Page 57 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
“I did. Not quite the action of someone who hates me, though.” Mireithren laughed, and the tension in her body disappeared. A strange feeling—happiness, Therat realized—took hold of his heart.
This woman will be the end of me. She is drawing me into her siren song, and I am all too eager to come.
“What is your house?” she asked, changing subjects as they took off walking again.
“Anatnará, we are Skyweavers. Though, my brother Adon has all the talent.” Mireithren twitched at the mention of histwin but did not speak up. “You know, I could be put to death for kissing you. Wrong castes and all.”
“Too easy of a way out of this relationship,” she remarked.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Mireithren laughed again. Intoxicating. No mortal woman should be so frustrating. “What about your scar?”
Therat stayed silent. He rubbed it without thought, feeling the searing fires again as the blade cut through flesh. He was weak, too weak to finish the job. A failure at death and life.
“I told you mine. I will not judge yours.”
“How could you not? Death by your hand is the coward’s way out, and I failed at even that.”
Mireithren reached out and touched Therat’s scar. His heart raced with her lingering touch. “I’m glad you failed,” she murmured with a soft smile.
The conversation ended, and only the sound of ethereal birdsong accompanied their steps. It grew louder as the oasis drew near. The Withergreen months neared their end, but an unnatural chill clung to the city. It was eerie to see the sun high in the sky, warmth absent from its long golden fingers. Here in Cídhen’s Rest, even Narán mourned the death of the man who once shared his heart with Myrniar.
Therat kept walking, following theevraneniththat would end the world with his help. He knew he should run, but her lies sounded so sweet.
twenty-nine
Shattered
The city of Cídhen’sRest was a weary and morose place. The bright, lively songs bursting through the streets of Av Madhira were impossible to conjure here. A slow dirge filled the landscape, birdsong heavy with sorrow. Every statue wept, hands held over faces etched to grieve for eternity. The people lived without joy, voices hushed, feet shuffling along the ground.Therat wondered what it was like to be mourned forever by a Goddess and her people.
The Endless Grief.
Sooner or later, all who resided in Cídhen’s Rest took the Sunmaiden’s pain as their own, passing into a catatonic state before fading from the world. Once, the city thrummed with life, the bright and cheerful home of Myrniar and her flame-haired lover. If Therat closed his eyes, he could almost hear the memory of laughter as bright as the Sunmaiden herself. What beauty must have once resided here before Death came to Eás?
Mireithren did not take long to gather the supplies she needed. She fascinated him. Not a single coin left her hand. As she spoke, Therat saw threads of the Shadow-weave loop around the woman and worm their way into the shopkeepers. Mireithren walked out free of charge, the store owner remained none the wiser. She did this four times: twice for food (stacks of honeycakes, salted pork, and dried fruit), once for warmer clothes, and once for two thick cotton cloaks. They bundled everything up in a large pack slung over Therat’s shoulder, which he took without question.
Only an hour or two had passed since they reached the city. If they hurried, they might reach the edges of the desert within a day or two. Therat didn’t know the limitations of gateweaving. It would be too convenient if Mireithren could take him to their destination in one step.
They sat at a table in the shade of a tall, broad-leafed tree. Mireithren finished the last of a goat cheese pastry. The murmur of conversations around them did little to distract Therat. The siren in black made even the simple act of eating mesmerizing. The way her tongue ran over the corners of those impossibly soft lips. How her eyes lit up when taking a bite ofkunishfa. She moved with divine grace.
Mireithren’s eyes found his. She brought a finger to her lips and licked off a smear of sauce. Therat’s stomach flipped as the siren’s tongue flicked over her finger. There was something so suggestive about it despite the innocent look on her face.
Gods, I hate how beautiful you are to me.
“Would you like the last one, Therat?” Mireithren pushed a plate with a single roll ofkunishfaacross the table.
“All yours,” he replied.
There it was again, the urge to shield the woman and give her anything he could. It would be impossible to deny her the world itself if she desired it. The sweet date and fig rolls were good—and hunger still clawed at his stomach—but Mireithren looked so frail and thin. The road ahead might be scarce with food; Therat felt compelled to ensure she ate her fill.
“Good,” she smiled back. “I’d probably have stolen a bite right from your mouth anyway. I still remember the first time Saiya took me out and I tasted these. I haven’t found anything better tasting. Food, that is.” Mireithren laughed as she spoke, a smirk on her face as she glanced at Therat’s lips.
“I’d never figure you to have a sweet tooth for simple date rolls, of all things. Surely they have more decadent food beyond the Wall.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Mireithren spoke with an air of nonchalance, but pain cracked across those eyes glowing amber in the sun. Therat let it drop, knowing all too well the suffocating hurt of ripping open old memories. He could never ask the maiden opposite him to re-live old trauma.
