“No.” I shivered again. If I were a great heroine from the days of yore like Phèdre nó Delaunay, that was likely exactly what I would do; but I was too scared and miserable to attempt it on my own. “I will go to Bhaktipur to ask the Rani for help.”
Datar raised his brows. “In eleven years, she has not found a way to defeat the Falconer and the Spider Queen. I do not see why one sickly dakini will change anything.”
A coughing fit took me, loose phlegm rattling in my chest. I doubled over in the saddle, swallowing hard against the pain in my throat when the fit ended. “Well,” I said in a hoarse voice. “We will see.”
“Why?” There was a rare note of genuine curiosity in Manil Datar’s voice. “Why do you care?”
I touched my aching chest, where my diadh-anam called futilely to Bao’s-so near, and yet so far. “Someone I love is there.”
“Bad luck for him,” Datar said wryly. “Or maybe not. Maybe he is happy there.”
I shook my head, setting off another wave of dizziness, steadied myself against the pommel, and sneezed. “No. He’s not.”
Manil Datar nudged his mount, moving away from me. “Bad luck for both of you,” he said over his shoulder. “Come, we are losing time.”
Rounding the shoulder of the mountain, we began the long, perilous process of making our descent. By the end of the day, we were back below the treeline and the peak of Kurugiri was behind us. In our camp, I gazed at its silhouette surrounded by a nimbus of gold and crimson, the heights catching the light of the setting sun long after shadows had settled on the long, low slope we travelled.
“I will find a way, Bao,” I murmured. “I promise.”
FIFTY-SIX
Sanjiv had called my ailment the mountain-sickness, and I’d hoped that as we left the mountains, I’d leave my sickness behind.
Not so.
It had sunk its claws too deep into me to let go that easily. Downward and downward we proceeded, travelling on a steep decline toward the valley that held the tiny kingdom of Bhaktipur. My eardrums strained and popped. Over and over, I swallowed against the pressure, even though it still hurt to swallow.
The pockets of snow dwindled.
The air grew thick and moist, and it seemed my head thickened with it. I could no longer breathe the Five Styles, forced to breathe through my mouth only.
If not for my illness and the persistent yearning of my diadh-anam, I would have been glad. We were venturing into inhabited territory, and after the rigors of the mountains, I was pleased to see stone houses with thatched roofs, fields of reddish soil planted with sorghum and millet, farmers working in the fields. For once in my life, I’d had a surfeit of wilderness.
As we worked our way downward, spruces and cedars gave way to more exotic flora, plants and trees I’d only seen growing in the glass pavilion in Terre d’Ange: poinsettias, oleander, towering ferns. There were forests of rhododendrons growing taller than I ever imagined they could. When they were in bloom, it must be a spectacular sight. Even on the verge of winter, the sense of lush greenery was overwhelming after the stark rigors of the mountains. There were unfamiliar gnarled trees with roots that crawled like great serpents above the ground, trees with thoughts as slow and ancient as any I’d encountered save Elua’s Oak.
Birds with bright plumage flashed amid the branches, and agile little monkeys with ancient wise-man’s faces chattered at us.
After so long in the heights, the kingdom of Bhaktipur seemed like a fairy-tale place, a charming city nestled in a green valley. I gazed around in wonder as we entered the narrow, bustling streets. Here and there, cows wandered untended, seemingly free to roam the city. The architecture was a mix of pagoda-style buildings familiar from Ch’in, and domes, arches, and minarets I guessed was a more traditional Bhodistani style. Folk clad in brightly colored garb made way for our caravan as we pushed through the crowded streets. We arrived at midday, and it was warm enough that I was sweltering in my thick woolen Tufani attire.
In a square, Manil Datar called a halt. “Here, our path divides, Moirin,” he said, pointing south toward the far end of the valley where the mountain range rose anew. “We are continuing onward. You…” He gestured around, smiling with grim satisfaction. “You are in Bhaktipur. The debt between us is finished.”
And that was that.
Sanjiv accepted my thanks with a shy smile, ducking his head and glancing at me sidelong. “Take care of your horses, Lady Dakini.”
“I will,” I promised.
No one else acknowledged me. Manil Datar gave the order to continue, and the caravan began filing through the city, bound for the far reaches of the Abode of the Gods.
Except for Sanjiv, I wasn’t sorry to see them go; and yet once more I found myself alone and friendless in a strange place, this time with my head aching and fever addling my wits. I fingered the purse of coin that Dorje had given me, hoping it was enough to purchase lodgings as he had promised.
All I had to do was find them. Belatedly, I realized that my limited Bhodistani vocabulary did not include a word for an inn.
Dismounting, I addressed the first person to smile at me, a slender young woman carrying a live chicken under one arm. “Hello,” I said politely. “Do you know where is a place and food for money?”
She nodded cheerfully and gave me directions in a dialect that differed slightly from the tongue Manil Datar had taught me. I echoed them back to her haltingly, while she nodded encouragingly.
When I had finished, she touched my face with slim fingers, her expression wondering. “You come from where?”
I pointed westward. “Far, very far. Many seas.”
It seemed to impress her. For my part, I was grateful to find the folk in Bhaktipur friendly and helpful, and my first encounter a productive one. I hoped it boded well for my time here. Right now, all I wanted to do was find the inn she had described, stable my mounts, then wash weeks of travel-dirt from my skin, fall into a bed, and sleep for days.
Alas, either the young woman had misunderstood my question, or I’d misunderstood her directions. When I followed the course she had indicated along the narrow, winding streets, I found myself before a building that was unmistakably a temple of some sort-and outside the temple doors, a trio of men assaulting a young girl in rough-spun clothing.
Even as I approached, they dragged her away from the temple, thrusting her roughly against a low wall. She cried out in fear and pain, dropping a rag bundle from which a tattered bunch of dried marigolds spilled, scattering gold and saffron petals. No one else on the street did anything to intervene.
A cold anger rose in me.
I unslung my bow without thinking, nocking an arrow. The swift motion made my head swim, and when I shook it in an effort to clear it, I made it worse. “Let her go!” I called in a tight, fierce voice.
Turning, the men backed away from the girl and raised their hands. The girl dropped to a squat, tears on her cheeks, and attempted to gather the fallen flowers.
“You do not understand,” one of the men said in a sullen tone. “She tried to enter the temple.”
There was a ringing in my head like the sound of bells, and I had to concentrate not to see two of him. “So?”
The man gestured aggressively toward the girl, who flinched. “She is nobody! An untouchable!”
I focused on him, training the arrow. “I do not care. Let her go!”
The sound of ringing bells grew louder. Gazing past me, the men’s expressions changed. All three of them bowed their heads, pressed their palms together, and touched their fingers to their brows. The girl pressed her forehead to the ground.