Sword of the Deceiver (32 page)

Chandra’s face twisted. “So, you will join us on our great pilgrimage to Sindhu then?” He drawled the words. “To make sure we do all according to the Mothers’ will in this glorious war we must now fight?”

Divakesh made the salute of trust. “Of course, my emperor.”

Chandra smiled, slow, lazy and sharp. Samudra shivered to see it. “Of course, priest. Of course.” And with that Samudra understood what Divakesh’s real mistake had been. He had broken the one promise he had made to Chandra. He had sworn that if the emperor followed his word, all would stay safe and steady, for all knew that misfortune was the sign of the Mothers’ disapproval. But if Chandra obeyed Divakesh, that disapproval would never come. The dance would remain as it was, and Chandra would never have to stand before the Mothers and all the world.

Divakesh would protect Chandra as his father no longer could.

But Divakesh had failed. Bad news had come. Samudra had turned traitor, and the perfect world had cracked. Whatever else might come, Chandra would never forgive Divakesh that failure, and Chandra in his callous revenge could defy the Mothers themselves.

A foot brushed stone, and Samudra whirled. Out of arm’s reach stood the drama master from the small domain, holding a lamp and bowing deeply, making the salute of trust with his free hand.

“My prince.”

Samudra found himself panting. His whole body ached with the pain of all that he had just witnessed and his mind and heart were so full he could barely take in this new thing. “Master Gauda. What …”

The kohl-eyed eunuch did not wait for the question before straightening. “I am to show you the correct door out of this place.”

“How …” It seemed he could do nothing but stammer. He was beginning to tremble. It was like after his first battle, he mused. During the fight he had been all fire and fury; afterward, he could do nothing but sit and shake for hours.

“Hamsa left me word earlier tonight in case things went wrong and Natharie did try to break seclusion.”

“Why you?” Hamsa walked away so slowly with Yamuna, knowing she left him behind her, knowing he could do nothing at all to help her.

“Because I am a friend of Princess Natharie.” Gauda dropped his voice, and Samudra was at last able to see that this one too was frightened. “And I am praying you will tell me she is still alive.”

“Yes. She is away already.”

“I give thanks.” Samudra noted the strange wording of the prayer, and found himself wondering who Gauda gave thanks to, and how he came to be willing to risk his life for a student he had known for such a short time.

But Gauda was not going to give him any more time for contemplation or hesitation. “Come, please, my prince. Captain Pravan is already making sure his men are the ones on guard.”

Of course he was. Pravan was probably already planning the sacrifices he would make to the Mothers in gratitude for this chance. Samudra could not have cleared the way for his ascendancy more completely.

In a daze, Samudra followed Gauda down the nearest staircase. “Do you know what is happening?”

“Everyone knows what is happening, my prince.” Gauda held his lamp up high to light the way. Samudra realized belatedly he had left his own lamp behind. He had dropped it at some point. He didn’t even remember it falling. “Sindhu is rebelling. The princess is being blamed for the death of the old queen. You are to be trampled to death as soon as you can be tried.”

Ah. Is that how a prince is to die?
“I have been very slow, Master Gauda, and naive.”

“Yes, my prince.”

They said nothing more as they hurried down the creaking stairs and through the dim corridors scented with dust and waste. Samudra could not navigate. He was no longer sure what level they were on. The few servants they encountered fell back at once, their eyes covered, not in obeisance but so they could say they had seen nothing.

At last, Samudra felt the weight of earth around him. They were in the cellars again. He heard the distant sounds of soldiers, giving and accepting orders. He smelled spice and sugar. A rat skittered by, letting it be known how it resented his intrusion. His mind began to clear. They were not heading for the garrison tunnels, but through the food stores, kept down here in the cool earth.

Samudra had a heartbeat to see the door looming in front of them before Gauda blew out the lamp. He pulled himself up short in the abrupt darkness. There was the sound of fumbling, and then the creaking of a hinge. He felt fresh air on his face, but could see nothing.

“Here, my prince.” Gauda’s meaty hand fastened on his wrist and led him outside. In the dim moonlight, he saw Rupak. The horse shook his head in annoyance. Holding Rupak’s reins was a slim, young soldier with a lieutenant’s collar about his neck. This was Taru, Samudra remembered. He was a cousin of Makul’s.

“The southeast gate is still watched by our men, my prince,” Taru said, holding out the reins for Samudra.

The touch of the leathers shook the last of the confusion from Samudra. Here was something he could do. He could ride, and ride fast, down through the city to the docks to find Natharie. Surely she had not left yet. Not yet. It was too dark for her to have left yet.

Samudra swung himself into the saddle. “Lieutenant. They have taken Hamsa,” he said. “You are to do what you can for her. Do you understand?”

Taru gave the soldier’s salute. “Yes, my prince. Mothers guard you.”

Mothers forgive me, you should say
. Samudra nodded to the young man and to Guada, and wheeled his horse around, and galloped into the night without daring once to look back.

From behind her screen, Bandhura watched as Chandra dismissed the remaining attendants with a brisk word. Alone, he stood at the foot of the dais, gazing up at the Mothers.

“Bandhura?” he said, and his voice shook.

She emerged at once. “I am here, Chandra.”

She thought he would climb up to her, but as she watched he began to tremble with the force of the emotions he had held in check since his servants had roused him to this strange audience. She hurried down the stairs to wrap him at once in her arms. She expected him to melt into her embrace as he had done so many times before, but he remained apart, looking up at the Mothers, cold and afraid.

“Divakesh promised me all would be right,” he said in a small voice.

Bandhura remained silent at that. What could she have said?

Chandra dragged in a long, ragged breath. “He swore that if he was high priest, all would be right. He would propitiate the Mothers and keep their wrath from me. He would be their servant and I would be free. He promised the dance would go on without their anger falling on me if only I did as he said.”

She pulled away. She would be a pitiful queen indeed if she did not understand where these words led. “If he has failed in his office …”

“Oh yes. Yes. He has failed.” He turned to her, master of himself again, and smiled his long, slow, lazy smile. Deliberately, he began to climb the dais. “He failed, and now we are at war, and I must go to the field myself to show that the Pearl Throne is strong.” He reached the Throne, the ancient seat of power raised by Mother Jalaja herself. He stood beside it, contemplating it with that same slow covetous smile that masked so much anger and so much hatred.

“Yes, you must,” said Bandhura firmly, pushing aside the fear that smile raised in her. “Now that Samudra is gone, you must show that you yourself are leader in war as well as in peace.” For all her confident words, she found she could not make herself climb the steps to stand beside him.

Silently, his mouth shaped his brother’s name, and his hands curled into fists. “I tried, Bandhura. I tried to believe in him. Why did he insist on doing this to me?”

“Perhaps Divakesh was right in this much,” she ventured carefully. “Perhaps the princess was pollution.”

“I want to believe that.” He gripped the Throne’s arm as if he meant to break it off. “Then it is not his fault.” A thought struck him. “Where is he now?”

“Yamuna will find him, my husband. He will receive justice for his treachery.”

“Then what, Bandhura?” Chandra, her emperor, her husband, her love, faced her, spreading his hands wide. “When I am alone here without mother, without brother, without priest, then what?”

“You will not be alone, my husband,” she said firmly. “I will be here.”

“Yes.” Now he stretched his hands out to her. Now she could run up those broad, black marble steps into his embrace and receive his hard kiss and give him hers and feel his heart beating against her breast. She could savor all these things and ask silently forgiveness for her moment of doubt.

It was a long time before his embrace loosened and she was able to pull away. But when she did, she saw love and assurance shining in his eyes. “You must pardon me, my husband. I need to return to the small domain for a moment. There is something I must see to personally.”

“Yes.” He nodded, folding his arms, gazing out across the empty throne room. “And then we will mourn …” His voice faltered as he remembered, but he rallied himself. “And then we will march out to war in the Mothers’ names.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Then we will be safe, my husband.”

Chandra covered his hand with hers and held it tightly. “Promise me, Bandhura,” he whispered.

She smiled at his seriousness. “I promise, my husband. I promise.”

She kissed him to seal her words, and left him staring up at the great image of Mother Jalaja. Outside the queen’s door, her women waited, and she walked, stately and dignified, down the stairs to the small domain. So much remained to be done. The ceremony for Queen Prishi must be perfect in every respect. Once those preparations were well in order, she must send for the perfumer, who would have all the necessary ingredients for the potion Ekkadi would have to swallow.

Foolish girl. How can I trust you to be a good servant to me when I know you are Divakesh’s creature?
She shook her head in saddened amazement.

But even this could not diminish the triumph glowing warm within her. Chandra did not see it yet, but the Mothers had ordered all things as they should be. They had brought the woman Radana before the Pearl Throne. Because of her warning, the Sindishi and their allies would be taken by surprise and overcome with ease. Chandra would lead the army and this time it would be his name shouted in victory when they returned. Victory in a holy cause would cement Chandra’s rule at long last. He would be safe. She would have fulfilled all the Mothers’ purposes and they would reward her with his child.

Her women opened the door to the small domain. The kneeling, grieving women looked up to her and she smiled benevolently down on them.
I must be strong for them and for Chandra too
, she thought as she stepped inside the domain that was now hers alone.

There is, after all, much work left to do
.

Like Samudra, Commander Makul was at first stunned to learn that Natharie could ride a horse. Also like Samudra, he accepted her declaration quickly and did not question the truth of it. Two friendly soldiers outside the walls supplied them with mounts, and despite the strange shape of the Hastinapuran saddle, Natharie managed to keep up with Makul as he set a brisk pace down the winding and increasingly foul streets of the city. Unlike when she had last traveled this way, though, those streets were sparsely populated, by fleeting, staggering shadows. Instead of stares and cheers, the pair of them drew only quick glances, or quick curses from those who had to dodge out of the way.

So, it was not very long before the docks opened up before them. Makul tied the horses, bribed a beggar drowsing nearby to keep watch on them, and led Natharie down to the river. He clearly knew this place well, and he scanned the clusters of boats moored by the wooden piers. Some had lit lamps hanging from their masts, and it was one of these that Makul finally approached. With a shake, he roused the half-naked man sleeping on the deck and began dickering for the price of the boat and his hire.

“Just the boat,” said Natharie in Sindishi. Makul turned, his eyes wide with renewed surprise.

When the bargain was made and the man scampered off to get his newly filled purse somewhere out of reach of thieves, Natharie stepped on board. The river rocked the wooden deck, welcoming her.

She wanted to feel delight. She would go home. She was free, but she could only look down the moonlit river and shudder. Her sacrifice had been for nothing. Her family had taken her offer of life and turned it to death.

“Should I offer you my sword as well?” inquired Makul behind her.

Natharie gave him a half-smile. “That art I never learned. I will content myself with readying the boat while you stand watch for us.”

A muscle twitched in the commander’s sunken cheek. “I must return.”

Natharie stiffened. “They will kill you.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. There will be many other things warring for their attention, and until the emperor gives the order, I am still commander over all, save the prince.”

Where is that prince now? What is happening to him?
Natharie looked southward again. For all she knew, the palace guards were already swarming the streets looking for her.
I should go at once
. There was just enough moonlight for her to read the river. It was broad here, and there was very little traffic this time of night. If she ran the boat out into the middle of the current, she should be safe from the worst of the shallows. Traveling by night would be safest anyway. If she was not hunted yet, she would be soon, and the longer start she had the better.

But she did not move toward rope or sail. Fear held her, and instinct. There had been so much betrayal already in this one night, there was sure to be more.

“I will wait here until dawn, Makul.”

“Princess, the danger is great.”

“I know, but hear me.” The decision steadied her. “So much has gone so badly wrong that I may not be the only one who will need to escape. Should you return to the palace, tell any who need to go I am here until sunrise.”

Gratitude shone plainly in Makul’s eyes. He made the salute of trust and left her there without another word.

The idea of sleep seemed not only ridiculous, but dangerous. Natharie spent the rest of the night learning what she could of the little boat. It was river-worthy, but barely. Even as lightly loaded as it was, it rode low in the water. The tiller was sound, though, and the sail was whole, and there was a spare canvas in one of the two chests. The other held fishing tackle, flints for sparking a fire, a pair of knives, and man’s loose tunic and pantaloons. Struggling under a stiff canvas blanket, Natharie shed her servant’s costume and put those on, winding the cap of cloth around her head to hide her hair. It was a crude costume, and ill-fitting, but it gave her greater freedom of movement than her skirt, and from a distance it would help hide her from prying eyes.

At last, dawn sent its pale light across the sky, and the docks began to wake up. Those who lived on their boats roused themselves and shouted to one another. The smells of cooking rose over less savory scents. Porters, bearers, and traders emerged from the warehouses and shacks, ready to begin their working day. Gongs and bells rang out to greet the morning.

Natharie sat on the boat’s single bench, alternately watching the shore and the river. Her stomach growled. Should she risk finding some food before she set sail?

No. I have delayed too long already. I will be able to barter for something farther down
. She still had some bangles with her women’s clothes. They would serve.

The thunder of hoofbeats scattered the gathering crowd. Natharie looked up in time to see Samudra ride into the dockyard, rein in his horse, and stand in the stirrups, staring over their heads.

Natharie leapt to her feet. She had been expecting Hamsa, or Ekkadi. If Samudra was here, either all was right, or all had gone far more wrong than she had imagined.

Then she realized that Samudra, a prince of Hastinapura, rode alone. Not even Hamsa or Makul was beside him. He dismounted his horse, and left it. He gave its reins to no one, he did not tie it. He simply waded through the crowd toward the docks.

She raised her arm, waving. He looked, looked away, and looked back again, before running down the docks to her little boat and clambering over the rail. He opened his mouth, then saw it was her face under the dirty cloth of her new cap.

You should not be so stunned, Great Prince
, she thought as his eyes started out at her
. You’ve seen me in slave’s clothes before
.

“Can you get us away?” he asked hoarsely.

You remembered I can sail
. Something in this left her absurdly pleased in the middle of so much disaster. “Slip the mooring and push us off.” She jumped up onto the tiller platform.

Samudra did as he was told, but clumsily. He had probably never before been aboard such a craft. It didn’t matter. They were at the end of the dock, so once Natharie pushed them off with the long-handled oar, they had a clear passage. The water was deep in this season, and kind Liyoni’s current was swift. It caught them up at once and Natharie was able to guide them out into the middle of her waters. Once she was sure they would not be snagged up, she raised the sail. The wind caught them, adding its speed to the current’s, and they were truly away.

During the weeks of her seclusion she had imagined standing like this with the river breeze gliding over her skin and the rocking of a boat beneath her, and a thousand times she had told herself to put it out of her mind. Never once had she imagined that she might be flying from disaster to disaster. Nor had she imagined who would travel with her.

Samudra sat on the bench, straight-backed and still, which was a sensible posture for so small a boat.

“Samudra …” she began.

He turned toward her, and she saw the tears pouring down his haggard face.

Natharie gripped the tiller and concentrated all her mind on steering the boat, trying hard not to see the man in front of her, trying with all her might to give him a little privacy, a little dignity, so he might grieve.

In silence they sailed away from the great city of Hastinapura, through the farmlands and on toward the wilderness, neither of them able to see what waited on the other side.

When Captain Anun came running across what was left of the gardens, King Kiet and Queen Sitara were standing together with the Huni’s chief. Tapan Gol was showing them a demonstration of his archers, a mixed corps of men and women. Their black bows were deeply curved, and now a line of fifty of them knelt on the green grass. Two hundred paces away silk flags fluttered on wooden posts. The captain spoke a single word, and the archers knelt, drawing their bows, pointing their arrows high. The captain spoke another word, and together, they loosed. Those arrows flew into the air and rained down upon the silk, shredding the flags, pinning the scraps to the ground until there was not one bit of color remaining on the suddenly naked posts.

Tapan Gol was grinning, as much at the king’s and queen’s bland faces as at the accomplishment of his soldiers. Queen Sitara knew the Huni chief saw right through their façade. He knew his displays and exercises frightened them. He knew he could do as he pleased here and it was very likely they could not stop him. If they tried, and did succeed, they would most certainly lose the war to come.

So it was almost a relief to see Anun sprinting toward them to kneel at their feet.

“Hastinapura is on the move.”

Sitara looked up at her husband. He stood there, heavy and solid, saying nothing. It was Tapan Gol who nodded with satisfaction. “It is good. My men are growing fat and lazy here in your sunshine. Come, King. You and I have much to discuss.”

Kiet pressed his palms together. “With respect, Great Tapan Gol. There are matters I must put to my queen before any others. I will join you as soon as I can able.”

Tapan Gol’s long eyes shifted toward Sitara. What he thought she could not tell. If she had a thousand years she would not be able to read this closed-mouthed, closed-hearted man.

He shrugged. “As you wish, King.” He turned away as if they had ceased to exist, and shouted to his people in his own language. In answer the Huni raised up a huge cheer, brandishing their weapons in the air and clapping one another on the back. Kiet watched all this for a long, tense moment before starting for the palace. Sitara followed him.

When they reached Kiet’s private chambers, he went first to the altar. With careful motions, he lit one of the cones of incense that waited at the feet of the gilded image of the Awakened One. For a long time, he watched the scented smoke rise, and Sitara watched him. She had hoped that, as the time for the war grew closer, she would grow more distant from her life. She was certain what the price of her part in the plan must be, and she was ready to pay. But instead, she had grown closer to all that she loved. Each day was brighter, each moment with children and husband more vibrant and precious. She understood that her heart was savoring the life it must soon lose. She accepted that, even welcomed it. She would finally end all alone and in fear, and it would be good to have a store of love and beauty against that time.

His private meditations finished, Kiet bowed to Anidita’s image and said to her, “Do we need to send word to the sorcerers?”

“Father Thanom said no. They are prepared for action. He said they would know when the time of need had come.”

“Then we must pray they can do all they have said.” Kiet took both her hands, looking down at them. His own hands were warm and strong as ever, the touch as dear. “It is my will that when the monks come, Sitara, you go with them.”

She had expected this. It was not in Kiet to let her go without protest. “No,” she said firmly. “I have begun this thing. I will end it.”

“Just so, my queen.” He squeezed her hands gently, willing her understanding and strength. “You will stand regent for our son until he is a man. You will be the strong spirit for our people until they are able to resume their lives again. You will stand in the face of Hastinapura and the Huni both.”

A wave of cold swept across Sitara’s heart. He meant it. He thought she could go through this life knowing all she was responsible for. “You will do all these things,” she reminded him. “You are king.”

But Kiet only shook his head. “And if I am not in the battle, at best, our people will believe me a coward, and never follow me again. At worst, our enemies will know this for the trick that it is.”

No. No. It cannot be. It will not be
. “Let me take your place then. Let me wear your armor and wield your sword.” This was done by queens of legend. Had she not already done as much as they?

“No,” he said again. “It is not possible.”

“Kiet!” She grabbed his arms. She tried to shake him but it was like trying to shake a mountain. “You are not to die because of this thing I have done!”

“That you have done?” He laughed, a mirthless, heartrending sound. “Oh, my beloved.” Kiet traced his thumb tenderly along her jaw. “That is too much arrogance. Do you truly believe that you could have done this without my consent from the beginning? I too am part of this, and I go to pay the price of it. It is my fate as king of Sindhu. Your fate is harder and my heart breaks …” His words faltered and his hand stroked her hair. Sitara closed her eyes, unable to look into his face and see the pain and determination there. “I may die for this, but you must live with what we have done.”

Tears overflowed her eyes and ran hot down her cheeks. She clapped her hands over her face to cover them, but she could not stop them. “What did I do in my past life that it should come to this?”

“Does it matter? This is where we are now and we both must do what is needed.”

Sitara closed her mouth. She heard the break in his voice. He was near the end of his strength. She would not deny the courage that he had shown already by bringing him to tears as well. She folded her hands and bowed. “I hear the words of my king and lord.”

“Sitara,” he whispered.

Sitara threw her arms around him and kissed him hard, drinking him in. Then, she released him so she could go ready her children and to take up her future. With each step she left her heart farther behind.

As ever, Divakesh
dva
Tingar Jalajapad, high priest of Hastinapura, sword of the Mothers, woke a few heartbeats before his acolyte, Asok, brought the flickering lamp that was the only sunrise ever to reach his cell in the mountain’s stone heart. The young man silently set down the lamp, gave the salute of trust, and retreated. It was well known that when Divakesh woke he wanted no communion save with the Mothers.

Divakesh loved this moment. In the flickering light, it seemed as if his many images of Mother Jalaja truly did dance. Each aspect in its stone niche was different, each as perfect in its beauty as it was possible for an earthly thing to be. Each was only a pale reflection of the heavenly perfection of the goddess it represented.