Page 14 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
How many had it been now? Four, five times? Alarming that he had already forgotten—though perhaps for the best.
He had to get through two more years, then the summons from Tír is Isneha would inevitably come for his brother. Therat could make his escape after Adon left. Scour the desert for some clues about the ones who murdered his parents, or go insane trying. And if the plan failed and he got lost, it would be a blessing to let the harsh wastes do what his hand could not.
Therat shook his head, touching the scar over his chest without thought. He began to walk toward no destination when another glint, this time something gold in the moonlight, caught his attention. Without hesitation, Therat shrank into the black edges of the trees lining the watery blue heart of the oasis.
The tangle of shadows wrapped around his broken heart surged forth, pulsing and writhing underneath his skin. The melody stricken with grief that always echoed through his mind hummed to life. Tendrils of black danced at the edges of hisvision, ready to take over at a moment’s notice. Crouching in the dark, Therat scanned the buildings ahead of him. He stooped low near the northern edge of the Market square as acrid smoke from the smithy filled his nose. If anyone lurked in the dark, they did not betray their position. Or perhaps he imagined it. Who else would be out when the blackness of night ruled the land? It was a feared thing, like him.
Therat called himself mad when a young woman with raven-black hair stepped out of a building. Her hair shone under the silver moonlight, black as the deepest shadows of night with tiny strands of gold, like gossamer threads of sunlight. The soft curls billowed out behind her with a passing breeze; it looked as if the star-lit sky itself wrapped around the maiden. Intrigued by someone else wandering in the dark of night, Therat followed the strange creature.
She did not seem to care about hiding her presence, walking without even glancing around to check for danger. The black silks flowing around her almost looked like shadows themselves, caressing the young woman with her every movement, moving as if they had a life of their own. She walked with the carefree ease of someone intimately familiar with the Market at night, taking her time to stop in front of gilded windows and locked displays, knowing exactly where to step to avoid the traps some shopkeepers set up at closing time.
A gasp slithered through the silent night as the strange maiden passed under a lantern still flickering with flame. The inky black silks around her disappeared for a moment before forming again. In their absence, Therat saw a woman, tall and slightly round, her hands and forearms covered in the shocking cobalt blue tattoos signifying she belonged to one of the Named Houses. She wore only a simple black dress with thin straps; clearly, the woman had no intention of being seen.
“It… it cannot be,” Therat breathed to himself, almost forgetting to quiet his voice as shock ricocheted through his mind.
It was the woman he locked eyes with at the Fountain. The one with scars on her face but a smile brighter than the sun. The one that almost, for a moment, made him think love still existed for him.
Now she was here, wrapped in the Shadow-weave, commanding the Song of the Night as if she were its creator.
He stood, unsure what to do. Excited whispers wormed into his brain, overlapping voices almost impossible to discern.
Kindred… kin returned. Go, hurry! Again and again… Help! No, claw and tear and shred! Hope…. love, forgotten… darkness, endless…
The woman paused and turned around. Her gaze settled on Therat less than a dozen feet away, but she seemed to be looking right through him. Therat could find no sign of life behind those deep brown eyes, only flat emptiness and pain. A look Therat knew all too well. He studied her face, this time holding back his shock.
Illuminated by the bright silver moonlight, two thin, curved cuts raced across the young woman’s cheek, like deep canyons carved into the warm brown earth. A thin line of bright crimson blood trickled down from the highest cut, below her swollen right eye. Deep purples and blacks painted her round face.
Therat's rage bubbled over. Who would do this to anyone, much less a woman from a Named House? Despite the blood on his own hands, Therat despised violence against women, always seeing his mother’s dying eyes and hearing her screams. The first man he ever killed attacked a woman and beat her to death. She was an Unseen, a beggar the man thought no one would care about dying in the back alleys of the Slums. This woman looked young, maybe young enough to not have officially come of age.
As Therat studied the woman’s face, he took in more clearly the pattern of black scars carved like crosses from her upper cheek down to the jawline. All thin and curved, as if carved by the same hand.
She is an evranenith.Alive. Is she the reason why?
The thought nauseated Therat. Why keep her alive, only to torture and maim her? Any who associated with the black corruption of Night—whether by blood or by moon—were seen as monsters, killed if any knew their secret.
Revelations about the cruelty of the world never surprised Therat. Nothing could, he thought.
Until tonight.
Until he sawher.
Everything stopped, and for a moment, Therat wanted nothing more than to embrace the maimed woman. He would find the person who hurt her and make them pay. He did not stop to wonder why he felt this way—kinship with a fellow Shadow-weaver, surely. It did not matter that Therat proved an unpredictable threat himself or that she belonged to the god-like caste of the Named Houses.
Deep within, something recognized the woman as more than a stranger in the night. They had always known each other and were bound to meet before either drew breath.
She would twist me, end me. I can feel it in my soul. She could never love me.
Even if he wanted her love, Therat’s heart held no room for such a thing. His love for Adon twisted over time, fueled by obsessive protection and duty out of guilt. What else could he offer but terror and pain?
Why are you doing this to me?
Whatever drove Therat forward, it came too late. By the time his legs moved again, the woman with raven-black hair streaked with sunlight turned and ran into an alley. She melted into theinky darkness. Therat stumbled after her. Was she safe, running from someone? He must know, the whispers now screams in his mind. He rounded the corner to see the alley empty and devoid of any sign of life, as if she disappeared into the night itself.
A single drop of blood on the sands remained the only sign the maiden existed, a crimson reminder of the cruelty carved into her achingly beautiful face. For the first time since the shadows sank their claws into him, the sight did not send them into a frenzy, choking as they clawed their way out, demanding more. Therat shuddered at the thought.
He didn’t want her to be special, didn’t want to have a fate set out before him. The acceptance of fate would mean accepting he couldn’t change anything… about his parents, about the shadows, about the blood on his hands. These were evil things, things done by men.
Hot anger flooded the man’s body. Therat sat, drowning under the crashing waves of painful memories. Tears fell from his light gray eyes, head sinking into hands covered in interlacing spirals from fingertip to wrist. The cool night winds of late fall picked up. Therat sank himself into oblivion, letting the pain wash over him until numbness made it impossible to move.
