10,000 Suns

by Michelle L. Levigne

  Elzan had made his farewells soon after. He would have gone to give his friendship and support to young Kena'Shazzur if he could, but she was already inside the Sanctum. No man ever entered the Sanctum courtyard to speak with a Bride unless he was a blood relative or her intended husband.

  What was she like? He should have tried to speak to her last night. All he could remember were apricot curls, piercing gray eyes and tiny hands and feet. Last night she had been a vague woman shape draped in dirty white robes. She was Shazzur's daughter, trained to think like him. She had the wit to make her service bearable, at the very least.

  Still, Elzan was angry when he went to his bed that night, and his dreams were blurred images of fire and warfare and fighting his way through his half-brothers to rescue an unseen girl who split the air with her terrified screams.

  * * * *

  I'm going to set Agrat's feather fan on fire next time he flicks it at me and tells me I have no sense of color. I swear I will.

  Challen sank down onto the marble ledge of the fountain in the center of the Sanctum garden. The water kept the marble nicely cool despite the heat and she welcomed the contrast with the scorched air.

  All the other Brides were indoors at this time of the morning, but Challen needed to be outdoors. She needed solitude and to clear her lungs of perfumes and cosmetics that thickened the air. The harsh, late-morning sun wasn't good for her skin, but she didn't care. The lessons and treatments were there to correct her defects, weren't they? She might as well make the eunuchs and servants work for their goal—it certainly wasn't her goal. Treatments to make her skin soft and creamy ivory gold. Lessons to teach her to walk with the grace of a swaying lily. To ingrain her with a knowledge of color and style. To teach her to talk sweetly and with poetic phrases, instead of bluntly and ready to argue over fine points of historical interpretation.

  The other girls preferred fables and poetry over history and prophecy and sacred writings. Their idea of exercise was to wander the garden in the early morning dew and the silver cool of dusk. Their idea of food was to nibble on flowers and delicate sweets and drink watered wine. Challen would waste away if she didn't get hearty bread, plain meat, and greens.

  What was she doing in this place?

  She knew the answer to one aspect of that question—sparing her father the distraction of worrying over her safety, and helping O'klan root out the source of the evil that had threatened the Sacred Marriage and Bainevah's welfare. But the other aspect—what was she doing here to better herself? Challen just didn't know. In ten days of trying to follow O'klan's advice and fit in for protection, she was ready to give up. If not give up, then scream and batter her feet and fists against a wall until she broke it down. Even the promised escape of going to the Healers Temple and the Scribes Hall for her studies couldn't help her endure.

  First it had been the moon dark ceremonies that delayed her escape. Then the ambassador from Chadrasheer wanted a bride for his king. Agrat wouldn't let Challen leave the Sanctum because the Chadrasheer barbarians considered the Brides more royal than the King's daughters. Several barbarians supposedly watched the Sanctum now, ready to kidnap a girl and spirit her away for the public rape the Chadrasheeri called a royal marriage ceremony.

  Challen wouldn't believe that excuse. Thinking about it gave her something to chuckle over. What if some of her new companions were abducted? She certainly wouldn't help rescue blonde and icily correct Vashina.

  Now, near the end of the second descent moon, nearly two moon quarters since she had entered Bainevah, Challen still hadn't made her first trip to the Healers Temple or the Scribes Hall. She would have threatened a hunger strike, but she suspected Agrat would only sneer and tell her she was too plump and needed to lose weight.

  "You're going to be scolded,” O'klan said with a chuckle when he found her. “Come inside before you start to burn."

  "Just a little longer?"

  Challen liked the big man. He had relieved her boredom and disgust by showing her sleight of hand tricks to make flowers, veils, and jewelry vanish, to the consternation of several Brides and the amusement of their warder eunuchs.

  "You must wash and dress more appropriately.” O'klan clapped his hands twice, urging her to move.

  "But—"

  "Your escort to the Scribes Hall comes for you before noon.” He grinned whitely and his huge body rippled with silent laughter when Challen gaped at him for five long seconds.

  "You are wonderful!"

  She barely restrained herself from throwing her arms around him. It had taken her only one day to learn that while hugs and holding hands were permitted between her father and herself, physical contact was a social crime in public. Challen pressed her hand to her heart in a gesture of thanks. She had realized quickly that few of the Brides used the gesture for the servant girls and their eunuchs. O'klan beamed and bowed.

  "Inside, Lady."

  Challen laughed and scurried ahead of O'klan down the path of white-gold sand edged with gilded sea shells. For once, she was glad to retreat into the Sanctum's thick air and shadows.

  Her trips to the Scribes Hall required a time when she could visit the archives without compromising her position as a Bride. Loosely translated, when she could move about the hallways without too many people seeing her and realizing what her shimmery white veil signified. The best time to visit was when most scribes left for the midday meal or to pursue other interests in the afternoon. Challen wondered which scribe had volunteered to stay and be her guide.

  "Probably someone very old and useless. Deaf. Probably someone who wants a little extra money for his old age,” she speculated later in the stifling security of her chair.

  O'klan, walking beside her, chuckled. He reached through the beaded curtain and lightly tapped her arm.

  "The man says he is honored to serve the daughter of Doni'Hobad'Shazzur'Conia. He knew your grandfather, Scholar Hobad."

  "Ancient. Just like I said,” Challen said with a chuckle. She squeezed O'klan's hand before he withdrew it. “How can I ever thank you? You're the only friend I have here."

  "You are new. You are different. Give them time to realize you are a maiden like them. Those with open hearts and quick minds will come to you in time. Ah—we are here.” He tapped the frame to warn her before the front bearers lowered the chair. Challen braced her feet against sliding until the rear bearers lowered their half.

  O'klan was right, she knew. She had already been openly hurt when the other girls didn't accept her stumbling overtures of friendship or mocked her “pretensions of being a scribe.” Her father had counseled her to be careful and slow in all actions, words, and judgments when they returned to Bainevah. She could translate texts from ancient, foreign lands, written in dead languages no one but scribes used. She could do this.

  When the curtains parted to reveal the sprawling, amber stone complex of the Scribes Hall, Challen forgot all else. She now had access to the accumulated knowledge of thousands of seers, scribes, and priests over centuries of civilization. She could ask questions and read and study to her heart's content. O'klan offered her his hand to help her step from the chair, then paused and waved his forefinger to scold. Challen grinned, unrepentant, and tugged her veil back into place. She vowed she would remove it as soon as they were indoors. Surely the few scribes she met would not report her “lack of modesty” to anyone? They were sensible people, these seekers after knowledge—like her father.

  No servants came to greet her, too busy serving the noon meal. Challen was grateful, because then she wouldn't have to display her newly learned and despised bows.

  She had toyed with Cyrula's idea of dazzling the Court, stunning everyone and making them her toys by playing games with their minds. The challenges that presented had entertained her for several days and many evenings of sitting alone in the gardens, listening to the other Brides laugh and chatter elsewhere. She had imagined arrogant nobles and courtiers, suspiciously similar to the other Brides, falling victim
to her wit and grace, humiliating themselves in an effort to be named her friends. Then the exercise grew threadbare and boring. Until she established herself as her father's right hand, she would have no standing beyond the status of her future husband—which, despite her father's assurances, was inevitable. She would have to trust her father to find her a husband who wouldn't demand she be a brainless ornament and bed-warmer.

  She wanted someone like the soldier who had rescued her when she fell into the fountain, even if he had called her a little idiot. Well, her father sometimes called her a foolish child when he was especially worried about her. Could she persuade her dark-eyed soldier, her gift from Mother Matrika, that she was intelligent? Perhaps he had a sense of humor? Would it be too much to hope he could tell jokes and explain the world, like Commander Asqual?

  Maybe she would meet a young scribe in these halls. Someone she could talk to and study with; who would appreciate the intellect Shazzur had honed.

  No, he wouldn't really have to be that young, she decided as she followed O'klan down shadowed hallways. Young enough not to need a nurse, but old enough to think about something besides tumbling me into bed. She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle. She had listened too long to her new companions discussing lovemaking and possible husbands and Court gossip. The conversations were affecting her mind.

  Then O'klan gestured her through a doorway. The enclosed courtyard before her held a triangular pool, blue with water and blue lilies, ringed with white stones. Tall trees stretched above the roofline, casting sweet shade across the grass and flat white paving stones. Two men sat at a long, scroll-covered table under an elm at the far side of the oval courtyard. One wore the white and navy robes of a scribe, his head shaved. Challen envied him his comfort in this heat. The other wore pale blue edged in dark green. His red and silver hair was immaculately set in the ringlets currently in fashion for appearances in the royal Court, and his beard was braided.

  "Father?” Challen cast aside her veil and rules of conduct and flew across the courtyard.

  O'klan sighed loudly behind her, but he chuckled as he picked up her veil.

  The scribe chuckled and looked away as Challen flung her arms around her father. She was grateful, even as she wished the stranger far away.

  "Are you all right? Are you sleeping well? Did they find you decent servants? Do they know to cook your vegetables enough to heat them, but not mushy? Do—” She let out a squeak of indignation as Shazzur pressed two fingers over her lips.

  "My dear, I am supposed ask those questions of you.” Shazzur laughed and hugged her and then released her. “You see, Cho'Mat? Didn't I tell you she would be this way, no matter what useless rules they tried to drill into her head?"

  "She is your daughter, my friend.” Chief Scribe Cho'Mat bowed to Challen and gestured at the third of four seats at their table. “Come, sit and eat with us, Kena'Shazzur. Be welcome."

  "Please forgive my—” she began. Challen hated blushing.

  "Scribes have no use for formalities,” he said and exchanged grins with her father. “I believe our task will be partly your studies, and partly keeping your head free of the foolishness they will try to teach you in the Sanctum. Welcome, O'klan,” he continued, turning to the eunuch. “I look forward to hearing you participate today and in the future."

  "I am honored, Chief Scribe,” O'klan said, bowing deeply. He draped the discarded veil around Challen's shoulders and his mouth drooped in a frown of displeasure. “Lady, always wear your veil in public. Fortunately, Warder Agrat never stated how the veil should be worn. The letter of the law, Lady, and ignore the spirit when it is foolish.” He took the fourth seat at their table and his frown faded a little. “Did I mention I have written several works on the third dynasty and how we have absorbed five cultures which tried to displace our nation?"

  "No, you did not.” Challen picked up the bowl of slightly withered peaches by her elbow and passed them to her father. “I will forgive your silence if you discuss them with me later."

  O'klan burst out laughing, dropping his offended pose. The other three joined him. Challen knew that with such outings granted her every third day and the company of O'klan within the Sanctum, she would not only survive, she would thrive.

  * * * *

  Challen was only permitted two hours at the Scribes Hall and the time sped by too quickly for her taste. When she complained about having to wear a veil in such heat, and asked if she had to even within the Scribes Hall, Shazzur laughed. Challen was glad they were alone in Cho'Mat's courtyard.

  "For propriety's sake, you must hide your face,” he said. “We shall tell no one who you are—"

  "They will know. That silly veil is like a brand across my forehead!"

  "Not if you use that blurring exercise you were so fond of when you were ten or so. Remember that?"

  "Oh."

  The exercise had been a favorite toy for a few seasons when she was younger, because of the tingling sensation in her skin. Shazzur had taught her the little exercise to prepare her for stronger mental disciplines later. It enabled Challen to create an invisible barrier around herself. Anyone she spoke with would have only a vague impression of her features. She could move freely through the Scribes Hall without the discomfort of the veil; no one would see her face; no one would recognize her later if they saw her in the street.

  "Yes. Oh.” He tsked and shook his head, managing to hold onto a disappointed mask for all of ten seconds. Then Shazzur smiled and sighed and wrapped his arms around her. “I miss you dreadfully, arrogant child. I need you to nag me about picking up my scrolls and pens. I need you to remind me about eating properly. Few of our original servants remain, so there's no one to bully me."

  "Would the King release me if you asked him?” she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “If I promised to never go anywhere without an escort and took lessons from Commander Asqual in using a sword?"

  Challen dug her fingers into her father's robes and clung to the safety of his arms. All too soon, she would have to return to a world that reeked of cosmetics, perfumes, and singed hair, where the very air was sickening sweet with false friendship and poisonous glances.

  "You are better off, hidden away. Trust Mother Matrika, Challen, my treasure.” Shazzur grasped her shoulders and held her out at arm's length. “There are important lessons you need to learn, and quickly. Like fruit forced out of season, you must mature quickly in that hothouse of the Sanctum. You will understand when the time comes. Now, Cho'Mat and I have a gift for you. Come.” He shook her once and guided her to the doorway back into the main building.

  They paused inside the shadowed doorway until Challen could establish the blurring. She wondered if it worked well enough against her father so he couldn't see her blush. How could she have forgotten such a simple tool?

  Maybe she could teach some of the nicer girls to use it? There were Tamisra and Amilia and several others who didn't hide knives in every word they spoke.

  No, Challen decided as she walked down a cool, green-tiled hallway with her father. Even if the girls could learn what was a simple exercise to her, Agrat would never permit it. If he found out she used it in the Scribes Hall, he would publicly scold her and then have O'klan and her bearers beaten. As if they could have stopped her from doing such a thing.

  "Ah, here we are. Hajbaz?” Shazzur asked, leading Challen down steps into a long room that, to her delight, was lined with scroll racks from floor to ceiling.

  "In here, old friend,” a silvery male voice called. A moment later, two scribes stepped from a gap between scroll racks; a small office nook, Challen assumed.

  The man would have been tall, but for the twisting of his back that made him seem to walk sideways. He wore loose white trousers and a sleeveless, open tunic that hung past his knees. The bushy white brows over his pale blue eyes were the only indication of his age because his shaven head and face were without wrinkles.

  The girl who trailed behind him wore trouse
rs and tunic, with a stylus tucked conveniently into the knot of her rich brown hair at the back of her head. She carried two scrolls under one arm and a little basket with sealed ink pots, pens, and parchment rolls hung from a leather strap around her neck. She was barefoot and utterly free of makeup. Challen envied her.

  "Challen, this is Archivist Scribe Hajbaz.” Shazzur smiled at the girl and she smiled shyly and ducked her head. “And this is his granddaughter, Haneen. She has agreed to be your assistant and guide. It seems the Prophecy is a favorite riddle of hers. Perhaps the two of you could—"

  "Be friends?” Challen blurted. She stepped out from the shelter of her father's arm and held out a hand to the girl, who was perhaps fifteen at the most. “Could we?” She banished the blurring with a flicker of her thought.

  "Gladly. If you'll teach me that trick, Lady,” Haneen added, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

  "My granddaughter has enough sweethearts to be a nuisance,” Hajbaz remarked, his tone dry. He shuffled down the corridor between the scroll racks as he spoke. “I think she became a scribe simply to have a convenient place to hide from them."

  "Even one suitor is too many!” Haneen called to his retreating, twisted back. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “What is wrong with people, that they think all a girl wants is to hide in dark corners and kiss?"

  "Exactly.” Challen clasped her new friend's hands. “The blurring is really rather simple. All you need to do—"

  "Later, my dear. You are expected back at the Sanctum. Do not give the Chief Warder any reason to protest your next visit.” Shazzur caught hold of Challen's arm and gently tugged her away, chuckling as he went.

  "Next time, Lady,” Haneen said.

  "You must call me Challen. Please?” Challen hurried to add. She felt a flicker of horror that she had already picked up the nasty habit of giving orders.