Sword of the Deceiver (14 page)

In the end, Samudra directed his steps toward the river. If the Palace of the Pearl Throne was the heart of the Mothers’ dance, the sacred river was its soul. If Mother Jalaja waited anywhere, it would be on Liyoni’s banks.

The air grew dense with the smoke wafted on the breeze. Here, the smell of death and fire was constant, reminding him of battlefields, and of the night he had stood on the steps with his brother, his father’s ashes smearing his face and hands. He had felt so weak as he said his final farewells and Liyoni bore his father away. Suddenly he recalled how Natharie looked as she lifted her chin to Divakesh’s broad sword, her face white and sick. He had known then she felt loss as he had, and knew what it was to have to face her own death. Like her, he also now knew what it was to find home and the future to be hostile and foreign lands.

Perhaps that was why he had thought of her so frequently since he had returned.

The river flowed black and silent, a serpent of night cutting the city in half. The funeral pyres burned brightly on either side. The priests chanted, their voices becoming one soaring hymn to all the gods in Heaven. Broad steps led down to the water. Depressions had been worn in their surface from hundreds of years of feet making the descent he did now. Samudra saw the naked forms of bathers as they rinsed themselves in the shining waters. It was a common thing for astrologers to advise their clients to bathe in the sacred water by the light of this moon or that, to rinse off their sin and bad luck.

Perhaps I should bathe, or drink
.

A hiss and a beam of light on his hand made Samudra turn from the river. Behind him flickered a sputtering oil lamp, giving off just enough light to show a ragged tent. A woman swaddled in greasy, colorless robes sat beneath the battered canvas. A stick with a snake’s skin wrapped around it had been planted in front of the tent, the traditional sign for an astrologer.

Smiling to himself, Samudra approached the rickety shelter. The woman looked him up and down, her eyes gleaming. No doubt she saw the one gold ring he still wore on his hand, and used it to weigh the wealth hidden in the purse he had concealed beneath his tunic.

“Come forward, my son, come forward.” She beckoned with a bony hand. “What question plagues you this night?”

Samudra squatted down until his eyes were level with hers. “Tell me, mother, where will I find the Queen of Heaven?”

To his surprise, the crone didn’t even blink. “She is not here tonight.”

Samudra rested his arms on his thighs. She spoke so solemnly and so plainly, he found he did not know what to say.

“Did you expect her?” The ancient astrologer cocked her head.

Samudra shrugged. “I hoped,” he said honestly.

She turned her head so that she regarded him archly from one eye. That eye caught the lamplight, causing a single star to burn within its depths. “But it was not you she called, was it?”

Samudra felt his jaw drop open. The crone just smiled, and straightened her bony shoulders. Was it only his surprise, or was she younger than she had seemed at first?

“What do you know of it?” he demanded.

Her smile broadened and opened, revealing a row of stained, sharp teeth. “Ask another question, Son of the Moon. You have so few left.”

Samudra swallowed. The chants and the pyre smoke swirled against his back. His heart beat slow and heavy within him and his throat threatened to close around his words.

“What is my place on the wheel?” he croaked.

The woman sighed and shook her head. Her hair was white beneath her ragged veil, but still streaked with black. “That is the wrong question. You know your place. You are the second son. You are the protector and the defender. You are keeper of sword and honor. Yours are the snake’s eyes, not the lotus.”

“But I do not understand what that means!” cried Samudra, plaintive as a child. His dignity was lost, and his home, his sense of self and place. Here he was only a man, and he knew nothing, nothing at all.

“Oh, my son,” breathed the woman. “You hide so much from yourself. You are a master of deception and yet you do not know it.” She stood, and Samudra saw he had been wrong. She was not old. She was young and straight and strong, and her robes were not tattered at all, but whole and rich, and it was only the ashes of the sacred dead that made them grey. “When you are ready to speak from who you are, we will talk again.”

She walked away, leaving her ragged tent and her lamps and her sign, vanishing into the darkness down the steps to the sacred river. Left behind, Samudra stood slowly, staring at the dusty street where her footsteps had fallen, for behind her she left a trail of bloody footprints. Samudra bowed at once, until his forehead pressed into that scarlet dust.

This was not the sign of the Queen of Heaven. Jalaja left lotus petals behind her. The bloodied footprint was the sign of Vimala, the Mother of Destruction.

Who also bore the name and aspect of A-Kuha, the Deceiver.

You are a master of deception, and yet you do not know it
.

Samudra shook. Cold seized hold of him, and yet he felt sweat trickling down his brow.

He turned from the tent and the river and the sign of the goddess. As he had never done in battle, Samudra fled. He ran through the streets without seeing them, instinct alone guiding his steps, his breath coming in frantic gasps, tears stinging and blinding his eyes and his fearful thoughts blurring in his mind.

When at last he could run no more, he collapsed against a stone wall. It was cool against his sweating skin and strong enough to make up for the weakness that had seized his legs and allowed him to keep upright.

He had come out seeking the Queen of Heaven, but the Queen of Heaven would not speak to him. He could not even find Indu, the Mother of War, to whom he had dedicated his life. The Deceiver had called him her son. Samudra leaned his head back until it rested against the wall. He had striven to be honest, to be honorable in word and deed. He wanted to pray, to pray for the grandest sacrifice of all so that any other of the goddesses would hear him and speak comfort to him, but even as he thought this, he quailed. Mother Destruction, Mother Deception, Mother of Snakes and of the ever-changing moon, was merciless to those who rejected her. But why, why would she choose him? He had never been any of hers.

And yet … and yet … while he played the dutiful prince and soldier, in his bosom he harbored doubt, and even revulsion. He had questioned what his brother had become. He had defied orders in battle, only to achieve greater victory, true, but it was defiance still, and unless he was forced to, he had told no one. Only Hamsa knew, and she knew only because she had seen what he had done, not because he had spoken openly, like a true man.

Samudra pushed away from the wall. Steady now, he walked the last of the way to the palace. The streets around him widened, and the number of people fell away until he was alone once more. This time when he came to the gates, he only looked up at the watchmen when they called the challenge. He did not know what they saw in his eyes, but whatever it was, this time there was no talk of pollution or delay. They only hurried to open the side portal and let him in. He crossed through the gardens, raising his hand to guard his stained brow from the fine sprays of the fountains carried on the night wind. He did not wish the blood of the goddess to be washed away.

He climbed up the wide stairs to the eighth ring of the palace, the place where the emperor lived. No one challenged him. No one stopped him. The guards parted as he approached and dropped at once into obeisance.

The imperial bedchamber lay at the center of the ring. The night servants, all of them mutes, waited in the outer chamber, alert for the slightest sound issuing from beyond the gauze curtains that sheltered the imperial bed. Even these guardians of the emperor’s comfort kissed the floor as Samudra strode past them. He pushed aside the curtains and saw the rumpled sheets, and the two bodies lying beneath the covers.

“Brother.”

But it was Bandhura who sat up, pulling the sheet up around her. She looked at him for a moment. Then, gracefully, deliberately, she rose from that bed, drawing on a pale robe that billowed around her as she walked toward him, but not before Samudra saw her body, full and perfect in the silver moonlight.

“What is the brother of my heart doing here?” she asked softly. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpets as she approached him.

“I must speak with my brother,” Samudra told her bluntly.

“Our sovereign sleeps, as you can see. What matter will not wait until morning?” Her words were mild, but her eyes were sharp, especially for one who should have just awakened from sleep. Samudra had a sudden image of Bandhura lying awake beside Chandra, waiting. But waiting for what? Did she know he had left Makul’s house on foot? How had that word come to her?

“It is a matter between him and me, sister of my heart.” He did not try to keep his voice down. Chandra stirred on his pillows.

“For shame, Brother!” Bandhura slapped Samudra’s arm lightly. “A soldier should know restraint. Whatever you have to say, it can wait for the morning.”

“No,” said Samudra flatly. “It cannot.” He stepped to the side. “Brother!”

Chandra rolled over. He blinked heavily and looked about him. When he saw his wife and his brother, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

“What in all nine hells is this?” he demanded groggily.

Samudra brushed past Bandhura, feeling the heat from her angry glower as he did, and stood beside his brother’s bed.

“Come with me, Chandra.”

Chandra squinted up at him. “Where?”

“Out of here.”

“What do you mean?” Chandra scratched his scalp.

“Come out into the streets.” Samudra pointed toward the doorway where the servants crowded, crouching in the shadows, uncertain of what to do. “The Queen of Heaven is looking for you.”

Chandra stared at his arm. He blinked again, bleary-eyed. “What in the Mother’s name are you talking about?”

“Your dream. Divakesh lied to you. It was not a devil. It was Mother Jalaja who called you.”

Memory and comprehension came slowly to Chandra, but they did come and the look on his face shifted from confusion to annoyance. “Don’t be an ass, Samudra. Why would Divakesh lie?”

“I don’t know.”
Another lie. I do know, but I can’t speak here. These are things that should not be, not here in the heart of all things
.

Chandra sighed, shoving his stringy locks back from his face. He propped himself up on both elbows now. “So, how came you to be a dream interpreter?”

Samudra knelt. He caught his brother’s gaze and saw the disbelief, and the boredom. “Because I left the palace tonight. I went to the streets in your place. I met Mother Vimala there.”

Chandra grinned at him, fierce and lascivious. “Brother, whoever you met, I want some of what you had to smoke with her.”

“Chandra, I am not lying to you.” He put all the strength of the truth he had in his voice. “Brother look at me.”
See what I have seen. See the blood and the dust. See these eyes of mine that have looked at the Mother of Destruction and Deception
. “The Queen of Heaven is calling to you. You are surrounded by liars as we are surrounded by walls. Chandra, Brother, I am asking you to trust me in this. Please, come with me.” He held out his hand.
Show the queen you trust me, that all her effort has been for nothing. Please, Brother
.

Chandra stared at his hand, and for a moment, Samudra saw something flicker in his eyes. It was the fear, the fear he had seen beside their father’s pyre when Chandra realized he truly would sit upon the Pearl Throne.

Then, his brother collapsed backward onto the bed and rolled over. “Take him out of here.”

Samudra stood, slowly. He was shaking again. Bandhura’s hand was on his arm. “Brother of my heart …” she began sternly.

Samudra did not wait. He left his brother to her, and descended to his own place below, entering his own rooms without remembering anything of the route he took to get there. He saw nothing clearly except his brother lolling on the silken bed, and Bandhura standing over him, her robe covering the nakedness she had so deliberately exposed a moment before.

“My prince?”

Hamsa stood before him. Had she been here all this time? Of course she had. She would not rest with the other attendants in comfort at Makul’s. She would come at once to the palace, and stay awake until he returned.

But Samudra did not answer her. He went out to his balcony. He wanted fresh air on his face. He wanted to see the stars, and the moon, which was his sign, a white half-circle amid the diamonds of the sky.

“My prince,” said Hamsa again, sinking to her knees in front of him. “What happened?”

He hung his head and touched his brow. The blood of the goddess had dried, and came away on his fingers, as a prickling, rusty powder. In slow, halting, wondering words, he told her all that had occurred, outside and inside.

He rubbed his fingertips together. “I should kill myself.”

Hamsa took his hand, stilling his fingers. “No, Samudra.”

“Yes, Hamsa.” He looked up, past her, to the silent moon. “The Mother of Destruction is come to me. If I stay in the dance, I will bring down the world with me.”

“That is not what she said.”

“That is what will happen.” He turned back to her. “If you dare say that is what must happen, that I must break the ways of my fathers, I swear upon my eyes, Hamsa …”

“Samudra.” Hamsa cut him off with a sharpness rare for her. It made him truly see her for a moment. “I don’t know why Mother A-Kuha came to you,” she admitted. “But I do know this.” She stabbed a finger toward the world beyond the walls. “The Mothers do not speak to the ones they mean to destroy.”

She spoke so strongly and with such conviction, Samudra found he could not help but believe. After a few moments, he whispered, “What do I do then?”

“I don’t know this either, my prince.” She bowed her head. “But understanding comes with time. You know the art of waiting, my prince. Wait now. Watch. Discover your enemy and the enemies of Hastinapura. When you know their names and faces, you will find the way to defeat them.”