Dancer's Lament by Ian C. Esslemont

Author:Ian C. Esslemont [Esslemont, Ian C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781473509627
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2016-02-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

DORIN KNEW – AS did just about everyone across Quon lands – that the procession of icons and shrines celebrating Burn’s Sleep was the main religious festival of Heng. Preparations had begun long ago, the siege notwithstanding, when the official date was set by the Grand Temple. Pilgrims usually began congregating long before.

But not this year. This year the Kanese forces turned away all comers. Even those travelling by river had been intercepted and warned off. All this despite the High Priest of Burn’s hurrying by litter out to King Chulalorn’s compound south of the city to plead the case for the festival.

When the evening of the appointed day came, curiosity drove Dorin to take a look; as he left the common room the toughs glared but said nothing. They were not the least interested in the festival. It struck him then that perhaps it wasn’t that they were particularly irreligious – every one of them was certainly superstitious – it was that they simply lacked all curiosity and imagination. The shallowness of such a life made him almost pity them.

All the pickpockets and prostitutes were out, of course. Tonight should see the richest shifts of the last month. And thinking of work, he’d come very near to being called out to stick a knife into a few recalcitrant debtors today. Fortunately, the mere threat of his appearance had done the job. Again, Dorin wondered whether he wanted to be the mad dog in the cellar whose presence kept everyone in line.

The main streets were crowded with more Hengans than Dorin had seen in the last three months. They gathered round the many broad platforms that supported effigies of Burn aslumber, together with a number of lesser entities such as the Enchantress, also known as the Queen of Dreams; D’rek the Worm of Autumn; Poliel, who was the Lady of Pestilence and Corruption; and Mowri, Lady of Slaves and Beggars. All similarly sombre entities who shared aspects touching upon fate, futurity, and the struggle of life and death.

The Hengans, it seemed to him, currently shared a rather solemn and sober reflection on mortality; understandable, given their current grim circumstances. The crowds of men and women, even children, took turns supporting the massive pallets while the rest filed behind, waiting their turn. Many carried shaded candles or lamps. Dorin leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, and watched the long slow panoply pass.

In the wavering amber light he saw the final icon making its tottering way up the main avenue. It was the smallest of the lot by far: slim but tall, an effigy of a hooded figure. As it neared, Dorin’s surprise grew as he recognized the young man leading its supporters up the street. It was the dark, half Dal Hon youth from the mausoleum. And the severe looming effigy, carved of wood and stubbornly plain and unadorned, was of the Hooded One himself.

His first reaction was to steel himself for a riot. Yet the crowd of Hengan citizens did not react as he’d anticipated.

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