Golden Daughter

  Sairu doubted the truth of this claim very much indeed. Lady Hariawan, she was sure, did not even know the old slave’s name! A muscle in her jaw began to twitch. Everything, everything in her being rebelled. Her nature, so finely tuned to serve, to protect, cried out against this separation, which had now lasted an agonizing seven days. She could guard her mistress from the outside, making certain that no living mortal passed into the chambers by door or window.

  But what of those phantom presences she had sensed in the darkness of Lady Hariawan’s chamber? What of those?

  “Let me pass,” she said, putting all the force of her diminutive yet formidable self into the command.

  Tu Domchu blinked. Then he spat again. “Sorry, miss. You ain’t permitted in.”

  She considered for an instant all of the painful things she could do to this man who wore his own body like a sack of bones, and whose face she doubted even his own mother had found appealing. She considered all of the options available to her, options that would cause either momentary or lasting agony. Nothing could keep her from that chamber unless she allowed it to be so.

  Sairu whirled about so that her ample skirts struck the narrow walls of the passage on both sides and stormed down the corridor, back out into the temple yard. She stood then, blinking and shading her eyes against the brilliant sunlight, watching the shadows of various young acolytes scrambling to avoid her gaze.

  For some reason she did not like to guess, the faces of the dead slavers flashed across her mind’s eye. Idrus, Eyso, and others whose names she never learned. She saw their eyes full of life—and then she saw them dead, gazing into a void she could not see. Gazing into darkness.

  She shuddered, cursing herself for a weak little fool. It was no concern of hers! Her mistress was safe, and it wasn’t as though she’d killed them by her own hand.

  “I would have,” she told herself as she gathered her skirts and began to walk with a determined stride, though she could not have said where she went. “I would kill anyone to protect my mistress.”

  She wondered whether or not she lied.

  Her dogs appeared from various places about the temple yard and fell into step behind her, a waddling entourage. They began to growl, and she looked up, realizing she had unconsciously taken the path to the infirmary. The cat sat just inside the doorway, grooming himself and pretending the dogs didn’t exist.

  And leaning against the doorpost stood Jovann, the slave.

  Sairu scowled at him. No one had ever dared tell her that her scowl was nowhere near so terrifying as her smile, so she did not know that it made her look like a petulant child of three, quite adorable and completely unthreatening. “What are you doing up?” she demanded.

  Jovann grinned as he would not have dared do had she smiled. He was still weak from his long fever, but seven days in Daramuti had already done wonders toward restoring his vigor. The scars on his back, however, would never fade, not entirely. And the skin of the healing wounds was tight and tender, making his movements hesitant.

  “I cannot sleep for the clamor that beast of yours makes,” he said, indicating the cat with a toss of his chin. The cat paused mid-lick, and one ear twitched. Then he went on with his grooming just as though he were a normal cat—not a devil—and didn’t understand. “He sits on my pillow,” Jovann continued, “and growls in my face. It’s disconcerting.”

  “I think that is a purr,” Sairu said, narrowing her eyes at the cat, who winked at her. “And he’s not mine. He’s a monster. Feel free to toss him out the window.”

  Jovann raised one arm, displaying a new set of scratches from hand to elbow. “I tried.” He tucked the hand back under his opposite arm. “How can something so fluffy be so vicious?”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Sairu replied. “Back to bed.”

  “No,” Jovann replied. “I am better, as you see, and I need to be on my way.” He swayed even as he spoke and was obliged to hold tight to the doorpost. But his face was determined. He had paled significantly during his convalescence, losing much of the rugged tan typical to Chhayan nomads. Indeed, he looked almost delicate standing there, with his narrow eyes sunk into his face and his cheekbones a little too sharp.

  Sairu folded her hands demurely and felt the smile returning to her face. “And what do you propose to do, noble prince?” she asked. “After clothing yourself in fine raiment of sackcloth, will you weed the cabbage patch? Or haul water for the priests’ ritual baths? Or are you more of a mind to tend flocks on the lower slopes? I hear there are wolves in these mountains, and a sturdy fellow such as you would make fine wolf bait.”

  Jovann’s expression darkened. “I will return to my clan.”

  “I hate to remind you,” Sairu said, though her expression indicated otherwise, “that you are my Lady Hariawan’s property. She delivered you from your previous owners and saw to it that you were treated for wounds that would otherwise have been your death. You are hers by rights even a Chhayan must concede.”

  Jovann took an angry step, landing on the cat’s tail. The cat exploded with an irate “Reeeeeeeowl!” and launched himself through the doorway. Immediately upon leaving the sanctuary of the infirmary, he found himself set upon by Dumpling, Rice Cake, and Sticky Bun and obliged to flee for his life to the nearest tree. The world filled with barks and snarls for a few moments, and neither Jovann nor Sairu attempted to interrupt, but watched the pursuit until the cat was safely ensconced in a lower bough, the three dogs circling the trunk below.

  Then Jovann turned to Sairu, and he wore the patient, condescending expression which had grown all too familiar in the last few days. But she could tell he wore it only to mask other, more revealing expressions. Behind the mask she saw fear. Fear that she spoke truth; fear that he was, indeed, no longer free.

  “I am the son of Juong-Khla, and I have important business with my father,” he said. “It cannot wait.”

  Sairu sighed, and her smile, for a moment, became almost pitying. “You are in Kitar country now, noble prince. The business of a Chhayan chief means nothing here. Don’t,” she hastened on, seeing the muscles in his throat contract with mounting curses, “don’t think that I have no sympathy for you. I do not regard your situation lightly. But you must understand the truth of your position. And you must accept it, gracefully if you can.”

  “Accept it? Slavery?” Though he still held to the doorpost with one hand, Jovann stepped from the doorway and stood before Sairu, gazing down on her, his lips drawn back a little from his teeth as though in a snarl. “That may be good enough for you, little miss, but it can never be so for me. My father is betrayed by his eldest son. By my own brother. Even now, who knows what treachery Sunan prepares? I cannot remain here, high in these mountains, while down on the plains a great evil brews, and . . . .”

  She realized that he no longer saw her face before him but gazed instead into a world—a future—hidden from her eyes. Sweat beaded his brow and lip, and she saw his supporting arm tremble. She touched his shoulder. “Go back to bed,” she said.

  But just as she spoke, Jovann uttered a great gasp, and she saw his eyes snap back into this world with an intensity she had never before witnessed in his face. He whispered, “Umeer’s daughter!”

  Surprised, Sairu looked back over her shoulder, following his gaze. “Anwar above us,” she breathed.

  For Lady Hariawan was walking down the temple path. She no longer wore the humble garb of a pilgrimess, the wide-brimmed hat, the veil. She was clad instead in a gown of silk trimmed in red glass beads and embroidered in black vines that bloomed into equally black blossoms. Her hair was loose down her back, which did not surprise Sairu (for how could her mistress hope to style it on her own?) but shocked her instead with its impropriety, especially here, sheltered behind holy walls. It flowed past her waist and was so thick and so glossy as to seem like a waterfall of ink.

  Trailing her by a good ten paces were Tu Syed, Tu Domchu, and another of the temple slaves. The men were embarrassed by their m
istress’s loose hair and seemed to be making every effort not to look at it as they followed in her wake.

  So Lady Hariawan passed by the infirmary, her head bowed, her hands folded, moving at the slow, sedate pace of a temple girl in a ritual parade, as though she heard the beat of drums in her head. If not for her loose hair, she would have seemed a prayerful and sacred creature.

  Sairu felt Jovann tense beneath her hand. Then suddenly he cried out in a loud voice, “Umeer’s daughter!”

  He was stronger in that moment than Sairu realized. He slipped her grasp and had covered half the distance between the infirmary and Lady Hariawan before Sairu quite knew what was happening. “No!” she cried and hastened after him. But she could not stop him, so great was his urgency.

  “Umeer’s daughter!” he cried again, and still Lady Hariawan did not turn her head toward him. So he threw himself at her. What a threatening figure he must have seemed to the slaves—so tall and broad even in his weakness, and full of a passion none of them could understand. He grabbed Lady Hariawan by her arm, turning her to him. “Umeer’s daughter, do you know me?”

  Seeing the burn upon her cheek, he gasped in dismay.

  Across Sairu’s mind flashed a vision of her duty. She saw herself taking hold of that tall Chhayan, knowing full well where his wounds were, where his weaknesses lay. She saw herself bringing him to ruin there at her feet, leaving him writhing, screaming, as she stood over him, her body strategically placed between him and her mistress. Her mistress whom he should never have dared touch.

  She saw it all in a horrible flash. And the vision made her stumble.

  So it was not she who fell upon Jovann, but the temple slaves. Shouting in terror of what would be done to them should any harm befall their mistress, they fell upon Jovann, grabbing him and hauling him away, striking him with their fists. Tu Syed carried a cane, and he lashed out with it savagely. In two strokes, red lines darkened Jovann’s back and shoulders. And all Sairu’s work of the last seven days was undone.

  Jovann screamed as he sank to his knees. But still he reached his hands to the lady, saying, “Don’t you know me? Don’t you know me?”

  Lady Hariawan, her countenance unchanging, stood by and watched. Her hands were folded prayerfully, and the wind tugged at her hair and her robes. She made no move to interfere.

  “Enough!” Sairu cried, flinging herself into the midst of the slaves. She grabbed Tu Syed’s cane, wrenched it from his hands, and tossed it aside, then whirled upon Tu Syed himself. He had seen and trembled at her smile before. But he had never seen this expression on her face. She looked the very likeness of a panther, and he quailed beneath the heat of her eyes.

  “I think you’ve made your point,” Sairu said. “It was a mistake, that’s all. A mistake! And now look what you’ve done.”

  Jovann lay upon his side, groaning, curled up as though to fortify himself against the pain he could not escape. But none of the temple slaves looked at him. They stared only at Sairu.

  Tu Syed said humbly, “He assaulted the mistress.”

  He may as well have kicked Sairu in the gut. She flinched, and her face went a terrible shade of green as though she would be sick. She said nothing more, did not even turn to address Lady Hariawan.

  One by one the slaves gathered themselves and surrounded their lady. They plied her with questions she did not answer and urged her to return to her chambers. She said nothing. Briefly, ever so briefly, her gaze flashed toward Jovann where he lay groaning. Then she turned and continued her way down the path toward some destination even she did not know. The slaves fell in behind her once more.

  Sairu almost did as well. After all, she had not set eyes upon Lady Hariawan in many days. Her sworn mistress. Her very life. She should not be parted from her again!

  And yet she found herself kneeling and carefully put her hands on Jovann’s shoulders, avoiding the places she knew to be tender. “You stupid Chhayan calf,” she murmured gently. “I told you to go back to bed, didn’t I? And now we’ll have to start all over.”

  With much coaxing and prodding and even pinching, she managed to get him to his feet. He slumped against her, but she was stronger than she looked, and she braced herself to support him for the walk back to the infirmary. She could feel priests and acolytes all around, staring at her from hidden places, and their unasked questions burned in her mind.

  She felt Brother Tenuk, as clearly as though she saw him standing at his prayer room window, watching them with his too-young eyes in his too-old face.

  She ignored them all; and she ignored the roaring in her head as her heart demanded of her, Where are your loyalties, Masayi girl? She could not face that question, not now. Perhaps not ever.

  “Come, Jovann. Come, noble prince,” she said over and over, along with “Come, idiot bumpkin” now and then. So they reached the shadows and seclusion of the infirmary, and Jovann sat on the edge of his pallet, bent over with his head in his hands. Sairu undid his shirt and carefully pulled it back from the bloody patches where his wounds were reopened.

  “Idiot,” she hissed again, and set to work cleaning. “What were you thinking? Approaching Lady Hariawan as bold as the empress’s monkey! Laying hands on her, even! I’d like to cane you myself for your stupidity.”

  He groaned again and shook his head even as his fingers dug into his hair. “She did not recognize me.”

  “What was that?”

  He lifted his head then, glaring at Sairu in his frustration. “She did not recognize me. She did not know me at all.” Along with the frustration, there was despair in his voice.

  Sairu had no time for despair. “Well, why should she? You’re only a slave, remember. One slave to whom she decided, in her grace, to show a little kindness. And this is how you repay that kindness? By insulting her? By declaring you’ll not serve as her slave one minute and approaching her unbidden the next? Anwar’s scepter and Hulan’s crown, you couldn’t have behaved more like a Chhayan dog-boy had you tried!”

  She thought this insult would rouse him. But instead he merely sank his head back into his hands and did not speak. She heard his breath hiss between his teeth a few times as she applied salve to his wounds and wrapped them in bandages.

  “Why did you call her Umeer’s daughter?” Sairu asked at length.

  “It was all she would tell me of her name.”

  Sairu studied what she could see of his face, which was part of his jaw and one ear. She didn’t think even Princess Safiya could successfully read so little. “You have been sick with fever since we found you, and you have had no conversation with Lady Hariawan.”

  “I have,” he insisted, his voice near a growl. “I’ve walked with her. In the Dream.”

  It was important for a Golden Daughter not to mistake suspicion for intuition. The latter was a gift of instinct, a gift to be used. But the former too often led the inquiring mind astray.

  And yet Sairu could not shake the suspicion she had felt from the first evening in Daramuti, the same evening Lady Hariawan had banished her from her presence. The suspicion that the wounded stranger lying under her hand was no longer present within his body.

  That he had gone dream-walking.

  But that was impossible, she had reasoned with herself since then. She knew little enough about the Dream Walkers of the temple. They were a secret as closely kept as the Golden Daughters themselves. But she believed—and didn’t think she was wrong to do so—that dream-walking was a carefully monitored skill that required precision, prayer, incense, rituals, and an entire network of holy men focused together in joint concentration. Until she’d met her mistress, she had not believed it could be accomplished by a woman. Which was foolish, she now realized.

  And perhaps it was equally foolish to disbelieve that a Chhayan could dream-walk as well.

  Sairu took a step back, her arms folded, eyeing her patient. Some of the bandages were already soaked through. “Does it hurt very much?” she asked.

  He nodded without loo
king up.

  She knelt before him and took hold of his hands, pulling them away from his head. He sat up straighter, scowling at her, and tried to withdraw, but she held on and turned his hands over so that they cupped empty air. “Let me help you,” she said.

  Then she touched his forehead and whispered, “The pain is here. Feel it. Beneath my finger. Feel your pain.”

  He winced. Then he closed his eyes, his brow knitting beneath her finger. She drew it down his cheek, down his neck, and rested on his shoulder. “The pain is here. Feel it here. Feel the pain resting here.”

  She felt his shoulder tense. She placed both hands on his upper arms now and slid her fingers gently down, over his elbows, over his wrists, and placed her palms atop his.

  “Your pain is here, in your hands. Hold it. Feel it. It rests here in your hands. Hold your pain in the palms of your hands.”

  His face was relaxed now. She heard his breath come more easily, deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth. His pain was resting, and for the moment he held it.

  Suddenly he fixed a stare upon her, studying. She saw questions in his face, questions he dared not ask but kept at bay. She could see them growling behind the gates of his eyes.

  “So.” Sairu sat back and folded her hands. “You saw my mistress in your dreams. Are you then a Dream Walker?”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he replied. His concentration broken, he settled down into his cot, lying on his side. He no longer held his pain, but it was not so unbearable as it had been. “What is a Dream Walker?”

  “It’s a self-explanatory title. A Dream Walker walks in the Realm of Dreams.”

  “In that case, yes,” Jovann replied. “Yes, I am.”

  Sairu tilted her head to one side. She looked like a dainty doll, incapable of cunning, incapable of inflicting pain, incapable of anything but decorative charm.

  And she said, “Prove it.”

  “I have nothing to prove to you, little miss.”