Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Even in the mortal world there were those who felt a new stirring in their hearts. And they briefly raised their faces to the heavens, gazing up at the so-distant stars. Wonder moved them, and they thought that mercy was now possible, that hope would be restored, that they were not so wholly abandoned to their helpless, decaying state.

  The chorus might have rung for a thousand years and more. It did not matter. Time did not matter here in the Gardens. But when at last the first explosion of sound faded a little, Jovann found himself smiling up into the Moon’s shining visage.

  She took the flower in her hand and extended it to Jovann. Take this, she said, and return to the mortal world. It will be a sign, a sign of the promise to be fulfilled. For she whom the Lumil Eliasul takes as his bride will wear this flower upon her hand.

  Suddenly Jovann felt a warm, wonderful breath upon his forehead. And then the Moon kissed him. She drew back and gazed forever down into his eyes.

  It is a gift of the heart, she said. Choose well to whom you give it. I will see you again, sweet child. Soon now.

  The Gate stood before him.

  Jovann blinked several times, and he felt his spirit waver like a flame in the wind. Why was he here? Now? The last he recalled, he stood before the Lady Moon herself, receiving her secret. And now . . .

  Was it a dream?

  “No,” said the Dara. “But you must return to the Dream.”

  Jovann startled and whirled around. There stood the shimmering North Star in the darkness of the sky. Blue flame crept up its slender legs and licked from the ends of its mane. It wanted to shake off its corporeal form, to return to the Song above. But it waited patiently, regarding Jovann with solemn, ageless eyes.

  Jovann realized that his hand clenched in a fist. He tore his gaze from the unicorn and studied his fist, wondering what he held inside. But he could not make his fingers uncurl.

  Suddenly his head came up. “Where is Lady Hariawan?”

  “There,” said the unicorn, and indicated with a sweep of its horn. Jovann looked and saw a crumpled form lying just before the enormous gate. He realized that the distance between him and the Gate was much greater than he had first supposed, for there were no clear perspective marks here, and the Gate was huge indeed. But he saw Lady Hariawan, tiny and limp on the stretch of shore.

  “What has become of her?” he demanded, breaking into a run even as he spoke. Waves splashed beneath his feet, and he felt the sand bar giving way, crumbling at each footfall. He doubled his speed, and the star kept pace easily behind him. “What has become of her?” Jovann gasped again.

  “She could not bear what her mind created for her,” said the star, and offered no other explanation. Somehow Jovann understood without understanding, and he asked nothing more.

  The ocean swelled up in a wave behind him, and he felt it catch him and thrust him forward. He drew a deep breath, though breathing scarcely mattered here, and forced his eyes to remain open even as the many-colored water overwhelmed him. He glimpsed the world as seen through the film of the Final Water, and it was a dreadful sight, dreadful in its beauty.

  Then, with a crash and shattering of crystal, he was deposited upon the little strip of shore before the gate. Bits of light fell from his hair, dripped down his cheeks and chin, and he laughed suddenly, for it was thrilling to have been borne on such a wave.

  But he shook the laugh away and crawled to Lady Hariawan.

  She lay in a faint, her face turned away from him, one arm curved above her head, the other draped over her middle. Her bare feet were covered in sand, and there was sand in her hair and robes.

  “My darling!” Jovann gasped, and he took her into his arms. As he did so, her face turned toward him.

  Jovann screamed.

  For it was not Lady Hariawan’s face he saw. It was the face of a withered hag.

  “What have you brought upon us, mortal?”

  The star standing on the edge of the shore flared its nostrils, and darkness filled its eyes. Its voice rumbled down through Jovann’s terror and spoke with fearful dread into his heart. “What you have you brought upon us?”

  Jovann shuddered, and his arms threatened to thrust their burden away. But one hand was still clenched in a fist, and he felt the thing he held. Though he could not recall what it was, somehow it gave him strength.

  Averting his eyes from the horrible vision, he struggled to his feet, with that which had once been Lady Hariawan limp in his grasp. He turned to the star. But the star spoke first.

  “I feel it come,” it said, and the core of its being shook so that the water beneath its feet rippled and rushed away. “I’ve sung of it but without understanding. I feel the change you foreshadow.”

  It took a step nearer then lowered its horn so that the point rested just above Lady Hariawan’s heart. But it did not touch her.

  What have you brought into our midst, mortal man? Even as it spoke, blue flames burst across its flanks, up its neck, engulfing its head. It reared up, trumpeting a warning to the sky, and all the stars above turned their heads and stared down upon Jovann and his burden.

  Jovann turned and fell back through Hulan’s Gate.

  “Something has changed.”

  Sairu looked up from her silent study of the slave and gazed across the room. The cat perched on a nearby empty pallet and had, up until a moment ago, entertained himself with a nice, long, noisy groom.

  But now he sat upright, his body perfectly still save for the tip of his tail, which twitched faster, faster, faster, until the whole sweeping plume of it lashed like a whip.

  “Something has changed,” he said, and his voice was not the voice Sairu had become so strangely accustomed to hearing from her devilish companion. It scarcely sounded like a cat’s voice anymore. It was old. And very, very young. It was a voice of pure gold.

  “Monster?” Sairu said, gently.

  The cat turned to her. His eyes were like two suns, huge in his face. He spoke again in that unfamiliar voice: “I heard the stars sing out together. And in their Song they declared a wonder. I do not . . . ”

  He blinked slowly. To Sairu’s unending surprise, two bright tears fell down his face and landed on his paws. The cat appeared equally surprised. He shook himself and put a paw to his nose, rubbing the fur, licking, then rubbing again. He muttered, “I have not wept in a century at least. Not since I lay upon the shore of the Dark Water. Why . . . why now?”

  “Monster?” Sairu said again, this time less gently, for she found that her heart was beating with a sensation not unlike fear. “What has happened? What did you hear?”

  The cat shook his ears. When he placed his paw beside its mate and looked again at Sairu, there was no trace of tears on his face. When he spoke, his voice was his own once more. “I don’t know what I heard. I don’t pretend to understand. But . . .” He wrapped his tail tightly around his body and over his paws. “But the worlds have changed forever.”

  Sairu opened her mouth to ask what he meant. In that moment, however, Jovann’s body convulsed. His back arched fearfully, his head upraised from his pillow, his jaw straining as he clenched his teeth. He made no sound, which was worse still, for the whole movement of his body was like a scream. Sairu was not one to startle easily, but she gasped and, moving on pure reflex, fell back from him upon the floor. Her stomach jumped sickeningly inside her, and her hands sought inside her sleeves for the knives hidden there.

  But the convulsion ceased as quickly as it had begun. Jovann collapsed back upon his pillow, and though his breathing was faster, his body was still. Sairu bent over him, pressing a hand to his neck to feel his pulse, which rushed beneath her fingers.

  The Gate was gone.

  Jovann knew without looking. He knew in the deep places of his spirit, and his heart broke for the knowledge. The Gate was gone. And this was as well, for had not the stars roared in sudden anger? But perhaps . . .

  Perhaps he should have stayed. For it could not be evil to be overwhelmed, to be consumed
in the fire of a star.

  But all was gone now. He felt the formlessness of the Dream around him. He did not see it, for he was too frightened to look. But he felt it and knew it for what it was.

  And the dark chanting bore down upon him.

  Jovann pushed himself upright, though his hands sank into the Dream and the mist rose up to choke him. Now he must open his eyes. He must! He could not hide in the cowardice of blindness. Everything inside him longed to hide, to cover his face, to see nothing. But he must look.

  When he did, he saw formless shadows towering above him. They seemed to have long limbs, reaching out to each other, fingertips touching as they formed a closing circle. It was impossible to discern how near or how far they might be. They could be within reach of his hand. They could be leagues away.

  One thing he knew for certain: A single voice pulled away from the chant and called out in—he thought—surprise.

  Jovann?

  It was too much to bear. Jovann struggled to his feet and cast about desperately. Where was she? Where was the girl? He knew, somehow, that the phantoms sought her, though it was his name he heard again, ringing out from the shadows.

  Jovann? Jovann? Juong-Khla Jovann?

  There she lay, almost at his feet, the mist of the Dream covering her like a veil. For a moment only he hesitated, fearing that if he touched her, if he pulled her to him, he would find that he held not his beautiful lady, but the hag he had glimpsed beyond Hulan’s Gate. He shoved this fear away and fell upon his knees before her, his hands lifting her from the mist. And when her head tilted back, he saw her smooth face. Her eyelids fluttered open, and he was lost in the indescribable darkness of her lovely gaze.

  “My lady?” he gasped, unable to call her “darling” here, beyond the Gate. His voice was indiscernible, swallowed in the chant. “My lady, we must—”

  A sudden jolt of strength passed through her and up his arms. He cried out even as she pushed away and rose to her feet. She gazed down upon him without recognition, and he even believed—though he would have died before admitting it—that he saw hatred in her gaze.

  “It’s a lie. It’s all a lie!” she hissed.

  The phantoms were upon them. Jovann screamed as he saw a long, shadowy hand reaching out, the fingers passing across Lady Hariawan’s face. But those fingers closed upon nothing.

  For Lady Hariawan vanished.

  “My lady!” Jovann cried.

  The phantom turned to him. Its face was formless, nothing to differentiate between it and its brethren. But while the others continued their chant with a terrible, driving urgency, this one was silent as it turned. It had no eyes Jovann could discern, but he felt a burning gaze boring into him.

  Jovann. My son.

  The Dream shattered.

  “What’s wrong?” The cat’s warm body brushed against Sairu’s arm. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Sairu snapped. “He’s alive, but—”

  The cat sniffed at Jovann’s cheek and ear. Jovann’s hand came up suddenly, wrapped around the cat’s head, and pushed him, hissing, off the pallet. “Go away!” he snarled into his pillow.

  Sairu felt her whole body go limp in a flood of relief. With an effort she controlled her voice, saying only, “You are awake.” She dared not try to say more. Quickly she removed her hand from Jovann’s neck where she had felt for his pulse, assuming a demeanor of calm.

  “I am awake,” Jovann agreed, his voice muffled by the pillow. He smacked at his cheek and rubbed it furiously. “Anwar wither those ticklish whiskers!” He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, then opened them, blinking up at Sairu. When he tried to push himself up, his body reminded him violently of his earlier beating, and he winced.

  Sairu said nothing. She watched him, studied him. And she saw how, even as he carefully moved himself into a seated position, one hand remained closed in a fist. She allowed him to recover himself, to shake the sleep from his head. He moaned and twisted his neck. Then he fixed Sairu with a studying gaze of his own.

  “So, little miss,” he said, “are you satisfied?”

  “Did you dream-walk?” Sairu demanded.

  He nodded. For a moment he closed his eyes. “I saw . . . such things. I saw . . .”

  “Did you see my mistress?”

  His eyes flew wide. Then he was struggling against the pain of his own body to get to his feet. “She was in trouble! We passed through the gate, and the phantoms were around us again, chanting. I must—”

  He was already moving toward the door. But this was unacceptable. Sairu reached out, caught his arm and twisted it. She did not need to do anything else, for that motion was enough to set his back on fire with agony, and he crumpled to his knees. Resisting only aggravated his wounds, so he held perfectly still, his head straining back to stare up at her, angry questions in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Sairu said, and smiled ruefully. “You may not leave, and you may not approach my mistress.”

  “But she may be—”

  “I shall see to her,” Sairu insisted. “You will wait.”

  Briefly she saw an argument forming on his face, along his jaw and over his brow. But then it cleared and he nodded. She released her hold on his arm, and he remained where he knelt, unwilling to move for fear of irritating his wounds still more.

  Sairu passed quickly to the infirmary door and paused on the edge of the lamplight. Her eyes sought the cat, who sat in a quiet corner. “Stay with him,” she said.

  The cat blinked once.

  Then she was hurrying across the darkness of the temple grounds. Hulan did not light her way, for the moon had hidden her thin face behind a cloud that night. The darkness was deep, and all the temple dwellers had long since sought the refuge of sleep, allowing the torches to burn low and extinguish.

  But Sairu was not alone. Small, snuffly snouts pressed up against her calves and ankles, and she felt the warm bodies of her dogs surrounding her, guarding her from all the possible threats of the night as she glided and they waddled down the path from the infirmary to the house where Lady Hariawan dwelled.

  The slaves were asleep in the outermost chamber, and no one stood guard. Sairu and her little pack passed unimpeded through Lady Hariawan’s set of rooms. Darkness crouched there, but Sairu felt no more threat from this darkness than from any of the shadows in the grounds outside. She listened closely but heard nothing untoward, not even a growl from timid Rice Cake, who was the most nervous of the trio. The dogs eagerly spread out to sniff the beds and belongings of the various sleeping slaves, and Sticky Bun had a pleasant roll and stretch on a rug. Nothing more.

  Sairu opened the next door and passed into the chamber beyond, then on to the chamber beyond that. She slid this door back as silently as she could, motioning sharply for her dogs to stay put. Peering inside, she saw her mistress lying upon her bed.

  Lady Hariawan was fast asleep. Even in the gloom, Sairu could hear her rhythmic breathing. She felt the pulse of gentle, dreamless ease.

  After slipping inside and sliding the door shut, Sairu stood in the darkness and closed her eyes. With every other sense besides sight she sought for a sign of disturbance. The scent of harimau touched her nose, but it was faint and might be old.

  She sensed no phantom presence. She sensed no fear.

  A sudden surge of guilt plucked at her brain. Lady Hariawan had forbidden her to enter, and yet here she stood! An insubordinate Golden Daughter, ignoring the explicit command of her mistress.

  She shuddered and exited the chamber as silently as she had entered it, the only sound the soft shhhh of the thin door sliding along its grooves. Her dogs swarmed her heels again, following her. She paused in the outermost chamber, then turned to her dogs and whispered, “Sit. Stay.”

  Someone must guard Lady Hariawan. Someone she could trust.

  The dogs were nearly invisible in the darkness, but she could almost feel them wagging their whole bodies in eagerness to please her. She bent and patted each
little head in turn then stepped out into the passage.

  “Did you see her?” Jovann demanded the moment Sairu appeared at the infirmary door. He sat upon his pallet, and his face was pale in the lamplight. The cat was curled up at the foot of the bed, his tail draped over his face, though Sairu could see one gleaming eye watching from beneath the fur.

  “I saw her,” Sairu said. “She sleeps peacefully.”

  Jovann’s body shuddered with the sigh he gave, and he slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his head bowed. “I beheld such things,” he said, his voice faint. “Such . . . terrible things.”

  “What things?” Sairu demanded, crossing the room and kneeling before him. “Tell me.”

  But he shook his head. “I cannot. I cannot speak of it. Not yet. Let me tell you tomorrow.”

  Sairu wanted to argue, to insist. She knew she could make him tell her whatever she wished. But from where she sat, she could see the lines on his face and, despite herself, felt sudden pity.

  So instead she reached out and took his fist between her hands. “What is this?” she asked.

  He looked down at his own hand, frowning. Then, without answering, he turned it over and slowly, painfully, uncurled his fingers.

  Both he and Sairu gasped.

  A glint of many-colored fire lay in his palm. For a moment it looked like a flower, and then it was not a flower at all, but the life and flame of a flower caught in the stillness of stone. It was not large, but it did not need to be. That first glimpse of it was so beautiful, so delicate and powerful all at once, that no eye could help but be drawn to it.

  Then, the glory faded. Not entirely, but enough. And Jovann held in his hand a cluster of fire opals.

  “Where did you get that?” Sairu demanded, though she already suspected the answer. For she knew he had had nothing of the kind on his person when he fell asleep.

  “I . . . It is a gift of the . . . of the heart. I . . .”

  Words failed him. She looked into his eyes and saw in them lights much greater than those gleaming within the stones. He blinked, and they were gone, but still he could not speak. He closed his mouth, took a deep breath.