Golden Daughter (6 page)

“It’s fine fare,” Jovann said between mouthfuls. “Better than what I’ve been eating these last five months! There’s little good hunting over the mountains, and I do get sick of dried buffalo jerk and withered dates.”

Sunan’s stomach churned again. He could still taste the dung-tang of buffalo jerk on his tongue. He took a gulp of the honey-tea, glad when it scalded his mouth. Maybe it would scald away the memory.

He set down his mug then and said, “Why are you here, Jovann?”

“To see you,” Jovann replied.

“Yes. But why? Father wouldn’t send his heir over treacherous mountain passes in the middle of winter without some cause.”

“Can’t a man be allowed to visit his brother, especially after eight years of separation?” Jovann asked, grinning again. Then his grin faded and his young face, reddened and toughened by sun and wind, became serious. “In truth, I wanted to come; and when Father first said he was going to send someone to you, I begged him for days to let it be me. I don’t think I would have persuaded him, but Mother took my side, and your mother too. He said he couldn’t fight the three of us and relented at last.”

Sunan’s cheek twitched at the mention of his mother. His mother who should be here in Suthinnakor with him but whom his father would not set free. He took another sip of tea and allowed it to burn away the sharp words he initially wished to speak. Instead he said, “Tell me first why Father wished to send someone at all. Then, if you must, tell me why it had to be you.”

Jovann looked embarrassed and dug around in his bowl of rice, stirring the vegetables and spices with his finger. Realizing what he was doing, he dipped his finger in a nearby cleanser bowl and wiped it on a soft towel. “Father is . . . He is himself, as you know he must be.”

“By that you mean he is still obsessed with driving the Kitar people from Noorhitam?” Sunan supplied.

Jovann nodded. “He carries the grudge of two hundred years heavily in his heart. And he still believes it possible for the Chhayans to reclaim their land. To reclaim the city of Lunthea Maly from the usurpers.”

Sunan smiled grimly and said in a voice laced with venom, “May Hulan shine upon his endeavors.”

“I don’t think Father looks to Hulan for aid anymore.” Jovann leaned across the table, his eyes suddenly alight and eager. “He says Hulan forsook us in favor of the Kitar. He speaks instead of new allegiances, powerful allies such as we Chhayans have never before known.”

“
We
Chhayans?”

“Oh come, Sunan. Don’t pretend your blood doesn’t flow with as much Chhayan pride as ever it did. I know they’ve dressed you up and filled your head with all sorts of northern notions, poetry and the like. But you didn’t grow up on the plains only to forget the world of sky and earth and long horizons!”

That was the strange thing about Jovann, Sunan remembered now with a sudden lurch. Illiterate little scrap of Chhayan dog-boy that he was, Jovann was full of passion, full of spirit! With a few words he could inspire a snake to give up its poison in favor of pious living. With a few more, he could almost make Sunan forget his Pen-Chan heritage and all the culture and learning and history, all the merit and prestige with which it shielded him, in favor of the wildness of the Chhayans. The Chhayans who claimed half his very soul, half his spirit.

For a moment the stench of buffalo gave way before the gusts of a rushing plains wind carrying rain and storm and violence on its shoulders. And Sunan’s ears rang with the throaty battle cries of his father’s warriors, the Tiger Men of Juong-Khla; men who had never heard of the arithmetic, music, rituals, ceremonies, and poetry of Nua-Pratut. And the wish of his childhood—of earning the impossible, the favor of his mighty father—struck him full in the heart.

Hated desire. He despised himself for ever cherishing it, and despised Jovann still more for recalling the wish to his mind.

“Who are these new allies?” Sunan asked, sipping again at his tea, which had cooled considerably and was now drinkable.

Jovann shrugged. “I’ve not met them myself. Father says I’m not yet ready. But I’ve seen the light of hope ignite once more in the eyes of our people. They know. They know the time is near. And you can help us, Sunan.”

“I? How can I help in this fool enterprise of our father? Does he seek a clan poet, or does he somehow believe Pen-Chan rituals will bring him that extra level of polished cunning he lacks?”

“I know your studies have not been confined to poetry,” Jovann persisted. “We hear rumors and tales, even out in the wilds. And remember, it’s not so long since our father made war on Nua-Pratut.”

Sunan smiled a grim smile that made Jovann blush, realizing his error. The lad bowed his head, saying nothing, his silence offering a swift apology. After all, even he had seen the tears of his father’s first wife, which she silently wept on a certain day every summer, though she never spoke of her sorrow.

But Jovann had traveled too far to forsake his purpose now. He sat back from the table, allowing his face to be hidden from the lantern light. But his eyes still shone with the passion of his words.

“Father needs the secret of the Long Fire,” he said.

Sunan did not speak for some time. He sipped his tea and regarded his brother and allowed the words to ring in their ears.

Jovann could not long bear it. “He needs it, Sunan,” he urged. “He needs it for this final great push. His allies have promised him victory, but to have this victory, he must fight with fire. With the Long Fire such as he witnessed all those years ago. Surely you have learned the secret of it by now?”

“Black powder,” Sunan whispered.

“If you know it, you must give it to us!” Jovann urged. “And if you don’t, you must find it. And you will write it out, and I will carry it back.”

“Write it out?” Sunan scoffed. “And what good would that do you? Neither you, nor my father, nor any man in the Khla tribe could read it. Or,” he added bitterly, “do you depend on the talents of my disfavored mother to fulfill your dreams?”

“Our new allies can interpret any writing. And they will teach us to control the Long Fire. Lunthea Maly does not hold the secret, and they will not be able to defend themselves against us.”

“And so you, a rabble of Chhayan nomads, will run the Emperor of Noorhitam from his own city. You will drive your conquerors out of the land, using . . .” Sunan shook his head, ready to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Using
explosions
.”

Jovann studied him across the table. So intense. So confident. So assured of his place in the world. His father’s heir, his father’s favorite, the bright son of the Khla tribe. Even now Sunan could see the gleam of desired mastery in his eyes. The young man thought it possible, in his youthful madness, that he might someday rule his people from the Emperor of Noorhitam’s own throne.

“It is within our grasp,” Jovann insisted.

“And why do you say this, brother?” Sunan said, snarling through his smile. “Did you see it in one of your dreams?”

Jovann visibly paled, his reddened skin turning white under the lantern’s glow. But his eyes remained fervent, and his face took on the hard lines of his father’s. A warrior’s face, a master’s. His voice was deep when he spoke:

“I saw it all. I entered the Wood even as I have done before, and I received the vision. I saw myself standing before the Emperor of Noorhitam, and I knew it was he, though I have never seen his face. He sat weak before me, pleading. Begging me for something I could not hear. But I was strong, and I stood before him, ragged Chhayan that I am. I saw it, Sunan, as clearly as I see you now. More clearly even! And I know it will come to pass.”

“Have you told our father of this?” Sunan asked wryly, for he knew how their father felt about Jovann’s dreams. The weak wanderings of the mind were not fitting for a warlord’s son and heir. Juong-Khla had long ago forbidden Jovann from speaking of such things.

Jovann shook his head, frustrated but earnest. “You know I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. It will be true even so.”

“And did you see yourself wielding the ‘Long Fire,’ as you call it, in this dream?”

Again Jovann shook his head.

“Then what makes you so certain I will give over the secret of black powder to you?”

“You won’t give it to me,” Jovann replied. “You will give it to our father. And you will hope that, in the giving, he will welcome you home.”

Sunan rose so swiftly that Jovann drew himself halfway up, his fists clenched, his shoulders tensed. But Sunan took a deep breath and adjusted the cloak over his shoulders. His belly burned like a raging furnace, but he swallowed and suppressed the rising heat. “Eat well, brother,” he said. “Tomorrow you will be back to buffalo jerk and withered dates.”

He turned to the door, and his hand was already at the panel when Jovann’s voice arrested him with a word:

“Wait.”

Sunan didn’t turn, but he did pause. He could hear his brother gathering himself to speak something he did not wish to say.

“I saw a vision about you as well, Sunan. I’ve had it many times in the last year, and I came to tell you.”

Sunan did not reply. But his stillness betrayed his curiosity.

“In my vision,” Jovann persisted, “I saw you kneeling before a powerful shadow. And then it touched you, and you rose up. You rose up in the form of a dragon. A great fire-filled dragon, Sunan, such as the legends speak of! And you were mighty, and you were beautiful, and all who saw you trembled, even our father. You were terrible in the eyes of the Khla warriors, and you led them into battle.”

Sunan felt his heart racing as his brother’s words washed over him. He did not understand them, but they thrilled him. Thrilled him deeply, even enough to shroud the shame of that day and fill him with a brief, painful hope once more. He leaned against the door, suddenly weak with longing.

“But there was more.” Jovann hesitated, and it was with difficulty he continued. “I saw you fight. I saw you face a warrior armed only with a small knife. Beware this warrior, Sunan! Beware her, for she will be your undoing.”

“She?”

Sunan turned then and fixed his brother with a stare full of such hatred, it might have struck him dead upon the spot. But Jovann knelt with his eyes closed, his palms flat on the table before him, and sweat beaded his brow as he recalled his dream.

A shudder passed through Sunan. “So this is why you begged our father to let you come. Did you travel so far to insult me to my face?”

Jovann’s eyes flew wide. “No!” he cried. “No, to give you warning! It will come to pass, and I fear—”

But Sunan heard no more. He was out through the door and into the passage already. He knew if he remained even a moment longer he would surely murder his brother, there at his uncle’s table.

The old gatekeeper of the temple hated his job. He hated the tedium of it, hated the poor working conditions, hated that other gatekeepers of finer gates surrounding the Crown of the Moon looked down on him. He hated that his club foot prevented him from being a soldier, hated that his ugly face prevented him from being a lover. He hated the priests he served, hated the food he ate, hated the hours he kept. He was so deeply embedded in his hatred that he could never imagine leaving it for a different, less hateful life.

His one joy came every sunset in the form of the coal-children scuttling up the road from the mines to deliver their wares to the temple. The coal-children, ragged and huddled and wheezing with sickness, were all smaller than he. And they squeaked when kicked.

“You’re late,” the gatekeeper growled when, in response to a timid knock, he slid back the lookout hatch and gazed out on the little coal-girl weighed down by her burden. The sun had already set and the moon was not yet up, leaving only the small light of the outer lantern to illuminate her general outline. By this light alone the gatekeeper could make out no details beyond her fearful trembling.

But the trembling brought a grin to his lips, and he opened the gate, which groaned on its hinges as he drew it back. “Hurry up with you,” he said, beckoning. His smile grew as he watched the little girl make her way heavily through the entrance, her feet shuffling with each step. “Your fellows have been’n gone hours ago. What kept you, lazy scum?” And he put out a hand to seize the girl’s thin shoulder.

His cry was thin and high, and abruptly shut off. But the pain in his hand, where his index finger was twisted and drawn back at an angle that did not quite allow for a break—though a break would almost be welcome relief—did not cease, even as the grip pinching his throat in just the right place prevented his voice from escaping. He stared up into the shadowed face of the coal-girl who had suddenly grown, looming over him as he knelt cringing at her feet.

“I know all about you,” she said. He could not discern her expression for the shadows, but he could hear the smile behind her words. “I see your life in your eyes, though we have never met. One of a too-large family, given less to eat than your brothers because of your deformity. Ran away to join the army, which would not have you, so you threw yourself upon the mercy of the priests. And mercy they granted you, but not too much, for one such as you can bear only so much of mercy. So here you sit, day in and day out, and you have coal enough to warm your feet, food enough to fill your belly, strong drink enough to poison your soul, and yet you will never, never breathe a word of thanks. Not to the priests, not to the goddess they serve. I know all about you, predator of the night, stalking the weak simply because they are weaker than you.”

She twisted his finger just a fraction more, and the gatekeeper choked with his need to scream. With just a little more pressure the girl brought him flat on his back and placed a foot on his throat.

“Leave the children alone,” she said.

And then she was gone, vanished into the darkness within the gate. The gatekeeper crawled away, murmuring prayers he’d heard the priests utter over the years and making signs to ward off evil spirits.

These signs did not work, however, for the next moment he looked into the glowing eyes of what must be a demon. It couldn’t be a cat, after all, for no cat would stare at him so intently before opening its mouth to say: “Lumé love me, but your breath does stink!”

Then the demon was gone after the girl, and the gatekeeper was left to pick up the remnants of his sanity.

For the most part the priests of the Crown of the Moon made a point to forget that the foundations of the holy temple of their goddess—the center of their religion—were laid by Chhayan hands many centuries ago. In fact, the worship of Anwar and Hulan was an inherited Chhayan practice, stolen and tweaked over two hundred years to suit Kitar sensibilities, but ultimately, at its roots, nothing more than the faith of nomadic barbarians.

It seemed fair enough to everyone concerned: conquer the country, conquer the religion. Make use of the best parts of both. And no one could argue that the priests of the Kitar—who didn’t have a national religion of their own beyond a vague ancestor-worship that was greatly out of fashion—had significantly
improved
their new faith with their own holy writs, ceremonies, sacrifices, and sacred days. Indeed, it had grown into such a popular religion that other surrounding nations, including Dong Min, Aja, and more, had taken it up and built temples of their own. Even the king of Nua-Pratut, a nation famed across the eastern Continent for its severe intellectualism, had ordered a few small shrines in honor of the Lordly Sun and Lady Moon put up in various cities . . . a concession the priests of the Crown of the Moon wore as a badge of pride.

It was all silly nonsense. Or almost all.

Sairu made her way through the twisting gardens and passages of the temple as confidently as though she had walked them dozens of times before. As confidently as though this were not the first time in all her life she had stepped beyond the boundaries of Manusbau Palace; as though her heart didn’t pound with a wild fury of liberation she tried her utmost to suppress because, really, she wasn’t free but about to enter a lifetime of servitude.

It didn’t matter. Not even her encounter with that wretched gatekeeper could dampen her spirits, because she had known all along that wickedness prowled beyond the sanctity of Manusbau, and she was prepared to deal harshly with wickedness as necessary. She felt like a goshawk freed for the first time from the falconer’s wrist. And although she knew she would return immediately at first summoning, for the moment she could soar high and pretend she would fly on forever and never return.

She wore a simple brown robe and, depending on whom she passed, she assumed a different form within it. When she passed priests, she became a huddled coal-girl once more. When she passed servants, she drew herself up, puffed herself out, and became a slow, sedate, muttering priest of a low order. Thus no one stopped her, no one gave her a second glance, and she progressed deep into the Crown of the Moon.

She had studied maps of its layout earlier that same evening and committed them to memory according to the techniques Princess Safiya had ingrained in her since she first joined the Golden Daughters. The central building of the sprawling temple was the magnificent Hulan’s Throne, which towered above the rest and rivaled even the Emperor’s own abode in Manusbau for glory. The thin moon rising in the deepening sky looked sallow as she gleamed down upon the marvelous edifice built in her honor. It was a bit sad, Sairu thought as she hurried along her way, climbing the garden paths up to Hulan’s Throne.

Something on wings fluttered before her face, startling her as it darted on down the hill. Surprised, Sairu turned to look after it and found her attention suddenly arrested by something she should have passed by without a glance. It seemed to her that the wan moon shone suddenly a little brighter and struck a stone so that it must catch her eye. She looked down into a small garden valley set apart from the rest of the gardens by its unkempt appearance. Weeds grew thick, and trees spread untamed limbs crawling with parasitic vines. No reflecting pool lay in sight to catch the moon’s smile as she passed overhead.

Instead, all that lay in the midst of this wreckage were large white stones. Foundation stones, Sairu thought, thickly crusted with black fungus so that she would have missed them had not the moon shone upon them just so and made them shine.

In the shadows of the vine-draped trees, a bird sang suddenly. Its silver voice rose, the sound of moonlight itself.

Sairu was transfixed like a spotted fawn caught suddenly in the hunter’s torchlight. She stood thus for no more than a moment, but in that moment felt a sudden rush of timelessness stretching out from those stones below, reaching up to touch her face. She thought she saw a tall building, of humble work compared to the temple yet boasting two great sets of doors swung open, one facing east, the other west. Between them, high in the rafters, hung a lantern filled with light more brilliant than the sun and the moon combined.

For that moment, as the beauty of the songbird’s voice washed over her, Sairu thought she heard the glory of eternal music.

Then it was gone.

She stood on the darkened path, breathing in the perfume of the priests’ fine garden, black-cherry and golden-pear blossoms in full bloom. Below her lay only an untidy patch of earth and ruts and weeds with a few half-buried stones jutting up from forgotten darkness.

Sairu had been prepared all her life to encounter wickedness. But no one had prepared her for what she had just witnessed, and she could not make it fit within her realm of understanding or expectation. Her brow creasing in a small frown even as her mouth forced a smile, she hastened on her way, determined . . . well, not to forget what she had glimpsed, but merely to think upon it later.

Now she must hurry on and meet her new master.

The Besur, High Priest of the Crown of the Moon, sat in an inner chamber within Hulan’s Throne and waited. Patience was, after all, one of the Twelve Mighty Virtues. And should not a high priest be well versed in all virtues, mighty or otherwise?

One nervous finger tapped out the passage of time on the arm of his chair as he tried to remember Brother Yaru’s exact words. Did the old fool receive an approval from the Golden Mother? He had implied as much, but Brother Yaru was not as sharp as he had once been. The Besur’s finger increased its tempo, and he cursed himself for not sending a younger priest. But then, whom could he trust more than Brother Yaru, simple though the man might be?

“I should have gone myself,” he muttered.

His voice caused a slight stirring across the room. The Besur raised his gaze quickly, startled by the movement. She had been so still. So very still. Three days now, and she scarcely did more than breathe on her own. She moved when they moved her, sat where they placed her, ate what they put in her mouth; otherwise she might have been no more alive than a wooden puppet.

But when he spoke, he thought she tilted her head to one side. The jeweled pendants on her headdress swung slightly even now. But her eyes remained closed, her hands quiet in her lap.

It was no use, the Besur thought. They could not wait, not with her in this state. Rumor would spread, if not from the priests themselves then from the temple slaves. And the Besur hated to order deaths, especially when the crime was no greater than a little gossip. No, they must make arrangements quickly, with or without—