Page 12 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
Wake up! You must wake up! My daughter, oh my daughter. Do not descend into madness! Do not listen, hear my voice. Wake up! Please, Mireithren!
Apattar’s eyes flew open,vision swimming as the smooth black stones came into focus. She had fallen on her side, curled up on the balcony floor like a newborn child.
A cold wind blew past her wet cheeks, the last rogue tears still falling from her aching eyes. Reaching a hand up, Apattar wiped them dry, lingering over the crossed scars. Tiny little valleys across her once beautiful face. Apattar jerked her hand away, pulling a mess of curls over the marks of her father’s twisted love.
The gloaming hour claimed Av Madhira. Deep purples painted the sky as night began its reign, growing each day with the approaching winter Solstice, marking the start of another year. Ninann should have arrived long ago, curled up on the balcony hammock with her twin as the sisters watched the sun set over the golden land. Why had she not come?
Apattar’s head pounded as she sat up, trying to come up with a rational reason for her twin’s absence that didn’t include their father. They would have had warning, no doubt. If not Apattar, at least her sister. Perhaps she lost track of time, still wandering in some far corner of the Temple or the Weavers District. The woman had grown close with a powerful Skyweaver from beyondthe Wall, fast friends bound for Tír is Isneha with the next waveweaver recruits.
The grumble of her stomach reminded Apattar she had also missed dinner. Another alarm rang in her mind. If Ninann had not come, then surely Saiya would have arrived with food, found her mistress and helped the woman wake from her black nightmare. Apattar stood and stumbled into the main room of her chambers, wincing as each step sent blood rushing through her aching head.
She could see little beyond shadows and dim outlines. With a flick of her wrist and a thrum of bright music, a string of orbs overhead lit up. Polished cut glass dispersed the warm amber glow from within. Apattar’s eyes quickly settled on a silver tray in the center of her bed. A small wooden bowl and a note sat on it. Panic crept over the woman. She rubbed her eyes, desperately hoping she never left the dream world. The bowl remained.
Chipped and rough around the edges as if made with a hasty hand, the dark wood sat in stark contrast to the fine linens around it. Edging closer, ignoring the quickening of her heart, Apattar saw a handful of cheese curds, some dates, and a small chunk of bread in the bowl.
The panic creeping through her body rushed past the broken dam of her resolve. A high-pitched ringing in the background came to life, growing into a deafening roar. One trembling hand reached for the cream-colored parchment, her name written in harsh, bold letters across the top. Sucking in her breath, Apattar turned it over.
We begin again, evranenith. I will reclaim what the dark stole. Eat.
With a yelp, Apattar dropped the note like a burning coal, terror stilling her heart. The hands around her neck returned, suffocating, squeezing, throbbing with anger and malice. Reality came roaring back, the pretty veneer of the last three months torn away with three little sentences.
Why didn’t the black dove flee from her cage when given the chance? Apattar knew her father would not be away forever. What naivety let her think the torture would not return?
The words circled Apattar, closing in, sending every neuron into a dizzying frenzy. Pressure built from within, expanding into every crevice until it became too much to bear. Apattar wanted to scream, to lash out and run away, far away until either death or freedom found her. But she could only force out a silent cry, her throat closing in and swallowing the pain back inside. Dread slithered through each cell before pooling in the heels of her feet. Why use chains and locks when fear worked as well? Perhaps better—chains could be broken, locks picked. Nothing could break the hold her father had over Apattar’s heart and mind.
Numb and guided by habit, Apattar stumbled to the balcony with the meager bowl of food and sat on the cool black stone. She let the ceaselessly hungry void wash over her, felt it pulling the pain from her body, easing her mind of the dread choking like a vine. The void hungered for more than she could sate, taking with it her happiness and joy, consuming everything the woman could give.
Apattar learned long ago to embrace the emptiness, how to hold onto scraps of memories to find enough strength each day. Her journals held the woman’s life, reminders of the things too painful to keep inside as well as the joy taken without remorse. It made it easier to endure her father’s attention when the cool Shadow-weave waited to give its relieving embrace.
Pushing the note from her mind, Apattar choked down part of the bread and two cheese curds. The bread scratched at her throat going down. Swallowing hard, Apattar finished the rest of her meal and looked for the rising moon on the eastern horizon. It would be full soon, the last one of the year before the dark days of winter and the Moondark months began. Apattar shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest.
The pale silver orb crested the eastern horizon, a sheen of white illuminating the world below. The stars followed, one by one. First came the bright northern star Eleuran, then hundreds more. The sight brought with it a wisp of joy, but it did little to rouse Apattar, now curled up on the floor.
Evranenith.
The word terrified her when it came from her father’s mouth. Cold fear dripped into her veins at the thought of what might come. But she had time, a chance to run and hide. She knew where Saiya hid the knapsack with their disguises, after all.
Before Apattar could decide what to do, a faint shuffle in the room drew her thoughts away.
No, no! Gods, please, no! Anyone, anyone?
“Get up. Come, now.”
The words sliced through Apattar, a million tiny daggers eviscerating and shredding the girl to ribbons. Through some reserve of hidden strength, Apattar stood, body taking timid steps forward to the tall man in golden-yellow robes. “I see you ate. Good. Your body will need the strength.” Apattar could not find the will to look up at her father’s face, though she knew the exact expression it bore—lips set in a hard line, eyes narrowed and burning with malice.
A heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder, guiding the young woman out of the chambers and down long, twisting staircases and black corridors. Apattar floated, unable to feel anything except cold fear coursing through her veins. She triedto keep track of where they went, but the depths of the estate swallowed her until she could see only black.
After some time, they arrived at a small room with a single bed, a chair with armrests, and a basin of water. Old blood still caked the walls next to the bed, almost black around one of the cracked dirty yellow tiles. Her head ached at the sight, a bitter taste on her tongue.
Hello again, old friends.
“Sit,” barked her father, pointing at the chair. Ducking from his gaze, Apattar obliged without protest and slid onto the wooden seat, placing her hands palm up on the armrests like an obedient dog.
Apattar’s heart took off, racing faster than the beat of horse hooves across the golden racetracks of the desert. But what else could she do? Any attempt at disobedience in the past left a permanent mark on her face, a reminder of who controlled the woman’s life. To think she had free will only led to pain.
As her final arm slid into place, a thrum filled the room, growing higher and louder like the buzz of a million bees. Squeezing her eyes shut, Apattar took a breath and prepared for the inevitable pain.
A gasp tore from her throat as threads of blinding sunlight wrapped themselves around chair and wrist, squeezing and pressing into her bone, sending liquid fire racing through each arm. Apattar wanted to scream but she could only suck in enough air to keep from passing out. Her father circled the chair, voice slithering into the woman’s ears like poison.
