Sword of the Deceiver (42 page)

Oh, no, Yamuna. Not anymore
. “You cannot kill me here, Yamuna,” said Hamsa quietly. “Feel the air around you. Touch the workings. They’re in the boards of the floor and the shadows of the garden. You cannot kill me.”

His brows arched higher yet. “You think to frighten me with the old workings of absent monks? Hamsa, I preferred it when you screamed.”

He raised his hand and she felt the chill that came as he drew up his power. She knew she witnessed the rarest of sights as his arm circled wide. Yamuna could weave a working of air and will and nothing more. It was the greatest display of power there was. She could not do such a thing, even now.

“Listen to me, Yamuna,” Hamsa said, feeling little more than regret as the air trembled around her and grew thin with cold. “You are in a sacred place. Violence is not permitted here. Not by knife or sword. Not by magic. You cannot do this.”

He heard her, she was sure of it, but he did not listen. Yamuna drew the power of air and wind into himself to mingle with the power of his own blood, of his bitter, fractious soul, binding together into a curse with which to ensnare her. He knotted his fist tightly, holding all his power with the hard grasp of flesh and bone. His eyes burned with his fire and his contempt.

Slowly, as if offering a fragile gift, he held out his hand and opened his crooked fingers. He meant to release the curse, for it to waft toward her, its invisible, intangible threads wrapping around her new-made soul, to throttle and smother her, to crush her down.

Hamsa reached out and covered his hand with her own. “No, Yamuna. It cannot be done.”

His eyes bulged in their sockets. He would have snatched his hand away, but she held it fast. Air and wind tightened around them, becoming like ice, like glass. Holding the curse contained within itself, holding all the power Yamuna tried to pour out in him.

Yamuna’s whole frame shook with the force of his will. She felt his pent-up power, flooding blood and sinew, swelling heart and lung.

“Stop, Yamuna,” she warned. His hand was cold and calloused and his fingers clawed at her palm, digging into her flesh, but she held on. “You can still stop.”

But he would not stop. He dragged up more power from the depths, hot and swollen with anger, and now with fear. Oh, yes, with fear, for the pain must be beginning, and she was still untouched by his working. She saw it in the fever-brightness of his gaze, in the way his jaw trembled and in the trickle of sweat that ran down his brow.

Then his skin, tight and shining, began to split.

A small red thread appeared on his cheek. Another snaked up his arm, and yet another across his bare chest, and still he drew in the power and strove to cast it out to her. He strove to capture her in his net woven of nothing but his hatred, to force her to bow to him, to die kneeling before him. But none of it could reach her. The fire burned only within him. She stood cool and composed, holding his hand, letting him claw at her. But even that was a futile scrabbling. The work of years had broken his nails and left nothing which could harm her. Nothing at all.

Yamuna clenched his teeth against his pain, and another split opened in his skin, and another, leg and arm and hand and face tore open and his blood ran freely down his trembling body, and still he raised his magics, still he struggled to throw them outward and weave her death around her.

Revulsion flooded Hamsa. When would this end? How long could he stand the pain of it? His brow opened now, and blood ran down his cheeks in shining scarlet rivulets. So much pain, all for nothing. Strangely, absurdly, she felt tears prick the back of her own eyes at such waste of life and power.

End this
, she prayed
. End this
.

Whether it was because her prayers were heard, or because Yamuna’s flesh was at last overwhelmed, Hamsa could not tell. But at last, Yamuna collapsed. His blood dripped out onto the pavilion floor, staining what remained of the colored sands and flowing across the varnished boards.

Hamsa knelt beside him. He was panting, his skin ashen grey. His eyes, so bloodshot the whites were pure red, stared up at her, unable to comprehend the limits of his own power. She had never even dreamed of such a moment, when she would be whole and well, and he would be broken by his own working. It was triumph. She had beaten him. She should feel joyous, exultant, but all she felt was sick with shame and pity. It must have shown on her face, because Yamuna gave out a bark of bitter laughter. Pink foam bubbled from his lips and Hamsa shivered to see the cold light in his eyes. “Well Hamsa, will you kill me, here, now, as we are, slave and slave, sorcerer and sorcerer?” He tried to spread his arms, but they flopped down at his sides, weak and lifeless, oozing blood from dozens of splits. “Do it, little Hamsa. Kill me, send me into my next life so we all can begin this charade again!”

She saw the terrible hope in him. He did want to die. He wanted to walk into his next life, but not to make amends. No. He wanted to be able to try again, to build power once more, to spend another lifetime breaking those who thought they might master him.

And she knew with a cold and awful certainty what his doom must be. “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I will not give you that release. Your master yet lives. Can you not feel it, Yamuna? So this will be your punishment.”

“You have no power to pronounce sentence on me,” he croaked. “You cannot even raise your staff to strike me down!”

She ignored him. “You will live, bound to service, as you have been. Nothing will change for you,
Agnidh
Yamuna, save that if he lives, you will serve the man you helped to break.” She leaned close to him. “And hear this, Yamuna. You may be the serpent, but I am the mongoose, and I know where your hole is. From this day forward, I will be watching for you.”

She touched his forehead, drawing up her own magics laid carefully by for this moment. “Sleep now,
Agnidh
, until it is time for you to resume your duties.”

He looked at her with such pure hatred she was surprised the world did not darken, but a moment later those shining, mad eyes closed, and the lean form slumped down into sleep.

Hamsa sat beside him, turning her face south. It would all be over soon. She could feel it in the air, in the threads of fate that still hung in this place. One way or another, freedom would come.

There was, in truth, not much time to wait in the reeds and the mud, for which Natharie was grateful. The flies were gathering in their millions to feast on the dead bodies nearby and the stink of death and decay rising from the mud was overwhelming.

Natharie was hungry. She was thirsty, and the river rippled at her back, but to move was to risk being seen by the Huni patrols that marched by so close on the top of the banks. She itched. She chafed to be so close to her father, and yet unable to go to him. Samudra, on the other hand, barely seemed to breathe. This was his home, she realized. He did not truly live in the small domain. He lived on the battlefield, with the scent of burning and death around him. This was the game he had spent his life mastering.

At last, the sun, bloodred from haze and smoke, dipped down below the horizon. The last few fingers of light stretched out to meet the first of the stars and the rising moon.

“This way,” whispered Samudra, cautiously rising into a crouch.

Bent double, Natharie followed him, keeping her movements as quiet as she could. She was stiff from lying flat in the mud, and she was as filthy as she had ever been, but compared with the suffering the axes of the Huni would inflict, this was nothing and she knew it. Those hard-eyed men and sharp women might not hold their fire long enough to realize she was King Kiet’s eldest daughter.

The shadows thickened as Natharie and Samudra traced their slow circle around the camps. Shouts and barks of laughter lifted above the groans of the wounded and the murmurs of the prisoners. Fires sprang up, scattering the flies just a little, and driving her and Samudra away with them. The fires also illuminated the flags, however, and they were able to tell that the Huni flags were clustered by the river, and the Sindishi were farther inland.

At last they came to the edge of a dirt track, and Samudra lowered himself full-length on the ground again. Natharie stretched out beside him. Ahead, two soldiers dressed in scaled armor stood at the edge of the camp, swatting at flies and mumbling to each other.

“Do you know them?” breathed Samudra.

Natharie peered at them, trying to see clearly in the faint firelight. Their dimly lit faces brought no names to her. “I do not,” she told Samudra. “But they wear the royal badge on their helmets. They are my father’s men.”

Samudra nodded then, and touched her hand. It was a kiss, that touch, and a signal that her time was now.

Slowly, carefully, Natharie stood, raising her hands up before her, showing them to be empty. The guards lowered their spears at once, and the one on the right came swiftly forward while his friend guarded his back.

“Who is that?” shouted that nearest guard.

“The princess Natharie Somchai!” she called, letting her voice ring out. It felt so fine to say her name in her own tongue, she wanted the world to hear it.

The guard’s eyes went wide and he gripped his spear more tightly. “It cannot be!”

“It is.” Natharie stepped onto the road to move closer to the firelight. Not that it would help much. In men’s clothes and coated in mud, she did not look much like herself. “If you do not know me, bring me to Captain Anun of the women’s guard. She will say who I am.”

That caused the man to go off his guard, just a little, and raise his spear. “Captain Anun is dead.”

The words thudded straight into Natharie’s heart. There had been so much else to worry her, she had not stopped to think that strong, quick, clever, loyal Anun might not be here. “No!” she cried.

The guard straightened up now. “It was she who wielded the torch inside the palace to help spread the fires from the center of the city.”

Natharie saw how it would be. Anun would have waited at the garden gates for Divakesh and his hundred men, and looking them right in the eye, she would have tossed her burning torch onto the palace roof. Grinning, she would have stood there while they ran. A few probably fell with her arrows in their back. Natharie lifted her eyes toward the city walls, no more than a black mound in the darkness. The whole city was Anun’s funeral pyre.

“She would not permit any other hand to do such a thing,” Natharie murmured. Then, she shook herself, holding back her tears for another time.
How much more practice will I get at this?
“Does the king live?”

“He does.”

There is some mercy in the world
. “Then take me to him. Take me to my father, and let him see who I am.”

Wariness returned to the soldier’s stance, but still he said, “Very well, but you must stay close to me.”

“I will,” she agreed. “And you must know I am not alone.” She beckoned, and with exceeding care Samudra stood up.

At once, the spears were leveled at his heart, and at hers. “Who is that?”

“A soldier of Hastinapura,” said Natharie. “With valuable news for King Kiet. I vouch for him on my life,” she added, hoping they did at least in part believe she was who she claimed to be.

The soldier looked Samudra up and down. He saw a Hastinapuran, filthy, lightly clothed, and completely without armor. He did not like this, but neither, it seemed, did he want the responsibility for it. “You will hand over your sword and knife,” he barked.

Samudra did so without comment. The soldier took them and unceremoniously dumped them beside the fire. He and the other four surrounded her and Samudra to walk them through the sprawling settlement of tents and fires. Natharie saw startled glances and open mouths as she passed by. Clearly, some here did recognize her. Their escort, however, did not allow them to stop until they reached the scarlet and saffron pavilion that belonged to the king. The four guards who stood there challenged them at once with lowered spears, but Natharie was in no mood for another scene such as they had just endured.

“Father!” she called out. “Father!”

The tent flap flew open and King Kiet bolted out, staring around him. He saw Natharie in the darkness, covered in mud, her hair hanging loose about her face. His mouth shaped her name silently.

In the next moment, Natharie was in her father’s arms, all but crushed by the strength of his embrace. She did not care, she just hugged him back as he said her name over and over.

“But how is this?” he asked when he could finally bear to step back a pace, his hands remaining on her shoulders.

“It is because of a good friend.” Natharie gestured for Samudra to come forward. He did, and he bowed correctly over his folded hands.

In return, the king inclined his head. “What is your name, man? Who do I thank for my daughter’s life and freedom?”

“Father,” said Natharie softly. “This is the first prince Samudra.”

Even as the soldiers had done, Father drew up short at this. Samudra did not move, so the least gesture could not be taken as a threat.

“Father, let us go inside. What we have to say is not for all the world to hear.”

Slowly, King Kiet nodded. He stepped back to let them walk into the pavilion, but not once did his gaze leave Samudra.

The pavilion was simply furnished with a few mats for sitting and some low tables. Soldiers performed the servants’ roles, setting out bowls of food and filling cups of tea. The king dismissed them all with a word.

“You must be hungry,” he said to Natharie. “Please eat, and tell me what has happened.” But Natharie did not move until her father added, “You also, Great Prince.”

They all knelt at the table, and Natharie worked hard not to fall on the food like a starving beggar. Belatedly, her father thought to call for water so they might wash at least their hands and faces, and that also helped her to feel less the wild woman. Between bouts of eating, drinking, and washing, Natharie told her father all that had happened since she had left her home. He listened in stony silence, not once interrupting until her narrative was done.