Golden Daughter (42 page)

Sairu, avoiding coming into contact with Jovann, knelt beside the dead man, putting her lantern close to his face. This was rigid and horrible with death, which seemed to have brought no peace to Lord Kasemsan’s suffering. His beauty had long since deserted him, and there was little left of the elegant Pen-Chan scholar who had come to dine in the presence of the empress some six months previous. Jovann, though he had spent many hours now with the dead man as his only companion, could not bear the sight and looked away.

But Sairu, though her hand trembled, reached out and took the corpse by the chin, turning the head this way and that. Then she looked at Jovann, or rather, at the mask so cleverly concealing Jovann’s form and being.

The cat growled in his throat, then said rather loudly, “
Mrrreaaaa!
”

“If that is true,” said Sairu, narrowing her eyes, “then it is a very good disguise indeed.”

“Disguise? Yes!” Jovann cried, leaning toward her and putting out a chained hand. “Please, little miss, you know who I am. You
know
it!”

She remained kneeling beside the corpse but sat back on her heels, studying him. Then she said in a soft, questioning voice, “Do you still think of Umeer’s daughter?”

He did not speak. His eyes widened, and his heart beat harder in his breast as he recalled the lovely face which, in memory, had been his comfort over the last hellish months of his existence. Sairu studied his expression. She watched the emotions playing across features unfamiliar, reading there everything he could tell her.

Then she turned to the cat. “You’re right. It
is
he.”

“And you can break the spell,” said the cat. “I know about these things. There are certain spells that can only be broken by . . . by . . .” He hesitated, suddenly embarrassed.

“If,” said Sairu, who had seen her fair share of romantic operas and heard many a recitation of fanciful poetry, “you are going to tell me that it only requires true love’s first kiss, you had better think again. I am not bringing my mistress here, and you can put the idea out of your mind.”

Jovann frowned, glancing from her to the cat, who was growling. “I would—I would never presume to—”

She put up a warning hand and shot him a stern look to silence the babble. She addressed herself to the cat once more. “Well, Monster? What else have you to say?”

“I wasn’t
actually
thinking of Lady Hariawan,” said the cat. “In fact, I rather thought—”

“You had best tell me a practical solution to this dilemma, cat, before I lose my patience.”

The cat put his ears back at her. But he answered grudgingly, “No one has to kiss anyone. You simply need to call him by his true name.”

“Juong-Khla Jovann?”

“Yes?” said Jovann.

“No,” said the cat. Then, “Lumé love me, if only Imraldera were here! She’d know how to help you better than I. You must
see him
, my girl. You must look at him and see
him
, not this outer form. You must see the real Jovann underneath, and you must call him by his name. His true name. The name which means who he
is
. Do you understand?”

Sairu blinked coldly at the cat.

“Or you could kiss him.”

“Listen, Monster, I do not have time for games and—”

Sairu stopped. The air in that subterranean chamber was cold and dank, but a sudden wave of ice passed over her heart, colder by far. The lantern hanging from the ceiling extinguished, and the sphere of light cast by the lantern in her hand became the whole world for a moment, a world containing life, death, sickness, hope, and all the other things of which worlds are made.

But Sairu felt none of that. Instead she felt a deathly hand close over her heart. And her instincts, so highly tuned, screamed suddenly in her mind.

My mistress!

“I should not have left her,” Sairu whispered. “She’s in danger.”

She was on her feet in an instant, her lantern swinging wildly as she darted across the cell to the door. “Where are you going?” the cat cried and sprang after her. Both vanished, and the cell, which had been horrible before, plunged now into utter blackness save for the tiniest crack of sickly light slipping through the still-open cell door.

Jovann sat in the dark beside his dead companion. The silence was as heavy as the weight of stone and earth above his head. As heavy as his spirit.

At last he muttered, perhaps for dead Kasemsan’s benefit, “Anwar blight that girl!” But the words came out mangled and unintelligible even in his own ears.

On his way back out of the city Sunan stopped at a small fire pit off the roadside, half-hidden behind a crumbling wall, where a man of indeterminate age cooked dumplings filled with indeterminate ingredients. Sunan bought three without quite realizing he’d done so. His body was weak, his limbs trembling from hunger, and he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten a bite the whole of the long day previous.

So, with the strange dagger secured tightly to his left arm, hidden within the sleeves of his robe, he purchased the dumplings then hastened on down the road with them clutched to his breast as though he’d committed some villainous act. A darkened doorway offered shelter, and Sunan tucked himself into it to eat his meal, furtively staring out from the shadows at all those passing by. There were not many yet, for the morning had not fully broken. But already, here and there, sellers and buyers and purveyors of various businesses emerged from their houses, huts, and hovels. The flowing life’s blood of Lunthea Maly, hastening in endless circulation through the beastly city which was, many said, the very center of the world.

Sunan took a bite of the first dumpling, and a bursting sensation of ginger filled his palate. With it came a still more overwhelming burst of shame.

He stood frozen, unable to swallow, his tongue burning, his eyes watering, facing the truth of what he was on his way to do.

Murder.

Not murder. Assassination,
another side of his mind whispered. But even in the privacy of his mind it was such a sarcastic, such a bitter comment that Sunan almost wondered if it was the imp in his head speaking and not his own thought at all. But the imp had withdrawn into a far deeper corner of Sunan’s consciousness and crouched there, growling, but otherwise inactive.

Sunan was alone with his thoughts. His guilt and his shame.

You could refuse. Throw away the dagger and walk on in the opposite direction.

He forced his jaw to work. Chewed, swallowed, and took another bite.

If you do that, they’ll kill you before the day is done.

He felt the dumpling settle like a hard lump in the pit of his stomach. But his body cried out for more, so he ate. The ginger nearly made him sick, but he ate, because what else could he do?

What else can you do? It’s her life or yours. What do you owe her?

That beautiful face—rendered so much more beautiful in contrast to those wretches surrounding her on all sides—flashed across his memory. A beautiful face, but he did not know her. He did not truly love her. He felt his heart race at the thought of her, felt his limbs turn to water as the idea of her filled his mind. But he did not love her. Her death would mean so little.

And there is your blood oath to be considered.

This was true indeed. After all, committing this act was not simply a matter of life or death. It was a matter of honor. He had vowed a solemn vow, and as an honorable man he must fulfill it or lose face. His death would be preferable by far. So ultimately this couldn’t be murder. Not really. Not when looked at from the proper vantage.

He knew they were watching him. The Crouching Shadows. He couldn’t see them, but he felt them, and every man, woman, and child moving up and down the narrow streets of Lunthea Maly seemed to him suspicious, dangerous, their eyes full of a killer’s cunning.

With a sudden sense of urgency Sunan swallowed down the rest of the dumplings. Then he drew himself up and stepped boldly from the doorway, hastening down the street and on to the northernmost gate of Lunthea Maly. He felt the morning sun rising, and shadows lengthened across his path, broken up by bursts of soft white-gold light. Beggar children, seeing his haste, rushed after him, jeering and begging for coins at the same time. He snarled at them, and when they would not leave him be, lunged suddenly and watched them scatter back into the mist.

He did not see the three forms spying on his movements from the upper window of a disreputable inn. He did not see the fur-clad arm of a master sharply motion or the two pairs of heavy boots stamping down a narrow stair and entering the street. Sunan, intent upon the task at hand, intent upon forcing back the horror mounting in his heart, did not realize that he was followed, not by Crouching Shadows as he feared, but by a danger much more dreadful to him.

Sunan’s world was made up of broken shards of time. One moment, he was in the city. Then, before he realized it, he was at the gates. He passed through these and was unaware of anything more until he was quite far out into the country beyond, pushing against the flow of those journeying from across the empire to make their way into Lunthea Maly’s welcoming, devouring heart.

Then, quite suddenly, he stood on the lip of Lembu Rana, gazing down upon the secluded village of lepers. The sight was rendered no less horrible by the gentle light of late morning. Indeed, it was more difficult to watch those wretched forms—some hobbling about to tend their meager gardens, some stirring boiling pots full of stew or laundry, some carrying bits of wood to fuel the fires, but most simply lying before the doors of their huts, ravaged faces upturned to Anwar’s warmth as the only comfort they could know in their suffering. In the shadows of night they had been wraithlike and otherworldly. By day they were living corpses, and this was worse by far.

Sunan’s resolve wavered, not for any sense of guilt now, but simply for fear. “They’re not cursed. They’re sick,” he whispered even as he’d done the evening before, which seemed like years ago.

He glanced back over his shoulder, perhaps with a thought of flight. Only then did he spy two distant forms watching him from up the road. He did not recognize them from that distance but believed them to be Crouching Shadows observing whether or not he would fulfill his oath. If he turned back now, he would surely die.

So, steeling himself with what little courage remained to him, he started down the path. Some of the lepers climbing up eyed him with suspicion and avoided him with as much alacrity as he avoided them. He passed unimpeded into their village and stood there a moment, uncertain which way to turn. The night before he’d had a guide through these tumbledown structures. Now they stretched before him like a maze into the very pit of hell.

But to his surprise, a little form approached him. She moved slowly, with much pain, and as she drew near, Sunan recoiled at the ugliness of her face, missing part of its jaw and raw with infection. But then he recognized her. She was the same child who had sat outside the hut of the lepers’ angel.

She smiled at Sunan. It was a ghastly sight. And yet, for the first time since looking upon the Valley of Suffering, he felt his heart moved by something like pity. After all, this was a child. She should be at play with a dozen brothers and sisters. She should be clutching some rag of a doll in one hand, tugging her mama’s skirts with the other. Instead she died. Every day she died more. And who could say where her mama was, having long since abandoned her blighted offspring?

So when the child smiled at him, Sunan offered something of a smile in return. This seemed to give her courage, and she drew nearer so that he could hear her roughened voice saying, “Come with me. To the angel.”

He did not think. He did not consider what he was about to do to this poor waif’s angel. She led, and he followed, avoiding eye-contact with those who watched him warily. And at last they came to a hut in the very center of the valley, and Sunan knew it was the one he sought.

There was no sign of the one called Granddad anywhere near, and the child settled beside her blackened fire pit, making no move to enter. But she motioned Sunan to the doorway, and he knew that she trusted him, that she gave him leave to pass.

Ignoring the ramming of his heart against his breastbone, Sunan ducked and entered, and found himself once more standing in the light of three lamps. These all burned low, their oil nearly gone. But they were enough still to illuminate the face of the beautiful woman. The scar was red across the pale curve of her cheek.

Sunan’s heart nearly failed him. He almost ran from that hut, out of the valley, his arms outspread in welcome to those who would kill him for his failure. For she was so elegant in her rags, so composed amid this nightmare. Her eyes were closed once more, and for this he was thankful. Otherwise he felt quite certain that he would not have been able to take another step toward her.

But step he did, and then he knelt even as he had the night before. His eyes trailed over her form, resting at last upon that rag-covered place above her heart. The rags were thin enough. They would offer her no shield against the bite of his blade.

How long had it been since he hunted with the Tiger Clan? How long had it been since he last plunged a knife into the throat of his quarry? How long since he’d felt the spurt of blood across his hand? These were memories he had blocked, memories he had vowed to forget upon entering the Pen-Chan life of his mother’s heritage, where a man could rise above all the foundational brutality of life, standing instead upon the towering heights of intellect and reflection.

But life has a way of circling back on itself. And here he knelt before the beautiful lady, even as he had knelt before his fallen prey. As he had done then, so he did now, drawing his knife, which looked like a demon’s tooth in the light of those three lamps.

The woman opened her eyes. He felt her gaze but could not raise his head. He stared at his knife instead.

“I must kill you,” he whispered.

“Is that so?” said she.

Her voice was so calm. Like the sweetest of spring breezes moving through the tall grass of the grazing lands. It pierced Sunan to the heart. He could not move.

“I have long wondered about death. About life,” said the woman. “They are a mystery. The great mystery. And who is to say if the one is worse than the other?”

Sunan swallowed with difficulty. He shifted the knife in his grip, turning it to the right angle for plunging.

“I feel that before I die, I should ask you something,” said the woman. “Will you give me a truthful answer?”

“I—I will if I may.” His voice came out in a hoarse cough.

“What is your name?”

He could not help himself. He looked up into her face, into her deep, deep eyes, and he thought he saw the light of the Dara shining there. He answered without thinking, “Juong-Khla Sunan. That is my name.”

“Sunan,” said she, and her head tilted to one side. Her threadbare head-covering slipped down around her shoulders, revealing her thick hair, which was combed and braided, and which shone with an otherworldly luster. She spoke his name again. “Sunan. The Good Word. It is a worthy name.”

She put up her hands then and, without any sign of fear or fumbling, undid the ties of her garments about her neck and parted the rags to reveal the white skin beneath. She uncovered her heart.

“Very well, Sunan, the Good Word. Do as you have purposed.”

He knew then that he never could.

Sunan raised the knife above his head and threw it across the hut. It struck the wall and stuck there, the hilt shivering with the impact. Sunan’s body shivered in response, and he covered his face with his hands. His heart raced and his gut roiled, but he sat as still as a becalmed sea.

Suddenly he felt soft hands touching his. The woman took hold of his fingers, pulling them back, revealing his face. He found her bent toward him, and the scent of her hair was like wildflowers.

“I want to show you something, Sunan,” said she. “Will you see?”

He nodded mutely. The woman reached into the depths of her garments and withdrew something in her fist. Slowly she uncurled her fingers and revealed the wonder that lay in the palm of her hand.

It was a star. No, it was a flower of stars.

No, even that, Sunan realized with a shake of his head, was not quite right. It was a cluster of opals set in gold, luminous from the inside out, unaided and unhindered by the lamplight.

“It is a gift of the heart,” said the woman. She pressed it into Sunan’s hand, and her fingers, hovering over his, hid the light of those stones. “Will you accept it?”

“I will,” he gasped.

“And will you promise to love me?”

“I promise.”

She took his face between her hands then. His head filled with storms and thunder as she pulled his face to her own and kissed him. That kiss, so full of power, so full of passion he did not comprehend, was the final seal upon his heart.