Sword of the Deceiver (10 page)

“Yes,” said Divakesh, his relish of the word undisguised. “If the first prince’s bound sorcerer has an insight, let her speak.”

Samudra found himself wishing with all his heart that Hamsa would do so, but he knew anything he might say would only make matters worse.

Hamsa bowed her head. “No. I have nothing to say.”

At which, Yamuna smiled, and his smile was sharp, and Samudra felt the hidden weapons about him again.

Chandra turned back to Samudra. “You will dine with me, Brother?” he inquired. “We must celebrate the success of the sacrifice.”

Samudra felt another numbing moment of pure disbelief. The Huni were digging in on the northern border, his treaty with one of their father’s protectorates was shattered, a royal woman was threatened and humiliated in public. He, Samudra, had been all but accused of harboring traitorous designs, and the emperor of Hastinapura was having dreams of devils, and Chandra had dismissed it all in an instant. No, he had forgotten about it.

Samudra managed to fold his hands and bow his head, as was proper. “With permission, my emperor, I wish to go visit our mother before she retires.”

“And perhaps visit some of that pretty tribute you brought me?” Chandra laughed heartily. “A man of your martial temperament can only restrain himself so long, Brother. Go, go!” He gestured expansively with his goblet. “Take whichever of the newcomers you want. Bandhura will surely know which will best suit a man such as yourself!”

Samudra bowed his head to the floor to make his obeisance and backed away, leaving the robing room to the sound of his brother’s laughter, and leaving his brother to Divakesh.

Once in the hall, he could only stand and stare at the door that the servants discreetly closed behind them. He heard the scurrying feet as others hurried ahead, to warn the various chamber attendants that the first prince would soon be coming their way. He heard Hamsa’s harsh breathing beside him. He heard his own blood roaring in his ears.

“What is it you did not say?” he asked her quietly.

She hesitated nervously. Sometimes, Samudra forgot that she was older than him by almost fifteen years, and wanted to shake her like a little sister. “That was no devil the emperor saw,” she murmured at last.

“What was it?”

Hamsa looked up at him, as if surprised he did not already know. “The white flower. No demon can wear a living thing, even in a dream. If that white flower was a lotus … the emperor saw the Queen of Heaven.”

Mother Jalaja? Divakesh lied about the appearance of Mother Jalaja? No. He would not. Divakesh was nothing if not completely dedicated to the worship of the Queen of Heaven. Hamsa must be mistaken. If the Queen of Heaven had appeared to the emperor, Divakesh would be on his knees at once. Samudra found he was opening his mouth to say so, but he looked at Hamsa’s face and saw how stricken she was. She knew full well she had just accused the high priest of ignorance, at the very best. At worst, what he had done was blasphemy.

And she did it outside the room where Divakesh waited on the emperor.

Samudra turned and strode down the corridor, his sandals slapping loudly against the shining marble floor. Around the corner there waited a small contemplation room, lined with alabaster vases of green ferns and decorated with bright murals depicting the deeds of the Mothers and some of the lesser gods. He turned to face Hamsa, and the doorway.

“Did Yamuna know?” he asked in the lightest of whispers. “That who my brother dreamed of was Mother Jalaja?”

For the first time, Hamsa’s mouth hardened with anger. “Assuredly.”

“Then why did he not say so?”

Hamsa snorted, an unusual sound for her. “You must ask? Yamuna hates Lord Divakesh.”

Samudra felt himself frowning. “But then why not expose his … mistake? It would embarrass him before the emperor.”

For this, Hamsa had no answer. Her gaze fell and her hands twisted her walking stick.

“Is it possible Divakesh could have honestly missed the sign?”

Hamsa shook her head. “I think he chooses to close his eyes.”

The feeling of weapons waiting, of hidden depths in his home, closed around Samudra again. “They would ignore the call of the Queen of Heaven for fear and jealousy. That my brother is so served …” he murmured.

Hamsa lifted her eyes. “Yet you do not speak to him. Why not?”

Samudra rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps I too am afraid, Hamsa.”

“Perhaps?” she repeated.

Samudra sighed and folded his arms, his attention flickering to the hallway. He heard nothing, felt no warning instincts wake his mind. “Now, my sorceress, you will tell me what it is I fear.”

Hamsa hesitated another moment, but she did answer. “You fear having to believe the worst of your brother,” she whispered. “You fear that if you speak to him any further of these things he has dismissed, he will leave you no choice.”

He wanted to deny it. It could not be true. He was a soldier and he was afraid of nothing. At the same time, he wanted to take his sword and cut that fear out of himself. “Yes.”

Hamsa bowed her head, humble before the bitterness she heard in that one word.

Samudra rubbed his own head. He ached. He did not want to think any of the thoughts that thronged in his mind. He did not want to speak anymore of what had happened that day. He wanted it to be done, to be gone, to be some mistake. “Hamsa, you must be as exhausted as I am. Go get some rest.”

“And what will you do, my prince?”

Samudra found he could not bear to stand still a moment longer and brushed past her. “I will do as I said. I will go visit my mother.”

And mother will send for her private clerk, Tasham, and I will finally finally know what has happened in my absence
.

Despite the turmoil within him, it felt good to walk the palace corridors again, good to be surrounded by the rhythms at the heart of Jalaja’s dance, to see the cool wood, the bright gold, the polished stonework and carvings telling again and again the history of Hastinapura and the Seven Mothers. It was here Samudra felt most deeply his part and place. Here he was most whole, even more than on the field of battle, for in this place lay all that the battles were fought for.

It was said that was part of the magic of the palace. The sorcerers who oversaw its building had worked bindings of duty and place into its patterns so that those who ruled the Mothers’ land would follow the Mothers’ words. Samudra found himself very much wishing that were true. Such mighty magics would help soothe his anger, and restore him, and more importantly Chandra, to the right path. He needed that belief very much now.

The Palace of the Pearl Throne was a city beneath its vaulted roofs and ivory beams. There were those who never entered the world outside its walls. Indeed, some were forbidden to leave, lest the pollution of the outer world render them unfit for their office. The edifice was constructed as a series of nine rings, one inside the other, each rising higher until all culminated at the Throne’s chamber.

Each ring had its own function and patterns to which it must adhere. The seventh ring of the palace was the
zuddhanta
, the women’s quarters. The name was misleading, as many folk other than women dwelt there. Of course, Chandra had his suite of concubines, as their father had. These, for the most part, served out their time and went on their way to be married or to set up their houses, seldom leaving a mark or impression on the memory. The seventh ring was also, however, the place of the unmarried princes and princesses, Samudra and Chandra’s half-brothers and sisters, their nieces, nephews, and cousins, and of the wives and families of highly placed servants to the Throne. It was a city within a city, and those who lived there had their own name for it. They called it the small domain.

The small domain was the place where Samudra had grown up. Then it had been in the strict care of his grandmother. As was the custom, his own mother, Queen Prishi, had taken charge only when her son Chandra became emperor. All the palace was his home, but it was these particular halls he had raced up and down as a child, these balconies he had looked out of to see the pageants and processions of the city. It was here he’d learned all the princely arts save that of war, and it was here he returned when that training and service was done. Memories flocked about him as he walked the passages between the princess’s suites — of riding and shooting with his father, endless mischief with his brother and other siblings, the procession of tutors who struggled courageously to din something into his head that didn’t have to do with weapons, chariots, or horses. The time his father informed him that if he didn’t want to become a proper prince, he could be a slave in the wheat fields, and actually sent him down to the fields for a month to labor beside the sun-cured men who laughed at his soft hands and weak arms. After that, languages and poetry became much more bearable.

Chandra, on the other hand, had garnered much praise from his tutors by the expeditious method of discovering which ones he could bribe and what their price might be. Samudra had known, but had never told their father because his brother had wept and made Samudra swear not to.

Chandra understood people well. His langour and lack of restraint when pursuing pleasure and luxury made this easy to forget.

The center of the small domain was the queen’s viewing chambers, a complex network of open rooms separated by beautifully carved arches. Each space was designed with care for its ordained purpose — for sewing, for sitting, for singing and performance, for dining. As first prince, Samudra had his private suite off these chambers, and as he could not appear before his mother dusty and unkempt after a day spent fuming and sweating at the gates, he went first to his own rooms. His personal attendants, Bori and Amandad, had, as usual, prepared all things for him. The bath was filled. Fresh robes of burgundy silk, rings of gold and garnets, and soft slippers were waiting once he was dried. They also laid out a light supper of bread, spiced chickpeas, and honeyed dumplings.

Feeling once more the proper prince rather than the rough soldier, Samudra returned to the viewing chambers. It was his mother’s habit to sit in the “garden” and watch moonrise. Occupying a huge terrace, this inner garden was as carefully and lovingly tended as those outside. Tiny birds nested in its perfect trees, cats basked in the sun, and water trickled from half a dozen fountains. The whole chamber smelled of greenery, oranges, incense, and perfume. An ivory latticework enclosed the whole of it and was cunningly carved so that light could enter, but no one, even had they been able to climb to this height, could see through from the outside.

As he entered the dim garden, he saw a cluster of ladies sitting amid the miniature trees and his spirits lifted. Queen Prishi, his mother, his father’s first wife, was a wise, quick-witted, strong woman. She had guided him through the morass of court intrigues all his life and ruled the small domain with a firm hand. She would know what he should do.

“Brother of my heart! How glad I am to see you!”

At the sound of that voice, Samudra’s hopes toppled yet again. It was not his mother who sat on the carved stone bench, but Bandhura, his brother’s beautiful wife, with her flock of ladies at her feet. As he approached, she smiled up at Samudra with all seeming joy.

Samudra remembered to fold his hands and kneel with proper respect, even as the ladies made obeisance to him. “I salute the first of all queens.”

Bandhura stood, took his hands, and raised him up. “Come, let me kiss you.” She suited actions to words, kissing his brow although she had to stand on her toes to reach it. “It is good to have you home again.” She resettled herself on her bench and with a gesture had a servant come forward with a cup of wine. In the blend of silver moonlight and golden lamplight, he could see her appearance was perfect in every aspect, as it always was. Yet, Samudra had learned to watch her eyes closely. There, he could sometimes see the hard glitter betraying the flint heart within the silken queen. He saw it there now. He also saw that neither his two cousins nor his nearest half-sister sat among Bandhura’s ladies as they had when he left.

“I had not thought to see you this evening,” Bandhura was saying. “You seemed so tired during the ceremony.”

We will not speak of my outburst, of course. Nor of Divakesh’s … demonstration. But tired. Yes, I was tired, and I am
. “I have come to see my mother.”

Her hand went to her mouth, a little gesture of deprecation for not thinking of something so obvious. “Of course.” Then, she dropped her eyes, hesitating. “But, this is so … Brother, I must tell you …”

Samudra waited until he could keep the impatience form his voice. Bandhura’s artifices wore on him, and worried him. “What is it?”

“Your mother, our mother, has not been well of late.” She murmured as if speaking of a subject that might be thought immodest. “I fear the years weigh on her. She is … easily tired these days.”

A fresh bolt of fear shot through Samudra. “She is ill?”

“The physicians say not.” There was no confidence in the statement. “She has already taken to her bed for the night.”

Samudra bowed hastily to Bandhura. “I will ask her ladies if she sleeps yet. If not, perhaps she will still see me, briefly.”

Bandhura frowned. “If you think it wise, Brother …”

No, but I will do it anyway
. He bowed once more and left Bandhura to whatever thoughts lurked behind her perfect face.

The emperor’s mother, as mistress of the small domain, had her private suite of rooms at its center, which was symbolically the center of life in the palace. Her eunuch guards knelt in silence for Samudra as he slipped through the doorway, treading carefully so as not to break the silence of the shadowed chamber.

Nonetheless, a small, round woman rose up at his entry. Her greying hair was pulled back in a simple knot. Samudra smiled. Here at last was a welcome face. “Damman. It is good to see you. Does my mother sleep?”

The waiting woman gave him the salute of trust. This was the same woman who when he was a child had more than once had grabbed him by the ear and marched him to his bath, or his bed. “Not yet, my prince, but it would not matter. She said most clearly that if you came, you were to be allowed entry.” Her eyes darted to his face for one bold instant before she turned away. “I am glad you are home,” she whispered, and Samudra’s fear grew colder.