Golden Daughter (48 page)

“Wait! He is coming awake.”

Jovann heard Sairu’s voice through the haze of his mind, and he blinked several times in an effort to see her, to find her. He could feel her near to him, though how he knew it was she he could not say. She was close. He reached out for her and felt her catch his hand.

At that touch he opened his eyes. Sairu knelt before him, holding his hand in both of hers. He had never seen her face so anxious. Where was the smile that was her mask? It was gone, ineffective to hide her fear.

“Jovann?” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Jovann, are you all right?”

He blinked again. Then he looked down at his hand clasped in hers. He saw that smoke was rising from his arm, from his body. He shuddered, and his stomach turned sickeningly at the smell of sulfur on his skin. But he did not burn. Like the Katuru tree, he did not burn.

“Jovann?” Sairu asked again, and he met her gaze.

“I’m all right, little miss,” he said, though as he spoke, the words came out all wrong, all twisted. The imp, after all, was still firmly lodged in his brain.

But even the gibberish on his lips eased her fears. Sairu let go his hand and stood. Jovann saw that he was once more in the emperor’s throne room.

Sairu addressed herself to the emperor. “Beloved Anuk, he has returned,” she said.

The emperor leaned forward on his throne, gripping the inlaid arms with tense hands. His eyes were bright. “And have you seen my dream, Dream Walker?” he asked, and not even his assumed courtly calm could disguise the tremor in his voice. “Did you find it?”

Jovann lifted his face to the emperor’s. He had vowed never to kneel before this man, and here he was, upon his knees. Yet it was not he who made the supplication.

“I saw your dream, Great Emperor,” Jovann said.

Though Sairu continued to hear only the imp’s garbling, the emperor understood him well enough. A light shone in the Anuk’s eyes, a desperate, hungry light. “Can you tell me what it means?” he asked.

Thus, even as the songbird had warned him, Jovann found himself faced with a choice. Would he support his father’s dream now that he had seen it in its entirety? The images of those bloody rites played through his memory, and the imp in his head screamed and hid its face from them. He saw again the flayed and dripping gore. He saw again the Greater Dark. He saw Hulan bound to the Gold Gong.

He understood what it was his father dreamed. And he knew he could no longer bear to support it.

“Great Emperor, your vision warns of a coming attack upon your own great palace. My people, the Chhayans, are massing together, every clan. They have acquired the Pen-Chan secret of Long Fire, and even now they make weapons of wicked destruction. I do not know the exact day of their attack, but I believe it will take place very soon. Within days, even. You must prepare yourself. I—” He stopped. His heart moved inside him one last time, and he almost refused to go on, so potent was the training of hatred in his blood.

But he again saw Hulan suspended on that gong. So he continued. “I can help you. I know not all but many of my father’s secrets. I will show you the places of weakness where Juong-Khla will attack first. If you will trust me, Anuk Anwar, I will help you to ward off this evil.”

The emperor, still leaning forward, drank up Jovann’s words like a thirsty man lying in a stream bed. When Jovann had finished his say, the emperor turned to Sairu, who had understood not a word. But the emperor did not know this, and he asked, “Is what he says true?”

Disconcerted, uncertain how to answer, Sairu said nothing.

“Is it true?” the emperor repeated. “Have the Chhayans indeed gained the Pen-Chan secret of Long Fire?”

“Yes!” Sairu gasped then shook her head and answered more calmly, though her gaze flickered to Jovann and back. “Yes, I have seen their weapons for myself and the destruction they can work. I have seen the Chhayans armed with flame.”

The emperor nodded. Then he said, “Do you trust this man, Masayi Sairu? Do you believe he will do as he says? Do you believe he will help us ward off an attack by his own people?”

Sairu glanced again at Jovann. Only briefly. She could not look him full in the face. She dared not for fear of what she might see. For once in her life she struggled for words, and so many conflicting thoughts raced through her head, she scarcely knew herself anymore. If she looked at Jovann, even wearing this current strange form of his, she knew how she would answer. But could she bear to answer any other way? She had not heard what he said, she had not understood what he told the emperor. How could she know the answer to her emperor’s question?

Then, like a sudden stilling of the wind among the trees after a storm, her heart calmed. She felt a peaceful assurance that was beyond reason. It did not matter. She did not need to know everything in order to know what she believed.

“Beloved Anuk,” she said, “I trust this man. He will help us. I trust him with my life. More than that, I trust him with yours.”

“Very well,” said the emperor. He stood then for the first time since that strange interlude had begun. His rich robes settled in heavy folds about him, and his crowned head was held high and proud. He raised his arms, and every eye in the throne room, every courtier gathered, turned to him and waited to learn his will.

“I have heard my dream interpreted, and so we may, by the strength of this good man’s power, avoid disaster for our nation. Thus I command that the gifts I promised be bestowed upon Juong-Khla Jovann. I declare him now my trusted vizier. He will be given a place in Manusbau close to my side, and he will advise me both in the coming days of danger and in time following. The province of Ipoa is his by right, and it will belong to his children and his children’s children, all the seed born of him and my daughter. When this danger we now face is past, Juong-Khla Jovann will enter the Crown of the Moon and, before my eyes and the eyes of Hulan herself, he will wed a princess of Noorhitam. He will be wed to . . .”

Here the emperor paused. A slight frown formed on his brow. Then he looked at his Golden Daughter standing beside him with her hands folded. He smiled, pleased with his sudden thought. “He will be wed to my daughter, Princess Masayi Sairu.”

“What?” Jovann gasped, forgetting himself for a moment. Though she could not understand him, he turned to Sairu, his eyes wide. “
Princess?
”

The emperor approached him, extending both his hands. Jovann had no choice. He placed his hands into the Anuk’s and allowed himself to be assisted to his feet. The emperor was smiling. “You have pleased me. Sairu’s mother was always one of my favorites. I am glad that you should have Sairu. Besides, many of my warlords will not take kindly to a Chhayan vizier. Sairu is a Golden Daughter, and she will keep you safe.”

“I—Great Emperor—
Honored
Emperor . . .”

But before Jovann could think of anything more to say, the emperor turned to Sairu and held out a hand for her. She came forward obediently, and her masking smile was back in place, though her face was still pale. “It will be as I say,” said the emperor, drawing Sairu toward him and placing her hand in Jovann’s, “as soon as this danger is past. Now, Juong-Khla Jovann, I would have you kiss my daughter and seal the agreement.”

Here that grin of Sairu’s faltered. She kept it in place, but only with an effort. She had never been kissed before. Well, except by her dogs, who were a bit sloppy and didn’t really count. She had never honestly given much thought to being kissed—not she, not a Golden Daughter. And she’d certainly never expected to be kissed by a man whom she knew quite well but whose face was completely strange to her!

So Jovann gazed down at the princess whom he had believed nothing more than a handmaiden and saw little encouragement in her eyes. He glanced uneasily at the emperor. But the emperor only nodded and motioned with one hand for Jovann to get on with things. An imperial command is an imperial command, after all.

Jovann bent. He gently took Sairu by the shoulders as though to hold her steady. Her eyes remained wide open as he planted a hasty kiss on her mouth.

The imp in his brain shrieked. Then, with a burst, it flew out of his eye. He cried out, for it hurt just as it had hurt when the creature entered. He took a step back, pressing his hand over his eye, and cried, “Anwar’s bruising elbow!”

“Oh come, man,” said the emperor, folding his arms across his narrow chest. “It couldn’t be
that
bad.”

Sairu blushed brilliant red and strove to hide it behind a calm exterior that could fool no one. Then she gasped, forgetting her embarrassment, forgetting her dignity, forgetting even the watchful, curious eyes of all the gathered courtiers. “Jovann!”

For indeed it was he. Gone was the face of the stranger, the enchanted mask. It was
his
face she saw blinking and wincing still as he lowered his hand.

And the cat, hiding in the shadows behind the emperor’s throne, grinned to himself. “True love’s first kiss,” he whispered with a purr. “Works like a charm every time.”

A sensation of impending doom stopped Overseer Rangsun in his tracks so that the educator pacing soberly behind ran into him. The educator apologized; for although it wasn’t his fault, it was safer to assume the fault onto himself than to leave any room for implication that the overseer might have made a mistake. This was a basic rule of hierarchy in the Suthinnakor Center of Learning.

Overseer Rangsun made no response. He stood completely still. Not a muscle on his face moved even when the educator noticed that his stumbling footsteps had torn a gash in the overseer’s trailing robe and redoubled his apologies. The educator, who was no fool, recognized his superior’s silence as something far more profound than mere irritation. With a final murmured request for forgiveness, the educator bowed and slipped back the way he had come, leaving the overseer alone in the passage.

The overseer carefully collected his thoughts, one at a time, and lined them up in neat rows within his mind. He had lived too long and studied too hard to let a moment such as this unnerve him. The sensation of doom was real, but he was no peasant, ready to panic and scream at the very idea of losing a life hardly worth living in the first place. No indeed; the overseer knew he had made his life worth every second. He was a man superior to other men, and he served a purpose superior to other purposes. Secure in this knowledge, he could not panic. He could never panic.

And yet the feeling of doom shrouded him, clinging to his spirit like the membrane of a bat’s wing wrapped tightly around his body. Finding his limbs capable of movement again, he stepped to a window and slid it open to look down into Suthinnakor City. He had no love for this city. He had no love for anything anymore, not even for his great purpose; drive had long since supplanted love in his heart. Still, he felt a sudden inexplicable pain as he realized it was the last time he would gaze upon this view.

“The city will burn,” he whispered. Then he turned and faced the man standing in the shadows behind him. “The worlds will burn. Is that what you wish?”

“I wish nothing,” said the voice of he who had been Sunan. Two lights flared in the darkness; red eyes flickering with deep fire. “I wish nothing save never to be enslaved again.”

“And you think this alliance you have made will protect you from slavery?” Rangsun replied. “You think you are not even now bound?”

“I am stronger than I have ever been.” The young dragon stepped forward into the sunlight from the window, which seemed to flee from him, leaving shadows upon his face. The light in his eyes revealed strangely the contours of his face, his cheekbones, his nose. And although these were like those he had worn as a man, they were now false. This was no longer his true face. More fire flickered about his lips when he spoke. “You should have trusted me, Rangsun. You should have brought me into your fold and given me the power I deserved. You should never have made a toy of me.”

But Overseer Rangsun shook his head. “You are unworthy to serve Hulan. And now you will take part in her destruction.”

“I will take part in nothing I do not wish,” said Sunan. “In this moment, Overseer, what I wish is your death. Is your soul prepared?”

“I have always been prepared for death,” said Rangsun.

The young dragon opened wide his mouth. Like a snake’s, unhinged, his jaw dropped grotesquely to his chest, and fire mounted from his belly, glowing white hot in his throat.

Flame burst forth. But it struck the wall to one side of the overseer, and the young dragon staggered under the force of a swinging sword. Blood, black as ink, darkened the bright blade of the Mask, who positioned himself between the overseer and the monster. Sunan landed hard upon his side but was up in an instant, one arm hanging limp, its sleeve stained with blood. He snarled at the Mask, and his eyes were lost in fire.

“I intended to find you last of all,” he said. “But no matter. I can kill you now just as well.”

The Mask said nothing. But when the dragon flamed he avoided the attack, darting under the stream of fire. His body lengthened, one foot planted, the other driving forward, propelling his arm and blade in a long thrust that drove into the heart of the dragon. The sword point protruded between the creature’s shoulders, and the hilt, still clutched in the Mask’s strong grip, rammed into his breastbone.

He who had been Sunan gasped and put up both hands, taking hold of the Mask’s hand wrapped around the sword hilt. On his finger flashed something bright, and it drew the Mask’s eye however briefly. And so, before he died, the Mask saw a glimpse of that for which he had longed all his life. He saw a stone blossom of Hulan’s Garden fixed to a ring on the monster’s hand. It was like seeing the tears of an angel caught in the cupped palm of a demon. The Mask shuddered at the sight.

The dragon grinned, bright fangs flashing in his man-shaped mouth. “You forgot something in your bloodlust, mortal man,” he said, his voice alight with the furnace inside. “You forgot that I no longer possess a heart.”

With that, the monster drew the sword back out of his chest. And although his blood darkened the blade, he did not die. Indeed his fire mounted, and the Mask fell away from the heat of his body.

Overseer Rangsun observed with stoic resignation the change come over the form of the young man who had, so short a time ago, stood at the gates of the Center of Learning, full of promise, full of hope, full of soiled Chhayan blood. Even as he watched skin give way to armor scales and massive wings bursting from shoulder blades, the overseer gazed into the future. He saw the heavens set ablaze and he saw the stars falling as balls of flame, their angelic song destroyed.

Then he died. And all Suthinnakor City looked up in horror to see the rising pillar of flame that had once been the central tower of the Center of Learning. None saw the shadow of the dragon mounting the hot air, swirling up and around with the billowing smoke, high into the blackened night sky then away into worlds unseen.

The raven perched in the darkness high above Lady Hariawan’s head and watched her. It was very good at watching things, content to sit for ages, unmoving, its gaze fixed upon potential prey. In this it was far more like a snake than a bird.

Lady Hariawan, if she was aware of the raven’s nearness, gave no indication. She sat as still as the raven itself, her eyes closed, her hands folded. The chamber in which they kept her was large, but the darkness was so heavy as to feel smothering. So she sat with her head bowed as though in prayer and did not struggle, scarcely even breathed. She merely existed and considered this in itself a triumph.

The raven watched her, possibly for hours. But in this place Time did not matter or move according to mortal understanding, so it may indeed have been mere minutes, even moments. Its bright red eyes were the only lights to be found in that gloom, but it needed no light in order to perceive the girl below. It saw her by the pulse of her heart, by the heat, however faint, emanating from her body, by the flow of blood in her veins.

A gray tongue licked out from the sharp beak, forked and tasting the air. Then, though there had been no change, nor even a sound of summoning, the raven took flight. It leapt from its perch and passed in an instant out of that chamber, which was really only an imagined chamber dreamed up by mortal minds and their ongoing chants. No barrier at all to such a being. It spread its wings, pinions tearing away all flimsy veils of reality as it flew down, down, down into the darker depths of the Dream.

Down to the bloodied throne upon which the Dragon sat and waited.

Surrounding the throne, which was upraised on a high black dais, were many dragons, his children. They moved with an intensity that belied their aimlessness, pacing back and forth across the great cavern in which they dwelt. Most of them wore forms similar to those of men and women, thin coverings over the true fire contained within. Each burned with hatred and loathing, though whether they hated and loathed themselves, or their Dark Father, or enemies long since killed in their poisonous flames, none could say.

The Dragon watched them. They gave him a sort of pleasure, these strange offspring of his, if pleasure was even the right word. Perhaps
satisfaction
would be more accurate.

But they weren’t enough.

The flight of the raven drew his gaze. The Dragon raised his burning eyes from contemplation of his nearest children, piercing the darkness overhead to fix upon his approaching servant. He raised his arm, providing a perch around which the raven latched its black claws.

The raven spoke. It was not a voice or a language that could be understood by mortal men. The sound was too raucous, too malevolent. But the Dragon understood it well.

“I agree,” he said in response. “In fact I am almost certain of it.”

Even as he spoke he recalled the face of one who had penetrated deep into the Chhayans’ dream. A face very like that of his newly created child. Very like . . . and yet unlike.

The Dragon rose. All those dragons near his throne hissed, snarled, and cringed away from him, hiding themselves from his gaze. But he paid them no heed. Instead, with two great strides he stepped out of the Netherworld, out of the deep Dream, across his own dark paths through the Between.

The mortal world was always near. Too near. He hated it, hated the time-bound smallness of it. Hated how strangely vulnerable he felt each time he manifested within its constrictions.

But those who dwelt within this world were so susceptible to his words, to his poisons. They really were impossible to resist.

And so he stepped into the Near World of mortals and stood upon the mountainside, gazing down upon Daramuti temple. The raven on his arm stretched its wings and coughed a delighted cry, craning its neck around to look with interest upon the dovecote and its occupants. The Dragon did not turn. He merely stood, watching and waiting.

Brother Tenuk felt his presence. In the midst of his false prayers he felt the shadow descend upon his spirit. He finished droning the familiar lines, echoed by the priests and acolytes kneeling behind him. Then with great pain he got to his feet, turned, and offered the evening’s blessings on those gathered, unconsciously making the signs with his hand even as his gaze wandered to the window.

Before he knew it, all was over and his brethren had gone about their way, pursuing the day’s final tasks. And Brother Tenuk was climbing, for what he suspected would be the last time, to his beloved dovecote.

To the presence of the Greater Dark.

“Tenuk, my brother,” the Dragon said even as his mortal servant approached. “I have a question for you, and you would do well not to speak the lie which even now forms upon your lips, for I know it and its falseness too well.”

“Master,” said Tenuk, sinking to his knees. His body was more wilted and bent than ever, his bald head covered in sores, his eyes nearly vanished behind wrinkles and sagging skin. He bowed down and knocked his forehead against the paving stones. “Speak your question, and I will answer as best I may.”

“Did you send a woman to Lunthea Maly?” the Dragon asked. “Did you send a woman Dream Walker?”

“No,” said Tenuk without straightening from his abject position. “I sent a man.”

“You lie,” said the Dragon. “The Dream Walker is a woman.”

Tenuk hesitated. There flashed across his memory the lovely face of Lady Hariawan. A moment later it was replaced with the hideous recollection of his dove, the head bitten off. He shuddered. “It may be as you say, Master.” He spoke into the stones beneath his mouth. “But the Dream Walker I sent was a man.”