Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Then he took Sairu’s hand and pressed the opals into it. “Take it,” he said.

  For a moment she felt her heart thrill and stop. It was a long moment. A moment full of eternities and sudden dreams, hopes, desires.

  “Give it to Umeer’s daughter,” Jovann said. “Tell her to remember me.”

  “You are crying.”

  Dawn came swiftly to the mountain peaks, far more swiftly than it came to the valleys. It touched the upper ridges with lines of pink and gold, and sent mist curling down the slopes. Sairu shivered where she sat. The mist moved like the softest, gentlest of rivers past her. It was so thick, she could scarcely see the cat until he was right beside her, though she had spotted the curl of his upraised tail several yards away.

  She did not acknowledge him but looked down upon Daramuti. The dovecote, where she had come to sit, was the highest and most remote point in the temple grounds, and the rest spread below her, the various rooftops and paths nestled comfortably into the mountain as though they had always been there. It was a lovely, quiet little world of its own, isolated in morning while everything below still rested in the embrace of night. The priests chanted their morning prayers, and the sound of their melodic voices greeting Anwar was gentle in Sairu’s ears.

  The cat sat beside her, gazing at the same scene as only a cat can gaze, but perhaps seeing things she did not. He was silent for a long while. Then he said a second time, “You are crying.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Then why are there tears on your face?”

  “The cold,” Sairu replied, perhaps too promptly. “It makes my eyes water.”

  “Ah.”

  Again they were silent. The dawn spread further, and the chant grew deeper. The doves awoke and began to coo and rustle in their nests.

  “Under normal circumstances I would make some quip about mortals and their tears,” said the cat. “But since my own little moment last night, I don’t feel I have the right. After one hundred years dry-eyed, what a letdown! I wish I knew what caused my weeping, at least. Your tears are far more reasonable under the circumstances.”

  “I’m not crying,” Sairu repeated, and wiped wetness from her face with her free hand. The other hand remained clenched in a fist.

  The cat regarded her with eyes far too knowing and intelligent. She wanted to hit him, but that would be too great a concession. So she pretended not to see and continued staring down the mountainside, her face as serene as ever Princess Safiya’s could be.

  “You know,” said the cat, “among my own people, I’m considered something of a poet.”

  “Among cats or devils?”

  The cat snorted. “Both, I fancy. Poets, as you probably are aware, are pretty keen on the emotions, turmoils, and such-like of the soul. Some might even call us empathetic.”

  “No one would call you empathetic.”

  “Well, pretend I am then! I know—or at least, I have a reasonable guess—why you’re up here, alone in the cold, having yourself a little weep. And I thought perhaps you might want to talk about it. I understand that young ladies often feel better if they can chatter someone’s ear off about their trials various.”

  Sairu turned a slow, cold stare upon the cat. She sniffed and blinked a few times. “Very well, Monster. I will answer your question. But first you must tell me something.”

  The cat twitched an ear. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

  “Who is Starflower?”

  The doves cooed and chortled. The monks finished their chant. The ringing tone of their gong sounded across the mountains. The mist rose in the air and evaporated. Otherwise, the world might have turned to stone for all the cat moved.

  At last he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Sairu laughed, which was cruel, she knew. But she wasn’t feeling especially charitable in that moment, and the look on the cat’s face was awfully funny. “Don’t try to be coy with me. You may not be empathetic, but I certainly am. It’s part of the basic composition of every Golden Daughter. We have to be. So I recognize heartbreak when I see it, even in a cat. Though I confess it took me some while to work it out, for your voice and your face are unlike a man’s. But, as you may have noticed by now, I am smart. I always get to the answer in the end.”

  She leaned over and tapped the cat on his pink nose, just to see his ears flatten. But he did not otherwise move, remaining firmly rooted in place, his tail tight about his paws.

  “Who is Starflower?” Sairu repeated. “Why does the name cause you such pain? Is she dead?”

  “No,” said the cat.

  “Then she does not love you.”

  “She does. But not as I love her.”

  “Ah.” Sairu nodded. “That is pain. That is worse pain. Even for a devil.”

  “And what would a mortal know of such things?” the cat snarled so suddenly and so viciously that Sairu was reminded of the panther she had fought in the woodland of the Masayi.

  “Little enough,” Sairu admitted. “But I think love transcends mortality and immortality, and is a power far beyond both. We all taste of it and long for it, as a dying man, offered a sip of the water of life, longs to plunge into the river. But we do not understand its mysteries.” She bowed her head, considering her own closed fist. “The Golden Daughters are forbidden to love. It is far too dangerous a weapon.”

  “Too bad for you then, eh?” said the cat, his voice gentler than it had been a moment before, though not exactly kind. He was still bristling. “Your turn. Tell me why you were crying, and don’t think you can fool me.”

  “I . . .” Sairu thought for a moment of dissembling. But there didn’t seem much point. So she opened her fist and looked upon the cluster of opals hidden there. The morning sun touched them and made them more brilliant even than they had seemed in the lamplight a few hours earlier. One could almost believe they were whole stars compressed somehow into a space and time not originally intended to contain their vastness.

  But they fit in the palm of her hand as easily as pain.

  “He told me it was a gift of the heart,” Sairu said, her voice near a whisper. “I don’t know what that means. But—but when he gave it to me . . .” She hated to continue. She hated stumbling with words through a maze of emotions she did not understand, but which were as real and vital to her as the breath in her lungs. “When he gave it to me, it seemed as though I glimpsed something. Some future. Not my own. Some other girl’s. Some girl not of the Masayi. Some girl who loved a boy. Who married him for love of him, and not for money or power or duty. Simply for love, which is not simple at all. And she bore children. His children. And she loved them, for they were part of him and part of her and entirely themselves.”

  To her surprise, she found that tears were pouring down her face, falling in her lap, falling in her hand, spattering upon the brilliant stones. She put her other hand to her face, mopping her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve.

  “Golden Daughters are never mothers,” she said. “They marry and they never love. They cannot be allowed to bear children, for how then could they perform their duty, how then could they serve their masters? They are weapons hidden in plain sight. More valuable than gold to a hated man with many enemies. Too valuable to take to bed. Too valuable to suffer the danger of childbirth. The danger of love.”

  She sighed heavily, her brow puckered with deep, sorrowful lines. “The Golden Daughters protect life. When necessary they take life. But they do not give it.”

  The cat watched her, but she was no longer aware of him. For all she knew, she sat alone beneath Anwar’s bright eye. And she did not believe Anwar was anything more than a ball of fire to light the world. She did not hear his Song, and she did not look to him for comfort. She sought no comfort from any source but sat alone with her newly recognized pain, experiencing the full brunt of it falling upon her like rain.

  “I never thought anything of my future. I never cared for any purpose but the one for which I have bee
n brought up.” Sairu closed her hand and hid the stones from view. “I never knew that I could want anything more.”

  So they were quiet together, and the day aged before their watching eyes. Acolytes and monks moved about their morning tasks, and soon someone would come to feed the doves. Sairu would not be there when that man arrived. But for a moment more, she and the cat remained where they were.

  Then the cat leaned over and bumped her arm with his forehead. “You can scratch me behind the ears if you like. It might make you feel better.”

  Sairu obliged. She rubbed his silky soft ears, ruffled the fur atop his head, then moved her hand down under his chin, and watched him close his eyes as she scratched. His purr rumbled against her fingers.

  “See?” said the cat. “Nothing like a little fluffiness to cheer the weary soul.”

  She frowned suddenly, removing her hand. “Tell me, Monster,” she said, “what do you want of my Lady Hariawan? Why do you pursue her?”

  “I don’t,” said the cat.

  “You followed us all the way from Lunthea Maly. You tracked us for months. I do not believe you are uninterested, devil that you are.”

  “I am not uninterested,” said the cat. “I am very interested indeed. But not in Lady Hariawan.”

  “Who then?”

  “You.” The cat lashed his tail and glared up at her. “I was sent to watch over you.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “My Master.”

  “Cats have no masters.”

  “No,” the cat agreed. “But maybe devils do?”

  “And who is this master, then?”

  “The Lumil Eliasul, Giver of Songs.”

  “I do not know that name.”

  “No. But he knows yours.”

  Sairu folded her arms, tucking the hand with the stones away into her sleeve. She regarded the cat thoughtfully. “I don’t need a guard or a guide. And I am not important. Why would anyone send you to watch over me?”

  “I don’t know,” said the cat. “I merely obey. I do not ask questions.”

  “What about traditionally lethal feline curiosity?”

  “Oh, I’m very curious, believe you me! And I’ll find out the how’s and the why’s eventually. In the meanwhile this has proven an interesting interlude. In fact . . .” He paused a moment, considering the merit of his next words. Then he smiled a cattish smile and began to purr once more. “In fact, I can say, without qualification, I am glad to have met you, mortal girl.”

  Sairu narrowed her eyes, studying that smile. “Starflower is not, I think, a devil. Is she?”

  “No,” said the cat. “She certainly is not.”

  From inside the dovecote, a bright red eye looked out upon the morning of this world that it despised. But it scarcely saw the morning or the rising of the sun.

  Its gaze was entirely fixed upon the golden form sitting beside the mortal girl, just a fledgling’s flutter away. It did not behold that form in the way mortals did. It saw neither a cat nor any shape bound entirely by flesh and blood.

  It saw the immortal Faerie. It saw the Knight.

  The raven trembled and drew back into the farthest recesses of the dove’s nest in which it should not have been able to fit. There it crouched amid the ruined shells of rotted eggs, shrouding itself in its wings like shadows. It did not cease to tremble until long after the girl and the cat had gone on their way.

  Then it let out its breath in a hiss, and smoke curled from its beak and up over its head.

  A few hours later, much to Sairu’s surprise, word came to her by way of Tu Domchu that Lady Hariawan required her presence.

  Sairu had spent much of the morning wandering in aimless frustration between the infirmary and her mistress’s chambers, unwilling to enter the one and unable to enter the latter. So when Tu Domchu delivered his message—spitting rudely at her feet even as he spoke—Sairu’s heart leapt inside her, full of renewed passion, renewed commitment. This was the whole meaning of her life: serving her mistress. She may now once more move and exist with purpose.

  Lady Hariawan sat in a low chair near the window of her innermost chamber. Sunlight touched the back of her head, but her face, turned away, remained in shadow. It was impossible to see her expression enough to read it, but Sairu did not mind just then. As she bowed, the sleeves of her handmaiden’s robes brushed the floor.

  “My mistress,” she murmured, “how may I serve you?”

  Lady Hariawan opened her mouth. When her words finally came, it seemed as though she had conjured them from a great distance and they only now arrived upon her tongue. “I . . . need . . .”

  “Yes, my mistress?” Sairu said, taking a step forward. “What do you need? Please tell me. I will do anything for you.”

  “I . . . need . . .” Lady Hariawan paused and put a hand to her head as though it pained her. But she said nothing more, only closed her eyes.

  Sairu was across the room in a moment. She gathered her mistress’s loose hair out of her face and gently began to braid it. She felt her forehead for a fever but found none. “Have you eaten, my mistress?”

  Lady Hariawan shook her head sharply, and part of the braid came undone. Sairu caught it and finished it off quickly, tying it in place. “Well, that’s what you need then, before anything else. A proper meal. When was the last time you ate? My poor, dear mistress, you really can’t take care of yourself worth mewling kittens, can you? Here, let me adjust your robe. I’m sure I can find you some pudding, perhaps, and a cake. You need vegetables as well. I will have the monks cook some up for you, and I’ll find an egg or two.”

  She prattled on, the relief of returning to her established role far outweighing any and all questions for the moment. Her lady seemed to respond to her voice and touch, permitting herself to be dressed in fresh garments and her hair to be properly styled; she even ate several mouthfuls of the large meal Sairu presented to her.

  When this task was complete, she raised tired but lovely eyes to Sairu’s face and said, “Where is he?”

  “Ah. I suspect you mean Jovann,” said Sairu. “Our noble prince is in the infirmary. Your slaves did nothing to help his healing process yesterday, but he will recover in time. You must forgive him his rudeness. He is most grateful to you, but slavery is new to him and does not wear well upon his shoulders. In time he will—”

  “No,” said Lady Hariawan, waving a listless hand. “Where is he? The dog?”

  Sairu blinked. “You mean Sticky Bun?”

  A few minutes later she watched from across the room as Lady Hariawan made much of the lion dog in her lap, who whined and wagged in pitiful joy to be restored to her. It would have made Sairu jealous had she not been too preoccupied with other thoughts to care much about her pet’s loyalties.

  She fingered the opals in the pocket of her robes. Somehow she hated to give them up. But Jovann’s wishes had been clear. They were not hers to keep.

  “My mistress?” she said, her voice possibly more tentative than it had ever before been.

  Lady Hariawan did not look up at first, so intent was she upon the cheerful dog in her lap. Sairu was obliged to repeat herself a few times before her mistress finally acknowledged her with a quiet, unquestioning gaze.

  “This is for you,” Sairu said, holding out Jovann’s gift. Lady Hariawan made no move, so Sairu took her by the wrist and pressed the cluster of stones into her hand. “It is from the slave you rescued. He bade me give it to you and asks that you will . . . that you will remember him.”

  Slowly Lady Hariawan opened her hand and gazed upon the stones. Her face was an absolute blank. Not even a flicker of the eye revealed a hint of what she might be thinking or feeling. Perhaps she truly thought and felt nothing.

  Then she tucked the stones into the depths of her own sleeve and returned her attention to Sticky Bun. She did not speak again for many hours, and she held Sairu captive in her silence.

  But the deed was done. The gift was given.

  “How long it has been si
nce I last set eyes upon this beauty! I shudder to think.”

  Sunan stood half-bent in a bow, uncertain he dared straighten yet. He watched as Lord Luk-Hunad carefully turned the little treasure round and round in his old fingers. His nails were long and burnished gold after the current fashion among Pen-Chan great men—a fashion Lord Dok-Kasemsan had always scorned. They looked incongruous set against Luk-Hunad’s large, bony knuckles, and Sunan thought how like talons they were. He did not like seeing them handle Uncle Kasemsan’s priceless silver gong.

  “This was in my family for generations,” Lord Luk-Hunad mused, tapping the gong with one fingernail so that it gave off a light, tinny sound. “One of the House of Luk’s great heirlooms since before the Kitar ruled Noorhitam, if you would believe it. It is of little value save in sentiment.”

  Sunan knew that for the lie it was. But this was how the game was played, and he was determined to play to win. “My uncle seemed to believe you held it in high regard,” he said, choosing his words carefully. His uncle used to boast over the gong, which sat in a place of prominence in his study. He had won it in a gambling match right out from under Lord Luk-Hunad’s nose. Lord Dok-Kasemsan was not a man to crow, but if ever he did crow, it was the night he brought home that gong. “I never saw his face more sick! He should learn not to bet family heirlooms on an ill-favored head.”

  Sunan knew he risked much in coming to Lord Luk-Hunad now. He also knew he never would have made it past the front door if he’d not brought along this treasure. He wasn’t used to offering bribes, and he hoped his lack of experience didn’t show.

  Luk-Hunad’s face was a study, impossible to read behind his mask of wrinkles. The hairless brow above his left eye twitched as he glanced Sunan’s way. “I heard of your uncle’s recent demise,” he said. “Incarcerated in Lunthea Maly! What a sad end for a great man.”

  “It was . . . unexpected,” Sunan said, and bowed deeper so that he would not have to look at the old lord.