10,000 Suns

by Michelle L. Levigne

  "That's exactly what I've been thinking!"

  "Then we shall tell your story to the King.” Shazzur smiled. “I know he'd prefer to hear from you directly that you're all right.” He nodded toward the doorway Lady Mayar had used. “So, tell me, how are your studies into the Prophecy coming along?"

  * * * *

  Elzan laughed quietly at himself after he walked past the knot of scribes conversing in the hallway and realized he noticed nothing about them. Maybe the effects of the poison weren't completely erased, despite everything his mother and Cyrula had done yesterday. Still, that was no excuse for being so lax. He glanced over his shoulder to examine the group, so intent on their discussion no one noticed him. He was dressed simply, with only his ram's head ring to mark him as royal blood. Anyone walking the hallways would take him for a scribe's son who, by lack of his shaven head, hadn't completed his training. That assumption was exactly what Elzan wanted. He liked the freedom anonymity gave him. He liked being friends with the scribes and scholars and teased little Haneen, the archivist's granddaughter, as if she were a sister.

  There were three men, all wrinkled and stooped and dressed in long-sleeved robes despite the warmth of the day. Their stubbly heads showed white and silver and gray.

  A girl sat in a niche in the wall, kicking her heels and talking animatedly with them. Elzan nearly laughed aloud when he heard something about third dynasty taxation records. Boring stuff. Why would a girl waste her time and her wine-rich voice discussing that dry-as-dust topic?

  Elzan stopped short three steps down the hall when he realized no one had interrupted the girl. He couldn't recall a single time he had spoken with a scribe without being interrupted at least once every other sentence. Scribes were always ready to correct others and add to their knowledge, no matter how rudely they did it. Who was this girl who held their respect and attention?

  Why couldn't he recall anything of her except that she swung her feet and had an enticing voice? Elzan knew he had looked straight at her. Why couldn't he recall her appearance? Something was definitely wrong with him, to miss such details. A soldier had to notice everything if he wanted to survive. Elzan made a mental note to visit his mother for another exam, and continued on his way to the archives.

  Hajbaz, as usual, had anticipated Elzan's need and had scrolls waiting when he stepped into the first room of the archives. The two old friends chatted a few moments, then Elzan excused himself and returned the way he had come.

  The scribes and the girl had left; probably continuing their conversation elsewhere. If there was one thing Elzan knew, there was no end of taxation and the records required.

  Raucous male laughter made Elzan flinch. He frowned and turned down another hallway to follow the sound. No one made noise like that in the Scribes Hall. Apprentices who wouldn't learn decorum never got beyond the doors of their school room.

  "Let me past,” a female voice demanded in a strong tone. Confident, but for the tiny waver Elzan heard at the end.

  He had already picked up his pace before he recognized the voice of the girl who had been discussing taxation records. Elzan doubted the elderly scribes had just laughed.

  He rounded a corner and found three shaggy-haired young men in dun-colored workmen's trousers and sandals, strategically placed so the girl, backed into a corner, couldn't get past without touching them. The one in the middle took a step closer and chuckled—then stopped, finally alerted by the scraping of Elzan's sandals on the stone floor.

  "Are you all right?” Elzan demanded.

  "She's no concern of yours,” the one in the middle snapped. “My sister is here against orders."

  "I'm no sister—” The girl yelped as the one on the left reached for her. She ducked and rolled and nearly succeeded in darting out between their legs on her hands and knees.

  The biggest one caught her, hooking meaty fingers in the silvery white sash at her waist. She twisted, turning as he yanked her upright, and dug her knee into his groin. He roared and flung her toward the wall before he went to his knees.

  Elzan leaped, catching her just before she hit. She stumbled as he yanked her out of the reach of the three, who then converged on him. Elzan backhanded one across the nose and caught the other under the chin, slamming up hard enough to make his teeth snap together.

  The three took to their heels and ran, accompanied by a faint smell of burning. Elzan turned to the girl and found her sagging against the wall. He caught her by her arm and guided her over to a bench around the corner.

  "Thank you,” she said, a tremble of laughter in her voice. She leaned against him, her fingers clutching hard on his arm; fortunately not the wounded one.

  Elzan stared as they sank down onto the bench. The moment the girl touched him, her features seemed to leap at him.

  As if she had been hiding behind a veil.

  Elzan drank in her features, storing them against a gloomy day. Red hair touched with gold, scented with lemons, braided with pale blue ribbons. A sculptured, young face; golden and rose with health; unmarred by the heavy cosmetics fashionable at Court. Sparkling gray eyes reminded Elzan of someone. A strong, lithe, gently curved figure draped in a simple sleeveless sheath and loose trousers of pale blue that matched the ribbons.

  How could he not have noticed anything but her voice before? Elzan tightened his arm around her while his mind reeled at the realization of what had just happened.

  He had found the flame-haired girl from his visions. She was real, solid, with a voice to make him melt for hunger and enough spirit to defend herself.

  Elzan opened his mouth, half-intending to ask her if she recognized him. He stopped himself in time. How could he tell her that he had seen her in visions? She would think him insane.

  "They weren't my brothers,” she said.

  "No. Of course not."

  She stiffened and looked at him, and Elzan released her when he realized he stared. Her features started to fade, as if a fog came between them.

  A blurring! He nearly laughed at the obvious answer and recalled the little mental exercise Shazzur had taught him to counter such things. In a heartbeat, her features cleared.

  Sandals scraped in the hallway, running feet approaching, and Elzan stood to fight off those three bullies again. Then he grinned when he realized it was only one set of feet.

  Haneen hurtled around the corner. She skidded to a halt when she saw Elzan and his companion. “Grandfather heard you shout. Are you all right?” She neatly inserted herself into Elzan's spot on the bench and wrapped an arm around the other girl, likely only a few years older than her.

  "Fine. This—” She blushed and shook her head. “I don't know your name, I'm sorry."

  "Elzan,” he supplied.

  "Elzan chased away some hulking brutes who belong in the stone quarries."

  "Come on. We're going to Grandfather. We can lock the door of the archives.” Haneen yanked her friend to her feet.

  "Do you need help?” Elzan asked.

  "I'm fine now, thank you. I think you dropped your scroll.” She pointed down the hall, at the corner where Elzan had flung the precious scroll when he leaped to help her.

  He felt sick in his gut as he hurried to retrieve it. Hajbaz had just cautioned him to take care because the parchment was growing fragile. Elzan spread the scroll out on the bench and examined it with a pounding heart. Too late, he realized the girls were gone and he still didn't know the vision girl's name.

  She had to be a scribe's daughter, because of her friendship with Haneen and how she had dominated that conversation he had overheard. There would be plenty of opportunities to meet her again. She was the girl from his visions, and he wouldn't rest until he knew all about her.

  And yet, what good would it do him? The King's heir could only marry the mother of his own heir. He could offer his vision-maiden nothing but exposure to the perils of Court life and his many vicious enemies.

  He wanted her, though. Elzan had to believe Mother Matrika had granted him
first his visions and then the girl herself, for a reason. Matrika was not so cruel she would tease and torment him with hunger, and then withhold the one lovely thing that might possibly become his only reason for living.

  * * * *

  Challen stood before the racks of scrolls, eyes closed, fingers pressed against her temples as she went through her calming ritual again. She had defended herself well enough. Even if that young scribe hadn't leaped to help she would have freed herself before those three brutes could have hurt her. As it was, she had sent them all running with smoldering trousers.

  And yet ... she shivered and all too clearly envisioned herself kidnapped or badly injured. What had they wanted?

  Why had they chosen her? The blurring she maintained inside the Scribes Hall should have kept her beyond anyone's notice.

  Unless they could see through her blurring? Had enemies of her father found out about the ruse, and specifically sent these men, telling them what to look for? Or were they in the pay of the Chadrasheeri? Shazzur had told her about the aborted kidnapping attempt. Challen hadn't told her father about her vision-soldier, now turned into warm flesh and blood.

  Her arms tingled where he had touched her. She could still smell the warm, clean, simple scent of him.

  Her vision-soldier had come again to her assistance, and he was a scholar as well as a soldier. Did she dare hope he would appear again? Could she let herself believe he had been born to be the other half of her soul, as her parents had been part of each other? Challen longed for the oneness of spirit that her parents had known, even seeing the evidence of the pain Shazzur still carried. She could well imagine entwining her soul with her dark-haired soldier. Gladly giving herself to him.

  The image of the fury in his rugged, clean-shaven face lingered with her. Strangely, his anger on her behalf calmed her and sent a new trembling through her in alternating waves.

  "Concentrate,” she whispered, loudly enough to hear her voice echo off the stone walls. She only had another half hour before O'klan came to escort her back to the Sanctum.

  Challen listened to her slowing heart, envisioning the room behind her closed lids. She listened to the whispering rustle of her blood in her veins and thought through the archives list to decide what scrolls to take back to the Sanctum with her.

  The whispering of her blood turned into voices. Chilled, she lowered her hands from her temples and opened her eyes.

  There was no one in the archives with her.

  Was it whispering? It sounded like the shuffling of sheets of parchment, interspersed with the dull, muted thuds of scroll handles rattling against the racks.

  Challen wrapped her arms tight around herself, fighting the deepening chill. Had she hit her head in the struggle? The scrolls couldn't actually talk to her, could they?

  "Be sensible,” she muttered, and stalked down to the end of the nearest row. One scroll she wanted was there.

  Challen reached for the handle, painted in rings of color to designate topic and dynasty—and the handle twitched, leaping up to touch her fingertips. Jerking back as if burned, Challen clenched her fists and held her breath and waited.

  The whispering grew louder and took on a rhythm.

  Not a rhythm. More like all the whisperers had joined together into one voice.

  She listened, trying to still her heart so it would not interfere. A moment later, she sat down hard on the cold tiled floor because her knees wanted to knock.

  "Draktan,” she whispered, picking that word out from the whispering. “High ranking ... piece. On the Draktan ... board."

  Will you rule or serve? Protect or destroy? leaped into her mind, as if written there with a strong, bold hand.

  Challen knew she was supposed to stay in the archives until O'klan came for her. The brutes who cornered her could still lurk somewhere, but she would welcome another battle, rather than stay here in the archives and listen to the whispering.

  Why was she a piece on the Draktan board?

  * * * *

  "Interesting,” was all Shazzur would say, when Challen described her experience.

  Lady Mayar and Challen exchanged frustrated glances, which prompted a chuckle from her father. It was bad enough Challen had been forced to keep silent about her experience until she could meet with her father at the Healers Temple. This reaction was both expected and frustrating.

  "I think Mother Matrika is slowly preparing me to step down as Seer. You shall soon be able to take my place."

  "No, Father, I could never...” She sighed, partly in relief, when a huge smile split her father's face.

  "Don't worry, child,” Lady Mayar said. “The powers are always unstable at equinox and you have been under strain."

  "This is just a residue of that dream from the other night?"

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps more of your gifts awaken.” Shazzur held out a hand to her. She gladly gave her hand into his clasp, slid onto her knees in front of him, and kept her eyes open so he could gaze into them. For many long moments, she held herself perfectly still and relaxed into the familiar mental contact. He sighed and caressed her cheek. “Your mother sometimes said that when she was pressed for time and needed information quickly, the scrolls spoke to her."

  "But why Draktan?"

  "Draktan is the game of kings and powers,” Lady Mayar said slowly. “A game of changing circumstances, when a slave piece can rise to enough power to rule the game."

  "A gift from Mother Matrika, perhaps,” Shazzur said, nodding and stroking his beard. “A warning, to us or you in particular, my dear. Or a promise."

  "Of what, Father?” she whispered.

  "A promise that everything can still be changed, and nothing is set and bound in stone. Not yet."

  CHAPTER 11

  When he entered the archives three days later, Elzan was surprised and pleased to see his red-haired vision maiden alone among the racks and bins.

  Today her trousers and tunic were pale green shading into creamy white. That silvery white sash hung loosely around her narrow hips. No face paint marred the clear, healthy flush of her cheeks. She wore no extra color on her lips, which she bit in an engaging way as she studied the scroll bins and racks. Her ember-colored hair was pulled back in a single braid hanging glossy and thick past her waist. The lack of adornment let the glossy beauty shine through. Elzan thought if he touched it, he would find her hair just as silken soft as it looked.

  What was she doing in the archives without Hajbaz or Haneen? No one was allowed here unsupervised until they had proven they understood the intricate filing system of the scribes. It had taken Elzan three tries before he had shown he understood the coding of slashes and dots painted on the racks and the color coding of the scroll handles and the sashes holding each scroll closed.

  Half without thinking, Elzan checked his own appearance as he walked down the narrow aisle toward the girl. She had pulled out a scroll and deftly slid it out of its leather casing and silk sleeve to unroll it. He checked his plain brown kilt and the single copper armband set with four emeralds. Elzan always dressed simply to hide his royal status before the King charged him to study the Prophecy. Now, he took the extra step of turning his ring so the stone was to his palm, showing only an engraved band to the world.

  She's a scribe's daughter, Elzan silently scolded himself, when he realized what he did. She has too much sense to be impressed or flustered when a young man smiles at her.

  "Hello,” he said, when he was still two racks away.

  "Oh.” She flinched and stood up straight and nearly lost her hold on the scroll she read. She blushed, a lovely pink under the healthy golden tan. It made her gray eyes gleam like bright crystals. That blurring started to creep over her features and Elzan bit his lip against a grin as he called up the exercise to dispel it. “Hello. I hoped I would see you again. To thank you."

  "I'm glad I could help."

  "Is there something I can help you with?” she asked after a few heartbeats of silence.

  "I'm looki
ng for...” He felt his face warm as his mind drew a blank. Elzan mentally kicked himself for staring like a besotted fool. “I can get it. Don't trouble yourself.” He bowed to her and walked down the aisle. He found the rack he wanted and began lifting scrolls to examine the color-coded handles.

  "Those are quite good,” she offered. “I've read through most of them."

  "Is the scroll with Vai'hustan's commentary on the settling of the Hidden City in here?” With his luck, the one he wanted would be the last of the ten he examined.

  "No.” Her sandals brushed on the tiled floor. “I just finished reading it and I haven't put it back yet."

  "What?” Elzan glanced up and found himself within arm's reach of her. She smelled of apple blossoms. Her perfume clung to the short scroll in a brittle leather sack she held out to him. “Oh. Thank you."

  "Are you studying the Three also?"

  "The entire Scribes Hall and the Court should study them."

  He slid the unwanted scrolls back into their racks and took the proffered one from her with a nod. His hand shook a little when the tips of his fingers brushed against her thumb, and he was glad when she smiled at him and returned to the rack she had been searching. He watched the soft sway of her form, enjoyed the play of filtered daylight on her hair, making it dark red in places and soft gold in others.

  Get hold of yourself, he silently scolded. She's a scribe's daughter, not some brainless courtier just begging for you to seduce her.

  "It seems like at least a quarter of them are,” she offered as she bent to reach across the bin. “They're studying all the legends of the Three, to see if any of Mother Matrika's warnings and blessings have any bearing on what happened. Someone attacked them, the general consensus says."

  "But who?” He tucked the scroll under his arm and tried to look nonchalant as he joined her. He made sure he put a bin between them, to hide the reactions in his body.

  No woman had ever affected him like this before; emptiness in his stomach, weakness in his knees and an ache in his arms. Elzan knew if he touched her golden skin it would be soft and her mouth would taste as sweet as her scent. It was ridiculous to carry on a scholarly conversation with a woman while his body begged to enjoy her.