Page 1 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
one
The Silent Dove
Apattar
Low on the horizon,the pale silver half-moon looked innocuous as it faded in the western skies. A simple thing, treading the same path each year. When the fullness of the moon illuminated the vast night sky, people gazed in wonder. For amoment, they would forgive its creator and call it beautiful, the sum of all starlight gathered by the gods.
Apattar wondered how that felt. What it would be like to look at the moon and bask in its pale glow, a reminder of simpler times—if such a thing ever existed. Did the Eldest fear the night when the moon disappeared and even the stars seemed to dim? The woman blinked and turned back to the simple leather-bound journal in her lap.
It’s funny, the way I used to crave a meaning to all of this. Trying to delude myself that the pain was worth it in the end. If a god cursed me, then surely my divine foremother would save me if I proved myself worthy. Now I think the gods are truly dead, or gone, or just don’t care about us anymore. I want to believe that, desperately. But I sometimes find myself doubting my convictions. It terrifies me.
The scratching sound of the quill stopped. The sudden silence felt tense; Apattar held her breath, waiting for some disaster to unfold. But nothing came, only the softwhooshof wind through the crumbling tower walls.
The hot summer days blurred together, the changing weather the only indication life continued beyond her four walls. Her nineteenth nameday had come and gone, as all others had. Miserable and forced to wear a smile, paraded around as if nothing was amiss behind closed doors.
How could there be? Apattar hailed from one of the many exalted families of the Named House of Isht’iri. TheSunmaiden’s divine blood coursed in her veins: a living memory of when the Seven Goddesses walked amongst their people. Admitting the Dark Goddess’s curse could touch even the descendants of Myrniar was an impossibility. Even as the hatred in her father’s eyes pierced the young woman’s heart, he spoke of how much he adored the twins—but especially his youngest, Ninann. It never stopped sounding strange, the way the man always found a way to insult Apattar in public.
Apattar’s one day of freedom from her chambers already felt like ages ago, her father’s mood particularly black the last two weeks. At least the nights were still hers to claim. It had gotten easier to sneak out, the lord of the House not bothering to post guards outside her chambers anymore. Apattar wanted to believe it was a sign of his trust, but she knew he didn’t care if she died. Maybehopedshe would. It would be a gift, an answer to a wish he never vocalized but harbored all the same.
These days, even Apattar found herself apathetic about the thought of dying. Life did not offer anything anyway, each day blurring into the next. Confined to her room with shelves full of books for company, not a living soul to be seen except the passing mouser cat. Most often, only Apattar’s thoughts accompanied her, hollowing out happiness and the hope of youth over the slow turn of time.
Once, Apattar thought life held meaning—if only she could find it. But then pain became her constant companion as daggered words turned to cuts and bruises, and suddenly the idea of meaning became terrifying.
Her father claimed he would purge the girl, abuse masquerading as an attempt to chase out the evil festering inside the then fourteen-year-old. Somehow, she was to believe every black scar on her cheek a sign of his love, marking Émerin’s desire to lift the Shadow-weave cursing his eldest child.
It was a pretty lie.
Once, Apattar might have believed it. But the Goddesses did not dole out curses. How could they, when they’d been dead and silent for over 3,000 years? Émerin cursed his daughter the day she came screaming into the world; the moon passed in front of the sun, and irrational fear ruled over reason. Spared from death, and given a tortured life instead. Some days, it was almost easy to envy the slain babes.
With a deep sigh, Apattar sat forward, pushing away all thoughts of her vile father. The silvery moon would soon dip below the western horizon, chased away by Narán’s blistering golden fingers of sunlight. A frown curled at the edges of Apattar’s mouth as the first rays broke through the eastern rise of great dunes.
As a child, the cursed daughter screamed at the sun until her voice gave out and tears streamed down her face. But now she only felt hollow, too tired to keep fighting. Was there even a point to trying to survive?
Leaving a life of torture shouldn’t be so hard. Even if Death awaited her, every day Apattar thought longer about taking her chances walking west to the great sea of golden grass. Not today, but maybe one day. At least Saiya would be waiting for her in the gilded cage of her family’s estate today.
Springing up from the hammock, Apattar slid the small leather-bound journal onto a shelf of others before running her finger along their spines. Twelve years of her life fit on the shelf. She wondered what anyone would think if they stumbled across the collection. Would they think any of it was real? A woman coursing with Myrniar’s divine blood, born anevranenith.One fate dictated she should be a priestess to her long-lost foremother, while another claimed she would end the world. Who could even come up with such a ludicrous idea? Apattar laughed bitterly at the thought.
Fate.
An idea the religious clung to, desperate to find comfort from the gods even after they abandoned Eás and their Children.
Apattar scoffed, turning away from the journals. Her eyes settled on the rising sun through the broken tower wall. With a sigh, she ran a hand covered in bright blue tattoos through her long, raven-black curls.
“Well, time for another miserable day,” she said to the sun. The young woman took one last wistful look at the empty sky where the stars had danced for her the night before.
She leapt from the top floor of the crumbling tower, curling forward as the air rushed past. She rolled out of the landing with a graceful ease only learned from years of practice. The moments falling felt like flying; as a girl, Apattar would imagine she kept flying and never landed. The soft ground greeted her, a reminder that even this escape proved only temporary. Apattar stood, shaking away the sand and stretching her limbs to prepare for the long walk back to Av Madhira.
A gust of wind kicked up, sand scratching at Apattar’s face—a deep, ruddy brown like clay soil after a hard rain. Looking south, she saw puffy orange clouds racing north and a golden sheen in the air. The height of the Sunbless months brought near-daily sandstorms. Sometimes sandraiders, too.
“Of all times…” Apattar muttered.
She shook her head and pulled the shawl from her shoulders over her mouth, wrapping the loose ends around each other and her neck. Soft, round fingers fell away; a slight tremor of nerves coursed through her arms in anticipation of what the day would bring.
It took nearly an hour to walk back to the oasis city of Av Madhira, yet it may as well have been five minutes. The last precious moments of solitude were always bittersweet. The desire to run away grew each day. But Apattar could only imagine how her twin would begin screaming, the sweet dove’sheart broken forever. Ninann loved her sister. The two always found ways to defy the limits placed on their interactions. Apattar tried to wear a brave face, but it became harder as the years wore on, her father’s torture worsening as her coming of age drew near.
Two more years. Then, she would be free.
At least, that’s the lie Apattar told herself. It was a foolish dream to think her father’s hatred would suddenly disappear, that theMakhaerenwould let her walk free. Death was the more likely gift, a dagger to the heart or a pyre burnt by the radiant Sunweave. She almost wanted it.
