Page 75 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
He felt an impostor, but Mireithren assured him he looked handsome enough to be the consort of a god. She always knew what to say and how to make him feel worthy of love.
Therat held her hand tight as they followed the slave to the court of March-Lord Direvran. After looping around several staircases and walking down many long hallways, they came at last to the antechamber of the throne room.
“My mistress Laisha will be here momentarily.”
The woman bowed deep until her head dipped below her waist and scurried away. Therat would never get used to slaves groveling at his feet. He didn’t want to be their master, but it seemed his choice mattered little.
Therat only had enough time to take in his immediate surroundings—an intricate tapestry of a massive battle, several floating orbs glowing with soft white light, and a wide arched black door—before the voice of Laisha turned him around.
“Ah, yes, you are here! Corlyn earns her rank for a reason. Come, come, let us not wait any longer. I am sure you are both ready to learn what this has all been about. I trust you slept well? You certainly look like the children of our Lady!”
Laisha wore tight white leather pants, tall boots of light gray pulled up to her thigh, and a flowing silvery shirt cinched at her waist with a wide belt. Her paleness stood in contrast to the other courtiers now gathered behind her. Therat thought back to the maiden of snow Mireithren sang of earlier in the morning.
The pale woman walked up to the wide door and tapped on it twice. The doors groaned as they swung inward, revealing a large throne room with high vaulted ceilings. Dozens of people stood inside engaged in lively conversation, but all fell silent at the sound of the door. Laisha stepped inside, beckoning for Therat and Mireithren to follow.
A warmth like the early spring days of the desert filled the March-Lord’s throne room. The lord sat atop a dais on a throne of dark gray wood, a woman with silver hair seated beside him. Upon both their brows sat thin crowns of silver, the hammered metal gleaming in the soft light bathing the room. The March-Lord wore a robe of white and gray, a brooch at his neck inlaid with bright blue gems. His skin glistened black with a silver sheen, eyes a striking violet color. The woman wore a pale blue dress, the neckline plunging to her navel revealing the same blackened silver skin. Stones of purple and white hung around her neck, the festoon of gems dipping between her breasts.
If these were mere hold lords, Therat could only imagine what the Shadow-Queen and her city looked like.
A horn blared next to Therat’s ear, and a man dressed in black stepped forward.
“Presenting to the Court of Oneriath, Laisha of the Royal House Hénav’an, Daughter of the Lost King and White Fury of the Shadow-Queen Pherisa, and her long-awaited guests.Lady Mireithren of House Isht’iri, The Promised Daughter, and Therat of the Royal House Nehevran, The Son Returned.”
A chorus of cheers and claps followed the announcement. Therat swore the steward misspoke.Royal House Nehevran? But we are Anatnará, the Raincallers. Unless…Mireithren tugged on his arm, cutting off his thoughts. Therat looked up to see Laisha already walking ahead, the March-Lord and his consort standing to greet them. Therat pushed aside the thought and hurried along.
The walk to the dais felt like an eternity. Therat had never been the center of attention before. He had no idea how to feel, if he should look around and smile or pretend they didn’t exist. He was glad to have Mireithren by his side for many reasons. She looked so calm and radiant, basking in the adoration of those who knew more about them than he realized.
As each step took them closer to the March-Lord, a ball of anxiety formed in Therat’s stomach. He had thought about this moment for so long, the unveiling of the meaning of his life. Now the time drew near, but it suddenly seemed all too much to bear.
Laisha stood tall when they approached the March-Lord and his consort. To Therat’s surprise,theybowed to them, right hands over their hearts before rising. Nothing in his life could have prepared Therat to be greeted like a superior.
“You bring my house and my city a great honor by coming here, Lady Mireithren, thelyneithrapromised to save our people. I am the March-Lord Direvran of House Thrinath’tar, and this is the Lady Míran. We bid you welcome a thousand times over.” The March-Lord studied the two newcomers before him as he spoke, his gaze lingering on Therat.
The March-Lord Direvran looked ageless. His skin was smooth and without blemish, hair long and thick. But like Laisha, his eyes betrayed the man’s age, tales from a thousandyears of history and a thousand more. The Lady Míran at his side looked the same, graceful beyond compare.
“Our Lady has spoken to you some, I see it in your eyes,” Lady Míran said, stepping forward. She reached a hand out and touched Mireithren’s brow. “I see pain and conflict over what must be done. Uncertainty, a question of whether you can save the one you love.” She paused and turned to Therat. “And you, the lost son of At-Nithrín, blood returned to us.” The courtiers all called out, ‘At-Nithrín, lost to us!’ in reply.
A shiver ran across his mind and a presence, as if the Lady in blue read his soul, took hold of Therat.
“Why are we here, Lady Míran?” Mireithren asked.
“Because of her,” she said, spreading her arms wide as a woman in black stepped forward from the crowd.
The woman in black had lighter skin than the rest of the court—ashen gray—as if something had drained the color from her once-vibrant form. Long, faded purple curls cascaded to the floor behind her, eyes an intense violet. She dressed in simple garb, but Therat could tell divine blood flowed in her veins.
“In front of me you now stand, but I have known long of thy coming, Daughter of the Dark Sun. And of yours, Therat, who is not of House Anatnará, though thy foremother was wise to hide the eldest line of the Second Son At-Nithrín.” The court once again echoed their cry, ‘At-Nithrín, lost to us!’
The woman in black glided across the floor until she stood before Therat and Mireithren. The same ageless grace touched the gray woman, but her eyes looked even older than the universe itself, as if she knew secrets even the gods themselves did not know. She was the second most beautiful woman Therat had ever seen.
“Amaren they call me, the Oracle of the Siren my calling. You are the key, the Son Returned and the Promised Daughter.Further still is thy journey, to the White City you must away. Soon we will go. But first, thy true enemy revealed.”
Amaren spoke with a detached and far-away voice, as if her consciousness drifted between this realm and the next. Her eyes looked at them, but did not seem to see. Wisps of Shadow-weave swirled across the floor at her feet. She may have once been of this world, but now she walked in the Between, belonging to neither.
Mireithren stirred beside Therat, her excitement palpable. Therat became aware of a cool sensation against his ankle. The silver pendant of a tree with white gems inside a crescent moon his mother wore burned cold against his ankle. He had worn it for so long that it became a part of him, something he forgot existed. As the pendant burned his skin, another distant memory floated to the periphery of his mind.
His mother, standing in the shallow sea at the southern edge of the great Madhira Desert, a dagger in one hand, a cut across the palm of the other. Her blood dripping into the ocean as she screams a profane curse in the ancient language of the gods. Her bloodied hand touching Therat’s cheek, and a name uttered for him to curse for as long as he drew breath.
“Aslyren,” Therat said, only half aware he spoke out loud. Mireithren shuddered.
