Page 30 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
The brothers walked in silence under the meager shade offered by the thin canvases strung up between stands. A strange feeling took hold of Therat, like he was a fly walking into a spider’s trap. He tried to tell himself it was some anxiety about being around Ninann, but in the back of his mind a voice took hold.
She is trying to find me.
sixteen
The Coming Storm
Crushing darkness surrounds theworld. The silvered moonlight struggles to break through. Yet, there is no fear, no desperate cries of terror. There is comfort in the cool embrace of Night. The caress of a creator, gentle and guiding. Urging the woman on, soothing her restless heart.
Go to him,you know this soul as your own.
The woman’s eyes adjust to the weak light from above. She sees figures moving, dancing across the desert plains. Long limbs intertwine as they bound and leap over one another, an expression of their ecstasy in the growing depths of night. Her gaze sweeps across the world before her. It falls on the man by her side.
There is a tender love deep in the man’s gaze, shining in the darkness. Moonlight is in his eyes, silver mixing with gray. Deep within something stirs with recognition; she has been here before, in some other life. The man sighs, nuzzling his head into the woman’s neck. She feels safe, secure. If time ended here and this moment repeated for eternity, she would never wish to leave.
The man grazes a finger against her forehead, his touch softer than silk. Sparks race across her skin, leaving her begging for another taste. She looks at him with pleading eyes. His fingers touch her lips as he traces the outline of their soft curves. He leans in, breath warm, a comfort against her skin.
The woman breathes deeply, a heavy sigh escaping as she sinks into his inviting aroma. The metallic scent of blood and fresh-cut wood confuses and arouses her senses, stoking the fires of pain and lust. She reaches a hand up to his hair, intertwining thin fingers with black curls. She pulls; he moans. Her lips crush into his.
He tastes like a sweet corpse rotting in the sun, intoxicating the woman. She is unable to resist his defiled soul, a thrumming in her body that sayshe is the one you seek.She bites the man’s lower lip; a whimper escapes. He sinks deeper into her devouring kiss.
A thin line of blood dribbles down his chin and onto her bare chest. Another moan of pleasure, his chest heaving with the effort. Bloodied lips pull away, trailing downwards. His tongue slips around her nipple, grazing the tip with his bare teeth. Witha hiss, the woman pulls his head away, flesh unable to resist her touch. He squeezes her thigh, a growl rising in his throat.
The darkness gathers around them, shadows blanketing the eternal lovers’ embrace. A symphony rises within the woman, filling her soul, mending a heart torn asunder. The silence gives way to a low thrum: the beating of their hearts intertwining as one.
With a shove, the man falls back to the ground, the heat of his body coursing through the woman’s fingertips like liquid fire. She grabs his hands and pins them above his head, a hunger in her eyes. A vulture, observing the corpse below waiting to be picked clean. She wants his corruption, his wild heart, the darkness festering, twisting his mind.
But she can never give him that. As her gaze sweeps across the man, she remembers the hatred in her heart for the lies he made her believe. Her grip tightens, tendrils of Shadow-weave racing over his body, hungering to devour his very soul.
“You are sculpted by the gods to ruin me, to punish me, but never to make me repent. I love this torture you bring me. Oh, Mireithren…”
Apattar’s eyes slowly openedat the sound of the strange name she heard once before in another dream.
She sucked in a breath through teeth still clenched tight, rubbing the ache away with her fingers. Her room came into slow focus with each blink, mind still trying to piece together the fragments of the dream. It faded to the light of day fasterthan Apattar could think, retreating into the void like so many memories and dreams from days past.
The feeling of fingers tracing the outline of her lips floated past. Apattar closed her eyes and tried to tear the memory back from the void, wanting to relish in the tender touch that made her skin crawl with anticipation. But, like everything else, it vanished, the sensation impossible to conjure again.
Thoughts of her future and the destiny she controlled consumed Apattar since her return to Av Madhira. The day she returned, a hush fell over the Market square. A sight none would soon forget—hair untamed, knotted from a year in the wilds with a tattered dress covering a body so thin each bone protruded like a mountain. A starved and dying woman with the markings of a Named House. One of the Houses of the Sun, at that.
Instead of swarming guards and a life behind bars—or worse—Apattar was escorted to the Temple. After a long day recounting her year away with theMakhaerenÁnnarsera, Apattar found herself free to return home, supposedly on the wishes of her father. The scroll bearing his signature smelled faintly of lilac and roses, though none seemed to notice the strange aroma.
Ninann was beside herself with glee the day Apattar walked through their estate gates, too desperate to hug her sister again to notice the changed look in her eyes. Ninann insisted on spending every waking hour together, peppering her sister with questions about her year away. Apattar said little of her time on the ruined remains of Andeshar, and nothing of Laisha or the strange man.
Though she feigned contentment on the outside, a restless hunger grew with the approach of their twenty-first nameday and final coming of age. Apattar did not earn her freedom to live a life of leisure with her sister. That dream died long ago.
Today, the gnawing ache in her heart left, replaced with excitement for the day to come. Previous nameday celebrations always resulted in anxiety and dread. While Ninann delighted in the festivities, watchful eyes haunted Apattar’s every move, forced to comply with the rigid expectations of her father. Yet, no matter her behavior, all seemed to end the same: broken and crying as sharp words turned to sharp blades over the years. Her birth was a mark of her father’s failure, not something to be celebrated.
Apattar had few happy memories in life thus far. Today, she meant to make the first of hundreds to come.
The wood bed creaked as she sprang up, eager to discover what Ninann had planned for them. As if waiting for the woman to rise, two handmaidens glided in, dipping their heads as they approached. The taller of the two, Saiya, smiled warmly at Apattar. She had asked nothing of her mistress’s journeys afar, though Apattar sensed she noticed a change about the returned traveler.
Saiya held a dress of shimmering rich green silks, interlacing spirals of golden beads decorating the hemline. Her arms, though atrophied from burns suffered as an infant, looked exquisite draped in the luxurious dark greens.
“Lady Apattar,” Saiya said. “Ready to begin?”
Apattar nodded. “Is this the dress as I requested? It is beautiful!” She extended a hand and took the dress from Saiya’s arms, unfurling it with care.
“Yes, my lady. Is this green the right shade? Lady Ninann wears hers lighter, but I told the dressmaker this was for you. Here, let me help you with it.” Saiya beckoned for the woman behind her, a short and stocky girl a few years younger than Apattar. She hurried forward to help her mistress out of the black night slip clinging to skin still sticky with sweat.
