Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  In truth, he was no more than forty-five.

  But he kept this knowledge to himself. If word were to get out that he was half the age expected, he would lose the loyalty of the temple. Abbot or not, they would call him cursed and turn from him in fear.

  They would be right to turn away. For he was cursed. And he fully intended to betray them all.

  Brother Tenuk walked with a cane, his abbot’s hood pulled low over his forehead. This time of year, with the warmth of the summer rising even into these high, cold reaches of the Khir Mountains, Anwar would deign to turn his face and shine on the white stone pathways of Daramuti.

  The warmth was welcome. The glare, however, was not, and the abbot gripped his hood with one hand to make certain it shaded his eyes. And he muttered to himself words that none hearing would have expected from a holy servant of Anwar and Hulan.

  “Blast you, Lordly Sun, even as you blast us.”

  No one did hear him, of course. Brother Tenuk was careful to keep his blasphemy to himself. Besides, his voice was so thin and quivery that it took some effort on the part of the temple monks to understand him even when he stood shouting within inches of their faces.

  Monks and acolytes bowed and made reverence as their abbot passed. There were no servants or slaves at Daramuti, for each man there considered himself too meek and humble to be served by another. They all worked the grounds; they all maintained the house. They traded a little with the lower villages of the Khir mountains, their gift of writing their most valuable commodity. So they got by. Once in a while the great priests of Lunthea Maly would remember to send a small something to help maintain a remote mountain shrine, but this happened too infrequently to be counted. Some of the young monks grumbled about this forgetfulness on the part of their richer brethren. Brother Tenuk, however, never did.

  Sometimes it is good to be forgotten.

  Up the stone path Brother Tenuk climbed at his achingly slow pace. It was a long walk to his destination, and some had urged him to make the journey no more, to send others in his place. But years of mountain living had made him much tougher than he looked, and Brother Tenuk was not a man to be swayed from any determined course. Otherwise, he would never have become abbot of Daramuti.

  What a relief it was to escape the main hall and some of the more obsequious acolytes now and then. Up here by the dovecote, one mostly dealt with doves. Brother Tenuk liked doves. They were loyal. Furthermore, they were uncomplicated in their loyalty. A complicated loyalty, such as that which he commanded at Daramuti, was tenuous. But the doves could always be trusted.

  They were rock doves, bred carefully for their pure white plumage. They soothed the nerves with their gentle cooing chorus, and Brother Tenuk liked to think they sounded pleased to see him when he drew near.

  “Good morning, my beauties,” he said as he approached. He did not open the door to enter the cote itself, for he did not feel it right to invade the doves’ privacy unless absolutely necessary. They must raise their young and live their lives free of interference. But he peered into the empty crannies of those doves long gone: the messenger birds with whom he hated to part, but which he was obliged to send every year to Lunthea Maly and the Crown of the Moon. Not that he was given any of their doves in return! Oh, no. The Besur had no interest in receiving messages from Daramuti, only in sending them as he saw fit. If he saw fit.

  Most of the Lunthea Maly doves were never seen again. And the loss of each one left a hole in Brother Tenuk’s rather battered heart.

  But today, to his surprise, when he peered into what should have been an empty crevice, he saw a bundle of white feathers and a bright, blinking eye.

  “Nejla!” he cried, for he knew the names of all his birds, though the other monks couldn’t tell them apart. He dropped his cane, dropped his hood, and put both trembling hands in to cup the bird and pull her out. He inspected her little body, checking for signs of harm. Other than travel-wear, however, she was well and whole and beautiful. He clucked and cooed at her. The youngest acolyte of Daramuti—who had received a caning from his abbot just that morning—would not have believed Brother Tenuk capable of such tender sounds.

  The abbot’s shivering fingers felt the dove’s leg. Sure enough, he found wrapped there a small cylinder of parchment tied with string. “What do they want now, Nejla?” Brother Tenuk said, his tone still soft though his brow darkened. He removed the message and, still holding the bird gently in one hand, unrolled the slip of parchment with the other and read:

  Envoy coming. Send guide for Khir Road. Three months.

  That was all.

  “Envoy? Guide?” Brother Tenuk muttered. Disgusted, he dropped the missive, letting it fall to the stones. Why would an envoy journey from Lunthea Maly? Daramuti sent people to the great city; they never received people from it. It simply wasn’t done. And three months? What was that supposed to mean? Send a guide three months from now? Expect a three-month visit?

  “And what happened to my other birds?” Brother Tenuk growled. He began stroking Nejla with one quivering finger. And as he stroked her, he thought of her two sisters. He knew that, just to be certain, the Besur would have sent all three birds, hoping one would get through to Daramuti. But where were the other two? Still holding Nejla, still stroking her with his finger, he peered into her sisters’ boxes, gently calling their names. They were not to be found.

  They had not survived the journey.

  Darkness fell upon the abbot’s heart. A darkness that had less to do with the birds than he might have realized.

  “If you stroke that bird any harder, you risk crushing its skull.”

  A rush of fear spread from the back of Brother Tenuk’s brain, flowing through his spirit and body alike. His hands clenched, and the poor dove struggled and flapped to escape his clutches. To escape him! Her master! Her master who loved her more than anyone else ever could love such a humble creature! How could she betray him with such distrust? For a moment he hated her.

  But he knew from whence that hatred came. He knew that if he acted on it—even as his whole heart willed him to—he would regret it in another minute. So he forced himself, by superhuman effort, to let the bird go. She fluttered away into the cote and out of sight.

  Brother Tenuk rubbed his hands slowly together, as though he could somehow rub away both the fear and the loathing. Gathering himself with as much dignity as his ravaged body would permit, he turned to face the one who had spoken.

  The Dragon smiled at him.

  It was not a pleasant smile as smiles go. One cannot expect a dragon to smile pleasantly, even one wearing a form very like a man’s, as this Dragon did. But it was only like a man’s form, and not a very good likeness at that. He was seven feet tall and more, and frightfully emaciated, skeletal even. Indeed, at first glance one might believe one looked into the face of a living skeleton, so white and thin and strangely elongated was this fantastic figure. On second glance, however, keen eyes would see that the skin was pure white, translucent, and so tightly stretched that the black bone beneath could be seen. As though this form of flesh and blood only just contained the true form, striving to keep the sinister reality from bursting forth.

  Yet none of this gave away the Dragon’s true nature. He might be merely some ghoul or specter risen up from the grave. No, the truth of his spirit was revealed in the deep sockets of his eyes.

  For there burned a fire that could not be suppressed.

  When he smiled, he revealed a mouth full of black, sharp teeth, rather too long to fit properly into that jaw. The Dragon, when assuming a guise, couldn’t be bothered to concern himself with correct proportions and such nonsense.

  “Greetings, Tenuk,” he said, and the air shimmered around his mouth.

  “Master,” said Tenuk. With a sigh and many creakings, he lowered himself to the ground, knocking his forehead against the guano-spattered paving stones. “How may I serve you?”

  “Oh please,” said the Dragon. “How many times have I told you
to call me Brother?”

  Many times, Tenuk was sure. But he thought he would rather die than obey. So he merely repeated, “How may I serve you?”

  The Dragon moved around Tenuk’s prone body, his black cloak sweeping the stones. That cloak shrouded him, from the high collar about his shoulders all the way down to his feet. He kept his arms tucked away inside, and the effect was such that the first time a young Tenuk met the Dragon he had believed a disembodied head floated toward him out of the darkness. He’d been so frightened, he’d aged a good ten years in the space of a single scream.

  Now he knew better. And he thought a disembodied head rather less frightening than the reality looming above him.

  The Dragon looked over the dovecote, inspecting it with a curious eye. The doves had gone silent, frozen on their perches as though caught in the sights of a great, wicked hawk. The Dragon sniffed, unimpressed. He turned to look down once more on Brother Tenuk, who was still kneeling, still pressing his forehead to the ground.

  “I need you to do something for me. And you must be very cautious how you go about it. You have enjoyed anonymity for years, able to pursue your work unobserved. But now”—and here the Dragon grimaced, showing his fangs—“now one of those thrice-cursed Knights of the Farthest Shore is on his way up to this temple. He’ll be watching for any sign of treachery, of that you may be certain.”

  Was the Dragon afraid? Brother Tenuk lifted his head just enough that he could turn and glimpse the gruesome figure from the tail of his eye. No, he wasn’t afraid. Disgusted, perhaps. Or nervous.

  “I hate them,” said the Dragon, meeting Tenuk’s gaze. He smiled again, and his voice was unsettlingly calm. But both venom and flame scored every word. “I hate them so much, those pathetic knights. I wish I could burn them all to little piles of ash. But He would notice. And I do not want to draw His attention. Not just yet. Soon. Soon . . .”

  Brother Tenuk sighed and, after a considering moment, straightened upright. His back protested with sharp cracks, and he could not find the strength to stand. So he remained kneeling, his hands folded in his lap, servile as any new acolyte. “How may I serve you, Master?” he asked again, hoping the Dragon would come to the point and be on his way. It was an unlikely wish. The Dragon had a fondness for talk, particularly if it made those around him uncomfortable.

  The Dragon turned from Tenuk and peered into one of the little alcoves where a mother dove sat on her nest. He licked his pale lips slowly with a long red tongue. Then he said, “The company coming from Lunthea Maly brings the Dream Walker. The one we seek.”

  “Do they?” said Tenuk, suddenly interested despite his fear and revulsion. “The one of whom we’ve heard tell? The one who can—”

  “Yes. The very one.” The Dragon put out a hand, reaching into the alcove, but his knuckles were too large to fit. So he stretched out one long, searching finger.

  Tenuk struggled up to his feet against all the pains of his aged body. “That’s good!” he cried, hoping to distract the Dragon, to draw his attention away from the dove on her nest. “That’s very good. At long last, eh? And will you be taking the Dream Walker back with you to Lunthea Maly? Back to my good lord?”

  “No,” said the Dragon. “I dare not get caught within sniffing distance of this place. Not with that knight on the loose. I’ve encountered him in the past, and I’m not eager to renew the acquaintance.” His tongue flicked out again like a snake’s testing the air. “Indeed, you will not see me again for some time. You must discover the identity of the Dream Walker yourself. And when you do, you must invent some pretense to send him on to Lunthea Maly.”

  “How will I recognize him?”

  “That I cannot tell you. But my sources say that your so-called high priest hired a person of some legendary prominence—a Golden Daughter, I believe it is called? Funny title. Have you heard of them?”

  “No,” Brother Tenuk admitted. “I have not.”

  “I would imagine they’re female. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. But this Golden Daughter has been hired by your high priest to protect the Dream Walker. She is coming along with the envoy, and you will, I’m certain, be able to discover her identity. Then it’s merely a matter of extrapolation. Whomever she is guarding must be the Dream Walker. Find a good excuse—a careful excuse, for we do not want to draw the attention of your superiors—pack him up, and send him back to Lunthea Maly. Do you understand?”

  Brother Tenuk did not answer. He had heard the Dragon’s words, but all in a distant, foggy drone. His attention was fixed on the Dragon’s hand, slowly sliding out from the dove nest, its long index finger extended.

  From the tip of his talon hung the dead body of the little white dove. Her breast was bright crimson with her blood.

  Kulap. That was her name. Kulap, who sat upon her first nest. Kulap, whose eggs would now rot away, forgotten and cold.

  As he spoke, the Dragon idly twirled the limp form like a child’s toy, then lifted it to his face for disinterested inspection. His mouth opened like a cat’s as he sniffed, as though to better inhale the scent of death. He repeated his question, “Do you understand?” and turned to Tenuk for an answer. As he did so, he bit off the dove’s head.

  Tenuk stared, all the color draining from his face. For a long moment he could not speak. Then he said, “You didn’t have to kill her.”

  “What? Oh, this?” The Dragon flicked the headless form from his talon into the grass lining the path. “Well. You didn’t have to love her.” He wiped his hand on his cloak and fixed Tenuk with one bright red eye. “Do you understand what is required of you, Brother Tenuk? Answer me.”

  Tenuk nodded. Then, his eyes still fixed on the place where the thick grass bent, he whispered, “Yes, Master. I will find the Dream Walker. I will send him back to Lunthea Maly.”

  “And you will take care,” said the Dragon. “You will not draw the attention of the knight. And you will send a message in advance to your clan lord, alerting him of your success and informing him where he may find the Dream Walker.”

  Tenuk said nothing.

  “Aren’t you curious to know how you will send this message to your clan lord?”

  “How,” said Tenuk in a thin thread of a voice, “will I send this message to my clan lord?”

  “Ah! I wondered if you would ask.” With that, the Dragon threw his cloak back over his shoulder, revealing his other arm, which had remained hidden until now. And there on his arm, clutching with reptilian claws, was a raven. Its eyes were as red as Kulap’s blood, and its feathers might have been dipped in the Midnight of the Black Dogs. It was large even for its kind, and something about it, something about the way it clung to the Dragon’s arm, made a man feel that if he closed one eye and squinted, he would look upon a small winged reptile and not a bird at all.

  It turned its head to study Tenuk, and its bright eye was intelligent. Sentient, even. It was no mortal bird.

  “My servant here will carry your message. When you have sent away the Dream Walker, you may speak your message to him. No need to tie a missive to his leg. Speak your message and turn him loose after sunset. In the meanwhile . . .” The Dragon turned once more to the little nest where Kulap had rested. He bent, sniffing at the opening.

  Then he put up his arm and seemed somehow to push the enormous raven inside. The space was much too small and the bird far too big. But sizes did not matter to the Dragon. He simply ignored such mortal laws and so bent them to his will. The bird vanished inside the nest.

  “He’ll be comfortable,” said the Dragon, turning his blackened smile upon Tenuk once more. “Don’t bother feeding him. He’ll look after himself. There is plenty of good hunting around here.” This with a sweep of his arm that indicated the whole of the dovecote.

  Tenuk stared at the monster. In his mind’s eye he saw the bloodied stump where Kulap’s head had been. He bowed. “Very good, Master.”

  The Dragon folded himself back into his cloak so that only his white face was visib
le. “Do not fail me, brother,” he said. “Do not bring my wrath down upon you.”

  Suddenly the Dragon was leaning over Tenuk, his burning eyes so close that the abbot could feel blisters forming on his forehead, on his mouth, across his cheeks. But this was nothing to the heat of the Dragon’s breath when he spoke, which seared the very hair from Tenuk’s head.

  “The time is upon us. The Gold Gong is even now prepared. All is made ready! Do not fail me.”

  The voices of cooing doves fell softly upon Brother Tenuk’s ears. He cracked open his eyelids and found that he lay prone upon the white-spattered stones, flat on his face before the dovecote. Had he fainted from the heat of Anwar blazing down upon his head? Had he dreamed that dreadful encounter?

  Groaning, Tenuk pulled himself up and slowly, ever so slowly got to his feet. How old he had become! Older even than he had been that morning. He put up a quivering hand and touched his head. All his silvery white hair was gone, leaving him bald save for glaring liver-spots.

  Muttering unintelligible curses, he crept to the cote and peered into a certain nest hole. He should see Kulap in there, warming her eggs. Soft little Kulap, only hatched herself last spring. Gentle little Kulap, cooing her lullabies to her growing young.

  Instead, Tenuk saw a red, scale-rimmed eye surrounded by dense black feathers.

  “Curse you,” Tenuk whispered. But not to the raven, nor even to the Dragon. His hatred had run far too deep to curse either of them. “Curse you for driving me to this!” he snarled.

  And, shading his eyes, he glared up into the sky where Anwar and Hulan danced their celestial paces in time to the Song they sang.

  Tu Syed considered himself a gentleman. A slave, yes, but a gentleman slave with a certain degree of elegance, a taste for the finer things, and an unswerving devotion to his own dignity.

  Which is why he and Tu Domchu huddled close together with their fellow slaves, wide eyes staring at the terrible sight unfolding before them, dreading that they might become the next victims. They watched a man of impressive height and breadth being torn apart, piece by piece, by a slip of a handmaiden.