Page 2 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
Despite walking back on the edges of a sandstorm, Apattar thought the journey peaceful. Wind whistled past her ears, a harsh scream distracting her mind. The oasis grew taller on the horizon with each step, a swath of verdant green in the otherwise brown and yellow world. In the distance, Apattar could just make out the tall golden spires of the Sunmaiden’s Temple. The familiar sight of gold rising from a sea of green stood as a beacon for nomads and the lost, though few of them would ever set foot on the white marble floors. Yet, to Apattar, they reminded her of everything she lost, mocking her no matter where she went in the city.
A strange feeling, like a hand strangling her neck, overcame Apattar. It had become disturbingly common over the years, much like the woman’s voice that came to her in the dark of night. Some unseen guide, providing comfort when none among the living would.
Apattar hummed a quiet melody to herself. The pressure faded, yet the anxiety only grew inside. Each passing minute took her closer to the verdant prison she desperately wished to escape. Humming louder, Apattar tried to drown out the voice of fear that always reminded her of what cruelties lay within the walls of House Isht’iri.
Lost in the melody, Apattar nearly tumbled over a small cliff edge to the red rocky ground below. Stepping back, she turned to a well-worn staircase carved into the side of the cliff, running down two steps at a time. The Eyes of Vanyaseá watched her every move. The twin jackal statues had stood guarding the oasis since the Discordance. They towered even above the cliff ledge, their white stone cracked and eroded with age. For almost four thousand years, the glowing amber eyes saw all. No one knew exactly what powers they had, if any, for none had ever dared to attack the heart of the Madhira Desert.
Whatever their commands, to Apattar, they always felt ravenous, as if they would spring to life, gulping her down into a black oblivion.
Once down the short staircase, Apattar sprinted underneath the Eyes and up the great Black Stair. An involuntary shiver ran the length of her spine as she passed under their sweeping gaze. The steps of the staircase were steep, but soon enough, she reached the top and looked at the sprawling oasis below.
The desert city of Av Madhira stretched out nearly as far as the eye could see. A sea of greens interspersed with wide patches of golden sand and brown rock, crammed with brightly colored tents and clay buildings. Smoke rose from the Reapers Quarter nearest her, while to the right, the sound of chanting and song floated by.
Blanketed in a warm orange glow, the red and orange towers of the Named Houses and the golden spires of the Temple towered over all. Apattar took the sight in for only a moment before hurrying down the steps on the other side of the ridge, almost tumbling over her feet in the rush.
two
Crossing Boundaries
Of the few pleasantexperiences Apattar had in her locked chambers, she enjoyed most the feeling of her hair being twisted, pulling at her scalp as her handmaiden braided the long curls.
“Do you think my father knows?” she murmured, breaking the peaceful silence. “Or does he even think about me outside of our… sessions?”
The handmaiden standing to the side braiding her hair paused for a moment to think, then resumed weaving the strands of black. She worked with deft hands despite the scarring and burns covering her arms and fingers.
She stood near Apattar’s height, though significantly thinner, with a flat chest and hollow cheeks. The physique of the laboring caste. A pale blue veil covered a head of brownish-black coils, pinned at her ears and cascading down over a simple white dress held up with a gold hoop around her neck. Though disfigured and wearing plain garba regal air surrounded the handmaiden.
“I think you bear his wrath quietly enough, he thinks you broken. Perhaps too quietly.” The woman finished tying off the braid and, reaching a hand forward, gently touched the crisscrossed line of black scars on Apattar’s right cheek. “Why do you not fight back,neha? What do you tell Lady Nessaeren? Surely she wou—”
“My mother cannot do anything.MakhaerenÁnnarsera has given him special permission to…” Apattar paused, the Shadow-weave within squirming, sinking into her flesh. A cool blanket settled across her mind. “... permission to cleanse me. I am officially under the command of the High Priestess until I come of age. He said I should count myself lucky, the onlyevranenithin all Madhira not slain when I took my first breath. I suppose he never clarified if good or bad luck came my way.” Apattar laughed, but no mirth filled her eyes, only emptiness.
“He is a hateful man,” the handmaiden said under her breath. “Two years, then. Does the night heal your wounds so well that you can hold on that long? This is…”
She paused as if searching for the words to say what she wanted without betraying her lord.
“This is madness, my lady! I cannot stand by and watch him ruin you as he ruined me!” A wail ripped from her throat as she cast her arms around Apattar.
“Saiya,” Apattar breathed. She froze, unsure how to reciprocate. It had been years since anyone besides Ninann embraced Apattar. Then, as quickly as it came, Saiya jerked away from her mistress, eyes wet with tears.
“Saiya, you are not ruined. I mean, look!” Apattar grabbed one of her many small braids and showed it to her handmaiden, grabbing one scar-covered hand in hers. “You bring me the only beauty I have in life.”
Saiya only sniffled in reply.
“Fa—he had no right to hurt you so. And I will make him answer for it, this I promise you. I will endure; I must. For us. Then we will run away to freedom.” Apattar let go of Saiya’s hand, aware they had both crossed an unspoken boundary between the castes, though she did not care.
About five years her senior, Saiya served as Apattar’s handmaiden since birth, given up by her mother to enter the service of the newest High Lady. An honor, she thought, though time quickly proved her wrong. Over the slow years, mistress and handmaiden became friends in those rare moments when they were alone together.
“I am sorry, Lady Apattar. I should not have spoken so freely.” Saiya wiped the tears away and stiffened her back, lapsing into the formal training ingrained over years of service. “I would never imply any harm should come to your father.”
Apattar stood and looked into Saiya’s hazel eyes, clouded with doubt and something else.
“You should speak however you feel, for you are my friend. And you are right, heisa hateful man. Being a High Lord does not exempt him from judgment.”
“You speak nonsense, to say I could be a friend of someone from a Named House.” Saiya chuckled as a timid smile took over her golden brown face. “Yet, I suppose this life we live is nonsense.”
The two women sat back down. Saiya resumed braiding Apattar’s hair, idly talking about the latest news of the city. Apattar let the words float by, picking up snippets here and there. This had become a ritual of theirs: Saiya talked about nothing of consequence as Apattar relaxed, stretching out the time she spent with another friendly soul.
Saiya offered true companionship, the one luxury Apattar had since the death of her previousdanrenfive years prior. Two hours with Saiya every morning, with Myris joining her once every Sandei. During these hours, Apattar would find her strength, a reminder of the good the world did possess, should it ever decide to let the woman partake.
