Golden Daughter by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

thoughts about her mistress. Whatever else went on within the Crown of the Moon, Lady Hariawan herself was sacred, was pure. One had only to look at her to see as much! She was above such baseness, and no one would dare touch her.
    Yet she did bear a hand-shaped burn hidden behind the veils of her pilgrim’s hat. It was a great puzzle. But, as with all puzzles, there was a key. And Sairu would work it out in the end.
    They journeyed through the city most of that day, their mounts’ hooves clopping on stone streets or kicking up dust and debris on unpaved surfaces. The crush of people was immense, and Sairu often found mounted strangers so close to her that she could feel the warmth of their bodies. The sun was setting by the time they reached the outer walls, but the city went on for some while beyond that, stretching out into the surrounding landscape. It was dusk by the time they came to a road that could truly be considered beyond the boundaries of Lunthea Maly. And even here small encampments, some grand, some humble, lined the road for miles. Merchant caravans, traveling nobles, country folk seeking a new life in the big city. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, more pilgrims.
    They all had stories. They all had missions. They were all so interesting, and Sairu’s heart burst with the wish to know them, to study them, to read their souls in their faces as the Golden Mother had taught her. But no. She was commissioned now. She had but one goal, the all-consuming goal of her life: She must care for her mistress.
    Then they came to a place that Sairu had never felt any desire to see, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind.
    She felt it long before she saw it—a low cloud of misery spread across the landscape, reaching out as though to catch in its irresistible grasp those who passed by. Of course she had known all along that, taking the northern road out of the city, they must necessarily ride near this place. But somehow she had managed to make herself forget until they were nearly upon it.
    Lembu Rana. The Valley of Suffering.
    The nearer they came, the more little figures they passed on the road. Little figures wrapped in heavy bandages and rags, supporting themselves on canes or crude crutches made of fallen tree limbs. Many were missing their feet or hands, or even whole arms. They moved with their heads bowed and, at the first sign of someone coming, would dive off the road and crouch trembling in a ditch.
    The road wound on, and soon Sairu found that if she looked to her right she could see into a valley high, naturally hewn walls on all sides, lined with stones to hold back erosion. She stared down at the village huddled below, where the living dead gathered in their misery to eke out a sort of life for themselves. Until their bodies at last betrayed them and they succumbed to their sickness.
    Succumbed to leprosy.
    Sairu shivered. She felt the unease in Tu Syed, Tu Domchu, and the others as well. One of the young slaves even cursed several times, loud enough that Tu Syed scolded him, and he apologized to the ladies present. Sairu, however, did not blame him. She felt like cursing, herself.
    Only Lady Hariawan did not react. Indeed, to all appearances she was entirely unaware of the horror near which they passed.
    And soon they were passed Lembu Rana and into the farther roads, both the great city and the lepers’ village well at their backs. They proceeded at the plodding pace set by Lady Hariawan’s mule, their only light the glow of the Lady Moon and her children above. The donkeys began to pull at their bits and reach for scrub to chew, and even the mule put back its ears and began to drag its feet. Still Lady Hariawan did not call a halt.
    “She’s not going to,” Sairu whispered suddenly. She twisted her neck, which crackled with soreness, for she had never ridden so long in one stretch before. But Lady Hariawan would keep on riding, riding, riding until her mule dropped dead . . . or she