10,000 Suns

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Green acolyte robes had been provided for her, to begin her training in the morning. She took one and bound her hair in a matching green cloth, and crept down the many stairways. Her father had made her memorize maps of all the important buildings in Bainevah. Challen fancied she could navigate the Healers Temple with her eyes closed if she needed.

  Barefoot, she scurried across the plaza to the nearest fountain. Perhaps it was childish, but if all she could do tonight was wade and glory in the feel of cold water up to her knees, she would do it.

  Her mother had waded in the fountains outside the Healers Temple, according to Shazzur. She had splashed her friends and laughed and made flames dance on her fingertips, and no one had scolded her for acting below her dignity and station. All of Bainevah had loved Naya, heroine of the war with Dreva. Challen sighed, knowing she would never measure up to her mother's beauty and popularity and strength. She didn't much care about the popularity, because Naya's murder had proven just how fragile a thing it was. The strength, however, Challen prayed for fervently. The greatest fear in her life was failing her father when he needed her most.

  Movement at the corner of her eye stopped her, just as she sat on the wide, flat rim of the fountain. She paused, one leg raised to swing it over the edge. Challen huddled on the edge of the fountain as the fourth soldier emerged from the temple and started across the plaza. He didn't seem to see her. She felt rather foolish, and held perfectly still until he had his back to her.

  Then, holding her breath, moving slowly to prolong the delicious icy shock, she swung her leg over the side. A tiny gasp escaped her as her heel touched the surface. Ripples shimmered in the starlight and fractured the reflection of the crescent moon. Challen lowered her foot more until the instep submerged. She brought her other foot over, balanced precariously on her tailbone with both feet up.

  The distinctive whisper-glide-scrape-clatter of a loom at work cut through the stillness.

  Startled, Challen turned to glance over her shoulder. She yelped as she lost her balance and slid forward.

  A knife slashed through the darkness, aiming for her back.

  * * * *

  Elzan cursed as he dashed across the pavement toward the fountain. His mind held the image of a figure clad in acolyte green robes, sliding into the water as a black shape lunged forward. The girl's cry echoed off the pavement as if magnified by the heavens.

  What was the stupid child doing out alone at this time of night?

  The dark shape turned to face him, knife flashing in the dim moonlight. Elzan didn't even try to pull his sword—he leaped, flinging his arms around the figure's waist. They went down, rolling across the uneven paving stones. The knife flew from his opponent's hand on impact.

  A fist connected with his temple. He rolled aside, bringing arms up to protect his head, knees up to protect his middle. The other man's flesh was cold, drenched in sweat despite the dry warmth of the night. Elzan shuddered as a sense of something unclean brushed his heightened senses. He twisted, lashing out with his fists and kicking with both feet, hitting the other man in the gut. Elzan regained his feet before his opponent and slammed down with all his weight, keeping the man pinned. He caught him by his wet hair and slammed his head into the paving stones. The other man didn't make a sound, either pain or anger, but bucked and kicked. Elzan held on, using his weight to keep the man down. His hand slid on the man's damp clothes.

  At the edge of his consciousness, he heard splashing. The girl had climbed from the fountain. Had this battle only taken a few breaths? Baring his teeth in a fierce grin, Elzan slammed down again on the other man, banging his head into the pavement hard enough he thought he heard his skull crack.

  The man lay still. Elzan yanked free both their belts and bound the man's hands and feet. It wouldn't hold long, but long enough to run for help.

  Elzan climbed back to his feet, feeling the effects of his battle. He wished he had disguised himself in armor with metal plates. It would have been torment to rough-and-tumble in, but the noise would have awakened the entire temple and roused any guards on patrol nearby. He turned, following the sound of running footsteps, and saw the drenched acolyte racing for the steps to the Healers Temple.

  He caught up with her at the side entrance.

  "What did you think you were doing, you little idiot?” he growled. He had to growl, or he would burst out laughing at the sight of her hair, some shade of dark blonde, plastered in seaweed tendrils all over her face, and her too-large robe outlining every curve.

  "I'm sorry,” she whispered. Even in the moonlight, her gray eyes were enormous and bright and her face too pale. “I thought it would be too late for anyone to see me."

  "It was almost too late another way.” Elzan grabbed her shoulders and shook her, once. “You're lucky I was visiting my mother.” Something about her voice; an odd cadence he hadn't caught elsewhere. “You're new to the city?” The girl nodded and bowed her head, wiping her wet face with an equally wet sleeve. “Be more careful, or you'll need a healer yourself."

  "Did he hurt you?"

  "No. He's probably just a cutpurse, more ready to frighten with that knife than fight.” Elzan released her and backed away. “Be more careful next time, little one."

  She nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you.” She pressed into the recessed doorway, watching him.

  Elzan nodded, wondering why she refused to move. Was she so much an innocent she was embarrassed? Had she torn her robe when she fell? Sighing, he turned and crossed the plaza to check on his prisoner. He would never get to bed at this rate.

  From ten steps away, he saw the other man move. He made no sound. Surely a groan of pain was in order? Maybe the man was mute? Elzan bent and dragged the man out of the shadows of the pillars surrounding the fountain, into the thin moonlight. He dropped his prisoner and swore.

  Rushtan lay on his back, gazing up at the sky, his face bruised and pale. His eyes were open, and they were solid black. No gray pupil, no white. Solid black, like pits reaching into the deepest canyon.

  Elzan's skin crawled, remembering the chill in his brother's skin, the slick feel of his clothes as they fought. What would drive Rushtan to attack an acolyte? Elzan knew immediately it wasn't the girl at all, but some evil or madness that had taken over his brother. He wasn't healer enough to sense the sickness in his soul, but Elzan knew it wasn't physical sickness. What had happened to his brother's eyes?

  Grimacing, he bent and slung Rushtan over his shoulder and headed back to the temple. Neither his mother nor Vandan nor any upper level priests were going to get any sleep this night.

  * * * *

  Challen shivered as she skinned out of her wet clothes and reached for a cloth to rub her hair dry. The soldier's big, dark eyes still blazed at her. She could almost hear his voice, ringing through the elegant vastness of her guest quarters.

  He was magnificent when he was angry. Her shoulders still burned and tingled from his grip.

  Her soldier. The soldier from her vision. The one who had fought the blackness that attacked his friend. Challen knew she would recognize him anywhere.

  "Thank you, Mother Matrika,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms tight around herself. An uncharacteristic giggle escaped her lips and she felt her face heat. What had happened to her, that she would act this way?

  Not that it was unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

  CHAPTER 6

  "See here?” Lady Mayar held out her hand, fingertips streaked with blood. Balanced on the tip of one finger lay a greenish-silver streak that glinted in the lamplight.

  "What is it?” Elzan asked. He had leaned against the wall in the cutting room, watching while his mother and her most trusted assistants examined Rushtan. He hadn't been surprised when they cut into his shoulder, where the arrow had pierced it during that strange attack in the desert.

  "I would hazard this is what the arrow was to deliver, when it struck him.” Mayar wiped the sliver onto a silver plate. She gasped when it sparkled and
vanished in a puff of smoke.

  "Telling,” Vandan said. “That plate has held ingredients for blessing ointment and incense. That bit of metal was infused with evil, and reacted badly to the presence of holiness."

  "Indeed.” She nodded, staring at the empty plate for a moment, then turned to Elzan. “You said those arrows would have struck you, as well, if you hadn't been running to Rushtan? My son, you could have been a mindless assassin tonight, also."

  "Thank the Mother I'm fast on my feet,” he murmured, and thought of the little acolyte he had rescued. Elzan wondered what her name was. He was sure he had seen her face before. A moment later, he pushed the thought aside; of course he had seen her. He visited his mother here several times each moon quarter and the girl had probably passed him in the hallways.

  "Lady, he improves already,” a priest said, and beckoned for Mayar to return to Rushtan's side.

  An hour later, the mystery deepened. Rushtan wasn't aware that anything had happened. He had gone to bed with a headache and didn't know how he had come to the healers. Nor how he had left his quarters among the unmarried soldiers without anyone seeing him. A priest returned with the news that Rushtan had been missing two days. Where had he been hiding, and why hadn't anyone notified the palace that a prince had vanished? Who had shot those arrows, and what greater mischief had been intended, with the bits of magic in the arrowheads?

  Lady Mayar speculated that the poison hadn't been strong enough to kill, merely to act as a diversion, so healers would not notice the speck of magic that insinuated itself into his body. Then, when everyone thought he was healing and turned their attention to other patients, the magic took over his mind. Since Elzan had been an intended victim in the first attack, perhaps Rushtan had hunted him, and the girl who fell into the fountain hadn't been the target at all.

  Elzan climbed into bed feeling worn and battered and wondered if he would be able to sleep. This entire day had been a disappointment, first missing a chance to speak with Shazzur privately, and then the mystery of Rushtan and whatever power had taken over his mind and body. No, he corrected himself as the first welcome drowsy edges of sleep slid over him. Not a total disappointment. He had rescued a pretty girl and he fully intended to meet her again, as soon as possible.

  * * * *

  "Challen?” Lady Mayar knocked only once on the door before pushing it open and stepping into the room. “Ah. I see. You were in the plaza.” A wry smile tugged at her somber face.

  "Yes, Lady.” Challen put down her brush. It was no use denying what had happened, with her hair still damp and her wet robes hanging on a chair by the window. “I'm sorry. I didn't think there would be any harm."

  "Why did you go swimming in the fountain?” She settled down on the stool in front of the dressing table full of new clothes and cosmetics. A richness in her smooth, soft voice hinted that she might laugh.

  "I only wanted to wade, but I ... fell in. Did the soldier who fought the man come tell you what happened?” She bit her lip to keep from asking his name.

  "He brought the man to us for healing.” Lady Mayar shook her head. “Dear child, I have reason to believe you are in danger. Either you, directly, or an attempt to harm your father through you."

  "How could that man know who I was? Hardly anyone could know we had arrived.” She shivered, despite the warmth of the evening.

  "He did not know.” She glanced down at her interlocked fingers in her lap. “He was under a magical compulsion. Someone directed him to attack you, I am most certain."

  "Then what should I do? My father's work is too important to distract him by worrying about me.” Challen thought of that attack back at the oasis, just before the avalanche of changes in her life began. “Lady, did the man have all-black eyes, no whites, no pupil?” She bit her lip against a nervous smile when Lady Mayar startled and sat up straight. Challen quickly told her what had happened.

  "Ah, this is like a vast puzzle box coming together into a shape no one but the Mother can guess or even see,” the woman murmured. “Yes, you were right to ask what you can do. In order to free our dear Shazzur to work, you must be protected. Do you trust me to choose for you?"

  "Yes, Lady.” Challen tried not to sigh in dismay. She knew she had brought this problem on herself by leaving the temple. Now, definitely, she didn't dare ask the name of her soldier.

  * * * *

  Elzan rose with dawn, none the worse for his little battle by the fountain. Despite all his new concerns, he had slept deeply and dreamed about his maiden with the hair of flame. He had awakened only once, hungry for the taste and feel and scent of her. Hungry to the point of pain. He had gripped his pillows and groaned into them and wondered if his visions were a promise of joy to come or a torment sent by his enemies. The last thing he needed, with the fall of the Three to worry about, Shazzur's return and Rushtan's strange behavior, was to be distracted by lust for a beautiful, nameless girl.

  His servant woke before Elzan could tap the gong to summon the boy. He was dressed and painted and ready for Court before full daylight. He liked to reach the throne room before everyone, to enjoy the quiet before the courtiers entered with their noise and fawning habits. When he slipped through the wide doors, Elzan smiled at his small triumph and knew he acted like a vain little boy. Still, it was nice to be here first.

  He looked around the empty, gilded room and breathed the faint perfume of sandalwood. When Court was full, the aroma of the precious wood in the walls was swallowed by hundreds of perfumes, the scents of sweat, fear, anger and the stink of the greasy cosmetics now in fashion.

  Elzan told himself to be grateful summer Court fashion let him get away with a pectoral collar of silver links, turquoise and rubies, a tightly pleated kilt dyed to match the turquoise, and three inlaid bands on each arm. He refused to wear more than the kohl around his eyes. Let his brothers and their obsequious followers plaster their bodies with carmine and powdered turquoise or pearls. He would have none of it. His hair was kept short for comfort under his helmet when he rode with the Host; it gleamed because it was freshly washed, not because he greased it with nard or a dozen other oily perfumes.

  With the disappearance of the Three and the Hidden City and the failure of the Sacred Marriage, it would be well if the nobles gave up all attention to fashion until the crisis had passed. Elzan thought it, and spoke it to those he trusted, but he knew better than to let those outside his circle hear it. The slightest criticism nowadays could be turned to a twisted tool against him and those he loved.

  The long throne room was quiet. Elzan stayed far from the ten steps to the ivory throne with the two onyx rams for armrests. He despised those who crowded close to the throne, as if proximity would make them wise or regal. It certainly hadn't helped his half-brothers. He knew the King approved his reserve and the simplicity of his dress and manners. A man who kept his appearance and possessions simple had time, energy, and attention to devote to important things.

  Shazzur had taught him that.

  Elzan frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the ceiling-tall doors of acacia wood inlaid with gold, onyx, and sapphires. Soon, Shazzur would come through those doors. How had fifteen years of exile in the desert changed his old friend and tutor? Would he be bent and bitter? Feeble? Thanks to the need for secrecy and those flowing desert robes, Elzan had seen few details of his old teacher last night. And then he had been ordered to escort Shazzur's daughter to the Healers Temple. Soon, though, he would see the man who had been a father to him.

  His sandals brushed softly over the snowy glazed tiles as Elzan strolled to one of the few benches in the room, reserved for the King's sons and his remaining siblings. The benches sat between the pillars that ran from the main doorway to the throne. The bench he preferred sat halfway between the two. Close enough to the throne to be heard, and to reach the King in an emergency. Far enough away that fools dazzled by the glory of Court would never focus on him to curry his favor.

  Sometimes Elzan wondered if the King
had perhaps done him a great favor by leaving the status of his sons undecided. While Elzan was only heir-presumptive as the oldest, the respect people gave him came because he had earned it.

  The doors swung open. Commander Asqual entered, dressed in the light trousers and tunic, breastplate, helmet, and short cape required of Court. The man accompanying him wore a simple cream-colored robe trimmed in crimson and black. The two guards outside bowed to both men and tugged the heavy doors closed.

  Elzan forgot how to breathe. That tall, thin man with the white-streaked red hair—Shazzur?

  "I thought you'd be here,” Commander Asqual boomed.

  "Uncle.” Elzan nodded to Asqual as he moved to meet the two men. The commander was cousin to the King on his mother's side. “Doni'Hobad'Shazzur'Conia,” he began, “welcome—"

  "My boy.” Shazzur let out a choked groan that was part laughter and flung his arms around the tall, bronzed, black-haired young man who stood a head taller than him. “Oh, I knew you would be a fine young warrior when you were grown, but you surpassed even my faith in you.” Laughing, he stepped back and looked the prince up and down. “Asqual says you're still a scholar—and still taunted by those others for it."

  Elzan grinned. “Those others” was the only designation Shazzur had for his half-brothers. It spoke the volumes of disdain Elzan hadn't been able to summon in hours of name-calling when he had been a child.

  "Searching for ways to bring you home in safety, Honored Teacher,” the prince said, bowing low from the hips and spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture of subservience.

  "Now, now, none of that,” Shazzur scolded, grinning. “You honor me, my boy—if you'll permit that address?—but anyone seeing it would have more weapons to use against us both."

  "Uncle has told you everything, hasn't he?” Knots of tension in his gut began to loosen. This was like stepping through that locked door to Shazzur's home and finding his beloved mentor had not lost a bit of his sharpness.