Page 38 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
With a shaking hand, Apattar lifted a crimson-colored curtain to the side, revealing an interior lined with small pillows and littered with empty wine bottles. In the center lay Therat. Under the red glow of the curtains, his skin looked like the color of dark dried blood. Those stormy gray eyes rested, his bare chest barely rising with each gentle breath.
Therat looked so peaceful in sleep. His eyelids twitched. A moan escaped pinched lips as some nightmare gripped his mind. Apattar knelt and ran her fingers through his curly black hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. As if immersed in a hot bath, Therat melted into the cushions, his face calm once more. For a moment, Apattar’s heart softened.
My heart…
The soft voice of her unseen guide burnt like the sun itself against her mind. A melancholy so deep it seemed as if her soulsong itself was re-woven settled into Apattar’s heart.She gently tucked a stray black curl behind Therat’s ear. The intimacy sparked a faint memory, but she could not pull it to the surface.
With her next breath, the enchantment ended.
No!
Jerking her hand away, Apattar studied the rest of the sleeping man. Dozens of little nicks and calluses covered his hands. An intricate spiral of knotwork tattoos ran the length of each finger, meeting at the wrist and wrapping around like a shackle. Apattar memorized all the warding tattoos of the Madhiri as a child; she had never seen one like this before.
Her eyes moved up, stopping at a jagged white scar splayed across his chest. Thin, as if cut by a sharp blade, it ran across Therat’s left breast over his heart. A chill ran the length of her body. What could have caused such an injury? Nestled in the embrace of sleep, Therat suddenly seemed so vulnerable.
Apattar extended a thin finger toward the white scar. Firm, unyielding flesh greeted her with a chilly reply. White hot pain sliced through her chest, a cold blade cutting across her upper breast. The intensity evaporated the breath from her lips. Pulled into a tangled web of memories and repressed emotions, her vision swam as a memory all but faded to the light of day came into focus.
Shaking hands clutch a dagger, cold metal gleaming. A freshly smithed blade hungering for first blood. The silver edge slices across quivering skin. Delirious waves of pain lash out with a ferocity to rival the sun. A desperate, feeble attempt to keep going, to plunge the dagger deeper into the maggot-infested heart. A heart of nothing. A heart that killed, murdered, betrayed. Forever broken.
Teeth grit. Unleashing the pain, a cry echoes as the dagger slices deeper. Fingers touch the lacerated flesh, the hot sticky liquid the last sensation before darkness falls.
Apattar’s eyes bolted open as the memory crawled back into the depths of shame and denial, leaving only a sense of pathetic failure behind. A tear rolled down her face, splashing onto Therat’s lips below. Whatever happened in his past drove the man to madness long ago. He could not be saved, could not be her future. He would ruin her, twist her, unleash the darkness, not end it. Laisha had to be mistaken, had to misunderstand the message of her Oracle.
Deep sorrow and desperation replaced the heat of desire. Apattar ran, flying across the golden sands to the refuge she once claimed as a girl. Was this what the Shadow-weave did to those who escaped death as a babe? How could Apattar overcome such a twisted fate?
nineteen
An Unkind Touch
Therat welcomed the stenchof the slaughterhouse, breathing in deep to clear the intoxicating scent of the raven-haired maiden he named Mireithren. He savored the metallic taste of blood in the air as it settled on his tongue. Therat picked his way between the figs and slaughterhouse, sandstones below stained brown with dried blood.
At the end of the path alongside the building sat a small gazebo lined with sheer red curtains. Therat swept one aside and collapsed on a pile of soft pillows. The workers were away today, attending some training in the Sun District. A small blessing, but greatly welcomed.
A heavy dread settled into Therat’s limbs. Muscles tensed, ready to strike. A strange sense of anticipation laid over his heart. He pulled off the shawl and rubbed his aching chest. Therat focused on the desert heat as it embraced his body, the hot breeze wicking away sweat as it formed.
His Mireithren didn’t belong to just any Named House, but House Isht’iri itself, one of the four Houses of the Sun. Divine blood flowed in her veins. Ninann, his brother’s promised bride, was twins with the maiden wreathed in shadows. Mireithren, the impossibleevranenith, divine in her own right.
Could the idea of aliraesbe so ludicrous when someone who understood his secret world existed? When he had seen her before, had given her a name and let obsession drive him to madness? A spellbinding siren, Mireithren laid claim to what remained of Therat’s broken heart.
The loud squeal of a pig pulled Therat from visions of the woman draped in dark green silks. She lingered even as his eyes opened, her coy smile near irresistible. Therat drained a bottle of wine, the rising fog a welcome distraction from thoughts roiling within. The strain of controlling his desires fell away. Therat’s head sank into the soft pillows.
A strangled scream woke Therat. Hot, wet tears covered his face. The trembling voice of his mother pleading for her life echoed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, only to see half-images from the nightmare flashing by.
His parents, their faces obscured by a campfire, kneeling on the ground. Four tall, cloaked figures, their bare feet soaked with blood, one as pale as the moon itself. A golden chain wrappedaround the ankle of a woman dressed in rags. A discarded dagger in the flames, blood sizzling on the hot blade. His mother’s auburn hair now crimson, his father’s headless body…
Therat’s eyes flew open. He keeled over, spewing bile and wine over the gazebo floor. Gagging on the acidic taste left in his mouth, tears fought to escape. Therat fumbled in the dark before laying his hands on a wine bottle, taking several large gulps. With a shaky hand, he picked up the beige shawl and wiped away all evidence of the nightmare from his eyes. He refused to acknowledge that evil night haunting his every step.
Stumbling out of the gazebo, the terror left as the warm solstice night embraced Therat. For as much as he hated life, he relished the closing hours of the summer solstice. Death seemed far away.
Past midnight, the city cowered inside four walls. The stars overhead bathed the earth in soft light, casting deep shadows across the oasis. The silence bore down on Therat, pushing all thoughts aside and calming his restless mind. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips. He took a deep breath and caught the faintest scent of vanilla and water lilies on the edges of the slaughterhouse’s stink. Therat swallowed hard, his heart beating faster.
“No,” he growled, both hands curling into fists. “No, go away! I do not want whatever you offer, siren.”
Mireithren’s rough voice raked across his mind. It made his skin crawl.
You are different, Therat. We are different.
The sound of his name said by the enchantress sent a wave of hot blood through Therat’s veins.
