Dancer's Lament

Epilogue

IT WAS NIGHT on the fields south of Heng, and Sister of Cold Nights crouched before a pile of kindling and dry moss. The sparks she struck flamed to life and she blew upon the fire for a time before sitting back on her heels. The fire’s glow played over her tall husky form and reflected brightly in her pale hazel eyes.

She fed sticks into the flames as she waited. The firelight revealed that she sat not far from the croft where she’d brought Juage, but the Jaghut was gone now, journeying south to return to his pretended servitude. She rocked on her haunches, continuing her vigil.

It was long into the night before she sensed someone with her and blinked, drawing her thoughts from the far reaches where she had ventured – a place of low granite hills scoured bare. A cloaked and cowled figure sat opposite, studying the fire.

‘Brother K’rul,’ she greeted.

‘Sister of Cold Nights.’

‘He’s left Heng.’

Beneath its thick cloak the figure raised and lowered its shoulders. ‘Did I say he would stay?’

‘You said I would find him here.’

‘And you found him.’

She tossed a stick on to the fire. ‘He can’t be the one to succeed.’

‘Why not?’

She scowled her distaste. ‘He is incompetent. Dishonest. Nothing more than a self-seeking opportunist. How can he succeed where so many others have failed?’

‘So, because he does not conform to your expectations . . . this means he cannot succeed?’

She let out a long hissed breath and threw another stick on to the fire, raising a shower of sparks into the night sky. ‘Very well. I shall see it through.’

‘Only then may you see where it might take you.’

She nodded. ‘So you say. I am trusting you in this, brother.’

‘And I you.’

She eyed him warily. ‘How so?’

‘Fate has plans for me as well. They are bound up with your actions. We are all entwined in the skein of events now.’

She nodded, accepting this. ‘That I should have foreseen.’ She held up a hand, rubbing the palm. ‘I remain bound to the flesh and no longer have our old vision. It is . . . frustrating.’

‘Trust sister T’riss in this.’

She barked a laugh. ‘No.’

‘You should make up, you two.’

She shook her head. ‘Never.’

K’rul sighed. ‘You are one to hold a grudge.’

‘We all are. It is our curse. We never forget.’

‘Indeed, we do not. Fare you well, sister.’ The figure faded away.

‘Fare you well, brother.’

* * *

Ullara rose from her straw pallet in the family kitchen that was an open-walled addition behind the barn. A cloth was wrapped tightly about her eyes and she crossed the beaten dirt floor carefully, hands extended, to where a cage hung from a rafter. She found the cage and drew the cloth blind from it.

Within, a small songbird chirped and fluttered about the bars. Ullara pulled the cloth from her head revealing the empty scarred pits of gouged-out eyes. She opened a small door on the cage and held up a finger. The tiny yellow and black bird alighted on the tip, singing happily.

The girl set the bird on her shoulder and turned to a counter, picked up a knife, and began cutting vegetables for the day’s meal.

All morning the bird kept up a constant cheery song, though it quietened whenever anyone else entered the kitchen. Chores finished, Ullara went to the stables, the bird clutching her shoulder. Here, any strangers or patrons she met glanced away, or made warding gestures against evil. She headed to a set of stairs, hearing behind her murmured references to witchery and pacts – all of which she had learned long ago to ignore. She climbed a ladder to the attic and threw open the trapdoor to clamber up. The songbird now fluttered about her.

In the large open space of the loft the bird chirped happily as it explored the rafters. Ullara crossed the dark empty space to a gable. She threw open the shutters at the window. The songbird alighted on her shoulder.

The red brick rooftops of Heng lay before her. Smoke rose from countless cooking fires. The traffic of carts and wagons rumbled from the streets. Vendors touted their wares and the commingled talk and shouted bartering of the markets was a low constant tumult.

She crossed her arms, sighing.

The tiny bird kept up its constant cheery song, though, at one point, it chirped Dancer!

The girl rubbed a finger on its head and murmured, ‘Shush, you.’

* * *

In the royal pleasure garden of the kings of Kan, Iko sought her hidden quarry. It was a warm night, and she stalked her target in her full fine mail coat, her whipsword at her back. Torches stood on tall poles at the many crossings of the paths about her. She edged aside the broad flat leaves of the rhododendron bushes; she peered into thick verges of white and pink rose bushes. She squinted up at the invitingly low limbs of the monkey-tail trees, and quietly crept round to peep behind the wide boles of the fat baobab trees, yet she failed to flush him out.

He was canny, this one. Sharp. He never used the same approach twice.

She did not take the marble-flagged path that forked into the flower garden wing, as cover would be too scarce there; instead, she turned to the path that led to the hedge maze. He thought he could lose her in there.

She entered the narrow lanes of the maze, shaking a bush now and again. At one point she thought she heard a muffled giggle from a lane that shadowed hers and she carried on, harrumphing her frustration.

Shortly thereafter she halted, peering round. ‘Where is he?’ she exclaimed loudly, vexed. ‘Well – I can’t find him!’ She headed for the exit.

Just before she reached the opening, the bushes behind her shook and something poked her back. She spun, throwing up her hands. ‘What!’

A boy danced in circles waving his stick, chanting, ‘I won, I won, I won!’

Iko knelt, chuckling. ‘Indeed you did.’

Four liveried servants approached and surrounded them. All bore lanterns on tall poles. The lad pointed the stick at her, now all serious. ‘Did you hear me?’

Iko pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I swear that I did not.’

The lad did not appear convinced. ‘Well . . .’ He played with the stick, eyed her sideways. ‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘What they say . . . about the killing. The assassination.’

Iko fought to keep her expression light. She nodded. ‘Yes. It is true.’

‘You’ll not let that happen, though, will you?’ And the lad peered up at her with his soft brown eyes, suddenly anxious.

Iko swallowed hard, her throat so tight and hot she was unable to speak for a moment. She put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and brought her face to his. Her voice was low and thick as she managed, ‘I swear upon my life that I will never let any harm come to you, my king.’

The lad scampered off, slashing his stick at the bushes as he ran. All four servants raced after, struggling to light his way as he charged about the many paths of the garden.

Iko straightened. She dabbed her eyes with a sleeve of her royal green jupon. The lad’s route brought him back to her and he jabbed now at the tree trunks. He turned to her, suddenly. ‘Do you know the name the guards at the palace have for you?’

Iko paused, wondering whether she wanted to know it or not. She inclined her head. ‘No, sire, I do not.’

‘Well, you always wear your mail coat. Always. No one’s ever seen you out of it and so they call you Shimmer.’ And the boy raced off again, the servants puffing as they chased after him through the trails, their lanterns bobbing in the darkness.

She arched a brow. Hunh. Shimmer. Well, it could’ve been far worse, that was for certain. She started walking after him, hands at her belt, pacing. Chulalorn the Fourth was a handful, that was for certain. But he was her charge. And Mosolan was regent until he reached adulthood.

Until then, she swore to all the gods above and below – that had ever been and would ever be – that no harm should ever come to him under her wardship. She had lost one king and would not lose another.

So did she vow.