Golden Daughter (28 page)

So he forced himself to bend once more over the scroll, to slide it back open and read on.

“And that is enough for you, Juong-Khla Sunan. You will seek no more knowledge of those whom you serve. You will wait in silence and, when called, act in silence and with utmost decorum as would honor the House of Dok and your uncle.

Return to his house, and do not seek to pass through his gates again until the summons comes. Otherwise, your oath will be deemed broken.”

That was all.

Sunan’s heart rammed against his throat, and he felt sweat dampen his brow. How could they have known he would come here, to the Library of Luk? How could they have guessed, when he himself did not consider it until dawn this very morning? How could they have planted this scroll, anticipating both his actions and his reactions?

But then, they knew him. They knew he was a scholar, and that as a scholar he must eventually seek out whatever information was available on his new, faceless masters. And they knew he would not be received into the Center of Learning.

He was a prisoner. A prisoner to their will.

“But for what purpose?” Sunan whispered. “Why do you need me?”

Behind him, on its table, the silver gong suddenly offered a sweet, silver chime, a far different sound from any it had made under Luk-Hunad’s hand. In its voice, for half an instant, there echoed a thousand sweet voices singing all together.

But by the time Sunan, startled, had turned to look, it was silent once more. The only testimony of its ringing was the slight back-and-forth swaying of the gong itself, suspended between Anwar and Hulan’s carved arms. The songbird etched in silver might have fluttered its wings.

His whole body was rigid, from his head to his jaw, down along his neck and the lacerated skin and muscles of his back. His ribcage clenched, squeezing every organ. His gut and bowels tightened into a knot of pain, shooting through his thighs, his calves, to the very soles of his feet.

To this he woke, and for a moment the pain was so great that he would have given anything to crawl out of himself and be free of it. That moment went on far too long. He tried to breathe it out, to expel the pain in gusts from his lungs. But it was too much. And there was no comforting voice to guide him, to show him how to hold the pain in place. It surrounded and consumed him.

And then, in a sudden wave, it passed. Blood rushed back to his head, and his body relaxed. He could breathe normally, and each breath seemed to push the pain further away. Finally nothing hurt so much as his stinging back, but this was familiar pain, and he felt he could bear it.

Jovann opened his eyes.

The infirmary was dark; all the paper-covered windows were slid shut. But daylight peeked between the wall slats and sliced the floor and his bed in delicate gold lines. He raised his head and shoulders, and saw that the door was open, as it usually was, and a large patch of sunlight fell through onto the floor. At first he thought he glimpsed the orange cat lying in a fluffy puddle, the wavy white fur of his belly exposed, his spine twisted, and his paws curled, the picture of absolute ease. But when he blinked, that image was gone, and Jovann decided he’d imagined it.

He felt suddenly that he had to get up. A number of memories and thoughts clamored on the edge of his brain, all demanding attention, but he couldn’t bear to attend any of them while lying on his stomach. So, grimacing, he pushed himself up and climbed out of his low bed. When the blanket slid from his shoulders, he realized just how cold it was in the room. The high mountain air was so different from the sultry heat of the plains this time of year. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Indeed, his fevered skin welcomed and soaked in the coolness.

Blinking hard and putting up a hand against the bright light of midday, he walked unsteadily to the doorway, leaned against the doorpost, and looked out on the temple grounds, breathing deep of the wind that washed over his face. Before him stood the central building of Daramuti, known as the Seat of Prayer. Its sloping roof with sharp peaks of typical Kitar design was decorated in a series of carved stone stars, each with individualized faces, representing celestial spirits to whom the Kitar priests sometimes prayed if Hulan and Anwar were otherwise engaged.

Jovann grimaced. He had looked upon this same view just yesterday, but it had not struck him then as it did now. Then it had seemed beautiful and foreign and perhaps dangerous.

Now it struck him as false. All of it. False.

He had walked among the stars. And he knew that they were not beings to whom a man should pray. He could not explain it, not even in the depths of his heart beneath conscious thought. Somehow he knew, with simple clarity, that the stars were far greater than he had ever believed and also far less. Even as Hulan herself was so much more than he could have imagined, so much more than the goddess he had been raised to believe her to be. But she too was less.

She was not worshipful.

“If not her,” Jovann whispered, “than whom?”

He shuddered suddenly and bowed his head. Now all of the thoughts crashed down upon him; thoughts, and memories as well.

“Let me go, Father. Let me go to Sunan. I have much I want to say to him, and I will faithfully bear your message.”

“We haven’t the time to waste, boy.”

“I’ll not waste it, I swear! Let me do this, Father. For you. For our Cause. I’ll bring back the secret.”

The voices, his own and the far deeper rumble of his father, rolled through his head. Jovann put a hand to his temple, wishing he could push them out and away. He had failed his father. He had failed the Khla clan. What would become of the Chhayans’ great Cause now? Now that he had failed to return with the secret of the Long Fire?

He heard Juong-Khla’s voice again. Another memory, but this time much more recent.

“
Jovann. My son.
”

His eyes flew wide, and he stared unseeing on the grounds of Daramuti. But for an instant so brief it might never have existed, it was a different temple he saw. A huge temple surrounded by a great, forbidding wall, and the whole of its existence shuddered with a deep resounding chant.

The vision vanished. He stood in the infirmary doorway. He was high in the mountains, far from home. And he was still a slave.

“I must return,” he whispered. “I must return at once. I must tell Father of Sunan’s treachery, and we must find another way to gain the secret. I must . . . I must . . .”

But it was useless. Even if he had the strength and the will to march through that door, down that mountain, to make his way all the long leagues back to Chhayan country.

He would not leave Umeer’s daughter. Not without knowing her name.

Jovann’s shoulders sagged with sudden weariness, and he turned, prepared to return to his bed. Instead he gasped, and his hands clenched into fists.

Someone sat in the shadows beyond his bed.

“Who’s there?” Jovann demanded, his eyes flaring. “Who are you?”

“Oh, my son, my son,” said an aged voice, and the figure in the shadows shifted heavily. The click of a cane tapped the floor, and Brother Tenuk moved into lesser shadows where his face and form could be discerned. One quivering hand raised in signs of blessing, and he spoke in hasty explanation: “I came to say prayers to Anwar, asking him to give you strength. Anwar must have heard me, for you look stronger than you did.”

Jovann stared at the little man, taking in his abbot’s robes and the elegant carving of his heavy cane. “How long have you been there?”

“Oh, my son.” The little man stopped making signs and clasped the cane with both hands now, leaning heavily upon it. “When the smiling maid left you, and I saw you fall into fitful slumber, I thought to myself that it was my duty, as abbot, to stand guard over your soul and fortify you with my prayers.”

His voice was that of a liar. Jovann’s lip curled. “And why should you pray over a slave?” he demanded, refusing to use the title ‘Honored Brother’ as he should for a priest. This was a Kitar priest, after all, and they were all thieves.

Brother Tenuk gave him a sly look. “I did not pray over a slave, did I? No, indeed. For I see what you are, boy, though you may hide it. We are not unalike, you and I.” He hobbled a few steps nearer and leaned in, as though to breathe secrets into Jovann’s face. He smelled strongly of a distillery. In his sleeplessness, Brother Tenuk often took comfort in the stronger of the prayerful drinks, meant only for certain ceremonies and phases of the moon. But he was the abbot, and none of the other priests dared comment.

He swayed now, clutching his cane, and grinned up at Jovann. “You can hide it all you wish. But I see. I see what you are. I have hidden too, for years and years, and no one saw what I was. Not even you.”

“You are drunk,” said Jovann, his voice severe. “I do not think Anwar or Hulan would hear the prayers of a drunkard.”

A pitiful, wheezing laugh ached its way from Tenuk’s lungs. He shook his head, his face torn by a dreadful grin. “Anwar and Hulan have not heard the prayers of a Chhayan for generations.”

With that, the little man tottered past Jovann, making for the door. As he went, he raised one hand and waggled a finger at the ceiling, calling back over his shoulder, “I know what you are! I know, I know. Ah!” This last he gasped as he reached the door, and he drew back for an instant as though disconcerted. “The smiling maid.” He shivered and glanced back at Jovann once more. “She’s coming for you. But don’t worry. She’ll not keep you. Not forever.”

And with this enigmatic statement the abbot carefully descended the infirmary steps, muttering and making signs to Sairu as he passed her. She bowed, her hands folded in her sleeves, and waited until he had quite gone his way. Then she stepped into the infirmary just in time to see Jovann easing himself back down onto his bed.

“There you are!” he said when he saw her. “Where did you go? I woke, and there was no one here, and I . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized how childish he must sound.

It was too late. Sairu had heard it as well and was smiling that frightful smile of hers. But she answered demurely, “I must attend to my mistress’s needs before yours, noble prince though you may be.”

Jovann growled at the title but couldn’t prevent himself from asking, “How is Lady Hariawan?”

“She is resting. What did Brother Tenuk want?”

“I couldn’t begin to tell you. He was drunk and speaking in riddles. Riddles without answers, if I’m not mistaken.” Jovann shifted on his bed so that he might lean against the wall, his legs spread before him. His back protested at the pressure, and he grimaced then relaxed. He looked at Sairu, who was studying him carefully. Her hair was neatly tucked up in an elegant twist save for three thin braids falling across each shoulder. Not a strand was out of place. Indeed, she looked as fresh and put-together as a proper handmaiden ought to be, and not at all as though she had sat up the whole of the night previous. He wondered if the paint on her face disguised dark circles.

Suddenly he remembered the flower of fiery stones he had pressed into her hands. “Did you give Lady Hariawan my gift?” he asked.

Sairu nodded, the corners of her mouth turning up in an even larger smile. “I did. And now you will tell me what you saw in the Dream.”

Jovann’s jaw tensed. He looked at her without blinking for some moments. Sairu did not repeat her question, but it remained in her eyes, along with a firm certainty of an answer forthcoming. She waited, and he waited, but he knew he could not out-wait her.

He sighed. “It’s difficult for me to say. It’s faded, and—”

“Try.”

Jovann drew a deep breath, careful to keep his voice measured and controlled when he replied. “I don’t have the words. I’m not eloquent, and it would take . . . it would take a poet, I think, to describe it. I saw a gate. But it wasn’t just a gate. And I saw the Moon, but she was much more than the Moon. And I heard the Dara singing.”

“Yes, yes, and you brought back a gift for my lady. But what about my lady herself? What did you see of her? Did she walk with you? Did she see . . .”

Jovann felt his face revealing secrets he did not wish to reveal, and he hastily pulled his expression back into a proper alignment. But he saw at once that Sairu had spotted what he had not wished to show.

Because when she mentioned Lady Hariawan in the Dream, there had flashed across his memory the visage of the withered crone. And he had felt a sudden surge of revulsion.

But no. He would not think of Umeer’s daughter that way. And he would not allow such a feeling to return. So he schooled his face into appropriate lines and refused to break Sairu’s cunning gaze.

She had seen it though. He knew she had.

“What did you see of my mistress?” Sairu demanded, taking a step forward and kneeling beside his low bed so that her face was on a level with his own. “What does she want in the Dream?”

Jovann put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what she wants, but it was not what she told me.”

“What did she tell you?”

His voice was near a whisper when he responded: “She told me she sought Hulan’s Gate. But when I took her there, it was not what she wanted and she . . . she . . .”

“Yes? Go on.” Sairu urged, reaching out and taking his hand as though she could snatch his secrets from him. But he shook his head and looked away.

Sairu wanted, so badly wanted, to take him by the shoulders and shake him; shake him until all his wounds reopened and he drowned in the pain of his fever returned. Instead, she leaned back on her heels, then slowly stood and folded her hands. “You wish to help my mistress, do you not?”

His glance struck her swiftly. “I do. More than anything.”

“Then you need to answer this one question for me at least. Is my Lady Hariawan in danger when she enters the Dream?”

“Yes,” he responded without hesitation. He opened his mouth to say more but couldn’t put words to his thoughts.