10,000 Suns

by Michelle L. Levigne

"Are you willing to do whatever we deem necessary to protect you?” He waited until she nodded. “Perhaps it is well that you look so little like your dear mother. It is wise not to remind our enemies that though they had a few small victories, they have little hope of winning the war.” He stood and held out a hand to her. Challen put her hand into his dry, strong grip. “The outward wrappings matter little, if the inner portion is true and fulfills its purpose. Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya, hear me. Remember who is the root of the tree from which you spring, and stay true. Those who carry vast potential often forget it can be twisted to evil as well as good. That is often their downfall. Do you understand me?"

  "No, Holy Sir,” she whispered. “Not entirely.” Her voice cracked. She fought tears of apprehension as she realized this closeness had turned into some private dedication ceremony. Yet at the same time, her heart leaped. She would be permitted to serve, to protect Bainevah, to work alongside her father in some capacity more important than simply assisting his research.

  "Think on it, Kena'Shazzur. Here, you are your mother's daughter. To the rest of the world you are your father's daughter. Blessing and curse. Honor both your parents; walk in wisdom and silence, and spread your wings to ride the storm winds.” He touched her head, and through her hair she felt the thinness of his fingers. “Lady Mayar is to meet us at the palace. If we are to protect you and to outwit our enemies—who have already struck once at you—we must move swiftly. Come."

  Challen rose, head bowed, and followed him out into the main body of the temple. Cyrula waited there and went to her knees, head bowed when Chizhedek gestured her to silence. Challen bit her lip against a smile. It was amusing how the big, competent woman paled before the High Priest. Challen wondered suddenly if she would ever return here, or if she would be sent away. Perhaps to coordinate a search for the Three and the Hidden City? Perhaps to seek for her brother? Something important and grand, she knew, or why would the First Concubine and the High Priest be involved?

  She followed Chizhedek out the double doors and down the steps, to a matched pair of sedan chairs carried by eight manacled, muscular, whip-scarred men. She barely had a chance to look at them and decide from their white-blond hair and sunburned skin that they were Drevan war prisoners. Chizhedek pointed to one sedan chair and climbed into the other.

  Walk in wisdom and silence? Challen followed the priest's example, bowing her head and turning sideways as she slid through the door. She had never ridden in a sedan chair and wasn't quite sure if she was to give commands or even how to mount one, but she vowed not to let her lack of experience show. She made a silent promise to her father and herself to watch carefully, keep her silence, and learn by example so she would not shame either of them. Shazzur had often quoted the proverb "Better to keep silent and let others assume your wisdom, rather than speak and prove you are a fool." Challen vowed to make others think her very wise.

  CHAPTER 7

  The ride to the palace complex was short, but she couldn't adjust herself to the sway of the chair and Challen felt her generous breakfast trying to return the way it had come. She took deep breaths to clear her head. She couldn't lean forward to look out the narrow door because it threw the chair bearers off their stride, which only made things worse. Watching the world slide past in narrow strips did not help matters.

  Challen almost climbed out the first time the chair touched the ground, but she heard the rattle and thud of gates opening and the shuffle of booted feet on paving stones and then a barked order to stand fast. A man's shadow spread itself across the side of her chair and she waited for a soldier to stick his head or hand into her chair, but Chizhedek spoke and the shadow moved away. The bearers picked up her chair and moved on.

  Three times the chair stopped, someone asked questions, and the High Priest responded. Challen finally got her rebellious stomach under control. Then the chair moved into shade, a door slammed shut behind her, and the bearers set the chair down.

  "Come, Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya,” Chizhedek said.

  Challen hesitated only a moment. She refused to appear timid even though her bones felt ready to rattle. She tugged her new dress straight and climbed out of the sedan chair, nearly banging her head on the top of the opening. The High Priest waited for her before an open door. The bearers knelt, foreheads touching the paving tiles, and a soldier finished locking the gate behind them.

  Challen straightened her shoulders and moved to join Chizhedek. Her grandfather nodded and led her through the doorway. He said nothing during the long walk down painted hallways, up stairways, and through galleries bright with scorching sunshine where nearly naked slave children waved fans larger than they were to keep the air moving and cool.

  Finally they passed through three anterooms lined with people, all standing. From their formal clothing, rich with gold and jewels and the ornate paint on their faces, Challen guessed these were courtiers. She felt her face heat as she realized she should have recalled the palace maps her father had made her memorize, to discern where she was, where she had entered, and where she might be going.

  A good guess would be the King's Council chambers, she mused, and returned the curious stare of a copper-skinned man only a few years her senior. He blushed and looked away, but not before she caught laughter in his curiously tilted eyes. The matronly woman next to him winked at Challen; the prune-faced, over-dressed woman next to her huffed and wrinkled up her nose and turned away. Challen heard her whispering in a nasal voice, complaining about the “arrogance of the priesthood” as she followed Chizhedek into another room that held only one man.

  "Abendago, this is Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya,” High Priest Chizhedek said. “My granddaughter,” he added after a slight pause, and his voice sounded rich with pride.

  Abendago was a balding, narrow-faced, clean-shaven man in a brown-striped robe. He carried three scrolls and two wax tablets clutched against his chest and nearly dropped them as he looked at Challen and then hurried to look away.

  The man put down his load and hurried to open the double doors at the other end of the room. He bowed from the hips and spread his arms wide to the people inside.

  "Majesty. Lords of the Gates. High Priest of Mother Matrika, Chizhedek and Lady Kena'Shazzur'Challa'Naya.” Then he stepped quickly backwards and beckoned for them to enter the room; still avoiding looking directly at Challen.

  A chill ran up her spine. What did he know about her that she didn't? For that matter, why hadn't her grandfather told her what had been decided about her future and safety?

  It was a long room, well lit by scented oil lanterns and a series of screened slits in the ceiling. The white-painted walls were lined with shelves higher than Challen's head, all filled with wax tablets and scrolls. In the center of the room was a squared horseshoe of tables, the open end facing the door. All but two of the richly-dressed men in the room stood. Shazzur was seated, and he did not look at his daughter but at the other seated man.

  King Doni'Jazzan'Nebazz'Dayona wore the strain of the last moon in the furrows around his mouth and nose, the streaks of silver in his jet hair and braided beard. He dispensed with most of the gilding and ornamentation of the Court, but his heavily embroidered robes alone indicated his position. For the first time, Challen wondered if the regimentation of royal living was more a burden than pleasure.

  The King watched her as she entered the room. Challen watched Chizhedek, and stepped into the center of the square when he beckoned. She went to her knees before the King and touched her forehead to the cool tiles.

  There was some advantage to prostrating herself so, she realized with a tiny smile. She did not have to face the frowning, quizzical, or sneering faces of the Council to either side of the King and her father.

  "Rise, Lady Kena'Shazzur,” a deep, warm voice said. That had to be the King. No one else would dare speak before he did, without adding “the King bids” or “in the King's name."

  She stood and kept her head bowed. Abendago stepped up next to her and handed h
er a long streamer of silvery white cloth. Then he left the horseshoe of tables and sat on a low stool on the King's left. That identified the man; only the King's scribe dared to sit in his presence without being invited to do so.

  Why was her father seated when everyone else stood? Challen hoped some great honor had been granted her father and she was here to celebrate with him. But what did the fine cloth the scribe handed her have to do with it?

  A vague memory flitted through her mind. Her mother had once shown her a cloth just like this, when she was very small and had been digging through her mother's clothes chests without permission. Naya had hugged her and told her that someday, she would wear such a veil.

  Challen knew of only two types of women who wore veils and her mind shied away from either choice. She schooled her face to show no apprehension, and not to react if her fear came true.

  "Bainevah welcomes you back to the city of your birth, Lady Kena'Shazzur,” the King continued. “In acknowledgement of the years of loyalty and service to Bainevah and the Mother, your father and all his bloodline are granted permission to sit before the king and his descendants. Great things will be demanded of your father's bloodline in the future, and great sacrifices. You are here to serve the Mother. Are you willing?"

  "Whatever you command, Majesty, I will strive to obey,” she murmured with a suddenly dry mouth. Challen raised her head to look at her father. Shazzur sat serene and relaxed next to the King. He smiled and linked his hands together on the table before him, in their silent signal for trust.

  "Yes, you will, for your father has assured me you are his most diligent pupil. Kena'Shazzur, you hold in your hand the veil of a Sanctum Bride."

  "Father?” Challen didn't care that she had interrupted the King.

  "Majesty, the Seer has no right to give his daughter to the Sanctum and the Sacred Marriage,” Lord Reynod of the North Gate said. He flinched as Shazzur turned to look at him. The white-haired advisor, brother to Lady Concubine Coori, glanced at the King for confirmation of what he had said.

  "True. Yet there is precedent. Her mother was a Sanctum Bride,” the King said, still looking at Challen.

  "Great blessing came to the land. The rains fell when the cloth of proof touched the flames,” Shazzur said, nodding. “Majesty, this is a great sacrifice. I beg you to be aware of this. My daughter is my joy. I have trained her so her mind and talents will bless the land. She is my assistant and my pupil."

  Challen smiled, knowing an instant of cool assurance that her father would save her from this dreadful mistake.

  "However, I must agree with the decision of High Priest Chizhedek, her mother's father. To protect my precious daughter, I gladly place her within the protection of the Sanctum and I pray Mother Matrika finds her an obedient and useful servant. Do you understand me, my dear?” His voice softened on the question, and Challen thought she saw regrets in his eyes.

  But she also saw fear—for her—in Shazzur's eyes. That helped her cast aside her shock and dismay.

  "I live to serve you, my Father,” Challen said, trying to keep her voice calm and strong. She remembered her grandfather's words earlier. Had he advised her to help her through this moment? Why hadn't he warned her what they had planned? Did he think she would rebel outright and try to run away? Where would she go, when she knew no one in and nothing about the entire vast city of Bainevah?

  After two years of isolation within the walls of the Sanctum, she would still know nothing about Bainevah.

  "Well said, Lady Kena'Shazzur.” The King held out a hand to her and she had no choice but to approach the table. He took her hand; his was dry, lean and strong, a hand she could trust. “You serve Bainevah. I give my word you will be gifted and pampered as if you were a royal cousin. When your service ends, you will have a dowry to match my own daughters and the man you marry will rise five steps in rank."

  "Will you give her freedom to pursue her studies?” Shazzur asked.

  "Studies?"

  "She is my right hand, Majesty, and has been deprived of the training that is her right, being gifted with her mother's talents. Today, she was to begin studies at the Healers Temple. I beg you, assign her a guard with great integrity, and give her the freedom to travel to and fro for studies."

  "Her studies.” The King smiled and nodded. “Yes, I should have known she would be your reflection. She will have protection and access to the Healers Temple and the Scribes Hall. Will that take the sting from her sacrifice?” He looked to Challen as he spoke, and she realized the King was reluctant to do this to her.

  That put a completely different face on things, didn't it? Challen thought a moment, then looked to her father and bowed to both him and to the King.

  "Completely, my gracious lord and master.” Shazzur rose from his chair and bowed three times to the King. Then he stepped around the table. Before the Council, he took the veil from Challen's limp hand, kissed her forehead, and put the veil over her head.

  "Two years, Father,” Challen whispered.

  "Trust in the Mother, my dear."

  * * * *

  Challen's mind broke free of the dizzy circles of denial when she was nearly within the shadowed courtyard of the Sanctum. She could hardly breathe, smothered under the silvery veil, trapped inside the heavily curtained sedan chair required for all Brides. The curtains that kept people from seeing her also kept the air from moving. She sat stiff and straight among the thick cushions, struggling not to melt, forcing herself to breathe slowly, grasping for something coherent in her brain.

  This was no nightmare because nightmares always ended before she needed to scream. Her visions of the shadowy Bull-man with the cold, claw hands were almost welcome, compared to this. This was reality, the worst type, and she had learned a disquieting facet of herself.

  Despite all her years of training to react with her head instead of her heart, Challen felt like a terrified child the moment she was separated from her father. Last night had been hard, but bearable because she knew she would soon rejoin her father and make her new life safe in his shadow.

  Now, with the prospect of two years among strangers and only occasional visits with her father, Challen thought she would be ill. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't see, and not only because of the stifling sedan chair and veil.

  Lady Mayar was somewhere in the brightness beyond the curtains, in another chair. She waited in the anteroom when Challen appeared with Chizhedek and an escort of four soldiers of the Host of the Ram. Challen had hoped the woman could wrest her from their clutches. Her hopes were dashed when Lady Mayar bowed to Chizhedek, and her grandfather entrusted Challen's entrance into the Sanctum to the Healer High Priestess.

  "Mother, how did you feel on your day?” Challen whispered.

  Shazzur had never discussed Naya's feelings about her time as a Sanctum Bride. Challen wondered why. She would ask Lady Mayar when she went to study at the Healers Temple.

  "With an escort at all times,” Challen muttered. She flinched at the sound of her voice. She had never talked to herself in all the years of quiet in the tower. Why now? Had the strain of this drastic change in her life destroyed her sanity?

  No, she decided. It was not her sanity at risk. She faced a different kind of fear now, one she had never considered. The fear that someone would find the distant oasis and penetrate their disguises and kill them had always been in her mind. The fear had always placed such events far in the future, however. Those fears vanished, replaced by far more insidious ones.

  The fear of being unable to meet the challenge. The fear of embarrassing her father. The fear of mockery and scorn. The fear she would not know how to make friends among her peers.

  She had daydreamed of returning to the city of her birth and having friends, visiting the markets and riding the canopied barges that traveled the rivers through the city. It was a safe daydream, because Challen never let herself long for that life.

  Perhaps if she had prayed to the Mother for a specific life, she w
ould not be afraid now.

  "Too late, I suppose,” she whispered into the muffling curtain of her veil and the stifling air of the chair. “Mother Matrika, guard me. I am your servant, given to your care at my birth. My mother died in your service. My father has suffered much to preserve your truth. I beg of you, guide me in this new world about to swallow me whole."

  As if in answer, the sedan chair jolted as the bearers lowered it. Challen braced herself for the drop, but the four sweating, nearly naked, scarred slaves who carried it continued into blessed shadows. She could almost taste the change in the air. Somewhere, a fountain tinkled. Flowers spilled sweet perfume into the air, making it seem cooler.

  They had reached the Sanctum. Her home for the next two years. The only place she would not have to wear her veil because there would be no men to see her face.

  We'll see about that, Challen decided. She doubted Lady Mayar would permit such foolishness in the Healers Temple. The Scribes Hall would likely yield supporters who would scorn such restrictions also. Until she found her place and her safe shadows, Challen counseled herself to play along.

  "Come.” Lady Mayar tugged aside the curtains. She sighed and tried to smile, straightened Challen's veil and offered her a hand to help her from the chair.

  The bearers knelt on the rough tiles of the Sanctum courtyard, foreheads pressed to the ground and hands over their heads, as if they feared a beating or even death for simply seeing a Bride's ankles. Challen nearly laughed at this, but the sound choked her.

  Two men stepped from the shadows of a doorway so wide, the panels so ponderous, Challen doubted the doors ever closed until winter storms hit. Not men, she corrected herself. Only eunuchs entered that door. Both were huge, but the one with the neck chain and gold key on it had the bloated look of a boy castrated before his voice changed. His bald head didn't glisten with sweat in the murderous heat. His robes of office hung straight and neat but the white and purple did not gleam; they were dull as if shadows clung to them. Challen shuddered, glad for her veil to hide her reaction. If this man ruled the Sanctum, he had power over her. She would be a fool to make an enemy of him from the beginning, even if only by showing distaste. If her life became unbearable here, only the keeper of the Sanctum could help her alleviate it. If she made an enemy of him, her only recourse would be to get word to her father or Lady Mayar and hope they could bring pressure to bear from outside. But how could she do that? True, she was supposedly free to travel for her studies, but what if he revoked that freedom?