Golden Daughter (8 page)

Dawn had not yet taken hold of the new day, but the innermost courtyard of the Crown of the Moon was crowded with servants and donkeys and supplies and priests (these last, out of a desperate need to feel important, issuing cross-purposed commands). Lady Hariawan, wrapped in elegant fur-lined robes against the early chill, was seated in an alcove to watch and wait until they were ready to mount her up and send her into exile. Despite the fine cut and cloth, her garments were far humbler than those Sairu had seen her in the night before, and a flat hat with a thickly veiled brim covered her head after the fashion of a pilgrimess.

Sairu, standing beside her chair, sensed a nearly palpable shield hammered out of the silence surrounding her new mistress.

Someone touched her arm. Sairu turned without surprise and smiled at the Besur. She could see by the expression on his face exactly what sort of conversation they were about to have, and she sighed, though the sigh did nothing to taint her smile. Long ago Princess Safiya had warned her and her sisters of the likelihood of these sorts of conversations.

“Dangers abound beyond Lunthea Maly,” the Besur said, his voice a whispered hiss.

Sairu fluttered her lashes. “Really?”

She watched the muscles of his throat constrict, watched the twitch of his lower left lid. “Lady Hariawan
must
be protected at all costs,” the Besur said, as though she couldn’t discern as much for herself. “I wish to the Lordly Sun this journey were not necessary, and only the gravest need would push me to such an extreme. But between Hulan’s Throne and Daramuti Temple, any number of perils might set upon you.”

“Perils?” Sairu said. “Highway robbers? Hustlers? Cads, perhaps? Pickpockets? Pestilence?” Her brows lifted, her eyes widened. “Toll gates?”

The Besur paled. She could see him churning through a number of calculations, and half expected him to call off the entire journey there and then. No concern of hers if he did! She could protect her lady equally well from within the Crown of the Moon.

But the Besur did not seem to think this a worthy option. He grimaced as though in pain and spoke through his teeth. “I wish you would allow me to send an armed escort. It would be better—”

“If you wanted an armed escort,” Sairu interrupted, her voice dripping honey, her face full of simple innocence, “you should have hired a pack of mercenaries rather than a Golden Daughter.” Her smile grew. “Reverend Besur, do you not trust me?”

He opened his mouth but had the good sense to close it again.

“An armed escort would draw undue attention to Lady Hariawan’s departure. If you want a covert removal to Daramuti, then covert you must be. I will see my mistress safe far better than any number of ruffians you might barter a little coin for. You have my word and the word of the Masayi.”

The Besur was silent. Then, in a voice near a snarl, he said, “You have never been outside Manusbau’s walls.”

It was an accusation, or as close to one as the High Priest dared deliver. And, though she hated to admit it even to herself, Sairu’s stomach dropped. Doubt and fear were not permitted into the thoughts of the Golden Daughters, and Sairu could not honestly recall the last time she had doubted herself in any given context. But then, those contexts had all been orchestrated and arranged by Princess Safiya who—no matter how heartless she might seem to an outsider—ultimately desired only the best for the girls in her charge. Thus, no matter what test Sairu had faced, it was always with the knowledge that one who cared for her had arranged it.

But this was no test. Princess Safiya was no longer in charge.

Sairu dropped her gaze demurely, her head bowed, as subservient as any handmaiden of Manusbau. Then her eyes flashed up to meet the Besur’s, and he drew back from her renewed smile.

“Reverend Besur,” she said, “have you ever found a snake in your bed?”

“What?”

“Found a snake in your bed,” she repeated. “Have you ever entered the safety of your chamber, undressed yourself, and slipped beneath your blankets only to feel the brush of dry scales? Then pain. Fire. And, worse than fire, terror rising up inside you, from the pit of you, drowning and choking. And as the pain increases, so does the terror.”

“I—Honored Daughter, I don’t—”

“And you know it’s a test, because everything is a test, and if you fail the test, you die. But this doesn’t decrease the terror or the pain, which is now, mere seconds later, so overwhelming that you are certain it cannot get worse. But it can.

“Have you ever thrown back your coverlet and seen the face of evil flicking its tongue at you? The face of your death?”

“Please,” the Besur murmured, glancing at Lady Hariawan as though concerned she might overhear, “I would prefer—”

“And though, a moment before, you had thought yourself afraid, suddenly you know that you never knew the meaning of fear until
this
moment. Have you experienced this, Reverend Besur?” She took a step toward him and watched him back away. “Have you taken that snake by the back of its head and crushed its skull on the stones of your floor, beaten it until it went limp in your grasp? Then taken your knife and skinned it then and there, though your hands are shaking and your vision is blurring and each breath is like knives in your lungs? And have you then wrapped the skin of that snake—that very same snake—around your thigh and pressed and pressed and pressed, Reverend Besur, until you see that skin turn green with its own poison drawn from your wound?”

He looked sick now, as green as the poison she described.

Sairu blinked slowly, her eyes twinkling. “I have never stepped beyond Manusbau’s walls. But I know how to deal with snakes of all kinds.”

Once more the Besur glanced toward Lady Hariawan. When Sairu followed his gaze, she could mark no change in her lady’s expression. Why then did she feel as though she could . . . smell? Taste?
Hear
a smile?

Just then a slave from the Masayi entered the courtyard, dragged behind three small lion dogs straining at their leashes. At sight of Sairu—who was their very light, center, and purpose for being—the trio exploded into yipping chorus, nearly pulling the poor slave off his feet. Sairu smiled again, a smile she saved for her little pack, far lovelier than the smiles she turned upon the rest of the world. She knelt to receive kisses and excited paws clawing at her clothes.

That was when Lady Hariawan spoke: “What are their names, please?”

It was the first sound her mistress had made since the night before, when Sairu met her in the inner chamber of Hulan’s Throne. Sairu looked up, surprised, but could discern no sign of interest or curiosity. Lady Hariawan’s face was as beautiful and tranquil as ever behind its protective veils.

Still, a question was as good as a command. So Sairu, ignoring the Besur (who was expressing in sneers everything he dared not say aloud at the dogs’ arrival), presented her pets to her mistress. She bowed and picked up each one in turn, giving its name.

“This is Dumpling. He is pack-alpha. This is Rice Cake, his wife, and this is Sticky Bun, who is not to be trusted.”

She didn’t know quite what she expected in response. Princess Safiya had taught her early on that even no response is a response. No face is ever truly blank. Except . . .

Except Lady Hariawan’s, Anwar blight it!

“I thought there would be more,” Lady Hariawan said. “I told you to bring as many as you liked.”

“I like to bring no more than these,” Sairu replied. “A journey to the mountains is too great for little paws. They must be carried. We could not comfortably accommodate more.”

Lady Hariawan made no reply. Nor did she reach out to pet any of the fluffy heads offered her. But when, half an hour later, she was assisted onto the back of a tall, handsome mule, she motioned to the slave holding the dogs’ leashes.

“I will carry one,” she said.

There was no good in protesting, and Sairu did not bother to try. With reluctance, she took Sticky Bun from the slave and handed him into her mistress’s arms. The little dog scrambled and nearly got himself dropped before he finally settled into place. Sairu loaded Dumpling and Rice Cake into baskets hung for that purpose on either side of her own donkey’s saddle. But Lady Hariawan did not wish for a basket. She would carry the dog on her own.

So they began their journey, passing first through the long grounds of the Crown of the Moon itself. And before they had even reached the northernmost gate, Sticky Bun, catching a certain scent, let loose a fit of barking. Dumpling and Rice Cake raised an echoing chorus, but they were held in place by the basket lids and could only get their faces out. Sticky Bun, however, leapt from Lady Hariawan’s grasp. He landed with a jarring thud all too near the mule’s hooves, and Sairu, riding just behind, thought her heart would surely stop.

But Sticky Bun shook himself out and, shattering the morning stillness with his yips, waddled at high speed off into the temple gardens. Sairu slid off her donkey and gave pursuit, shouting, “
Sticky Bun!
” Which is not a good name for shouting if one hopes to maintain any sense of dignity.

She found the dog beneath a spreading cherry tree, leaping and scraping his frantic paws on the trunk. She scooped him up and tucked him under one arm, then peered into the blossom-thick branches above.

A flash of orange slipped out of her vision. Branches stirred and were still. Petals dropped like soft snow upon her face.

“Hush, Sticky Bun!” Sairu snapped, and clamped the yapping dog’s muzzle shut with one hand. He continued to squirm in her arms, but she held him tightly pressed to her side and stared up into the shadows of the cherry tree’s branches, willing her eyes to see what they could not.

It was no use. The cat was gone. But she knew what she had glimpsed. She knew to be on her guard.

Irked but still smiling, Sairu turned from the tree and hastened back to her waiting donkey and the traveling party. Lady Hariawan watched her approach and, when she was near, held out her arms.

“He’s a wicked one, my mistress,” Sairu warned. “He will leap again, I fear.”

Lady Hariawan said nothing but continued to reach for the dog. Sairu had no choice but to obey and hand Sticky Bun over.

Many pilgrims were to be seen in the crowded streets of Lunthea Maly, all wearing garb similar to Lady Hariawan’s, though perhaps not so finely made: a fur-trimmed cloak of black or brown, and the veil-trimmed hat worn by both men and women seeking the holy places of Anwar and Hulan. Most of these pilgrims were not permitted within the grounds of the Crown of the Moon, but numerous shrines surrounded the outer walls, and people would travel many leagues to knock their foreheads against smooth stones and offer prayers to silent figures carved in ivory and jade.

“One million,” Sairu whispered, her voice lost in the noise of the street traffic. “One million worshippers.” That was the number recorded of those who traveled to Lunthea Maly each year from across the Noorhitam Empire. Some even journeyed from the Outer Islands, many days beyond sight of the Continent, sailing through all weather just to make their reverence outside the walls of the magnificent temple.

It was a good plan, Sairu decided as she turned her head this way and that, counting the number of pilgrims’ hats she spied even now. There must be some twenty readily visible, and this was but one street. No one would notice their small company making its way through the twisting crush of city life. They were, to all apparent purposes, but one more pilgrimage returning to faraway lands after a few moments of sacred worship.