Sword of the Deceiver (34 page)

“It is well.” Divakesh turned back to the empty pedestal. There was no need for Mother Jalaja to be there anymore. She had filled him with Her Essence, and Her Truth, and it shone in him so clearly as to make Her lesser servants shake in his shadow, and Asok, his face taut and pale, could no longer stand to meet his burning eyes.

All his work, all his sacrifice and study and denial, had finally brought reward. Divakesh made the salute of trust to the pedestal.
Thank you, Queen of Heaven, for your blessing upon this great task. I will show you I am worthy of the charge you have laid before me
.

With his new and greater understanding shining in his eyes, Divakesh lifted the great sword once more, and as those around him fell back, he began to dance.

Below the Palace of the Pearl Throne, Hamsa waited in the dark, and tried to keep breathing.

She had known about the warren of cells that lay below the garrison tunnels. She had known it was a filthy, stinking place without hope, that it was forever cold and dark in a land of heat and light. She had never in her worst imaginings thought she would find herself cast into one of those cells, where the ceiling was too low to allow her to stand up, where the rats got to her scanty scraps of bread before she, groping in the blackness, could find them. She had never dreamed of iron fetters on her wrists and ankles tearing into her skin until each became a ring of fire eating into her flesh, or that there would come a time when each ragged heartbeat made the arrival of death that much more welcome.

She would have forsaken her final mission and lain down to die if it were not for the soldiers.

They came whenever they could steal past their compatriots whose loyalties were to their new commander, Pravan. They knelt with her in the darkness, slipping her a little clean water, a slice of orange, a piece of fresh flat bread. They whispered to her the news. “They’ve not found the prince yet,” they would say, or “Makul is still free. Pravan needs him to order the troops.” Or, “We’ll free you if we can.”

They meant it, that last promise, but she knew with dull certainty that it was impossible.

She heard the creak of hinges, and she cringed. She could not help it. But no light came to blind her as it did when her wardens entered. There was only the sound of shuffling cloth against filth and straw.

“It’s me,
Agnidh
,” whispered a young man’s voice. “Taru.”

“Taru,” she breathed. Her throat was dry and her lips were split. “Did you …”

“I did.” Clumsily, their flailing hands found each other. He opened her fingers, and placed in them a small knife. It was not even as long as her palm, a delicate thing for splitting open the tiniest of fruits. But it would do. It would do.

“Hamsa. Forgive me, forgive me, but there is no more time. I am … we are come to take you to …”

So. It had come then. It was time to take her before the sword of the Mothers. She had thought Yamuna would come to gloat over her before this happened. But no, why should he? He held her soul tight in his jar. What could she do against that?

“
Agnidh? Agnidh
, do you hear me?”

It was Taru speaking, the frightened and heart-sore boy come to do a difficult thing with what mercy he could offer. How long had her little reverie lasted? She didn’t know. She tried to smile at Taru, and then remembered he couldn’t see her. It seemed now she could see in the dark. She saw her mother and her father. She saw the old woman who taught her in her home village. She saw Samudra as a long-legged boy, running races while his brother cheered him on. She saw Samudra as a grown man looking at Natharie with his heart in his eyes. She gripped the little knife.

I will buy you both a blessing, Samudra. Even if I am Yamuna’s prisoner, I can still pray
.

“Agnidh …”
began Taru again. “There’s something … I must tell you. Something’s happened with the priests. They’re all afraid.”

This last word penetrated Hamsa’s dulled mind. “Afraid? What could Divakesh’s priests be afraid of?”

“They will not speak openly, but there are whispers that there was a vision, maybe of one of the Mothers, and it spoke against war with Sindhu. But Divakesh says it spoke in favor of it, and now he walks through the palace telling everyone that it is a holy cause.”

“He did this before.”

“Not like this,
Agnidh
. I’ve seen him. His eyes … I’ve seen madness,
Agnidh
. It takes men in battle sometimes. It’s not the holy breath that makes Divakesh look like that, I swear it.”

Hamsa swallowed several times. If she had not known that Divakesh had already lied about Mother Jalaja’s appearance to the emperor, she would never have believed it. Again the goddess had come to him, and again he had lied? No wonder he had gone mad. Such a thing would break a mortal mind in two. She thought this almost idly. It didn’t really matter. The one who held her here was not Divakesh. He was just the one who would kill her.

“If he is mad then why do any still follow him?” she managed to ask.

“Because the emperor says we go forward. He says none are to question or oppose Divakesh. I think some tried to tell him, but … we set out tomorrow at dawn.”

Hamsa could picture it, a trembling priest, or perhaps even Asok, Divakesh’s acolyte, kneeling before Chandra, and him listening to every word with a small smile on his face. The petitioner would look up hopefully at that sly and lazy countenance, and would hear the emperor say on no account would their plans change. All would go just as Divakesh had said.

And they would not understand. They would not understand that the emperor had made up his mind to destroy Divakesh, whom he in his own twisted understanding blamed for Samudra’s betrayal. And he would use his entire army, his entire empire to do it. He would let Divakesh’s madness take the fore until Divakesh understood how badly he had failed. Only then would Chandra let him die.

So, Divakesh would be defeated. That was good to know. But until the emperor’s slow, cruel vengeance could take hold, there were so many other things that could happen, and in all that time, Divakesh still ruled and Yamuna still held her chain. That chain led only one place.

“Well then,” she sighed. “We had best not keep the Sword of the Mothers waiting.”

“Agnidh
…
”
said Taru again.

“No.” She stopped him. “You have done what you can. Now we will both do as we must.” She tightened her grip ever so slightly on her knife. “It would be a great kindness if I could pray before I die.”

“If you wish, you are allowed to go to the temple before …” His voice trailed away. She smiled to let him know it was all right, before she remembered he could not see her.

Taru’s touch led her out of the cell and raised her up. Her legs were weak as water and the chains dragged at her joints, stretching them almost to the breaking point, and even the dim, greasy light of the corridor burned her eyes. Taru led her out into the main corridor. The air still stank, but it was fresher here than in her cell, and Hamsa breathed it deeply. Her chains did not allow her to do more than shuffle along. Two other soldiers walked behind her. Were they also Samudra’s men? They were silent and their eyes were hard. She could read nothing in them. Not that she had much strength or thought to spare. She must bend all her thoughts to the temple, and to what must happen next. Her focus must be strong, her will all on a single point, her heart as undivided as her sorcerer’s soul.

They walked down empty corridors. Not even the slaves were to be allowed to look on her, or to touch so much as her shadow, lest her impurity and rebellion infect them. The soldiers who accompanied her would be carefully cleansed when their task was done. Divakesh would make sure of that.

She was not, of course, taken to the imperial temple where she was used to worshipping with Samudra and his family. There was a little place set aside for slaves and those who were to die. It was behind a door carved with only a single lotus, and the nave was barely large enough to allow three people space to kneel. But it was still a temple of the Mothers, and their images danced here, each statue life-sized and carved with loving detail, the red stone gleaming like warm, living flesh in the lamplight. Someone had lit the sacred fire and even spared her some incense. Its perfume was heady after the stench of prison.

Hamsa looked at the Mothers arrayed before her. She felt the weight of the chains on her wrists and ankles, and the warmth of the blade against her curled fingers.

“Please,” she said to the guard. “Let me make my prayers alone.”

Taru nodded, but the taller of the other two soldiers looked uncertain. “And what will I do if you work some magic to escape?”

She looked the man right in his eyes. His heart showed plainly in them. He might not like what was happening, he might even be Samudra’s man, but he was loyal to the Throne. He would not betray its servant, not without orders from a captain he trusted. She certainly did not qualify as that.

“I am bound by the will of the sorcerer Yamuna,” Hamsa said quietly. She lifted her hands. “And these chains. I can do nothing.” It was true, and it was not true. Would he choose to believe? “I go to stand before the Mothers. Let me make the last sacrifice I can.”

He nodded slowly. Did he understand what her words meant? Taru did, and she could see it was hard for him to hold steady. “Very well,” said the other. “But we can give you only a moment.”

Taru led the others out, closing the door behind them, and Hamsa was alone with the burning fire, the Mothers, and her knife. She uncurled her fist. It was stiff. There was a hard red line on her hand where the blade had pressed, almost cutting her skin.

Clumsily she knelt before the fire. She lifted the knife in her left hand and laid it against her right wrist. Her fingers shook, even now her heart wavered.

No. There was no time for doubt. She would do this. Even if it meant only her death, it would be her hand and her own actions that brought her end, not Yamuna’s will and Divakesh’s arm.

Hamsa exhaled. She called up the magic from inside her hollow heart and soul. She pushed the iron shackle up on her arm as far as it would go. She breathed onto her festering wrist. She leaned forward and kissed her wounded flesh, leaving a wet and shining circle on the blue vein visible just below the brown skin. She pressed down with the silver blade and cut a red line, long, swift and deep.

The blood welled up rich and red-black at once. She stared at it, stupid and dizzy from the sight. The pain of the wound followed a moment later, and she bit her lips hard to keep from screaming. She squeezed her eyes shut, clutched her arm, and rose to her feet. Spilling out her life’s blood, Hamsa began to dance.

She danced with wavering, drunken steps tracing a circle around the fire. She danced, expelling with the blood all the magic in her. She danced, weaving breath and blood, fire and pain and life. She danced in prayer and sacrifice. She danced in desperate silence as the hot blood ran down her arm and spattered onto the floor. She danced in her own blood and danced in silence.

Mother Jalaja, Queen of Heaven, hear me, hear me. I am the least of your children. I do not deserve my single soul. But I beg you come to me, hear me. I have nowhere else to turn. This last thing I offer, I make sacrifice of all I am. Come to me. Hear me. Mother Jalaja, hear me …

Her foot came down wrong in the path of her blood, and Hamsa crashed to her knees. She heard the hiss as blood met fire. The world swam and spun.

Mother Jalaja, hear me … I am the least of your children … This last thing I offer …

“I hear you, daughter.”

Hamsa opened her eyes. The temple had faded away into blackness. There was only the fire, and herself, and the woman before her. She shone like the sun, crowned in gold and diamonds. A garland of lotus flowers hung around Her neck and flowed across Her bare breasts. Another garland girdled Her waist.

Hamsa was still bleeding freely, but it did not seem to mean much now. Perhaps she had already died. Hamsa prostrated herself before the goddess.

“Mother Jalaja, Queen of Heaven, I …”

“I know.” She shook Her head, and Her face was stern. “You should have come before. You should not have waited for Divakesh to bring me here.”

Hamsa was beyond shame, even in the face of the goddess’s reproof. “I know. I am unworthy.”

“You think too much on what you are, daughter, and not on what you must be.”

“Mother, it is only you who can make me what I must be.” She did not want to have to speak these words but there was only honesty left to her. Only truth would help this thing be done. “I have lived too long in my fear and now the wheel has turned and left me no time. I have come to beg for Prince Samudra. I plead with you. I offer up my life to you. Do not let my weakness doom him.”

For a moment, Hamsa thought the goddess’s face grew gentle. “Samudra does not ask this of you.”

Shame crawled out from Hamsa’s belly, draining the last of her strength. “He puts little faith in me.”

“He knows nothing of your true power. But he is a soldier. If your power were fully at his command, he would use it. He will use up your power and life, and he will not regret that moment until it is done, for that is what commanders must do. Would you live long enough for him to give you such an order?”

Hamsa remained silent for a long moment. She had been ready to die a moment ago, but this was new. Was it possible that she might live? The Queen of Heaven was here. All things were possible.

Live in service to her prince, the service Yamuna mocked, that he rejected with such abhorrence that he would destroy empires to escape it. Live and serve, until Samudra ordered her death.

Then Hamsa realized something was missing. The bond. The working that tied her to Samudra. It had vanished and no longer weighed on her heart. She was herself alone here in Mother Jalaja’s darkness, and it was only her soul that would decide.

She spoke slowly and from her laboring heart. “If that is the way it must be, I accept.” Certainty grew in her. This was herself that spoke and none other. “I too am of the land and a child of the Mothers. I do not wish my home to fall because I refused to help it flourish.”

Mother Jalaja nodded. “Then, so be it. You will have power now. The power that is your own, and the secrets your other half has learned watching the sorcerer Yamuna. But this is your doom. When you next look on us, it will be on your lord’s command. At that time, you will forfeit your place on the wheel.”

Those words sank like lead into Hamsa’s soul. Mother Jalaja did not mean she would die. She meant that Hamsa would no more be reborn. This life, this time would be her last. If she accepted this she would have more than she had ever dreamed, but it would be an end more final than that of other souls.