Golden Daughter

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Kasemsan lifted the little black writher to his face. The Pen-Chan lord’s cheeks were pale and green with sickness and near-death. Indeed, though he had appeared grotesquely ill before, now he looked ten times worse, did not even look as though he should be alive.

  He spoke and seemed to be addressing the black writhing thing. “I know. I know you wish to return to your other half. But I have another task for you. See there!” And he shook the thing at Jovann. “See that mortal! I command you to enter his eye, even as you entered mine. Once inside, you will cover him in a glamour. Cast over him such shieldings that he will be unrecognizable to all who know him, all who seek him.”

  The little black thing screeched. It was not a human sound, but neither was it animal. It was unlike anything Jovann had ever before heard, and it disgusted him.

  Then suddenly, still clutched in Kasemsan’s hand, the thing turned and looked at Jovann. It had a tiny, devilish face, almost like a man’s but not quite. Its mouth was full of teeth, gnashing teeth, and its arms reached out like tendrils of smoke.

  “Anwar’s blight!” Jovann swore. He tried to back up, but the chains allowed him no more leeway. “Anwar’s blight! Oh, Anwar, shield me!” He pulled at the resisting chains, straining against them, staring at the black imp that stretched toward him, its furious face extending from its overlong body and neck.

  Kasemsan, with a grim smile on his dying mouth, let the imp go.

  Princess Safiya rarely took quiet moments to herself. Even then she was rarely entirely by herself but surrounded by her attendants, mostly children, sharp-eyed and sharp-eared, every one. She must constantly be on her guard, for one never knew who might attempt to bribe a child in order to gain information on the most secret doings of the Masayi.

  But on this particular night, she stole a few moments of true solitude, deep in her innermost chamber. There were no windows to this room, for windows only made her nervous, more so as the years went by. Beyond the doors of her privacy were three successive chambers in which her most trusted slaves stood watch over her.

  Even as she stood watch over Noorhitam.

  For this was the truth of her role, she knew. Yes, she prepared brides for princes and lords of many nations. But ultimately the Daughters owed their first loyalty to their emperor. And any prince or warlord who purchased a Golden Daughter for his bride knew, in his heart of hearts, that when he spoke his marriage vows, it was not to the Daughter herself but to Noorhitam and the Anuk Anwar.

  Princess Safiya, in the solitude of her chamber, sat before a round mirror shaped after the fashion of Hulan’s Gate and stared at her own reflection. She had once been beautiful. Now, with her cosmetics wiped away and her face clean and bare, she looked faded, tired. Heavy bags dragged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow and thin.

  But she was still the bravest and brightest of all the previous emperor’s Golden Daughters. And thus she had become the Golden Mother and remained on at the Masayi long after her sisters had disappeared into the wider world, lost to their marriages and service.

  Now she sent her own Golden Daughters into the same oblivion. She did not doubt their abilities. She did not doubt their skills. They were highly trained, capable, and beautiful in the same unique way a sword is beautiful when skillfully crafted and balanced. All of them would bring honor to her and to their great father.

  But she doubted herself in sending them.

  She looked down at her hands lying calmly in her lap. Earlier that day they had wielded cruel instruments as she sought, yet again, to extract secrets from the lips of Lord Kasemsan. Beautiful Lord Kasemsan, whom she had systematically destroyed over the last half year. And yet he withstood her. What an amazing, what a fantastic creature was he!

  Suddenly she cursed. She did so very quietly, for the walls were thin and she feared that those standing without might overhear her. But she cursed once, then twice, then a third time.

  And when she had finished, she whispered, “Why did I ever send her away?”

  Word had arrived earlier that day, messages from Daramuti intended for the Besur’s ears only. But Princess Safiya, since assigning Sairu to her unusual role, had made it a point to learn all the doings within the Crown of the Moon. Not half an hour after the Besur received Brother Tenuk’s messages, runners fell at the Golden Mother’s feet and related all to her: The assault on Lady Hariawan by some Chhayan slave and, soon thereafter, the disappearance of both the lady and her handmaiden.

  “I should never have agreed,” Princess Safiya whispered now, in the smallest, darkest hours of the morning, when night was at its heaviest and dawn seemed forever away. “I should never have sent her. She wasn’t ready.”

  This was a lie. She knew full well Sairu’s capabilities. The girl had special talent. Not more talent than her sisters, no. But special talent, something unusual.

  Princess Safiya put a hand to her heart. It ached in her breast, and she cursed again. She had borne a terrible secret for many long years now, though she had hidden it from herself, burying it deeper each time she signed a contract and sent one of her Daughters away. Now, in light of recent events, it threatened to erupt, forcing its way up from her heart.

  She loved Sairu. And she felt she would break in two if the child were truly lost.

  She gulped once, very hard. Even here in private she dared not give way to such emotion. A Golden Daughter never loved—Princess Safiya had been taught this from the first, when she was but a child bowing to the will of her own Golden Mother. A Golden Daughter never loved, for love was the greatest weakness.

  She gulped again and knew the sobs would break loose if she did not do something. Grinding her teeth, she rose and moved across her room, determined to find some distraction, some purpose upon which to set her will. She went to her door, flung it open.

  And found herself gazing down into Sairu’s face.

  She stood, unspeaking, certain that she dreamed. Then Sairu smiled. Surely she could not dream that smile!

  “Greetings, Honored Mother,” said Sairu. “I’m come home.”

  Princess Safiya did not even breathe. She looked out into the chamber beyond and saw that all her slaves lay in deep slumber. Perhaps they were drugged. Perhaps they merely slept. It did not matter.

  Somehow Sairu had made her way through the heaviest, strictest fortifications of Manusbau, into the Masayi, into this chamber that was only a little less well guarded than that of the emperor himself. And she was smiling, pleased with herself.

  The Golden Mother clamped a heavy hand on Sairu’s shoulder and dragged her inside, all relief disguised, even to herself, in rage. She shut the door quietly, so as not to attract any attention. Then she whirled upon the girl and spoke in a voice of ice.

  “Three months, Sairu. Three months you’ve been missing.”

  “Three months exactly,” Sairu agreed with a nod. She wore a serving girl’s robes, and her face was carefully painted white, with red spots at the corners of her eyes. No one would look twice at her, so perfectly did she mimic the hundreds of other serving girls in Manusbau. “It has been a long journey.”

  “Word arrived earlier today of Lady Hariawan’s disappearance,” Princess Safiya said.

  “Oh dear,” said Sairu. “I had hoped to beat the message here if at all possible. But we were delayed on the way. Our manner of travel was effective but sometimes inconvenient.”

  “Manner of travel?” Princess Safiya drew a deep breath, making absolutely certain that when she spoke, she was master of her own voice. “You have come alone all the way from Daramuti?”

  “I and my mistress,” Sairu said. “Yes.”

  “Where is she? Where is Lady Hariawan?”

  “I will not tell you.”

  Princess Safiya’s hand twitched. It was testimony to her great self-possession that she did not slap the smile off the girl’s face then and there. Anger caused her heart to race, or so she believed; yet she still, inexplicably, wanted to weep. She still, inexplicably, wanted to ta
ke the girl into her arms and press her close.

  Instead she said coldly, “You must return her to the Crown of the Moon.”

  “No,” said Sairu, shaking her head. “One of the temple slaves sent with us to Daramuti was, I have reason to believe, a Crouching Shadow. He tried to kill her.”

  It took more than a feather to knock the wind out of Princess Safiya. But as Sairu’s words rang in her head, she found herself suddenly needing the support of the back of a chair, which her hand found and clung to, keeping her upright. She said nothing, but in that moment she and Sairu communicated in looks all that both of them knew and acknowledged.

  If one slave of the temple was a Crouching Shadow, how many more might be as well?

  “You have hidden her then?” said Princess Safiya.

  “Yes. I’ve put her where no one will look for her. And I will keep her there until I have answers,” said Sairu. “I will discover why the Besur sent my mistress into hiding. And I will discover why the Crouching Shadows are so bent upon making an end to her life.”

  Princess Safiya recalled the expression in Lord Kasemsan’s face—even today, six months since his interrogation by torture began. “I do not think that last will be an easy secret to uncover.”

  “I don’t expect it to be easy,” said Sairu. “But I will do it even so.”

  Dawn was only just touching the rooftops of the palace with gold when Sairu crossed the grounds of the Masayi. A few slaves up and moving about their various pre-dawn tasks took no notice of Sairu, so exactly did she look like any number of other serving girls within the palace walls. Her head was bowed, her hands deeply folded into her sleeves. Her hair was carefully arranged atop her head, with three thin braids falling across each shoulder, and her face was painted white. She looked the very picture of servile serenity.

  But her heart raced in her breast.

  She did not know what she would find when she reached the rooms that once were hers. But she knew what she wished to find. She also knew that she should not be wasting her time about this errand. There was so much to be done, so many as-yet-unknown terrors that must be faced before she could know Lady Hariawan to be truly safe. She should not be wasting a moment.

  And yet, without apparent haste she moved across the Masayi, following the rising sun, and came to the Chrysanthemum House, where she had spent most of her remembered life from the time she took the brand of the Golden Daughters upon her wrist. It looked exactly like any other humble building where serving girls were housed when not needed by their masters and mistresses. But the air around it was thick with secrets.

  Sairu slipped inside and along the passage to the room which had once been hers. She wondered vaguely if another girl had been chosen to take her place and even now resided in the small chamber. Whatever the case may be, she slid the door back cautiously and peered in, half-expecting to see a new sister upon her former bed.

  Instead, she discovered a sight that made her press a hand to her mouth in surprise.

  Lying in the midst of the cushions was a pile of fur: black, fawn, and gold so tangled up that individual bodies could scarcely be determined. But there were four of them, she knew at once. Three lion dogs curled up around the body of a large orange cat. One rested its chin across the cat’s back. Another, lying on its side, had its neck encircled by the cat’s paw, while the cat busied itself grooming the long hair of a silky ear.

  The atmosphere was thick with the rumble of maudlin purring.

  “Monster!” said Sairu.

  At the sound of her voice, three black-masked faces emerged from the pile and set up a barking of guard-dog threats, which swiftly changed into yips, yipes, and howls of joy. She was returned! The mistress! The mistress! The light of all life and meaning! They fell from the bed, scrambling over the cat, and flung themselves at her even as she stepped into the room, drew the door shut behind her, and knelt to receive them. Sairu picked up Dumpling, then Rice Cake, then Sticky Bun in turn, and let them kiss her face, wriggling so hard that she almost dropped them.

  The cat watched all from the bed, his face a cool mask over his embarrassment. When at length the outbursts of joy died back somewhat, he said, “You’re late.”

  “I am not,” Sairu replied.

  “You said you’d come in three months.”

  “I arrived yesterday.”

  “I didn’t see you, so it hardly counts.”

  Sairu, with some difficulty—for Dumpling kept hurling himself at her knees—got up and bowed solemnly. “Many thanks, Master Cat, for the service you have rendered me. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Well,” said the cat with a shiver of his coat that might have been a shrug. “It wasn’t so marvelous a feat. I’m not saying a jolly time was had by all, but it wasn’t like slaying dragons.”

  The corner of Sairu’s mouth twitched. “You like them.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do.”

  “They’re useless hedge-pigs.”

  “You like their fluffiness.”

  “I am entirely immune to fluffiness.” With great dignity the cat turned his back on her and began grooming. But his ears were back, attentive to her every movement as she made her way across the small chamber, knelt before a trunk, and removed from it various items: a silk bag embroidered with peacocks, a fan of similar design worked in paint, a pair of beaded slippers, an ugly brown robe. Curiosity overcoming him, the cat looked around, frowning. “What are you doing?”

  “Never you mind,” said Sairu, tucking these items into her robes. “Tell me, Monster, are you willing to help me again?”

  “Ah! Three months of blessed peace brought to an abrupt and brutal end,” said the cat with a sigh. “Command me, slave-driver. But don’t expect too much.”

  “I never do,” said she. “I need you to sneak into the dungeons beneath the Crown of the Moon. There is a man there, a man who may know something about my Lady Hariawan.”

  “Oh, so we’re still dead-set on protecting her, are we?”

  “Naturally. Now pay attention.” Swiftly she explained about Lord Kasemsan and his connection to the Crouching Shadows. “He has not revealed his true purpose in coming to Lunthea Maly. I believe he intended to kill my mistress, even as Tu Domchu did. I want to know why, but he has withstood torture for half a year now and still not spoken.”

  “So what do you expect me to do?” demanded the cat. “Purr at him?”

  “I want you to find him, and I want you to discover the truth. Use whatever means necessary. I know,” she added, with a significant look, “that you are more than you seem. That you possess powers beyond my understanding. Can you do this?”

  The cat twitched an ear. Then with a feline’s natural resistance to commitment he said, “I’ll give it a try. Where will we meet afterwards? Here?”

  “No,” said Sairu sadly, petting Dumpling, who was pressed up against her leg. “No, it is too dangerous for me to remain. The Crouching Shadows have likely guessed that I would return to Lunthea Maly, and they will come here.”

  “Where then?”

  She leaned toward the cat, and he came close enough that she might whisper in his ear: “Lembu Rana.”

  He pulled back from her, blinking his wide eyes, his lip curled in a snarl. “The Valley of Suffering? But that . . . that’s a leper colony!”

  Her face was pale but her jaw was firm. “That is where we will meet.”

  The cat shuddered. But then he nodded. “Very well. I’ll do what I can, and I’ll meet you there tonight after sunset. What about you? What will you do until then?”

  “I,” said Sairu, withdrawing something from her trunk, “am going to pay a visit to the Besur.”

  The lowest order of priests in the Crown of the Moon were devoted to the service of Baiduri, the smallest star ever to boast a shrine or two, who was only visible in the Noorhitam sky for half the year, leaving her priests with little enough to do the other half. Baiduri was nearing the end of her cyclical journey as autumn set
in and the months of her winter dormancy approached. Her priests too, were beginning to lose interest in their daily rituals and to look forward to winter when they would lounge about, reading a few holy texts, muttering a few prayers, and otherwise getting in the way of their nobler, busier brethren.

  A procession of eleven Baiduri priests made their way up one of the side paths within the Crown of the Moon. Their robes were brown and heavy, and their chants, uninspired. No one paid attention to them. No one liked the priests of Baiduri, and many priests of other orders muttered that they would do more honor to their service if they were made to clean the privies.

  Thus no one noticed that the procession was made up of eleven, not ten priests as was the usual. And no one noticed when the smallish priest at the end of the procession broke off from the rest and slipped away into an unfrequented portion of the temple grounds.

  Sairu, hidden deep within the priestly garments she had taken from her trunk earlier that morning, slipped behind a gnarled old tree hung so thickly with parasitic vines that it provided a shielding curtain. She had considered the possibilities of this overgrown portion of the Crown of the Moon since glimpsing it the long-ago night of her first visit to the temple. Now she used it to cut right across some of the more thickly populated portions of the temple, for there was more than enough cover for one small girl, even in broad daylight.

  Without the glow of the moon, the large stones littering this unpleasant plot were not white but dull gray, blackened in places as though by a great fire. Ducking behind one to avoid the gaze of a passing acolyte, Sairu placed her hand upon the stone, but withdrew it again with a gasp. It burned. Not so hot as to damage her hand, but enough to give her a start. Surprised, she put her palm close to the stone again, feeling the heat emanate out to her skin. It was much warmer than sun-baked. It was as though these stones had been engulfed in a great conflagration only a few days ago and still retained the heat of the blaze.