Page 77 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
Mireithren tried to focus, but every piece of art they passed enthralled all her senses. Massive landscape paintings of a land of silver and purple first greeted her, and portraits of people with unparalleled beauty, their skin black as the night, glistening as if the stars themselves hugged their lithe forms. They walked among busts that Mireithren could only assume were of the kings and queens and their consorts past—sixteen in all. Fine crowns of wrought twisted silver inlaid with precious gems sat upon their brows. The craftsmanship surpassed even the skill of jewelers employed by the Named Houses. It looked as if strands of moonlight itself glistened within the delicate crowns.
Mireithren stopped when she came to the last of the busts, beholding a woman of such divine elegance it hurt to gaze too long upon her. On her brow rested a silver and black circlet, a large bright blue gem set in the center. It gleamed like the full moon itself, the sum of all starlight in the universe contained in one place. The light refracted around it, a million tiny crystals sparkling in the air.
“Our Lady Eithranren, the First Flame in the Cold Night,” Laisha said, stepping up to Mireithren’s side. “She is beautiful, isn’t she? I never got to see her face, but the Oracle has. It is why her eyes look the way they do, I think. Long did Amaren live in the Undying Realms Beyond with our Goddess before she was taken so cruelly from us.”
“She is beautiful indeed,” Therat murmured, a hint of reverence in his voice. He looked down at Mireithren with a glowing smile as if he saw some trace of the divine Eithranren on her visage.
“I have a face for my Lady at last. This is a gift, Laisha; you have no idea.” Mireithren bent down and placed a gentlekiss upon the brow of Eithranren’s bust. A shiver ran across her mind, the whisper of a voice begging to be heard. She tried to focus on it, but it faded fast.
“Yes, she was a gift. And you will bring her back to us. You are a gift yourself, Mireithren,” Laisha said with a smile, then resumed walking.
At last, they came to the end of the corridor. The door loomed tall, racing up to the height of the vaulted ceiling. A guard stood on either side, each dressed in white and silver robes, one with a halberd, the other holding a spear. Laisha nodded to both. The guard with the spear pulled a velvet rope hanging from the ceiling. The doors swung inward without a noise. A great silvery white light filled the opening, the interior of the room impossible to see beyond the glow.
“A word, before we approach my Queen,” Laisha said, halting Mireithren as she took a step forward. “Although you are the prophesied children who come to save us, you still must follow court etiquette. When presenting ourselves to the Queen, we must kneel and place our foreheads on the ground and await her touch. Once she does so, you may rise. You will only do this once, though, I assure you. Shall we proceed?” Laisha’s eyes flickered between Therat and Mireithren. They both nodded.
Therat squeezed Mireithren’s hand, his grip tighter than ever. Mireithren took a deep breath, reached one hand up to make sure her hair looked presentable, and strode in behind Laisha.
Mireithren gasped at thesight of the grand throne room of the Shadow-Queen Pherisa. Silvered wood lined the lower walls, stark white marble floors beneath their feet. Hundreds of orbs of white and pale blue light floated high in the rafters of the arched ceiling. Aglow like the surface of the moon itself, Mireithren thought she walked into a relic from the past, the perfection of the First Era preserved in the White City and the throne room of the most powerful woman in the West.
Hundreds of courtiers gathered in the wings, some even crowded in tall boxes built along the upper walls. They had varying shades of black to light purple skin, all with the same silvery sheen. Each stood tall and proud, arrayed in a dizzying display of finery and jewels. In the far corner, a quartet of musicians played a harp and other stringed instruments while a woman in a dazzling crimson dress sang along with them. A transcendent sound, Mireithren thought it the single most beautiful thing she had ever heard in her life.
Towering above it all sat the Shadow-Queen Pherisa and her Queen Consort. The Oracle and a tall, thin man with a black face and a shroud of Shadow-weave wrapped around him stood behind the Queens.
Mireithren saw a man step forward holding a trumpet. She braced herself. The horn blared, and the court fell silent before his cry pierced the air.
“Now presenting to the Court of Shadows and Her Majesty the Shadow-Queen Pherisa, The Black Blade Laisha of the Royal House Hénav’an, Daughter of the Lost King and White Fury of the Queen, and her long-awaited guests. The High Lady Mireithren of House Isht’iri, The Promised Daughter, and His Highness Therat of the Royal House Nehevran, The Son Returned.”
The steward introduced the newcomers with even more titles than before. Mireithren could barely keep up.
Unlike before, the court stood in silence. Laisha beckoned the two guests to follow her. It was eerie, walking in silence up to a queen who ruled almost as a living god, while her court looked on, divine in looks themselves. Mireithren felt stripped naked before their eyes. Did they judge her, look to find fault with the maiden? She wished she had her hair down to cover her scars and the gloves to hide her tattoos, the markings of another god forever on her body. The court would call her a hypocrite, a liar, a blasphemer.
“I’m right here, my Little Siren,” Therat whispered to her, his thumb tracing circles over the sun nearest her wrist.
That’s why I’m here.
“I know. Let’s go meet a queen,” she murmured back.
After several agonizing minutes, or maybe less, Laisha stopped in front of the dais of the queen and her consort. She bowed low before walking up the steps, taking a place next to the black-skinned man cloaked in shadows. Mireithren did not know what to do. Before she could decide on an action, the Queen rose and descended as if from the heavens.
The Shadow-Queen Pherisa was said to be the image reborn of her foremother Eithranren. Unlike the rest of the court, her skin was a faded purple with a silver sheen. Long blue-black hair fell in curls to below her waist, pinned back on one side with a pure white flower, its thin petals a beautiful complement to her radiant complexion. Bright purple eyes gazed down on the two newcomers to her court. She stood taller than even Therat, though only by an inch or two.
An ornate silver choker beset with glowing blue gems like the one on the bust of Eithranren sat against her soft silvery-purple skin. The Queen wore a black dress inlaid with thousands of tiny white crystals. It hugged her svelte frame, showing every luscious curve of the Undying Queen. Atop her head, a crown ofsilver rose high, an interlacing pattern like the one tattooed on Therat’s hands adorning the base.
Without a doubt, the Shadow-Queen Pherisa was the most beautiful person Mireithren had ever seen, even more radiant than theMakhaerenor her daughter. The words caught in her throat at the sight of such divine elegance. She could see why people would never disobey their Queen.
“Presenting to the Court of Shadows, Her Majesty the Shadow-Queen Pherisa of House Hénav’an, Divine Child of The Shadow Siren, Blessed Daughter and Bringer of Night. Long may she reign in her deathless years!”
The court burst into a chant, hundreds of voices saying, “Long may she reign in her deathless years!” with such fervor Mireithren had never seen for a ruler.
“You may approach, Lady Mireithren,” Laisha said.
Mireithren looked up at the divine visage of the queen, overcome with boundless awe. She lurched forward, throwing herself down at the queen’s feet and placing her brow upon the tip of her soft purple velvet slipper.
The presence of the divine woman, who looked like a Goddess, intoxicated Mireithren. She could feel the tangible power Pherisa wielded, the strength of the raw Shadow-weave coursing through her veins. Mireithren wondered if the shadows recognized the blood of Eithranren, if they answered without taking her hopes and dreams.
A shrill keening split open the silence of the court. Something wet slid down her face.Tears.Hot, salty, sorrowful tears. They burned as they fell, searing her with every torment that once used to haunt her every step. Her throat seized, and the shriek stopped; her echoing cries filled the court, shame laid bare by the terrible beauty of the Queen.
She would not do it. She could not condemn Therat, even when in the presence of such otherworldly power and grace.Mireithren would fail her Lady, she knew, but there had to be another way. She would not trade his life for the life of a child said to be a Goddess reborn. That’s what the sacrifice was, what this had been all about. Use him, then discard him. Her heart knew this to be true, yet it found a way to defy fate.
