Page 13 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
“I believe my daughter is alive in there, somewhere. The Sunmaiden forgives all. Even you,evranenith, tainted by her dark sister who grasps and claws at your soul. The Sunmaiden’s child Narán will vanquish all shadows the vixen may wield in the end.” His mouth drew near, hot breath assaulting Apattar’s face.“Long have my dreams foretold the destruction you will cause. I will end this future, one way or another.”
Apattar scrunched her eyes closed, trying to imagine anything else.
“Fa-Father,” she whimpered. “Father, please, wh-why do you keep doing this?”
Why did her comforting whisper not come, or the black Shadow-weave that lashed out and saved her life when a man attacked her in the Market? Silent, empty…hopeless. Apattar crawled to the void, wanting to submerse every last spark of her life into the empty black spaces where pain and hopes died.
Her father did not respond. A pained look crossed his face before disappearing off the other side. With a click of his fingers, a bright amber glow filled the room, warm like the touch of the sun.
He began chanting, a low, guttural vibration deep in his throat. As it grew louder, the prick of a million burning needles spread across Apattar’s body. Pleasurable, at first, in the sick way her tolerance of pain became a game of wills with her father. But it extended past what anyone could tolerate, leaving her mind an ashen wasteland.
Threads of heat worked their way to her core, searing everything in their path with radiant fire. The sun itself exploded inside Apattar. Shadows lashed out from the void, cooling the pain for a moment before another torrent of liquid fire came, erasing all remembrance of comfort.
Through the blurred waves of pain, Apattar saw something silver moving toward her face, her father’s thick hand covered in blue doves and half-moons coming with it. Lost in the din of agonizing pain, a voice told her to turn away, to kick and scream, do whatever it took to keep him away from her. A whisper among shouts and screams. Paralyzed with fear, every neuron struggled to survive the purging fires of the sun.
The silver came closer, angling toward her cheek, the outline of a blade coming into hazy focus. Everything vanished, leaving only a mind-numbing emptiness. The world slipped into a deep and impossible black around Apattar.
Through the blackness, Apattar felt herself deposited into her bed, the scent of lavender passing by the woman. Tendrils of Shadow-weave curled around her, excising the horrors of the night from a mind near-broken by incomprehensible pain.
For the first time in years, Apattar cried herself to sleep, wet tears and blood the only companions in the empty darkness. Sleep soon took her from the tortures of the day, but death haunted her dreams, and in time, she awoke and heard the vast emptiness of the desert calling her name.
seven
Stolen Glances
Therat woke up andimmediately tried to will himself back to sleep. Too late. His mother’s face faded, her dark gray eyes the last to disappear. Always the same gentle words, the same smiling face looking down. For a single heartbeat upon waking, Therat could almost pretend his life was the nightmare and his dreams reality.
What a foolish child, to think such things.
With a heavy sigh, Therat crawled out of bed, taking care not to disturb his brother on the other side of the room. The cool air pelted his skin. Muscles seized out of protest, longing for the warmth of his bed before surrendering to their master.
He wondered the hour. If, sixteen years ago right now, his parents were still alive. He often thought about the exact moment they were taken away from him. They had all stayed up late, the night sky streaked with shooting stars and shimmers of deep purple lights. What if Therat did not notice the first shooting star? Would they have left to fly back home? Would his family still be here today?
“N-no, stop!” Therat cried out before clasping his hands over his mouth. He looked back to Adon, who stirred in his bed but did not wake.
Therat tried to protect his twin from the nightmares and disturbing thoughts plaguing his troubled mind. Though Adon was the eldest by almost an hour, Therat grew fiercely protective as a young boy even before the death of their parents. The two quickly became known as “The Boy and his Cub” throughout the Weavers District where they lived. The sight of a cougar cub plodding alongside a skinny, ruddy brown-skinned boy certainly made a lasting impression. Through the years, the Boy grew into Man, Cub into Cougar. Rare were the times Therat walked alongside his brother with his own skin during the day.
Though uncommon among the Madhiri, the people grew to accept the presence of a Formweaver so blatantly in their midst. So too did Adon grow to accept his guardian-brother. It would not do to have two broken orphans. Therat thought it the least he could do with his life—ensure his brother had a happy one.
But tonight, he needed to escape.
Though his grandfather spoke true and the words of hope echoed in his mind, the screams of the dead pulled him into anabyss of dark memories. Nothing good ever came from looking too closely at the past, lest he awaken the hunger again.
Creeping to the foot of his bed, Therat pulled on a loose pair of black pants. He paused, hesitating to put on a shirt or shawl. No need for adhering to customs when none roamed the city with him. As bold as he wanted to be, the thought of walking bare-chested, the mark of ultimate failure splayed across his torso, made his skin crawl. The jagged white scar over his heart burned for a moment before fading. A relic from his weakest moment. Therat’s fingers quivered as he touched the scar.
Forcing a breath through gritted teeth, Therat threw the shirt down.
Stop being such a fucking coward about everything.
Grinding his molars, Therat stalked out of the room and down the short hall, the gentle snores of his grandfather floating from the back corner. Forgoing sandals, Therat slipped through the front door and closed it with care. Cool, gritty sand brushed over hard rock greeted his feet as he stepped off the modest porch. He took a deep breath of the crisp air.
The silver moon sat high in the sky, on the cusp of its full glory. A shiver crawled up Therat’s spine. Sharp claws sank into soft flesh, icy pangs of pain stabbing at his brain. He hated the full moon, but especially the one in the cold and dark month of Mireile, when the year came to an end and Death stalked the world. Three days after his parents had been murdered, the full moon rose blood red, oozing from the sky onto the boy as a reminder of all he had lost. Therat wanted to claw it from the sky and tear down the monument to his failures.
Beyond reason, tonight, Therat found himself compelled to stare at the glowing orb in the sky. The shadows curled around his heart stirred as if responding to something. For the first time since his parents’ death, the Shadow-weave did not lash out and fill his head with dark thoughts. Instead, the hushed whisper ofthat woman’s voice he heard those many years ago tugged at the back of his mind. It begged to be heard, but grew fainter the more he tried to focus on it.
Something glinted in his peripheral. Therat did not break eye contact with the moon. The woman’s voice faded altogether; the shadows slumbered once more. It all happened so fast Therat almost thought it all a hallucination.
Life had gotten too confusing too quickly, hope now a commodity he could never afford. It would not do to cling to fragments of the past, even something like a voice he heard once before. What good did it bring him now? Why did it not help when the boy feared for his life? He rejected whatever comfort it used to give. Help did not disappear when needed most. The voice did not exist, only his mind playing tricks on him again, leading him down a path which always ended with someone dead at his feet.
