Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Unexpected? Ha!” Luk-Hunad set the gong down on a near table, watching the silver disc swing back and forth, suspended between two ebony pillars. The pillars were carved in the likenesses of Anwar and Hulan. On the face of the gong itself was etched a songbird. The whole figurine was no more than five inches tall, as though built by pixie hands. Despite its former owner’s declarations, anyone with eyes could see that it was a priceless work of bygone days, of craftsmanship no longer to be found even among the fine artisans of Nua-Pratut.

  Luk-Hunad folded his hands into his opulent sleeves, the picture of Pen-Chan tranquility. “They say my dear Kasemsan tried to murder an Aja ambassador. They say he was hired for the task. Like a legendary Crouching Shadow come to life.” He laughed again, a thin, wheezing, delighted laugh. “The stuff of operas! The stuff of epics. But I know better. Ah yes, I know how it must have been. He always was a wretched man at the games, always too quick to know a winner, too quick to call a number. He angered a favorite of the emperor, no doubt, and now he’ll spend his last days rotting in the darkness beneath Manusbau. What a tragic fate for the head of the House of Dok! And he leaves no male heir, does he? The headship will fall to that cousin he hates. Too bad your blood is so tainted with Chhayan mud, or you would now be head of Dok, eh? Heheh.”

  Sunan kept his face perfectly expressionless. It was a choice between courtesy or rage, and he knew rage would not benefit him now. So he waited until Luk-Hunad had quite finished his mirthful speculation. Then he said, as humbly as he could manage, “I know my uncle would have wished to see the gong returned into your care.”

  “You know nothing of the sort,” Luk-Hunad replied. “Your uncle was my nemesis, and I his. Though I will admit,” he continued with a sudden far-off look in his old eyes, “sometimes a nemesis can grow dearer to the heart than a friend or even a lover. There is something . . . foundational in an enemy. Something that reminds one why one continues to live.”

  Sunan felt his mouth go dry. He dared not speak, dared not even remind Luk-Hunad of the reason for his visit here, a visit he would gladly have avoided any other plan presented itself. But none had, so he stood quite still, bent at the waist, his hands folded in supplication. And he waited.

  Luk-Hunad turned to the young man again, his face expressing more disgust than dislike. “So you want access to my library, eh?”

  “If it please the gracious head of the House of Luk.”

  “And why do you not instead visit the Center of Learning? Their library is far greater than my humble collection. Or did you not pass your Gruung, Chhayan boy?”

  The bitterness of that pill was almost too much for Sunan. But he swallowed hard, forcing it down to fester in his belly, and responded with bland civility, “I find myself obliged to seek elsewhere for the information I need.”

  “And what information might that be? You know there’s no trick to passing the Gruung. Either you have the brain for it or you haven’t. Unlike some, they don’t take well to bribes, still less well to threats.”

  “I would neither bribe nor threaten to achieve my aim.”

  Luk-Hunad barked a laugh at this blatant lie and once more turned to admire the little gong. The hammer had long since been lost, perhaps generations before Hunad’s time. Nevertheless, it was an object meant for reverence, though there was no reverence in Hunad’s avaricious face.

  “I could just take this and send you on your way,” he said, eyeing Sunan to gauge his reaction. Sunan offered none but remained where he stood. Something about his stance bespoke a resolve that even the old lord could not completely ignore. He studied the young man, nephew of his rival, and his gaze, though sullied these many years by the malice of his spirit, still held a measure of discernment.

  “You’re afraid,” he said. “What do you fear, Chhayan boy?”

  Sunan said nothing. He could not risk another lie. One more, and he knew he’d be dismissed. His mind raced through the possible repercussions of his other options: the truth or silence. He opted for silence.

  Luk-Hunad sighed, and his fingernail tapped once more at the gong, which offered back no more than a click in response. “You haven’t much about yourself that recommends you to me. I see little of your uncle in your eyes, nor of your poor, sad mother, may Hulan shine with pity on her. She had spirit, that one. They say she took up her father’s sword and went to battle alongside her brother when the Chhayans attacked. Had she not . . . had she remained in her father’s house among the other women . . .”

  Had she done so, Sunan himself would never have been born. He held firmly to his silence, his last defense.

  “Very well,” Hunad said, shaking his head as though disappointed. And there was, perhaps, a trace of sorrow in his wicked old voice. “Help yourself to my library. For today only. And don’t return to my door again, for the House of Luk has no welcome for you, son of the Tiger.”

  With that, and with no bow or other form of acknowledgement, the old man hobbled from the chamber, leaving Sunan where he stood.

  Sunan released his breath in a gust. And he snarled, but quietly for fear of being overheard, “May Anwar smite your bones to black!”

  He wanted to tear something, to break something. But he dared not. He had humbled himself too far to risk losing his goal now. And the library of the House of Luk surrounded him.

  Low chests lined the perimeter of the room, and in each of these were stored dozens of scrolls in no particular order. Histories, poetries, philosophies, speculations, natural sciences: all were jumbled together and must be carefully unrolled and inspected. With one day in which to do so!

  Sunan fell to his work. After weeks of hiding in his uncle’s abandoned house, he had awakened this morning with a sudden, driving urge to act. To get out. To do something to prove to himself that he still had some charge over his own fate. He knew the Mask watched him, though he could discern no sign of him no matter how he looked. But surely if he did not speak his purpose out loud, the Mask could not guess it? And so long as he did not leave Suthinnakor City . . .

  His hands trembled as he swiftly inspected and set aside as useless the first chest of scrolls. A vague part of his mind sighed indignantly at the knowledge that the House of Luk—famed for its distinct lack of scholarship among the learned houses of Nua-Pratut—should own such a collection. But the House of Luk was always one for gaming tables and races and wrestling matches, and they tended toward unnatural good luck. Most of this library, Sunan did not doubt, had been won from other houses. Possibly some of his uncle’s own collection now resided here, unread and disregarded save as a trophy. No wonder Kasemsan had gloried in the winning of that little gong!

  The second chest proved as useless as the first. With the reverence due such a large amount of learning, Sunan carefully replaced the scrolls, wishing he had the time to catalogue them as they deserved. A proper task for a Tribute Scholar, he thought bitterly, and slammed the lid shut.

  He moved on to the third one. And there on the top of the pile lay a scroll that looked fresh as the day it had been written, the paper pure white, contrasting sharply with the browns and yellows beneath it. Frowning, Sunan removed it and carefully undid the securing clasps on each end. He unrolled the parchment, and his eyes widened.

  The handwriting was familiar.

  He plunged his hand into his robes and pulled forth the much-battered little scroll given him months before on the steps of the Middle Court in the Center of Learning. The scroll given him by Overseer Rangsun. The scroll which had changed his life forever.

  Kneeling, he propped the larger new scroll open on the floor before him, setting paper weights at its corners. He unrolled the little one and set it atop the larger, comparing the writing. It was the same. Absolutely the same; he would bet his life on it, even to a Luk man. He read the writing of the first scroll again, words which were by now so familiar to him he could have recited them in his sleep:

  “Henceforth you will consider yourself in the service of the Crouching Shadows,
assuming the role and duties of your honored uncle Kasemsan, Master of Dok, fulfilling his final purpose or perishing in the attempt. You will await further instructions and make no effort to leave Suthinnakor until otherwise directed.

  Should you refuse, your life is forfeit.”

  He slid the scroll away and looked once more at the one beneath, reading the hand as though he read the familiar face of his nearest enemy.

  “Consider the Crouching Shadows, figures of mythology, as dear to the heart of a Pen-Chan as the Lordly Sun and the Lady Moon. Figures of mystery—mystery that one would never wish to see resolved. Figures of darkness, moving through our fears and our nightmares. Figures of comfort, heroes of old, blessed with powers beyond mortal comprehension. And yet, all mortal. All born of flesh and blood, but flesh and blood made so much more.

  Assassins. A foolish idea, one which a scholar of your learning must have already dismissed. For what is heroic about a man trained to kill, however skillfully he may perform this talent? How could a band of killers so vitally, so profoundly affect the very fabric of our minds, like a dark thread running through a robe of red silk? There must be more, you say to yourself. There must be something you do not know.

  And of course there is. For everything you have ever known of the Crouching Shadows, every tale, every rousing adventure of mysterious summonings, of furtive villains, of futile escapes and ultimate deaths—it is nothing more than misdirection. You have guessed as much.

  What you have not guessed is the truth. The Crouching Shadows are not assassins. They are protectors. They are servants. They will guard their Mistress to the very utmost, to the ends of their lives and existence. They remember the Age of True Worship, beyond the symbols and sacraments now practiced in place of faith. They remember, and they protect what they know.

  The Crouching Shadows are the guardians of the Goddess herself. They are the Lady Moon’s final defense in this world of Death and destruction.

  And that is enough for you, Juong-Khla Sunan.”

  Sunan gasped and sat back, allowing the scroll to snap out from beneath the paperweights and roll up on itself again. But no. He must be mistaken. He must have misread his name, caught up as he was, full to the brim of so many fanciful fears. He must have misread it!

  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 ti
me 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.”