Page 52 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
twenty-seven
Impossible Choices
The day passed intothe next, and still, Apattar could not untangle the apprehension around her heart.
Therat deserved more than she could give him. A part of him was stuck as a boy, an innocent child who only deserved love. A victim of the worst kind, his selfless act repaid with a lifetime of torture and gnawing emptiness. Apattar only ever wanted to save those like him. The ones the world discarded and abused.She yearned to bring them happiness, to be their light in the dark world.
But she did not want to be Therat’s savior. Could not. He was a weapon, and she, unlovable.
Apattar told herself her heart ached not out of love, but out of duty. Duty to her Goddess, to the pale woman who said she could save her. As Laisha once said, the world is a wicked place. She would uncover the truth of the Discordance no matter the cost. Only the Goddesses could save—or condemn—Therat.
Naught but a tiny sliver in the deep blue sky, the moon watched over Eás before it faded for three nights. The Dark Goddess’s time drew near.
Therat’s soulsong thrummed in Apattar’s ears, the man a few miles away, if not less. Apattar spent the better part of the day walking north, following the music from a whisper to a symphony. The Shadow-weave sang out, yearning to be reunited with the endless void nestled inside her heart.
Therat traveled far from the shrine, miles back to the camp up north, and further still. Sandy dunes turned to a flat bed of red sandstone interspersed with squat buttes of brown-red rock. Stale, heavy air suffocated this barren place. Leafless trees with twisted and thorny limbs cast strange shadows across the land. Black blood dripped from each long thorn, sharpened to a point only the finest of smiths could attain.
A deep dread sank into Apattar’s bones. A great battle happened here once, she thought, or some other tragedy that claimed thousands. She vaguely recalled reading about a desert city decimated by anevranenithand a shadewalker early in the Second Era. She shuddered at the thought of repeating history and clutched the dagger against her thigh.
What if he is worth fighting for?
The thought sent a lurch through Apattar’s stomach. Why could she not stay true to her task, to take the man West byany means possible? As her fury rose, Apattar swore she would kill Therat if he did not kneel. Kill him and figure out the consequences, but never let him live long enough to trap her with these feelings she could not ignore.
Apattar crept through the desolate land, Shadow-weave pulled close around her, dagger in hand. The faint stench of sweat and blood mixed with bile emanated from an outcropping not far ahead. Stepping with care, she found the entrance to a small cave carved in the side of a brown butte. The steady, shallow breath of someone sleeping pricked her ears.
Fingers moved in a quick curling pattern. A silver orb of light flickered to life, hanging like a pale moon in the dark cave. There, illuminated by Apattar’s light, slept the man she yearned to hold in her dreams. The one she would sacrifice, who would free her from the slow decay of her empty heart. Dried blood and scratches ran the course of his forearms. His curly hair was a disheveled mess; a wiry beard of course, jet black hair covered his face. Even asleep, the man looked half-crazed. Apattar wondered if he even remembered his name.
Therat intoxicated all of Apattar’s senses. The Shadow-weave coursing through his thick muscles clamored to be heard, its anger palpable even from where she stood. Apattar could not imagine how tortured Therat must be or how he managed to survive this long. Her few tastes of the twisted power in his mind were enough to leave her terrorized.
Fate set in motion years ago was not theirs to change now. Apattar knew what needed to happen, even if it tore at her heart. With a sigh, she knelt, studying Therat’s face.
The faint memory of a smile played upon his lips. For a moment, she could see the joy of a little boy with the world ahead of him and the undying love of his parents. Pulling her long hair aside, Apattar leaned over and whispered in Therat’s ear. His face twitched as she spoke.
“I hope you are dreaming of your parents, Therat. I… I am sorry. For everything.”
Apattar reached for Therat’s hand, skin hot to the touch. She melted into it, imagining his hands touching her cheek, down her neck, across her stomach. She inhaled sharply and chased the thoughts away, taking a moment to steel herself.
“Become a weapon for Lady Eithranren and surrender to me,” she whispered. “This way, I can give you some sense of purpose, at least. Better to give into madness and save the world than only go mad.” The words crawled into Therat’s ears and nestled deep in his mind where even the shadows could not rip them out.
Anger and love burned in her heart. She knew her purpose and accepted the fate laid out before her. Sorrows untold crossed her mind every day, the screams of dying children haunting every step. They could not all be saved. She knew this. Understood it. Hers was not a life ever meant to find earthly happiness.
Why? Why did Therat make every part of her feel more alive than anything before? Since the day they first locked eyes in the Market, he never strayed far from her thoughts. The silver glint of his eyes in the moonlight, the bounce of his curly hair, the sound of his rumbling voice as he spoke through waves of torment. She hated and loved it all. Craved his touch, wanted to feel his breath upon her lips.
“Curse you, I do not want this,” she hissed. “A weapon. Only a weapon. I cannot save you, you cannot be more!” Her whispers filled the cave. Suffocating, taunting. Laughing at her feeble attempt to deny the most natural of feelings.
Love.
Fathers are supposed to love their daughters. Protect them, erase the harm coming their way. But her father did not love the girl; instead became the reason for her worst memories, not thebest. He broke Apattar, made her unlovable, and unable to love. Admitting otherwise meant her father could love the girl, but did not have even a lingering shred of it to provide. It would mean his hatred was a choice.
Easier to think love is made up, a happy lie people told themselves rather than face the truth. Everyone used those around them for their own gain. There were no selfless acts in the world.
Apattar leaned back against the rough cave wall. Her gaze settled on Therat sleeping under a blanket of inky black shadows, a smile still stretched across his lips. She could not say why, but she felt strangely comfortable in the man’s presence. His slow, steady breathing lulled her into a trance.
The hours of the night passed into a crisp morning, the dawning sun ready for another day. The trance lifted, Apattar slid the dagger from the sheath around her thigh. The Shadow-weave hummed to life, engulfing the woman in a cloud of inky black.
twenty-eight
The Maiden of Shadow
