Song of the Soul

Eight Fingers

The sun was high, searing the world that lay beneath it, and some, ugly plucked bird was flying in lazy circles letting out exasperated gurgling caws. If birds could spit it'd have been raining beneath it.

    Nimara let out another yawn, mouth wide with lips pulled back over teeth, stretching out arms, taking over the space above her. A horsey, lazy kind of yawn.

    The bird and its wet rasping squawks had been trailing her for some time now but she could not find it in herself to be annoyed with its dramatics. There was camaraderie in its whiny call.

   Woe is me, cried the malting bird.

   Woe is me, Nimara conceded.

    She had suffered the greatest humiliation that an agent of shadow could. She had been caught. She had never been caught. It was her pride, her most favored bragging chip. An envied fact in the community of her craft. Her image, that had been so carefully constructed, was now doomed to take a hit.

    Even more annoying, it had been the Imperial Court that caught her. The court was heavily guarded and the Imperial family were among the most powerful of Shi, not many would enter their capital, no matter the coin provided for the job. All those who had tried before her never returned, only whispers of their executions and quiet conversations of horror and battery. The underworld had become familiar with tales from behind closed doors within the ruling court.

    She had bragged that she alone could do it, careless words said to some drunkard in the dregs of a shitty rathole. And word travels, like it always does and soon enough, there she was taking the job, another contract, another little piece to add to her persona. Too good to go back on a boast.

    The prince had so easily subdued her,too. She rolled her eyes and groaned at the memory. She had a curved blade ready to hollow out his throat in his sleep, and dropped it to the ground on command as his own cool blade pressed firmly into the flesh of her own neck. She had been had, sold out, and the guards had dragged her into a rank dungeon reeking of death, and she felt certain that her time in this cycle had come to its end.

    One day came and went and then another and it had already been too long and Nimara knew that she would not die but would serve. A collar, no doubt, would be placed around her neck and she would do tricks for royals with smarmy attitudes. She could play the jester when it pleased her, but she was not pleased and the situation was shit.

    And sure enough she had been given an interrogation that felt more like an interview and that gray asshole had tapped explosives into the layers of her skin and the prince had patted her head, sent her on the way to do his bidding with the promise that if she performed well she would be free. Nimara knew the tale, old as time. There wouldn't be freedom. As long as she behaved under the threat of having her face blown off, there would be pats on the head and new jobs to complete. The interest of her crimes building faster than she could ever pay off the debt. Nimara had made a mistake.

   She was defeated, and worse still, humiliated.

   Woe is me, indeed.

    The smells of herbs, sweet and fruity, warm and wafting, traveled into Nimara and her stomach let out an angry rumble. She had not eaten in days and her mouth began to salivate. Hunger was an acceptable distraction from her depressing thoughts.

    A quick search produced two young boys all smiles and laughs, sticky treats speared on sticks, in hand.

    "Where did you get those, tiny men?" Nimara rode near, an imposing cloaked figure obscured in a harsh shadow cast over her.