sunan’s half-brother.”
The prisoner abruptly sat upright and turned to Kasemsan, his chains smashing together noisily at the movement. “You—You are Lord Dok-Kasemsan?”
“I was.”
A hundred different thoughts flashed across Jovann’s face, and his eyes lit up with an angry smolder. At last he said, “Your nephew did this to me.”
“Did what?”
“Had me kidnapped and sold into slavery.”
Kasemsan frowned. Very slowly, because even such a small movement added to his agony. Then he said, “That does not sound like Sunan.”
Jovann sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. His hair was grown past his shoulders and was thick with dirt and grease, and his face was half-covered by a scraggly beard. “Sunan is a son of the Tiger. He is capable of more than you Pen-Chans might guess.”
This statement did not merit a response, so Kasemsan offered none. He studied the side of Jovann’s face, noting the similarities between him and his half-brother. It struck him that this meeting of theirs could not be coincidence. The world was too vast and varied, and it was only one world of many. No. It was impossible that they should only happen to be thrown together into the same cell, under the same cursed Kitar temple.
Hulan must have guided them together. But for what purpose?
Kasemsan’s mind had ever been sharp. Back in the day, he was a Presented Scholar, achieving top marks in his Gruung. He went on to excel within the walls of the Center of Learning, bringing him to the keen-eyed attention of Overseer Rangsun. Some might have called him brilliant.
Now, even in the pit of his pain, he brought all his mental capacities into focus, forcing them to function by sheer force of will, beyond the capabilities of his broken body.
“Your father is the Khla clan leader,” he said. “He stole my sister long ago. I have always hated him.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Jovann, his eyes still closed. “Tigers are immune to hatred.”
“No one is immune to hatred,” Kasemsan replied. “Hatred has eaten the Khla clan alive from the inside out for two hundred years. Hatred has devoured the Chhayan people.”
At this, Jovann turned and looked warily at Kasemsan. He said nothing, only looked, and Kasemsan saw the fear in his eyes.
Kasemsan laughed weakly, and a tremor passed sickeningly down his spine. “Do not fear me, boy. I cannot hurt you, even if I wished to. Tell me, when do your people intend to take their vengeance?”
Jovann’s jaw worked with the force of all his anger, the anger bred into him from both his father and his mother. “My people will take back what is theirs,” he snarled. “When the time is right, we will oust the Kitar emperor, and we will rule Noorhitam once more. This is not vengeance. This is justice.”
“And when will this so-called justice take place?” Kasemsan persisted.
“I do not know,” Jovann admitted. “I am not in my father’s confidence.” Then he shivered, and something else flashed through his mind. Kasemsan, his eyes sharp, saw it, saw the expression on his face, and read it with far more accuracy than Jovann could ever have predicted.
“You have walked in the Dream.”
Jovann stared at him. “Wha—What are you talking about?”
“You have walked in the Dream. You have seen the beginnings of the assault. You have seen . . . you have seen . . .” Kasemsan sat, straining against his own body, pushing his mangled limbs, his wasted muscles, as he reached out toward Jovann. “You have seen the temple of the Greater Dark.”
Jovann turned away, sliding along the wall, out of Kasemsan’s reach. “You’re mad.”
“You are a Dream Walker. You are . . . perhaps you are . . .”
The drumming of devotion was loud now in Kasemsan’s ears. It filled him, driving out the agony. “Perhaps you are the Dream Walker who will open Hulan’s Gate and bring about the assault. And if that is true, then I must kill you.”
The chains were restrictive, but they were long enough that Jovann could leap to his feet. His wrists were bound to the wall, and his ankles too, but he pulled away, stepping back to their fullest extent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he said. “You’re sick. You’re raving.”
But Kasemsan was not raving. He rose up as well, finding in his limbs strength he did not know yet remained. He could not reach Jovann, but he caught his chains and pulled the boy to him. Before Madame Safiya’s work he had been a strong man, a man in his prime. Now, under the influence of devotion, some of that strength returned. He hauled Jovann toward him, and his hands latched to the throat of his nephew’s brother.
But his right hand
was broken. He could do nothing.
Jovann cried out and struck his attacker, knocking him to the floor. Kasemsan lay where he landed, his whole body quivering with pain. Jovann, watching, felt a dart of pity, though he stifled this and said in a warning voice, “Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.”
Kasemsan turned his face into the floor, breathing into the straw, “Oh, Hulan! Why do you give me no grace? Have I not served you faithfully? Have I not protected you all my life?”
Jovann, hearing this, thought how sad it must be to worship a goddess who needed protection. Suddenly—even there in the horrors of that cell, after the long horrors of his journey down from the mountains, facing a future that might easily end abruptly with a hanging—he found his head filled with the memory of the stars’ great Song. He saw Hulan upon her throne, so beautiful, so gracious, so full of Song herself.
But he remembered most of all the unicorn at his back warning him, “Do not worship. For she did not compose the Song which we sing.”
He whispered softly, so that he did not think Lord Kasemsan would hear him, “Song Giver, give us grace.” He did not know quite what he said or why. But he said it again, and it was a prayer of sorts. “Song Giver, give us grace.”
Kasemsan winced and cradled his hand closer to his chest. Then slowly he sat up again, pressing his back to the wall. “I cannot kill you,” he said.
“I should hope not,” Jovann replied, his fingers curling into fists. “What do you say to not trying again?”
But Kasemsan shook his head slowly. Then he dropped hold of his wounded hand, which fell limply into his lap. His good hand he put up to his own face. His fingernails were long and broken and dirty, and they looked like talons. Jovann stared, aghast, believing the lord intended to blind himself.
“I cannot kill you,” Kasemsan said. “But there is one more thing I can do.” He rammed his nails into his own eye.
Jovann, startled, gave a shout at this. He saw Kasemsan pull, and for a sickening moment he believed the man gouged his own eye from its socket. Something came out in a long black stream, and the lord’s face twisted with anguish as it came. Then suddenly it was out, and Jovann saw that it was not his eye he held between his fingers at all. He could not say what it was. He had never seen anything like it and had no frame of reference by which to guess. Whatever it was, it was alive. And it was angry.