Golden Daughter by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Read Free Book Online Page A

even believed it.
    “What danger is my new master in?” she wondered. “From what must I protect him?”

 
     
     
     
     

     
    Ever after that fateful day, the smell of crushed ginger would fill Sunan’s memory with overwhelming sensations of shame.
    He would not have guessed it at the time. But when he passed through the gates of the Center of Learning into the streets of Suthinnakor City, the first thing Sunan encountered was a street vendor plying his wares of cabbage dumplings to hungry students. The dumplings were seasoned with ginger, and the smell wafted over Sunan even as he stumbled blindly past, oblivious to the hopeful cries of the vendor. His stomach churned at the very idea of food, and he hastened on to the end of the street and there paused a moment, expecting to be sick.
    It might have been wise, he realized upon reflection, to have stopped and retrieved his own clothing. Or at least his shoes. Snow fell in noncommittal gusts, just enough to dust the streets and turn to oozing mud. Sunan’s bare feet froze, so he started walking again with the faint hope of warming them. The sensation of mud churning between his toes was a welcome distraction, and he focused on the revulsion of it, shuddering and cursing at each step.
    Anything was better than facing the explosion of thoughts inside his brain.
    He had made no plans for a return journey, arranged no litter or conveyance. He was supposed to mount the stairs to the Middle Court and enter his new life as a Presented Scholar. He wasn’t supposed to slink back to his uncle’s house in disgrace.
    His uncle, who was dead.
    No, no, he wouldn’t think about that. It was nonsense anyway. Uncle Kasemsan had been far too much alive the last time Sunan saw him to possibly be dead now. It just couldn’t be. And Sunan had bigger problems to consider.
    The snow dusted his shoulders with a white mantle. Though it was very light, any observer would have thought it weighed him down like lead, so heavily did he slump and droop and finally collapse again against a wall. He tried to warm his feet with his hands, rubbing the toes to make the blood move. Vaguely he was aware of the bustle in the street, the lives of thousands going on around him just as though the world hadn’t shattered. He heard merchants shouting, tradesmen arguing, babies squalling, young men calling lewd remarks to housemaids running errands. Donkeys brayed, dogs barked, geese honked, cart wheels squelched in mud, and no one cared about one barefoot young man who stood vigorously massaging his feet. As though he could massage hope back into his dreams.
    In the street a beast of burden lowed deep in its belly. The sound plucked at Sunan’s ears, and he frowned, though he did not know why.
    Then as he drew a breath, he inhaled a certain unforgettable smell. Just as, in the future, the scent of ginger would recall memories of this one horrible day, so this smell—one he had not encountered for the last eight years—swept over his brain like a deadly wave, destroying all in its path. It was a musty, dung-laden smell layered with a scent of broad spaces, keen winds, wildflowers, and blood. The heavy odor permeated every layer of clothing, every pore of the skin, and congealed there in an infesting funk that only years of washing in aromatic soaps might someday erase.
    Only one creature in the world could produce such a stench: a Chhayan buffalo.
    Sunan’s head shot up, and he stared out into the crowded street. Once more he heard the deep-bellied low, and this time he spotted the beast, nearly swallowed in the crowds of Suthinnakor. But nothing, nothing in all the known world, could swallow that smell.
    Suddenly Sunan no longer stood half-frozen in the streets of a Pen-Chan city. He was on the wide plains of the Noorhitam hinterlands, his body dripping with sweat, his shirt open from throat to navel, a cloth tied about his forehead to keep more sweat from dripping into his eyes. And he rode astride a