Page 11 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
“What would I do without you, my sweet friend?” whispered the woman, tracing the outline of the cat’s pointed ears, tufts of white fur sticking out like antennae.
Apattar loved the small white ginger tabby, her favorite of the mousers on the estate. A tiny thing, she was the runt of her litter ten years ago. Apattar remembered how Ninann begged to save the poor thing when its mother rejected the kitten, how even through closed doors her cries echoed through Apattar’s chambers. Her father—the vile man who carved into her soft flesh with a dagger and claimed to hurt the girl out of love—he said yes without pause, without trying to dissuade Ninann or declare it a mercy to kill the tiny thing. Apattar grew to love the kitten with a fierceness to rival her love of Ninann: living proof her father’s mercy did exist.
“What is it like, Lirande?” Apattar murmured as she stroked the cat’s head, tracing the dark orange pattern on her forehead. “To know his mercy? Does he ever think of you with a fond heart? Remember how his choice delighted Ninann? I wonder if he knows how much I mean to her. Maybe that…” Her voice trailed off as the feeling of choking surfaced again, invisible hands strangling her until life became blurred.
The cat opened two bright green eyes, sharp fangs flashing in the light as she yawned. The feeling of choking lessened as a giggle escaped Apattar’s mouth. No matter how many times she had seen it, the way Lirande yawned always made her smile. One incisor was longer than the other and stuck out past the cat’s closed mouth. When she yawned, the cat would always hold her head at an angle, shaking her head until her mouth closed and the long fang poked out. A ridiculous thing to find amusing, but Apattar did not care. Everything about the cat enchanted her.
“Hmm, you are right. It has been a long several hours sitting on the balcony with you. Off you go, little one. Go find a nice mouse for dinner, okay?” Apattar spoke with a tenderness reserved only for the small cat. The pale ginger tabby left after a minute, her tiny squeaking meows goodbye breaking the woman’s heart.
Alone again, the uneasiness returned with a vengeance, waves of nausea washing over Apattar. She tried to stand, but her head felt light—as if it might float away and leave her body behind.
Why was it so hard to be alone with her thoughts? They always turned to dark and dismal things, voices reminding her of the inescapable fate laid out before her. These last months proved to be a temporary distraction. Simple, meaningless things that would disappear like everything else in her life. Everything, except the memories of pain and hurt, the terror of what she would become. What she already was. Water cleansed the blood from her hands, but not her heart.
Closing her eyes, Apattar tried to focus on the sensations of the hardwood at her back. The feeling as grooved paneling pressed in at awkward angles against her spine. How the smooth black stone felt beneath her legs, somehow always cool no matter the temperature outside. Apattar learned long ago to force herself to think of the physical sensations she knew to be real. Her mind imagined too much, conjured darkness when it didn’t need to. She didn’t need to panic, not now, she told herself.
A cold wind blew past, sending Apattar’s loose curls flying into disarray. A knock came at the door as it passed, heavy and slow.
Deliberate.
It knocked again.
Impatient.
Without waiting for a reply, a third knock came, so heavy it seemed as if it would break the door down.
Demanding.
Apattar pulled the hair out of her face and stood, gulping down a lungful of cool air. A knot formed in her stomach. Had her father returned unannounced? Apattar intended to face him, not cower away. It was the least she could do—pretend these last few months meant something, somehow changed her. She strode to the door and whisked it open, the wood gliding over the broken tiles near the threshold.
No one stood outside, only a single guard a few paces away, sitting with their back to her. A symbolic gesture meant to keep the woman in her quarters. Apattar stuck her head out and looked around, wondering what trickery this could be.
“Sentry,” she hissed toward the guard, who did not stir. “Sentry!”
No reply.
The guard sat straight, looking up at a slight angle, as if observing something on the ceiling. Apattar looked up but saw nothing. With a huff, she walked forward and tapped them on the shoulder, rage growing. She might be cursed and a prisoner behind the Wall, but she was still a Named Lady and above their caste.
The guard did not respond, body cold and stiff. With mounting panic, Apattar tugged at the shadows within, trying to awaken the Shadow-weave. They did not stir.
Terror gripped Apattar’s chest. Why did the Shadow-weave not come forth? Had someone grown bold enough to kill theevranenithharbored behind the Wall? Did they bring a Blightweaver, drain her connection to the First Harmonic? With tentative steps, Apattar circled to the front of the guard.
A scream built in her throat at the sight of the face before her.
The hauntingly familiar face of a middle-aged woman with light chestnut brown skin and flat brown hair loomed large. Around her neck bloomed deep purple bruises and black welts. A trickle of blood ran from a small cut near one ear. Apattar tried to turn and run away, but her muscles refused, feet melting into place.
A thin, piercing scream like a whistle assaulted Apattar, ripping through her mind like a hot knife. Blood rushed past her ears, a warm liquid pooling in them before dripping down her neck.
Apattar heard herself screaming, but it sounded miles away, a faint sound carried by the wind across the wide open plains of the desert. Darkness gathered at the edges of her vision, forcing her to stare at the dead woman sitting in front of her. Forcing her to witness the crime she wanted to erase. Remembering the months after the woman’s death, ruminating over it hour after hour until madness descended.
A grin slowly stretched across the dead woman’s face the longer Apattar looked. Without warning, the corpse’s eyes opened. Though pale and cloudy, the dull brown eyes could only belong to one person.
Tela.
The name thundered across Apattar’s mind, worming into every crevice, unlocking every memory the woman had forced away. Flashes of the past came back.
Her hands around Tela’s throat, tendrils of Shadow-weave wrapping around the slender neck. Pulsating, squeezing, hungering. The shadows gathered around the two women, a thousand whispers of anger and pain coursing through her mind. Apattar’s sobs as she tried to stop, the voice of reason drowned out by the seething hatred taking over every thought.
As Apattar stared at the corpse’s dead, baleful eyes, the Shadow-weave inside awakened from slumber, the void spreading like a wildfire of icy nothingness.
