Golden Daughter (61 page)

In the darkness the young dragon lay collapsed upon nothing, his mangled hand clutched to his chest. Here in the Between of all worlds and realities, he was lost . . . but no more lost than he had ever been. He realized this now, with his fire sunk so low, though he would forget it soon enough when the furnace returned.

How tired he was. How spent. How broken.

He recalled his mother. He could no longer see her face, for dragons cannot maintain memories of loved ones for long. When he had burned a few more times, he would forget her completely. But now he remembered. Not her face, but the smell of her. The warmth of her. The comfort of her. Even this comfort was hollow, for although she had loved him with a passion few mothers could equal, she had breathed her hatred into his soul.

Hatred of his father. But that father was gone. The young dragon couldn’t remember him at all. The only father he knew now was the Dark Father. And the Dark Father slept deep down below in the Dark Water, bound to the Gold Stone.

The young dragon gnashed his teeth in despair at what was forgotten, for even the memory of pain is better than oblivion.

His brother’s face he remembered. That one he would not forget so soon, for his was the face he hated most, and hatred lived well in his fire.

The ring upon his torn hand glowed suddenly. Its brilliance cut through the darkness all around, revealing only more darkness. But now the darkness had focus, had purpose, for it could surround that light. The stone blossom of Hulan’s Garden pulsed with rich flame deep inside, a flame that was not fire but Song. And the young dragon stared down at that stone. He recalled the lovely form and lovelier voice of his Angel.

And he recalled her final words: “
I never want to see your face again.
”

He howled in agony, and the darkness swallowed up the sound and fed upon it. Never was a soul more abandoned to grief, to rage. Never was a soul more alone.

Then suddenly he was not alone.

“Sunan,” said the Lumil Eliasul. “I know your name.”

The young dragon dared not look up. His body shook with the pain of his loneliness, but he would not give up that pain. “That is no longer my name,” he moaned. “I have no name.”

“You have only forgotten it. But I have not.” The Lumil Eliasul knelt and took the young dragon’s wounded hand in his. He lifted it up, displaying the ring of opals for both of them to see.

“One day, Sunan,” the Lumil Eliasul said, “I will claim this for my own. But I leave it to you now, a final guiding light through this torment. And I grant you a gift as well. Until the time comes for your reclamation, I give you sleep.”

The young dragon closed his eyes. Then he, like his Dark Father, slipped into a deep slumber of ages, not to wake again for many generations of mortal men. But unlike the Dark Father, the young dragon slept without dreams.

And he wore the gift of a heart upon his hand.

On the Masayi grounds, all the Golden Daughters gathered and made final reverence to their Golden Mother. No one questioned who would step into Princess Safiya’s place, for all knew that Princess Safiya was irreplaceable.

But they did wonder at the presence of Masayi Sairu, their sister.

Sairu stood at the head of the Golden Mother’s body as it lay upon the pyre. She set a wreath of red chrysanthemums across the Mother’s brow, then bowed her head as she offered a long, silent prayer. The Golden Daughters watched her from behind tear-laden lashes, curious even in their sorrow. One or two of the younger ones whispered questions to their elders, saying, “Was she not given to a master? Why is she here? Where is her master?” The elder sisters hushed the younger. Nevertheless, the same questions were bright in their eyes.

But Sairu, unaware, heard only Princess Safiya’s last words soft in her ear: “
You were born to make life.
”

Not to guard it. Not to take it.

To create it.

Sairu wondered even as she stood in prayerful attitude if perhaps the end of the Golden Daughters was at hand. And she wondered if perhaps this end was best. She thought of her sisters who had gone before her. She thought of Jen-ling, her life vanished in service to a distant prince. She thought of the lives those sisters would take, and of the lives she herself had taken in this agony of devotion.

“
You were born to make life.
”

She finished her prayer, whispering at the last, “
Beyond the Final Water falling, the Songs of Spheres recalling . . .
”
Then she stepped back and allowed a weeping slave to take her place, to light the funeral blaze. Rejoining her sisters, Sairu stood and watched as the fire consumed all, and smoke and incense rose to the healing heavens.

Someone tugged at her sleeve. She turned to meet the questioning gaze of a younger sister. “Sairu, where is your master?”

Sairu did not answer. She blinked slowly and faced the pyre again, and this was answer enough for all her gathered sisters. She had failed. The best, the brightest, the most favored of their number. And she had failed. A shudder ran through the heart of each girl present, and they could not look upon Sairu again.

Anwar had already risen to his zenith when Sairu, her back turned to the glowing embers of the funeral pyre, made her way alone back to the Chrysanthemum House. It saddened her to realize how unfamiliar that house had become. As she slid back the door and passed silently down the corridors to her own private chambers, she found herself thinking of the lepers’ huts in Lembu Rana.

She whispered, “That is where I will go. That is where I will begin to make things right. In the valley of the dead, I will carry life. I will bear mercy to those who have known only pain.”

Her heart, sore and suffering from all it had seen, lifted suddenly in her breast, and the light of purpose gleamed, however faintly, behind the film of tears over her eyes.

Dumpling, Rice Cake, and Sticky Bun somehow sensed her coming before she even drew near to her door. She heard them raise their yipping chorus, like the Dara themselves joined together in song. She felt the faintest of smiles tug at her mouth at the sound. She had not expected them to be there waiting for her but thought they were all gone to the children’s palace.

Even as she put her hand out to slide the door aside, she felt the thud of little dog bodies as they flung themselves eagerly at it. Then they were flinging themselves at her knees, their paws tearing at the air, their curly tails wagging so hard they might soon fall off. Sairu knelt and allowed them to climb into her lap, all three at once, and she put her arms around them and received a face-full of sloppy kisses. She paused a moment to pull black feathers from Dumpling’s muzzle, which was curious.

“So much sentimentalism,” said a familiar voice. “Makes my skin crawl.”

“Monster!” Sairu exclaimed, forgetting the feathers and turning to the cat. He lay upon her bed of cushions, his front paws curled neatly beneath the white ruff of his chest.

He grinned at her, and the tip of his tail twitched. “Forgot about me, didn’t you?”

“No indeed,” Sairu said, pushing Dumpling away from her face and rising. “You escaped the Dream then.”

“Obviously,” said he, sitting up and stretching, his ears turning back. “No thanks to you.”

“Did I ask for thanks?” She smiled at him, and he rolled his eyes. Then she crossed the room and sank down on the cushions beside him. Rice Cake and Sticky Bun leapt into her lap, and Dumpling leapt onto the cat, who hissed and smacked him across the nose.

Sairu closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall, and her smile slid away. “I lost her, Monster,” she said. “I lost my mistress in the mist. I failed.”

The cat said nothing. Then, shouldering both Rice Cake and Sticky Bun aside, he slid into her lap, curled up, and began to purr. The sound of his purring and the lion dogs’ snorts dominated the room, and a sort of peace descended. After a time the cat said, “You know, I have lived a long time.”

“Demons do, I understand.”

“Yes, well. The point is I have lived long enough to learn a thing or two. And one thing I have learned—though it’s not my favorite lesson, you may be certain, and I would be just as happy to forget it—is that sometimes the worst failures in our lives turn out to be for the best. Sometimes our Path leads through darkness, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t walk it. Sometimes our Path leads to loss. But that doesn’t mean we’ve gone astray.”

Sairu listened. She didn’t think she could truly understand or appreciate his words just then. But she decided to remember them and consider them later.

Suddenly she frowned and looked down at the cat in her lap. “You’re leaving,” she said.

The cat looked up at her, his eyes half-closed and sweet. “I am. Actually, I’ve only stopped in for a moment to bid you farewell.”

A knot formed in Sairu’s throat. She swallowed it back with difficulty and whispered, “I’m losing you too.”

“And I,” said the cat, his voice gentler than she had ever before heard it, “am losing you.”

Then he gave a startled little mew as Sairu pushed him from her lap, scrambled up off the cushions, and crossed the room. She knelt at her chest and put back the lid, reaching inside for something the cat could not see. She stood and turned to him, her hands and whatever they held hidden in her long sleeves. “Monster,” she said, “would you please take your other form. I should like to give you something, and I cannot do so while you are a cat.”

“I’m always a cat,” said the cat, “no matter what form I wear.” But even as he spoke, he changed. Or rather he did not change, for he was Faerie, and Faeries can only ever be what they are. But Sairu’s perspective on him altered ever so slightly. No longer did a fluffy orange cat sit upon her bed, ears irritably back-tilted. Now the shining golden man, with skin as pale and luminous as Hulan’s face and eyes like bright mirrors of Anwar, stepped from the cushions down to the floor. He bowed after a fashion she did not know, and swept back the long scarlet cloak he wore.

“I knew from the moment I saw you that you were no mere cat,” Sairu said.

“No cat,” the glorious man replied, “is ever
merely
a cat.”

Slipping her hands out from her sleeves, Sairu revealed that which she held: two bright knives, their blades curved at the point, the hilts set with red jewels. They were the same shape and size as those she wore hidden, but these were ceremonial and far more beautiful. She took a step nearer the cat and bowed, her hands upraised, the knives resting on her palms in offering. “I would be honored, devil,” she said, “if you would accept this gift. Wherever you go, in realms and worlds I cannot fathom, remember the Golden Daughter whom you guarded so well.”

“I don’t need pretty things to remember you by, Sairu,” the cat-man said. But he accepted the knives, testing their balance, and seemed pleased with the gift. He slid them both into his belt then took Sairu’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Sweet maiden, I have one request of you before I go.”

“Request?” Sairu’s eyebrows rose. “What request?”

“I beg of you”—and he drew her closer so that his brilliant eyes could stare deep into hers—“find your joy.”

She gazed up at him and saw ages of mortals and immortals alike in his face, a face so lovely and profound, and yet so very catlike. She felt the imperative of his request and knew that, whatever else happened, she must try to fulfill it.

Sairu offered a small half-smile. Then, perhaps a little surprised at her own boldness, she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on the cat-man’s beautiful mouth. “That is for Starflower,” she said.

“Light of Lumé above us!” the cat-man yeowled. “I am leaving now.” With that, he disappeared before her very eyes and was gone.

For three long days Jovann argued for the lives of the Chhayan chieftains.

And when he wasn’t arguing for them, he was arguing with them, which was often much worse. For unlike the poised Kitar warlords, Chhayans were not above throwing things in their rage. More than once, Jovann narrowly avoided a braining by flying jade vase.

The chieftains’ sons were the worst. They were many of them Jovann’s own age, and the fury and frustration of youth was hot in their veins. They railed against being caged like animals, and though Jovann could assure them that the dungeons beneath the Crown of the Moon were far less hospitable than the luxurious palace chambers in which they were housed—albeit with guards at the doors and windows—they would hear none of it. A man was not meant to be hemmed in by walls! they insisted, and many claimed they would rather die at once than live another hour surrounded by silks and alabaster.

But on the third day Jovann saw the poisonous rage of his people begin to calm. While the sons and seconds still refused to speak with him, they did cease hurling heavy objects at his head. And the chieftains became almost reasonable.

“They will drive us from our plains,” the Seh clan leader said.

“No,” Jovann insisted. “The emperor has agreed to leave you your plains, and each chieftain as master of his tribe.” A generous offer on the part of the Anuk Anwar, considering that his warlords wanted all the Chhayan chieftains’ heads mounted on pikes. “You will send a tribute of men from each tribe to be conscripted into the emperor’s army each year. And if the war horns sound, you will be under oath to march under the Anuk’s banner. But on the plains, you will rule as you always have. I have the Anuk’s word.”

“Word of a Kitar,” growled the Kondao clan leader. But he didn’t spit at the end of this sentence, which was definitely an improvement.

So as the third day lengthened, Jovann ran to and from the prisoners’ quarters and the throne room of the emperor, where the Anuk and his lords gathered. And as the sun set, Jovann marched at the head of the Chhayan captives into the presence of the emperor.

He bowed at the foot of the emperor’s throne. After a long moment of hesitation he felt the Chhayan chieftains bow as well. Then the Kondao clan leader stepped forward and said, “We have heard all that Jovann-Khla has to say, speaking as the mouth of the Great Emperor of Noorhitam.”

Jovann startled at the sound of the title attributed to him. He had known that his father was dead. But now, hearing himself named leader of the Khla clan, he felt that knowledge so much more keenly, like a blade to the heart. He bowed his head, struggling under the weight of terrible thoughts and emotions.

But the Kondao clan leader continued. “My brothers and I,” he said, motioning to the Chhayans present, “have agreed to the terms of . . .” He stumbled over the next word. With massive difficulty, as though lifting the load of many centuries, he said, “The terms of surrender. We salute you, Anuk Anwar, as our emperor and liege lord.”

And salute he did, offering up his sword arm to the emperor. One by one, the chieftains of the Chhayan nation and their seconds mimicked him. Jovann, last of all, did the same.

The emperor rose then from his throne. He extended his arm in a similar gesture, his hand upraised, fingers outspread. “And I salute you, lords of the Chhayan plains.”

More negotiations were begun then. Jovann, in the thick of it all, began to wonder if it would ever end. Possibly not. He rather suspected that he would spend the rest of his life at the Anuk Anwar’s side, interceding and apologizing for his people by turn.

The idea was exhausting. No Khla chieftain had ever fought such a battle.

But when dawn came again, filtering the light of the fourth day through the windows of the throne room, sleep-hungry Kitar and Chhayans alike left the throne room, satisfied in good progress made, if no final conclusions reached. Jovann, smothering yawns behind his hand, moved to follow them but heard the emperor’s voice calling out to him, “Wait, Jovann-Khla.”

Jovann stopped in the middle of the throne room and watched the Anuk Anwar dismiss his warlords and even his slaves with a flick of his hand. Then the emperor, gathering his robes in his hands, descended the dais and approached Jovann. He was shorter than Jovann, but the weight of his empire made him seem much larger than mere physical size could contain. Jovann saw no sleep in his gaze, only strain. Ordinary men were not meant to bear such a burden as the Emperor of Noorhitam carried with him always.

“Jovann-Khla,” said the emperor, “I do hope that when all this is settled you will still remain in Manusbau.”

Jovann bowed uncertainly. “I will serve my emperor,” he said, though the words were strange on his tongue, “however he commands me.”

The Anuk breathed a sigh of relief. “I am glad. I will have much need of your insight in times to come. I realize now that I should not have ignored the Chhayans under my mastery, should have worked harder to establish dealings with them, as my conquering forefathers did not.”

Jovann, too tired to mention that up until quite recently no amount of generous dealing would have done any good whatsoever, merely inclined his head again.

“Now,” said the emperor, “I am sure you are weary, but I should like to take a moment to speak of your upcoming wedding.”

“Wedding?” Oh! Wedding! Jovann suddenly felt terribly awake. While Sairu had not been far from his thoughts at any moment over the last several days, their supposed betrothal had quite slipped his mind. “Honored Anuk,” he said hastily, “You do not need for me to marry into your immediate family in order to secure my loyalty. I swear to you, this marriage is unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary perhaps.” The emperor shrugged. “But unwelcome?”

“Um.” Not unwelcome. Not in the least. But Jovann couldn’t find the words.

“Come now,” said the emperor with a grin that suddenly reminded Jovann that he was, indeed, Sairu’s father. “Are you not the son of the man who—rumor would have it—flung a bride over his shoulder and rode off with her across the horizon?”

A sick feeling settled in Jovann’s stomach, and he could not offer a returning smile. “I am not my father,” he said.

“No,” said the Anuk, his smile dissipating. “No. And Sairu is no wench to be thus handled. She is one of my favorites. I have many, many daughters and sons. But she is one of my favorites.” He folded his arms, rich in embroidered silks. “I’ll make you an offer, Jovann-Khla: If by the end of today you can convince my daughter to marry you of her own free will, then the marriage will take place as soon as the final treaty is signed between your people and mine. Otherwise I will retract the gift of her hand. Do we have a deal?”

Jovann stared. Then, almost certain that he had fallen asleep on his feet and was even now experiencing a very strange dream, he nodded.

“Well then,” said the emperor, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Be off with you at once! You must find her and begin your persuasions.”

It was as good as an imperial command. Suddenly galvanized with energy beyond any he would have thought possible only a few moments before, Jovann turned and ran from the emperor’s throne room, his new Kitar robes flowing behind him.

They wouldn’t let him near the Masayi. Only a certain amount of pleading with one of the younger slaves gained Jovann the information that Sairu had indeed packed up all her things and, with three of her dogs at her heels, left her quarters in the Chrysanthemum House, moving to an undisclosed location somewhere within Manusbau.

This was no help. Manusbau was vast beyond all reason. Jovann cursed, turned from the slave, and continued his hunt, making frantic and useless inquiries from anyone who would stop long enough to listen.

He was up in the second story of the easternmost building, inquiring of an irritable scrubber boy, when he spotted her quite by chance through the window. She was down in the courtyard below, a sack slung over one shoulder, dressed humbly in slave’s garments. No wonder no one had known who she was or where to find her! Flying to the window and leaning out as far as he could, Jovann saw her approach the palace gates, smile dangerously at the guards there, and pass through, out into the city beyond.

“Anwar’s elbow!” Jovann cursed. Then he flew through the hall, down a flight of stairs, and out through the doors into the courtyard. Knowing he was likely never to find her in the twisting streets of Lunthea Maly, he raced even so to the gate, shouting orders and flashing the emperor’s seal, which he wore on a chain about his neck. The guards, surprised but unwilling to contest that seal, stepped back and allowed him through.

Jovann stumbled out of the palace grounds and came to a halt, more baffled than ever. The streets of Lunthea Maly could only be as a wicked labyrinth to a man of the Chhayan plains. For a heart-sinking moment, he believed he had failed.

Then he heard a familiar trill of birdsong. He turned to it, half expecting to see a gateway of trees and the great Grandmother Tree standing in a circle clearing of green.

Instead he saw Sairu just rounding a bend down a busy street.

“Little miss!” he cried, and sprang into motion, darting between carts and mules. He smelled the stench of rotten eggs that had become too familiar in recent history, and his heart sank at the destruction he saw on this street down which he ran. Destruction wrought by the Chhayans, his own people.

He hurried on, running down the powder-blackened street, chasing the slim figure with the sack over her shoulder, and calling as he went: “Little miss! Sairu!”

Just as he despaired of her ever hearing him, Sairu turned. She looked up the street, her brow forming a curious knot. She saw Jovann, and the knot vanished, giving way to a smooth mask and one of her disguising smiles.

“Noble prince,” she said even as he drew near. “Honored Minister of the Imperial Glory.” She bowed at the waist. “I had heard that the emperor insisted upon mercy and that you even now enjoy the splendor of his favor.”

Ignoring this greeting, Jovann blurted out the first words that sprang to his lips. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” she repeated, her smile tilting a little to one side. “Why, I am on a picnic. A nice long picnic, on foot, out to the country. Later on, when everything has settled and there are mules to be spared, I will take this same picnic again, many times, and I’ll do it mounted. But I decided it was too nice a day to wait, so here I am, as you see me.”

“A picnic?” Jovann repeated, dully.

“Yes. To Lembu Rana.”

“Where—where is that?”

“A lepers’ village. Beyond the city gates.”

Her words sank in slowly. He wondered if she was teasing him but saw by the look in her eye behind her smile that she was not. “A lepers’ village?” he repeated.

She nodded. “They were attacked before the siege on Manusbau. I hid my mistress among them, and so they were made to suffer.” Her smile slipped away slowly, for she could support it no longer. “I have caused many to suffer. I wish to change this now.”

Jovann stood before her, realizing that what he had come to say was not at all the right thing at that moment. He hated himself then for his selfishness and almost turned back.

Once more, lilting through the noise of the street and the rush of blood in his own ears, he heard the silver voice of the wood thrush singing. And Jovann opened his mouth and said the wrong thing, for he could not help himself.