Golden Daughter (3 page)

Serving girls with flowers in their hair fluttered about as they tended to the needs of the guests. Their faces were painted moon-white with bright orange sun-spots on each cheek. Ten of these girls wore red chrysanthemums in their hair. Otherwise they were indistinguishable as they rushed about with cups and trays and platters.

Prince Amithnal’s sweating ambassador sat between a warlord and a Dong Min councilor, saying little and eating less. Every time a serving girl offered him food or drink, he winced and his eyes lifted nervously to Princess Safiya, who ignored him. He had been instructed to eat and drink as though nothing were afoot. Despite his fondness for cheap opera, the ambassador had the acting ability of the monkey he so resembled.

Princess Safiya sighed and looked around for her assassin. He appeared presently.

The lion dogs started their thunderous barking again and ran skittering across the hall even as the door opened and a court herald stepped through. The dogs rushed at his feet, snarling and making all sorts of vicious threats which none of them had the courage to carry out. The herald aimed a kick at one of the dogs, which dodged him easily, then cleared his throat and announced in a loud voice that filled the hall, “Lord Dok-Kasemsan, head of the House of Dok, beloved brother of the Fan Clan.”

Another colorful litter was borne into the hall, and when it was lowered and the curtains drawn back, Lord Dok-Kasemsan, a Pen-Chan of remarkable poise and beauty, stepped forth.

Princess Safiya smiled inwardly at the sight of him. He was everything an assassin ought to be: striking, colorful, dignified, and important. The sort of man no one would expect to indulge in the lethal arts.

He was his own best disguise.

The herald led him across the room to genuflect before the bored empress. Then he was seated at a table across the hall from Ambassador Ratnavira. Not once did Kasemsan look the ambassador’s way. Not a glance, not a gesture betrayed the predatory focus on which Princess Safiya knew all his being centered.

What mastery! What genius! His very spirit was a poison-tipped knife. Were she the sentimental sort, she would be half-inclined to love him.

But he was doomed. And there was no point in becoming sentimental over a doomed man.

Princess Safiya kept her head bowed, her expression as bored as that of the empress. But from beneath her long, false lashes, she watched the ten girls with the chrysanthemums in their hair. How frail they looked! How delicate and unthreatening. Yet with their black eyes they each perceived more than any five ordinary persons combined. And behind their painted smiles, their mouths were fixed in concentration that never, never relaxed.

Except . . .

Except what in Hulan’s name was Sairu grinning about?

“Princess? May I beg a word?”

Safiya frowned and turned abruptly to the voice speaking at her elbow. “Ah. Brother Yaru,” she said, trying to disguise her impatience behind cool regality.

The old priest bowed and grinned at her. He alone of all the men in that room dared approach the upraised tables of the queens and the empress without an escort. Despite their rough-woven robes and lives of restraint, priests enjoyed a number of privileges lesser men did not.

This was more than slightly annoying. Especially now.

“May I surmise from your presence here, Princess Safiya, that one of your legendary tests is even now underway?”

Princess Safiya hid her face behind a fan. “Esteemed brother, I would beg you to lower your voice,” she said.

“Oh, of course! Of course!” Brother Yaru said, glancing about, his wrinkled face alight with boyish eagerness. He knew all the stories surrounding the Golden Daughters, but not even he could spot them in a crowd. He searched the faces of those present like a child searching for pixies under toadstools. “Forgive me, Princess, but I find this most fortuitous. You see, I come on behalf of a new client.”

Princess Safiya fluttered her fan coldly. “I never discuss business with more than one client at a time. And certainly not with—”

She stopped. She had not risen to her position as Golden Mother without reason. She read the secrets in Brother Yaru’s face. She could not understand them all, but she read them even so.

“Who sent you, brother?” she asked, lowering her voice still further so that the priest was obliged to lean in behind her fan.

“The Besur himself,” Brother Yaru whispered. “It is a matter of utmost urgency. I am not at liberty to divulge the High Priest’s secrets. But he would be most grateful if Princess Safiya would send one of her own to the Crown of the Moon tonight.”

With this, Brother Yaru slipped away, losing himself in the crowded hall as he went from table to table, stealing dainties and muttering blessings to all who would listen.

Princess Safiya sat in stunned silence, still hiding behind her fan. The High Priest? But he could not desire a bride! That went against everything the priests of the Crown of the Moon stood for. And yet she could not doubt the truth of Brother Yaru’s words. He was far too simple a man to take part in duplicity. No, it must be true. But why?

Again one of the girls caught her eye. Sairu, standing along the wall with a platter in each hand, looked right at her and smiled.

What had gotten into that girl? Did she think this one great joke? Did she—

A sudden commotion exploded a few tables down. Princess Safiya lowered her fan and turned, as did everyone else in the hall, to where Lord Dok-Kasemsan stood. He had leaped to his feet with a shouted curse, knocking over the low table and scattering dishes in broken shards across the floor. At first no one could understand what he said. But Princess Safiya knew right away.

“How did you do it?
How?
” And then, “I am dead! I’m a dead man! How did you do it?”

He turned suddenly, fire in his gaze, and stared at Princess Safiya. “You witch!” he shouted. “You fire-kissed witch!” Then he choked and spat as the gold-leaf poison—his own poison—took effect on his body. His entire frame, so beautiful, so poised, shuddered.

Then he charged straight at Princess Safiya, a knife in his hand.

He never reached her. One of the serving girls knelt and sent her silver platter sliding across the polished floor. His foot landed on it, and he fell with a crash, striking his head. The next moment, guards leaped upon him and dragged him from the room, unconscious.

The Butterfly Hall lay in stunned silence.

Then the empress said, “How amusing. Monkey wants sugared dates. Will someone bring him sugared dates?”

The spell was broken. The room erupted in voices, all talking at once. Princess Safiya rose quietly and, with children trailing behind to carry her train, exited the Butterfly Hall. Over the course of the next half hour, one by one, the ten serving girls with chrysanthemums in their hair slipped unnoticed after her.

In a much colder part of the world, a different test commenced.

Sunan had arrived at the gates of the Suthinnakor Center of Learning at three o’clock that morning. He had thought to arrive before the other Tribute Scholars and therefore enjoy the advantage of beginning his test early.

He had thought wrong.

Every Tribute Scholar from every province in the Nua-Pratut Kingdom had the exact same idea. Some had arrived at the gates of the Center of Learning at three o’clock
the morning before
. Indeed, Sunan realized with glum ire, he would have needed to set up a tent and camp in the street for a good week in advance to have had any hope of being the first Tribute Scholar admitted on the day of the Gruung Exams.

Three hours later, the bellowing horn sounded and (Sunan surmised from the stir in the crowd of scholars surrounding him) the gates were opened. His heart rose one moment . . . and plummeted the next. Guards at the gate must search each scholar from head to toe before permitting him to pass through. The Gruung Exams were too important, and cheating too rampant, to allow anyone into the Center without a full body search.

Which meant another two hours passed before Sunan himself was led into a pavilion just outside the gates and made to strip. He was even obliged to remove his undergarments. Too many past scholars had been caught with illegal notes and intricately written texts painted on the insides of their linens.

The Gruung Exams were that significant. And that hard.

Upon completing this most undignified search, the guards gave Sunan a loose garment of outrageously itchy wool. The itch would help him to focus, or so Sunan’s uncle had told him in advance. Somehow, as he grimaced his way into the garment, Sunan didn’t believe his uncle and silently cursed him with fire boils.

Walking stiffly to avoid letting his body touch any more of the wool robe than absolutely necessary, Sunan was marched through the doors of the Center of Learning. For an all-too-brief moment, his heart thrilled. At last! Here he was. A Tribute Scholar about to take his Gruung, standing upon the very threshold of his future. A future none would have believed possible for the son of a buffalo-dung warlord. A future none would have dreamed—

“There,” grunted a guard, pointing to a large pile of ill-wrapped sacks just within the door. “Take one.”

Sunan bowed and did as he was told. He heard a clink inside the sack, and knew it for the sound of a pitcher and a chamber pot knocking against each other. Also in the sack would be simple bedding, a little food, an ink stone, ink, and brushes: all that he would be permitted to have for the next seventy-two hours.

Sunan, flanked by guards, was led now into the outer court of the Center. He tried to drink in what he could of the moment, the long-dreamed-of moment. He tried to admire the gilded walls, the tapestries, the swirling pattern on the floor beneath his feet.

But it was too much, too terrible, and the wretched wool seam was digging into the back of his neck.

The outer court displayed hundreds of tiny windowless chambers, each lit by a single lantern. Sunan was ushered into one of these, and a slave boy scurried in with a water skin and looked at Sunan expectantly. Realizing what was required, Sunan unwrapped the sack he’d been issued and pulled out the water pitcher. The slave boy filled it and backed from the room.

The guard outside shut the door. Sunan heard the sound of a bolt falling into place.

“Light of the Lordly Sun!” Sunan prayed, then kicked himself for this superstitious display. He sounded like a Chhayan urchin, not the Tribute Scholar he was. His hands shaking, he hastily unpacked the rest of his sack, arranging the bedroll in one corner, the chamber pot in another, and the scholarly tools in a third.

And now . . .

Now he must write.

The time passed quickly. Sunan had mentally rehearsed his essays a thousand times, and he fell to them now with a will. He had only seventy-two hours to write eight distinct essays with eight distinct parts to each. He must prove the breadth of his knowledge in arithmetic, music, writing, rituals, public and private ceremonies, and poetry, not to mention the militaristic arts of strategy and subterfuge. To prove his knowledge, he must quote extensively from the classics. A single misquote—even one character out of place or one word substituted for another—and he would be disqualified.

His brain churned out words at a fevered pace, but he must control his hand, he must control his brush and ink. Haste was the sign of a weak mind. Everything must be deliberate, every movement, every thought. As he finished each essay, he dropped it into a certain slot in the door, there to be retrieved, read, and judged by the Masters. This accomplished, he immediately turned to the next one.

At last, after five hours of work, he realized he must stop and eat at least a bite, and probably drink some water. He set aside his brush and, with no little irritation, took time to nurture his feeble mortal body. Why must scholars be limited by such needs? It was somehow unjust.

But it was still necessary. He remembered Uncle Kasemsan telling him about his own Gruung Exam, many years ago:

“
Four students died during those three days. Their bodies were wrapped in their own straw mats and tossed over the Center walls. Their families never came to retrieve them.
”

Sunan could not afford so dishonorable a death. He had worked too hard.

So he ate, drank, and even permitted carefully timed sleeps. He had been practicing controlled sleep for the last few years in preparation for his Gruung. Too much sleep, and he would not have time to finish; too little, and he’d end up wrapped in a straw mat.

His whole life came down to the balance of drive and restraint.

But one thing he could not restrain. Ten hours into his exam, he removed the wool garment and worked naked. He was cold, to be sure, but the relief from the itch was worth any risk of a chill.

So the seventy-two hours passed. When the room went suddenly dark, Sunan knew that the time was up, for the oil of the single lantern was carefully measured. He set aside his brush, relieved that he had finished his final sentence and reasonably confident the sentence had finished his final thought. Stubble lined his cheek, ink stained his fingers, and his whole body shivered with exhaustion and cold. But he’d not died! There was a grace.

And he knew with a deep inner confidence that he had done well. Well enough to merit top marks.

So he dropped his final scroll through the slot and slithered back into the horrible wool garment. He knelt to wait in the center of the room. In due time, guards came and he was escorted to the outer court, where hundreds of other students, hollow-eyed, trembling, but triumphant, waited. Sunan’s gaze ran over them dully, and he wondered if anyone had died.

They shuffled around, ringing the wide stone steps that led up to the Middle Court. Drifts of snow lined the wall, carefully swept aside by slaves. The stone beneath the scholars’ bare feet was like ice. But no one cared, no one complained.

Those who had passed would be called up those stairs and into their new life within the Center of Learning. Those who had not passed would crawl, disgraced, back out the gate through which they had come, doomed to face the disappointed stares of their families and friends.

Sunan shifted in the wool garment, trying to move the itchy seams to less-sensitive portions of his body. Unable and unwilling to meet the gazes of his fellow students, he instead studied the two stone statues at the base of the staircase. These were interesting enough, worthy of a second or third glance. They were recognizably Anwar and Hulan, the Lordly Sun and his Lady Moon, carved in jade, with faces more real than life. Each held a scepter, the one topped with a many-rayed sun, the other with a crescent moon. Snow dusted their heads and shoulders.

Sunan frowned suddenly as his eye lit upon an anomaly: Perched upon the right shoulder of each of these familiar figures was a tall songbird, its wings outspread. No snow shrouded its form, which shone bright and clear.

This was not the classical depiction. While Anwar and Hulan were common enough figures throughout the known eastern world, he had never before seen them portrayed thus. Not once in all the pored-over scrolls and documents had Sunan encountered a single reference to a songbird in the legends of the Sun and the Moon.

So what in Anwar’s name was it doing on the shoulders of those statues?

“Tribute Scholar Number One.”

The voice boomed from the top of the stairs, shattering all murky musing in Sunan’s head. He and all the gathered scholars stood upright and gazed toward the top of the stair where stood Overseer Rangsun, the great leader of the Center of Learning. The mere sight of him raised the spirits and hopes of all those gathered.

The overseer read out each Tribute Scholar’s number and, following that, one of two words: pass or fail. Scholars scrambled in their sleeves to find their numbers then listened breathlessly as the results were read. No one spoke a word of jubilation or defeat. Those who passed proceeded without further ceremony—for what further ceremony was needed?—up the staircase to the Middle Court. They were now Presented Scholars.

And those who failed vanished without a word.

Sunan found his number sewn into the hem of his sleeve. One hundred two. So he must wait and wait and wait. His whole life, his whole being, his whole future rested on the words of Overseer Rangsun. But he must wait.

Finally, Tribute Scholar Ninety-nine. A pass.

Tribute Scholar One Hundred. A fail.

Tribute Scholar One Hundred One. A fail.

Now. Now, now, now! Sunan felt his heart plummet and soar and plummet again. Now! Read it now!

“Tribute Scholar One Hundred Three,” read the overseer.

Four more numbers were read before Sunan found his breath again. Blood rushed to his ears, and for a terrible moment he thought he would faint. Where was his number? The overseer had skipped his number! Could Sunan have let his mind drift, even for a moment, and missed it? Could the overseer have made a mistake?

“Tribute Scholar One Hundred Ten,” read the overseer, and on down the list.

Sunan stood alone in the crowd, his heart hammering, his head spinning. Scholars passed up the stairs; scholars retreated through the gate. What must he do? Where must he go?

Where was his number?

Another hour passed, and the Lordly Sun rose high above and beat down upon the yard, unable to melt the snow or ease the cold. But Sunan sweated inside his woolen robe.

At last the courtyard was empty. He stood alone at the base of the stairs, gazing up into the face of the overseer.

Overseer Rangsun rolled up his long scroll, passed it to a near attendant, and then dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Lifting the edge of his embroidered robes, he began to descend the stair. Sunan trembled. Should he flee? Should he assume that his name had not been called because he had failed and hasten away through the gate? But Overseer Rangsun was now at the bottom step. He stood with his hands folded inside his deep sleeves and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to study Sunan.

“Sunan, son of Juong-Khla,” the overseer said.

“Honored Overseer!” Sunan gasped and bowed low. His ears burned at the sound of his father’s name spoken here in the Center of Learning. It was as evil as a curse.

“You will be pleased to know,” Overseer Rangsun said, his voice mild as a spring breeze, “that you far exceeded all expectations and achieved the top score of this year’s Gruung.”

For a moment the world went black, and Sunan suspected that he fainted. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet until his eyes were able to refocus and blood flowed back to his brain. With sparks exploding on the edge of his vision, he bowed again, deeper than before. He opened his mouth to speak, but words would not come.

It didn’t matter. Overseer Rangsun continued: “Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of your birth and less-than-desirable parentage, the Center of Learning does not feel that it can accept you into the Middle Court.”

Once more the world went black. Once more Sunan managed to stay on his feet. When he opened his mouth again, only one word emerged.

“Spitfire.”