Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Sairu regarded the wary face before her, considering many things and choosing her next words with care. After all, the idea had only just come to her, and it was not politic to rush ahead without at least a moment’s reflection.

  But then, Golden Daughters were trained to make swift judgments—judgments which, right or wrong, had the potential to alter entire histories. In that moment Sairu believed that history was a knife balanced by its point on the end of her finger. She could only hold it upright for so long. It must, very soon now, tilt. But she could manipulate, by a twist of the wrist, which direction it would fall.

  “You say my Lady Hariawan is this Umeer’s daughter whom you met in the Dream,” she said slowly, lacing her words with sweetness and masking her face in guileless concern. “If what you say is true, it verifies my suspicion that my mistress is one of the Dream Walkers. A rare, a wonderful individual.”

  “She is that,” Jovann agreed, and Sairu could have pitied him his ardor. What a love-sick pup he looked, lying there in pain, his eyes full of emotions he did not quite understand.

  “Love is a great asset to a Golden Daughter,” Princess Safiya had explained to Sairu years before. “It is the most powerful force in the worlds and therefore a dangerous weapon. Only take care you never permit this weapon to be used against you! Recognize love. Feed it in others. Root it out in yourself.”

  Sairu breathed three times, in and out, as she allowed her next words to play through her mind, testing them. Satisfied they would serve her purpose, she said, “I believe Lady Hariawan is in danger.”

  It worked like magic. She could almost have laughed. For Jovann’s head came up, and by the burning in his eyes, she saw that all thought of his father and his desire to hasten home had vanished. No other thought could fit alongside his concern for the beautiful lady of his dream. No other passion could flourish while this fire raged.

  Sairu thought she could take his love, drive it through his heart, and watch it kill him as effectively as any blade. Her stomach turned. For the second time that day, she feared she might be ill. And that was odd, for she was never unwell. So she shook herself, painted a new smile on her mouth, and watched the ongoing effect of her words.

  “What kind of danger?” Jovann demanded. “From whom?” He looked about the infirmary, as though assassins and brigands might even now lurk in the deeper shadows or behind the humble screens. “This is a holy place, is it not? Is she not safe here?”

  “She comes from the Crown of the Moon, the holiest, the mightiest temple in all the Noorhitam Empire,” Sairu said, her voice low. “If she is not safe in that holy place, why would she be safer here?”

  Jovann gazed at her long and hard, and she made doubly certain there was nothing for him to read on her face beyond a simple handmaiden’s concern for her mistress. “We were sent to these mountains in disguise, and I was told that she is sick and needs the freshness of mountain air. But I have traveled with her for many months now, and I know that Lady Hariawan is not sick. At least, not in body. And I believe not in mind.”

  “But perhaps,” Jovann finished for her, “in dream?”

  “Perhaps.” Sairu bowed her head demurely. “I fear for her. I suspect she travels into the Dream alone, unprotected by the brothers of the temple. Who knows what might assault her there, beyond the boundaries of our own world?”

  She could see memories on his face now, recent memories. Try though she might, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes, she could not read what those memories were. But she was almost certain now that he had indeed done as he said: He had walked with Lady Hariawan in the Dream.

  And he knew something of her danger.

  “I will protect her,” Jovann said, sitting up, then winced at the pain in his back and hunched over.

  Sairu laughed. “You? You can scarcely turn your head to look over your shoulder! How will you protect my mistress?”

  The goading worked. “I am not as you see me now when I walk in the Dream. I am strong there. I can guard her; I can keep her from harm.”

  “But I do not know for certain that what you claim is the truth. I do not know that you are a Dream Walker.” She leaned forward then, her hands still folded in her lap, and caught his gaze with her own. “I want proof.”

  “What sort of proof?”

  “Dream-walk tonight. And when you return, bring me back something from the Realm of Dreams.”

  How anyone could sleep with that girl sitting across from him, silent as a shadow but watching, always watching, was a mystery Jovann did not like to try fathoming. It was unnerving.

  Lying on his stomach so as not to add pressure to his wounded back, he turned his head on his pillow and glared at Sairu. “Do you have to be here?”

  “Yes,” she answered, and smiled.

  He shivered. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Nothing but the smile in return.

  Night fell heavily in the mountains, as though the darkness of the sky reached the peaks sooner than the valleys. Outside, the priests walked by light of torches, and Jovann could hear their haunting chants to welcome the rising of Hulan. He heard other sounds of the night as well, beyond the temple walls: the lonely cry of an owl on the hunt; the voice of an evening songbird singing the sorrow of another day lost; and even, Jovann believed, the far-off howl of a wolf, and another wolf answering, still more distant.

  But no wolf was ever more threatening than the little handmaiden watching him.

  “It’s not as though you’ll be able to watch my dream,” Jovann persisted. “Go to your own rooms and come back in the morning. I’ll bring back your proof.”

  “I know you will,” Sairu replied. “But I’m going to watch and make certain you do so while sleeping.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. After all, none of his own people believed him when he claimed to see the future in his dreams. Why should this little maid credit his tale of walking in the Dream itself?

  He thought bitterly of his conversation with Sunan, which seemed so long ago. What a fool. What a fool he’d been! Did he really think anything would be changed, that somehow years could soften hatred? But he had. He always, somehow, managed to fool himself into thinking Sunan would see him as his brother one day. He was wrong. They were enemies. As surely as warrior and wolf would always be enemies, competing for land, for respect, for game, for life, so he and Sunan would hate each other to the end of time.

  But his heart hurt at this thought, and he cursed himself again and again. Such a fool. Such a fool!

  “You should lie still,” Sairu said.

  “I am still. Can’t move much, can I?”

  “You’re not still inside. You’re racing around within your head.”

  How could she see that from across the room? A single low lamp sat before her, casting most of its flickering light on her face, leaving him in shadow. How could she see his restlessness? Little witch-woman, he thought, and crushed his pillow under his arms.

  “Do you know any lullabies?” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Lullabies. Know any?”

  She gave him such a look, he almost laughed. How delightful to see that smile of hers fall away, even for a moment! “Come,” he said, his voice gentler than it had been, “surely Kitar handmaidens are taught a lullaby or two with which to soothe their masters and mistresses? Or, if nothing else, I’ll bet your mother sang to you when you were small.”

  “She did not,” said Sairu.

  Something about her voice startled Jovann, and while he had opened his mouth to continue his harangue, he closed it again, all words cut off. Then he sighed heavily and turned his face away from her again. But he could still feel her eyes on the back of his head.

  Then, to his surprise, he heard a soft voice singing. It found the notes with difficulty, wavering and weak at first. But as it sang, it grew stronger, until he could hear the words. And, surprising him most of all, he realized that she sang a Chhayan lullaby. One he knew as well as his own mot
her’s voice.

  “Go to sleep, go to sleep,

  My good boy, go to sleep.

  Where did the songbird go?

  Beyond the mountains of the sun.

  Beyond the gardens of the moon.

  Where did the Dara go?

  Beyond the Final Water’s waves

  To sing before the mighty throne.

  Go to sleep, go to sleep,

  My good boy, go to sleep.”

  The first few uncertain notes touched his ear, and he was back home once more in his father’s gurta. And the fires were low outside, casting only the ember glow through the door flap to rest on his mother’s face. The buffalo lowed in their pastures. The plains-wind sighed on its long journey to the mountains, to the sea.

  And far away, beyond the handmaiden’s voice, beyond the remembered voice of his own mother, he heard another voice calling, its words like river water.

  Won’t you follow me, Jovann?

  By the time the song ended, Jovann was asleep.

  Sairu got up slowly and stepped across the room to bend over him. She listened to his breathing and knew that he was gone beyond the waking world. Nodding, satisfied, she knelt, this time beside his bed, and waited to see if he could do as she asked.

  Jovann stepped out of his body, gladly leaving it and all its reopened wounds behind. He followed the voice of the wood thrush, which seemed to blend with the handmaiden’s song until the two became one.

  Beyond the mountains of the sun.

  Beyond the gardens of the moon.

  Where did the Dara go?

  The white emptiness surrounded him, but it could not be entirely emptiness so long as that song reached out to him, guiding him from his own world into the Between. He felt as though he climbed into the sky and wondered if he would be able to glimpse Daramuti far below him if he looked hard enough. Would he be able to espy the dreams of all those who slept tucked away in the high Khir Mountains?

  But even the mountains, he knew, were too small for him to discern them. Not from here. Not from so far away. So he did not look. The song called to him, silver and bright and welcoming, and he pursued it.

  The mortal world was far behind him now.

  He saw the embracing trees before him, and through them he could see the Wood and the great Grandmother Tree. The white emptiness was still at his back, but he charged through, passing between the two trees, and then the emptiness was gone.

  He stood in the Wood once more.

  He took a step and felt himself become a solid presence, as like unto his mortal body as his mind could conceive. He had limbs he could see and feel, had breath in his lungs, and a heart beating in his chest. It was still not as solid as his real body. How could it be? A man cannot have two bodies at once. But it was a strong manifestation, strong enough to be believed. And this body did not have agonizing stripes across its back.

  Jovann looked for the wood thrush in the branches of the Grandmother Tree but could not see it. He drew nearer, and he thought the clearing was darker than it had ever been. The Grandmother’s leaves were heavier, thicker perhaps, blocking out more of whatever light source shone up above the Wood, be it sun, moon, or something else entirely. Either way, this small circle of existence was as gloomy as late evening.

  And still Jovann could not find the wood thrush. But he heard its voice singing, an enigma of light and sound combined.

  Where did the Dara go?

  Where did the Dara go?

  “Where did the Dara go?” Jovann whispered.

  “They are beyond Hulan’s Gate,” said Lady Hariawan.

  He knew she stood behind him. The girl of his dreams. He knew without turning, without seeing her face, for his heart beat with so powerful a lurch that he felt its movement even back inside his mortal body lying upon the pallet in the infirmary. For a moment he could not speak, so thick was his throat. Then he whispered, “Umeer’s daughter.”

  “I am here. Look at me, Juong-Khla Jovann.”

  She did not need to speak his name to command him. He turned willingly and looked again upon her lovely face. And here, in the Wood, there was no evil burn mark to mar the perfection of her skin, to distract from the exquisite proportions of her features.

  “I saw you,” Jovann said. “I saw you today. In the waking world. Did you not know me there? Did you not recognize me?”

  The golden light and green shadows of the Wood fell softly upon her, swaying gently with each move she made as she approached him. Her hair was long down her back, even as it had been earlier that day, and her robes were once more fine and intricately made. The same pattern of painted flowers and vines decorated her pale skin. One small hand reached out to him, and he shivered with delight and dread as she touched his cheek. The scent of harimau wafted over him, spicy and intoxicating.

  “Let us walk together, Jovann, son of Juong-Khla.”

  He obeyed without another word. She took his arm and led him, and he walked as she led, once more stepping out of the Grandmother’s protective circle into the enormous reaches of the Wood—reaches so vast that, were he to try to conceive of their hugeness, he knew he would go mad. But he did not worry about that. Lady Hariawan walked beside him, and ahead, in the distance, he could hear the song still singing. And it was as though the song itself created the path opening before them, a path of pale golden dirt which his bare feet trod without crushing so much as a single leaf or blade of grass.

  “Where are we going?” Jovann asked.

  “To the Dream,” she said.

  “Are we very close?”

  She looked up at him, and he wondered if it were pity or scorn he saw in her eyes. “This is the Wood Between,” she said. “It lies both near to and far from the Waking World and the Dream. It lies between all worlds. But who can measure it with mortal distances?” She shook her head and continued walking, speaking softly. “The Brethren have long sought it. They have discussed and they have theorized. They have longed. But none of them found it, only you. Not even I could reach it, though I saw it. Not until I heard you calling and this path opened to me. It is a great thing you have done, Juong-Khla Jovann.”

  Jovann felt his heart swelling in his breast. He could have burst for the pleasure of pleasing her.

  “Now,” she continued, “I want you to take me to the Gardens of the Moon.”

  Had someone asked Jovann if he knew the way to Hulan’s Garden, he would have said no at once. But when this girl, this nameless Lady Hariawan, daughter of Umeer, spoke, he heard the wood thrush calling. And it was as though the knowledge grew inside him. He had no room for doubt, only certainty.

  He took the girl’s hand, and now he led her. Even as before, the Wood began to fade around them. The endless Wood, the borders of which could not be marked, vanished on all sides, giving way to curling mist.

  The Realm of Dreams, from whence all dreams of men and beast and Faerie folk are sprung, rose up to claim them. And it was of itself an empty, formless place, waiting to be shaped.

  Jovann tightened his grip on Lady Hariawan’s hand. “This way,” he said, and plunged into the mist. He still heard the singing,

  Where did the Dara go?

  Where did the Dara go?

  Following that voice, he watched as the landscape changed before him. He saw mountains, he saw valleys; he saw oceans and rivers and deserts. He crossed them all in a moment, and Lady Hariawan gasped at the strides they made, for even she, in all her power, had never come so far.

  Suddenly there was the gate before them—so distant as to appear small, but the only solid, unshifting form in all this realm. The Moon Gate arch, the perfect original of a million mortal copies, and no child of Noorhitam would have failed to recognize it.

  Lady Hariawan drew a sharp breath. Jovann turned to her with a smile. “You asked for Hulan’s Gate, my dear Umeer’s daughter?”

  Even as he spoke, his voice was drowned out by the boom of chanting.

  All around them it resounded, the chorus of many voices
raised together in a rolling thunder of strength. He could hear the voices reaching out to each other, supporting each other. Then they reached out toward him.

  He looked this way and that. Shadows appeared out of the mist, chanting in time to their own sedate pace. At the sight of them, Lady Hariawan growled without words. She grasped Jovann with both hands. “Hurry,” she said. “We can still beat them.”

  They were running the next moment, running on a surface of mist that heated beneath their feet until Jovann knew it was no longer mist but fire-seared smoke. The shadows grew larger, drawing nearer, and with them came the darkness of their voices, pressing in like night. But ahead the stone gate stood tall, and through it Jovann saw a light shining, a guiding, brilliant beacon which not even the chant could suppress. They had only to reach it. They had only to—

  “Hurry!” Lady Hariawan screamed.

  Jovann, without a thought, caught her up in his arms. She was so light, so delicate, so insubstantial. She weighed nothing, and he moved faster carrying her than he did with her clutching his arm. So he cradled her close and ran.

  The shadows closed in. They were all around him, behind and on every side except the path to the gate. This they could not seem to penetrate. Their chanting became faster and more erratic.

  Then the gate was huge, towering indescribably tall above him. So brilliant was the light falling through it that for a moment Jovann could have believed the gate was the shining moon herself. He could see nothing of what lay beyond. But he did not doubt, and he did not falter.

  On the very threshold he heard a rush of great water.

  Then, with Lady Hariawan in his arms, he plunged through just as phantom hands snatched at the back of his head and tore away a piece of his hair.

  Sairu knelt with her eyes closed and her hands folded. But she did not doze, not for a moment. Every sense was alive with an almost painful clarity. Even the feel of the floor beneath her knees was as sharp as knives, though she never shifted her position.