Daughters of Qora: The Legend of Sophia

By Faye T. Knight

Forced into hiding by the self-proclaimed ruler of Qora, Emperor Osiro, the Gantune tribe lives beneath the desert sand waiting for salvation. Their only hope is Princess Kalkuro Azura.

Like her mother before her, Kalkuro was born a talisman - a human sacrifice. Her blood holds the power to link the minds of Gantunes and eagles, forming a telepathic bond that must never be broken. When the princess is kidnapped mere days before her Farewell Ceremony, she must choose to stay or flee. There is something strange about her captor. His silver eyes give away the fact that he is a Kantar - one of the enemy, but he begs her to translate writings in a hidden cave, revealing the long-forgotten history of a powerful jewel...The Legend of Sophia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faye T. Knight
• Release date: Sep 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9780557615452

Faye T. Knight

FAYE T. KNIGHT grew up in a house of storytellers in Washington, DC. She enjoys studying different cultures and learning about their myths and fables. Daughters of Qora is her first novel. It reflects her interest in Egyptology, Indian food, archaeology and ancient Nubian history. She is currently working on the sequel.

Book preview

Part One - Destiny

Chapter One

In my dreams, I am flying. The air is hot and thick, molten sunlight dripping from the sky, searing holes in the desert sand that stretches far into the distance and has no end. I am surrounded by pure white feathers, softer than velvet and long as I am tall. I am flying, no…riding on the back of the great white eagle, the father of all eagles, Ozu. He cranes his neck and turns a golden eye to me. He says my name, Kalkuro Azura, and tells me I am brave.

You’re wrong! I shout.

The eagle falters. His expansive wings suddenly dip and wobble, then melt into a river of milk. I am alone in the sky, drowning in liquid feathers, falling like an insect trapped within a raindrop. The ground below is rapidly growing closer. I see herds of gazelles fleeing to safety, lizards scurrying for cover. The sand blackens to ashes, twisting and roaring, painfully transforming into a gaping mouth with millions of needle sharp teeth. I scream in terror, anticipating the horror of landing inside the gaping void only to be masticated by all those evil, prickly teeth.

Two red eyes slowly open. They are red as jewels, glittering and hypnotic. I find myself wanting to be eaten, as the eyes soothe my fears, beckoning me closer, closer, closer…

There you are, my darling, coos the dark mouth. I’ve been waiting for you.

I wake up screaming.

My room is empty and shadowless. Fumbling in the dark, I find a small lantern and hurriedly strike a flint to light it. Each time I blink, I see teeth emerging from the corners, boring through the stone walls, closing in on me. Those eyes, those horrible red eyes have been haunting me for weeks. All the charms and tiny scrolls stuffed into my pillowcase have done nothing to quell the spells of nightmares that plague my mind each night. My only cure is to rest at my grandmother’s knee and retell every detail I can remember.

I dress quickly, wrapping my body in the only sari I own. It is spotless white and made of the softest linen. I wash my face at the water pitcher and briefly catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I have a subtle clef chin, full lips and square cheeks. My flat black eyebrows lay atop my equally dark eyes like dead caterpillars. I comb my emerald hair with my fingers, trying to soften my boyish appearance. If I didn’t have bangs dusting across my forehead, if I didn’t wear a thin gold tiara, I am convinced no one would believe I am a girl.

Using the lantern to light my way, I hurry to my grandmother’s bedchamber, carelessly flinging myself through the door. The maid had just finished serving my grandmother’s breakfast and was leaving the room with a tray of clay dishes. I catch myself before knocking into her and press my back into the wall.

I-I’m sorry, excuse me, I mutter, slinking past her like a child in a crowd.

A voice rises from the corner. It is withered and papery, but filled with sweet notes. Kalkuro, it is very early.

Umamo! I cry, falling to my knees and hobbling to her side. I couldn’t sleep any longer. My dream, it was…

The same one? Again?

Yes.

Dreams cannot hurt you. You are home. You are safe. What you dream of could only be a message about your life, or a warning. They are pictures you will need to decipher.

"What if they are true? What if they are meant to happen? Am I…is that my fate? To be eaten alive by that, that, thing?"

"Hushhhh. Don’t speak of the things that scare you. Let them fade in your mind. You will feel better soon. Hush, hush."

I sit cross-legged at the feet of my grandmother, watching the wrinkles dance around her mouth. She shifts in her hard chair, adjusting the pillow at the small of her back. Her brown skirt is rumpled in her tightly clenched fists. Her blind eyes are milky and blue. Her hair is mummified in a whirl of fabric. My umamo, my grandmother. Her beauty resonates like the final notes of a song.

Tell me about umma, I whisper.

Umamo leans back with a raspy sigh. Your mother was born on the day the suns refused to rise. Lightning streaked across the clouds and the rain fell in waves, turning sand to mud and melting the dunes. She was born on the day a thousand falcons gathered in the skies above Qora and swallowed the eyes of Horu.

My grandmother reaches down to pat my head. Her frail fingers curl a lock of hair around my ear. Even with these useless eyes I know you favor her, she says. Your mother was a great woman. Never doubt her love.

I close my eyes and lower my head. My heavy green mane spills over my shoulders, hiding my face and my emotions. I am crying again. Just a whisper of my mother seizes my entire body, shaking it until tears come unchained and burst from my eyes like scattered seeds.

"The entire world was in mourning the day your mother was born. I cradled her tiny body and whispered her name…Doriana. The falcons came shortly after the shaman left my bedside. Your mother was blessed by Gara himself."

She smiles at this, remembering the kind medicine man of our humble village. "The birth of your mother brought great destruction to Qora. After all the chanting and ceremonies, Gara read in her eyes a terrible omen: the Kantars were coming. Within the hour, falcons were spotted above the plains. We sought refuge in the caves, but oh, to hear the screams of so many… Grandmother moans in her cupped hands. It took all of my strength to march with the others, holding your mother in my arms."

I hold my tongue and listen as she further explains how the entire world was in tears. All who came to visit my infant mother kissed her hands then spat on them, blessing her, cursing her. They wanted her to die. She was a blemish, something to be gotten rid of. When mother grew into a young woman, they sent her away to the western cliffs to appease Ozu, the great eagle. Of all the human sacrifices, hers was the most celebrated. Our people lived in peace for many years. The Kantars left us to live in the shadows of their empire. They ignored our very existence, only hunting us when we came above ground. Life for my people was relatively carefree, that is, until I turned sixteen.

"Why did Ozu choose her? Why couldn’t he have picked someone else…someone else’s mother?" I always asked the same questions, but I wanted a new answer this time, one that wouldn’t scare me into hating my own destiny.

Oh, Kalkuro. Grandmother exhales my name like smoke. We cannot change the mind of Ozu. He is what binds us to the feathered race. With outstretched arms, she flaps imagined wings. Her hands clasp under her chin and she nods twice, performing the ritual motions of the Spirit Dance. "Remember, we are the Gantune. Our people have endured near genocide at the hands of the Kantars, but we are strong, like the roots which bind trees to the belly of Qora, we are strong."

But I don’t understand. Why did she have to die?

I want to ask, why did I have to die?

She was a talisman, as you are. Once you accept this, the burden of your sacrifice will be easier to bear.

I shake my head fervently, fighting with my conscience against all the reasons that try to make sense of the deadly offering. Is lengthening the life of the ancient bird worth sacrificing hundreds, possibly thousands of Gantunes? The cycle had existed for centuries. Every sixteen years, a talisman offers his or her life to the great eagle. I stare at my hands, at my horrid birthmarks. Three dots form a triangle between my middle and index fingers.

I was marked by death.

I was born with a symbol that meant I was next in line to feed Ozu, the father of all eagles and because of it I live every day with dread.

We Gantunes are the only race with blood strong enough to nourish him, says grandmother. "If his health wanes, the eagle eggs will not be fertilized and his children will cease to communicate with us. Through the mixing of our bloodlines, we have maintained a connection that the Kantars can only envy. They mean to eradicate us. This is why we live in secret. This is why you are a secret, Kalkuro."

Kantars started this war because they were jealous of our eagles? I say in doubt.

They are not like us. Kantars do not value nature as we do. They have a culture centered on domination. They will kill each other in order to succeed.

You told me there used to be peace between our tribes.

That was a long time ago. Emperor Osiro was not alive during the time of peace. He is the one responsible for destroying Ka, our first home. I am a witness to all of his crimes. He is a man with great power and a jealous heart… she averts her eyes, shielding them with her hand, …a heart that was broken when I married your grandfather.

I hear myself gasp, Osiro loved you?

Yes, she says, then hastily adds, but only because he wanted to expand his empire.

Oh, grandmother! If you had married him, maybe this war would never…

Hush! she snaps. "What’s done is done. There is no use in looking over your shoulder at what you cannot change. If I had married Osiro, your mother would have never been born and you would not exist. Grandmother holds my shoulders in her firm hands. In the end, I chose to stay loyal to our people. Do not worry, Kalkuro, the time will come when you will help our tribe as I have. Be proud of who you are."

My name is Kalkuro Azura. I am granddaughter to the last Sultana Gantune on Qora. My home is a communal cave shared by thirty or so families. We are the survivors, the ones the Kantars could not find.

This is how we live: in poverty, in the backlands of Kantar territory, in a cave so deep, bats refuse to roost here. Within this cave, there are several main tunnels, which break away from the central cavern like arteries leaving the heart. From these tunnels, there are numerous trails, which flow into smaller, more hospitable caves.

We call our home the Ghan’baeen – the buried nest. We Gantunes have thoroughly settled here, away from daylight, away from the land above we used to call home. We remain in perpetual hiding; half starved and always dreaming of a brighter future that will never come, but we are safe here. Our village is impossible for the Kantars to find, as the entrance is camouflaged by a thicket of churlies, whose broad yellow leaves sigh musty clouds of pollen if disturbed.

I weave my way around the crystal columns, which form a wide circle in the center of my home. Firelight skips across their pinkish surfaces and they twinkle brilliantly. My sari trails along, fluttering at my ankles. Maids scurry to get out of my way, curtseying politely. They carry straw baskets on their heads and wear orange saris, while mine is the purest white. I nod to them, wishing I could trade my doomed life for their mundane ones. I would cook and clean for all eternity if it would save me from throwing down my life at the clawed feet of Ozu.

I pull a fan from the folds of my waistband and create a weak breeze that does nothing to counter the heat. I feel my knees will buckle from the weight of the humidity. Sweat pours down my back, tickling between my shoulder blades.

Daytime on Qora is like leaping into fire. Unfortunately, Qora is the first planet in a solar system of five. The days here are incredibly short and our pea-sized planet twirls around the head of our god Horu at a breakneck pace. We roast under the glare of his two right eyes, Rehh, the sun disks, which together consume one quarter of the sky. The ominous golden eyes are upon us for six hours at a time, one being larger than the other. Then Jehh, his lunar left eyes, watch us for another six.

Our nearest, most beautiful blue neighbor is the planet Kalnekine. I spent many nights fantasizing about Kalnekine’s oceans and forests. The only thing resembling a forest here are the hanging gardens of the Isis Gate. The entrance to the Kantarian imperial city of Meroe (Mer-o-weh) is paradise compared to my sweltering cave. The Kantars walk freely in the open air, enjoying the smell of flowers and the taste of sweet water. Meanwhile, I haven’t bathed in years. Water is sacred here. Wasting even one drop is punishable by a hundred lashes. We cleanse ourselves by slathering oil on our bodies then wiping it away with heavy cloth. We drink aloe milk and a metallic goop that could be water, but is more likely dew that has dribbled down the cave walls.

I pause at one of these muck puddles and stare at my reflection, wondering if my mother had the same eyes as mine.

Kal?

I whip around in surprise. Meesha, my cousin, is holding her hands on her hips and looking very disappointed.

You promised to meet me at first sunset, she says. Where were you?

I must have forgotten, I mutter, snapping my fan shut.

Meesha rolls her eyes and flips a dozen braids over her shoulder. She is a year younger than me and the picture of beauty. When the two of us stand side by side, she is the diamond and I am the coal. Her oval face comes to a slight point at the chin, framing her large eyes and pouting lips. Her cinnamon skin is smooth as honey. As a final touch, she wears a strand of gold beads around her neck as an advertisement for marriage.

My neck is bare. Wearing the golden beads would be a useless tease with imminent death looming over my head. I straighten my sari and force a smile. Meesha responds by grabbing my hand. Her mouth is a pensive red line. She drags me through a busy tunnel and we pass by vendors leaning out of storefronts carved into the craggy walls. They wave handfuls of feathers, scraps of woven cloth and fistfuls of drying herbs, shouting out prices. Women sit in circles with blankets spread before them. They sell ‘found treasures’, broken teapots, chipped ceramic bowls, jewelry and bits of metal – junk the Kantars have lost in the desert. Children run around them, herding chickens into a pen. The frightened birds beat their wings, sending feathers into the air.

The smell of baking roti makes my stomach rumble. We pass a group of vendors selling the delicious flat bread, along with sweet dumplings and roasted insects. The bakers kneel in front of fire pits, patting the dough in their hands. They place each loaf between two spatulas and hold them over the fire, turning them over and over until the edges brown.

Meesha shoulders her way through the crowd ignoring the sights and smells. I stumble, bumping into a turbaned man and his skinny wife. They drop their basket of feathers and apologize to me.

Forgive us, Princess Kalkuro, they say in unison. I pause to respond, but my cousin gives me a sharp tug. They melt into the throngs of my devotees. I can see hope in their eyes, a hope that is hanging on by a thread.

Meesha leads me to a carpeted alcove and draws the purple curtains. We sit across from each other beside a small lantern. The ceiling in her exotic grotto is decorated with colorful scarves, which gently hide the stalactites. Painted frescoes adorn the walls depicting images of the outside world, the past world. A river, a grove of date palms, Qora’s two suns and two moons. Giant eagles roam the faded sky. Their ashen wings are broad enough to carry the weight of men. Well-dressed nobles dance in a meadow, waving to the eagle riders. They are sad reminders of what we used to have and how we used to live.

I have news, Meesha says. She lifts a bottle of perfume from a hole in the wall. Dabbing her wrists, she gushes, Nuran is coming to the festival tonight!

Why wouldn’t he come? Everyone’s invited.

"He’s coming to see me...to ask to marry me. I haven’t told my parents yet, but he gave me this last night. Fishing around in the hole, she produces a red string. He has the other half tied around his ankle. I watch as she does the same with her half, sticking out her foot and knotting the cord. The anklet rests just below an irregular star-shaped birthmark. We are bound together in love," she says dreamily.

I’m happy for you, I say with a yawn.

"Well…aren’t you excited? It’s your birthday, you’re sixteen. I can’t wait until I turn sixteen. I’ll be a mother by then. She hums to herself, toying with her braids. You should enjoy these moments, Kal. It’s almost evening and your hands are still without henna. Did you think you could get out of performing the Spirit Dance? We’ve been practicing since we wore the side lock, but now we’re older and we don’t have to shave our heads anymore. Are you afraid to flaunt your womanhood?"

What kind of question is that?

Meesha is all giggles. She holds her stomach, pointing at me. You won’t even show one shoulder, not one. Loosen up!

Why should I? I’m supposed to be serious. The Spirit Dance is not something to be taken lightly. It is the most important ceremony I will ever be a part of. I choose my words carefully, but I feel as if I’m sinking into the carpet. My voice becomes quieter. I bite my tongue to stop my chin from trembling. The dance seals my fate. I become the bridge between the Gantunes and the eagles. I cannot speak after the dance is performed, only pray. Pray for three days and then I’m off to the shrine of Ozu. If you want to say goodbye, this is your only chance.

You’re so dull. You’re acting like you’re going to die this very instant. You still have time to live a little. Have a little fun, drink a little aloe!

Meesha pulls a fat leaf from her satchel and breaks it in two. She sips the sour milk and passes me the rest.

I hold the leaf, letting the liquid ooze over my fingers. You don’t know what it’s like. I want to have a real life. I want to grow old like umamo and tell stories to the village children. I want to ride eagles across the dunes. I want to travel to the far corners of Qora and back. I…

That’s too many dreams.

But I…

Did you forget that you’re a girl? I can’t even do all those things, even if I wanted to.

Placing my hand on my chest, I say, But I want to be more than what I am!

Meesha frowns. You sound so selfish.

How is that selfish?

What about all of us? If you do all those amazing things, what will happen to the rest of us? The eagles born without Gantune blood will block their minds to us. How will we serve them and how will they carry us?

We’ll do as the Kantars do and train them with our voices.

Meesha gasps and hops to her feet. "We are not like…like them!"

We’re all human. I reason.

Kantars are…Kantars are not like us. They’re not.

What makes them so different?

They ride falcons.

I lean back, crossing my arms. So? Anyone can be trained to ride any bird.

Meesha is furious now. "They have silver eyes! They live in cities above ground. They are taller and meaner and they hate us. Don’t ask me what makes them different, you know what makes them different. Their ways are not our ways. We love our birds and they beat theirs. They are heathens! Don’t ever compare them to us again."

Heathens? I rise from my seat, facing the largest, most ornate fresco. To them, we are the heathens.

I don’t know how long I was running before my sides began to ache. My conversation with Meesha ended badly and she called me a slew of names I won’t dare translate. Well, one of them was yakap, meaning traitor. She fears I won’t go through with the sacrifice and wind up ruining our way of life forever.

Our way of life.

I want to laugh, it sounds so absurd. I knew I shouldn’t have confided in her, but I only want what’s best for our tribe. Our conditions are worse than Kantarian slaves. At least they wear shoes.

I stare at my dusty toes. I’m up to my knees in churlies and my clean white sari is stained a grimy yellow. I know I have some time alone before the villagers start to look for me. They will wonder where their prized talisman has gone and send the scouts after me.

Dawn is breaking on the flat horizon. The eyes Rehh are opening, sending orange streaks across a vanilla sky. I wonder how many sunrises I have missed during my lifetime being trapped underground like a sandworm. I peer far into the distance, making out the shapes of the flat-topped pyramids of Meroe. I can’t see the Isis Gate, but I imagine the scent of flowers drifting over the sand to greet me. I trudge through the churlies gazing at the sky. Stars are still visible, as are Qora’s four sister planets. I fall back, landing in a cloud of pollen. I lie here for almost an hour, watching the remnants of nighttime fade. Heat washes over the plains and over my body. I bake in my yellow bed. Slowly, I rise, brushing myself off. I am too lost in thought to notice a shadow pass overhead. It’s the high-pitched caw that catches my attention.

Before I take one step, a large scaly vice squeezes around my waist. Talons press into my ribcage and I am lifted off the ground. My screams are drowned by the cry of the gigantic bird.

It can’t be Gantune scouts, they would never treat me this roughly!

I pound my fists on the bird’s pink toes. They are thicker than my arms and stronger than steel. My lungs are being crushed and my head swoons. Suddenly, I am released in midair! With a thud, I land on my side. My sari is partially unraveled and I hurry to wind myself up.

A falcon lands behind me. White feathers form a collar around his neck, while the rest of his plumage is dark brown. He wears a red and blue saddle ornamented with gold trimmings. A painted red stripe runs down the center of his head, forming a line which begins at the tip of his beak and ends at the base of his neck. His eyes dart rapidly back and forth. He is inspecting me. He bobs up and down, hissing and flaring his tongue. I give his beak a good slap and attempt to run away. In an instant, his heavy foot is on my back and I’m pinned to the ground as prey.

What have you found, Enick? a male voice asks.

I hear footsteps. I strain my head to one side and see boots, legs, a white shirt and hooded cloak. The face is masked in black cloth, but silver eyes stare at me in shock.

A girl? he says.

Let me go!

The Kantar is hesitant. He blinks hard, shuffles his feet and asks, Who are you? He crouches to my level and pokes me with the butt of his whip.

My body is splayed in the sand like a fallen star. Sand enters my mouth as I shout, If you mean to kill me then do so now! Even women should not be humiliated before death.

Enick, release.

I scramble to my feet, clutching my droopy sari. The Kantar turns his back and says, I won’t look. Fix yourself.

I quickly re-wrap my six yards of linen into a sloppy cocoon. I tie three knots at my hip for safety’s sake.

Who are you, Gantune?

I’m not telling you my name.

He turns around to face me, removing his mask.

Apparently Kantars don’t value personal space. He stands so near, his nose almost touches mine. His scent is a mixture of incense and tea. Wisps of dark hair escape from under his hood and long sideburns fall around his ears. His skin is deeply tanned and he wears a ring in one ear. He is handsome for a Kantar, but I immediately feel guilty for thinking such a thing. He is one of the enemy and a hunter at worse. A lettered tattoo marks the side of his neck and I find myself staring at it, wishing I knew how to read sounds.

He holds two fingers under his chin and says, Takk.

I raise an eyebrow, confused. He repeats the gesture and the word. Takk is his name. He’s trying to be civil. He presses the same two fingers to my chin and nods.

Kalkuro, I say, somewhat intimidated. I’ve been touched by a Kantar.

Are you lost, Kalkuro?

No. I glance around. The falcon carried me much farther than I realized. We are standing at the bank of a drying pond. The brown water is receding into a small puddle. Cattails rise from the sludge and iridescent beetles buzz around their stalks. The flat-topped pyramids are very close and very tall. I step back warily, searching for a way home. Enick blocks my path to the field of churlies. I can barely see the crowns of the golden leaves.

We were hunting. Enick must have thought you were a mouse. Takk is trying hard not to laugh. A slanted smile leaks from his mouth. He wags a finger and teases, "You must have