Sword of the Deceiver (8 page)

The agreement was celebrated in Lohit’s capital with the ceremonies proper to both the Seven Mothers and the Awakened One. Without losing a single man, without spilling a drop of blood, Samudra marched home, the province behind him secure.

Or it had been. Samudra felt his throat close. “Tell me Lohit violated the treaty, or tell me that permission was sought …”

But Makul was already shaking his head. “Pravan marched us through without a word of warning. We took what was needed, according to custom, and some took more than that. King Pairoj had no time to resist, and Pravan left him a warning … that I think came more from Divakesh than the emperor …”

Samudra was barely listening. His word was in shreds. His peace was broken. This was why he had been sent away, so his treaty could be violated without his objection. To attack the Huni in their strongest outpost, this was the excuse, the excuse that had cost …

“How many dead?” he whispered.

“Five hundred,” Makul answered. “Yasuf and Tamin among them.”

Samudra’s fists tightened.

Makul pushed his cup a little to the left. “My prince, it has long been in my mind to honor your return with a feast. Will you grace my house with your presence tomorrow evening?”

Sensing the undercurrent in Makul’s words, Samudra nodded. “Makul, I would be most pleased to do so.”

Makul bowed over his hands. “Until then, I expect you will want to rest, and to visit the great queen your mother, and pray in the temples.”

Calm myself. Seek good advice, and keep my silence
.

“I shall surely do all these things.” Samudra paused and then reached out to clasp the other man’s wrist. “Thank you, Makul. It is good to be among friends again.”

“The Mothers themselves have surely ordained that wherever there are soldiers, my prince will find friends,” said Makul. He made a final obeisance and departed, and Samudra watched him go.

“Well, Hamsa,” Samudra murmured. “What do we do now?”

“We wait, my prince,” she answered softly. She sounded as tired as he felt. “Until the gates open and we are allowed back into the palace. Then, we shall see.”

In his mind’s eye what Samudra saw was King Pairoj. He imagined that bright voice cursing his name as Pravan trampled through his few fertile fields, and heard the laughter of soldiers who have been turned loose to do as they would. He saw Divakesh standing with his great arms folded in satisfaction. Pairoj was surely no longer alive. He was not one to stand by while his land was torn apart.

He thought then of Natharie, and how he had left her, a step away from being chained like a slave and paraded through the streets as a prize. What would she think if she heard that one of the Awakened lands was treated in this way? She would surely fear him more than she already did.

Why he should care about this, he was uncertain. Perhaps he was just unwilling to think of it now when there was so much blood, anger, and fear in his mind.

“Hamsa,” he said. “I need to debate with myself for a time. Will you go down to the procession and walk with the princess Natharie? I do not think we should have left her alone.”

Hamsa licked her lips uncertainly. “I doubt she will find me good company, my prince.”

“You are all I have here, Hamsa.”

Hamsa made the salute of trust where she knelt. Then she rose and called for her horse. Samudra watched her mount the animal awkwardly and ride away. He turned his eyes from her to the walls that kept him from home, family, and truth.

We shall see
, Hamsa had said. “Yes,” he whispered. “Mothers help us all, we surely will.”

When Natharie arrived at last at the gates of the Palace of the Pearl Throne, she came kneeling in the center of a litter heaped with pearls and gold coins, one more prize for the emperor. She was dazed by long hours in the sun and deafened by the roaring crowd that had filled the streets to watch the tribute procession. As dazed as her mind was, though, she had wit enough left to wonder why Prince Samudra stood before these outer gates of his own home to greet them as they wound their way inward. What had gone so wrong for the first prince of Hastinapura?

The procession did not even slow to absorb this new addition, but continued its stately passage through the open gates. The guardian walls were so thick, Natharie felt she had entered a deep tunnel. The sweat that slicked her skin turned cold, raising goose pimples on her skin. It was the feeling of crossing into another world.

The sun dazzled Natharie’s weary eyes as she emerged into the gardens of the palace.

It is another world
.

Her home had gardens, and they were broad and green and well tended, but they were nothing like these carefully trimmed trees, these banks of grass and flowers descending to meet chattering brooks or groves of fruiting trees. Deer grazed here, and antelope, and pure white oryx. Peacocks strutted. Flamingos stood motionless in green ponds. Birds of paradise and vultures nested in the trees.

As the gardens she knew paled in comparison with what lay before her, so did her home. The palace she had grown up in was a wooden hovel compared with the granite and marble city that rose above this expance of parkland. The sun hung low over the green mountain that stood sentry over the palace, washing all with red-gold fire. Its windows and balconies, arches and exposed corridors made it look more like a web spun by a hundred thousand spiders than an edifice constructed by men.

A broad white road descended through the paradise of greenery. Fountains splashed cool droplets on her thirsty skin. Monkeys looked down from the trees, shaking their heads at her passage. Birds added their voices to the flutes. Everywhere, the scent of oranges and lemons hung in the air. The world around them was now hushed, and Natharie could hear the sounds of the many feet of the procession, the hoofbeats of the horses, the bearers’ grunting. Horns blew and were answered by the sounds of drums and flutes.

The road rose, winding toward an inner wall of red stone set with a pair of intricately carved ivory gates. Natharie thought they would be taken into the palace now, but the procession turned aside, and instead followed the walls to a courtyard dominated by a great altar shaped like the bowl of a fountain. Six garish scarlet and gold shrines surrounded it. Priests who bore the images of the Mothers split off from the procession and circled the yard, each of them placing one image in its waiting home. As they brought her closer, Natharie could see that steps led up to the altar bowl and in its center, a single carved image stood on a pedestal of red stone. This was most likely Mother Jalaja, the one called the Queen of Heaven. Fire burned at her feet. Gold rings circled her wrists and ankles. Her gilded headdress sparkled with precious stones, some of which were surely diamonds. She had been decked with scarlet flowers. Her upraised hands held an open lotus and a bowl heaped high with saffron rice.

But what truly struck Natharie was the Mother’s staring, white eyes. The red stone had been set with shell that left a dark iris through which the goddess could see. She seemed to look directly at Natharie, seeing all her defiant thoughts and her hardened heart. For a brief moment, Natharie cringed.

The procession halted. Natharie was set on solid ground for the first time in hours as the bearers around her knelt and kissed the ground. Hamsa slipped from her horse and did the same. She thought they were prostrating themselves before the goddess, but then, at last, Natharie saw the emperor.

His dais rose up in a space between the shrines and he sat cross-legged on a throne of precious woods. His skin was the color of summer wheat. His clothing was of pure white cloth that shimmered with embroidery of all colors. His hair hung in silken ringlets down past his shoulders. His crown was a cap of gold and pearls, with a single great ruby that seemed to pulse like a living heart in the sunlight. His long, delicate face turned toward the tribute procession, but she could not tell if he saw her amid the overwhelming pageantry.

At his feet sat a withered man wearing only a white breechclout about his waist. His hair was braided and bundled as Hamsa’s was. Another sorcerer then. More magic for the ruling of men.

Two carved screens of light wood stood beside the throne, one on either side. Back there would be the women, the queen and her attendants, hidden from public gaze lest the eyes of others besmirch their purity.

On either side of the screens were arrayed a selection of priests, some in the scarlet robes and tall golden hats such as she had seen before, some in saffron, and some in simple white.

While Natharie took in this mighty spectacle, Prince Samudra dismounted his horse and strode to the foot of the dais. Hamsa now left her place at Natharie’s side to follow her master. He knelt to his brother, the emperor, and Emperor Chandra beckoned broadly to him. Prince Samudra mounted the dais steps with Hamsa two steps behind him. A silken cushion had been placed beside the throne and Samudra sat down, cross-legged, straight-backed, and Hamsa sat at his feet. It seemed strange to see the prince sitting so low when he had ridden head and shoulders above others since she had first seen him.

Then, Divakesh rose from his place in the procession, red and gold and powerful. His regalia flashed in the burning sunlight. Slowly, he mounted the steps to the great altar. The wind freshened at that moment, and Natharie smelled something at once sweet, bitter, and familiar, but she could not place it. Divakesh knelt before the Queen of Heaven and bowed with his face in his hands. Only then did he make the same salute to the emperor. One of the priests from the dais walked down to him, bearing something on a red pillow. This Divakesh took and held aloft. It was a sword, its silver blade broad, keen, and curving. Divakesh kissed the flat reverently, and a deep shudder ran through Natharie.

The emperor lifted his hand and the remaining priests and acolytes left their places. They too mounted the stairs to the altar of the goddess and made their obeisances before her. When they rose, each of the acolytes held a wooden staff. They laid the ends of these into the fire burning at the goddess’s feet. Carrying their torches high, they circled the edges of the platform. Black smoke rose up into the blue sky.

Then, they thrust those torches down into the bowl below.

Now Natharie realized the scent that had troubled her was perfumed oil. The fire opened like an enormous flower. Red, gold, orange, white, and blue, it stretched out its petals until the Queen of Heaven and all her priests walked on flames and were entwined by fragrant smoke.

Now the horse was led to the altar. It was so ringed by attendants, Natharie could see no more than its head, and its eyes flashing white as it panicked at the nearness of the fire. But by now the the beast was held too tightly to rear. It was time. Natharie’s hands missed her beads. She tried to steel herself. The goddess watched her unblinking, looking for her fear.

Somewhere, a great drum began to beat. The rhythm was slow but insistent. A brass bell joined it, ringing high and clear. The beat quickened, became a complex pattern, and Divakesh began to dance.

He danced before the Mother, now kneeling, now leaping higher. He spun, his sword flashing in the sun as it arched over his head. It was a dance of sacrifice of blood and self. The rhythm of the drum pushed its power into Natharie’s blood and left her afraid. Bell and drum drove Divakesh on, whirling faster, his body moving with sure, swift precision. Natharie’s heart raced. Her breath came fast and shallow. The priest’s scarlet robes flowed with the movement of his dance, wrapping him in their own fire. The acolytes stood still as statues, and the sword whirled over their heads, was laid against their necks, as if it would make them sacrifices for the Mother. None of them so much as flinched, but watched the sword and the dancer with shining faces, lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

For a single instant, Divakesh stood still, the sword raised high, his face exultant. Then, the sword flashed down again, past the horse’s broad neck. The beast screamed. The sword came up again. Blood, dark and rich with its store of life, fountained out across midnight hide.

A wave of nausea flooded over Natharie, leaving her sick and faint. She had seen dead animals before, but she had never seen one die, let alone one being killed. The acolytes were holding out bowls, catching the blood they’d spilled. The priest was laying the bloody sword at the goddess’s feet. Now he dipped his fingers in one of the bowls and painted the goddess’s face with that same blood.

The Queen of Heaven watched Natharie, and Natharie bowed her head and shook.

She was moving again, being carried forward, closer to the fire. She could not make herself look up. She was going to be sick. She was going to faint and fall from the palanquin. It was too hot. The smoke rasped against her throat and filled her mouth with the taste of sandalwood and ash.

A hand grasped her chin, forcing it upward. For a moment, she saw Divakesh frowning hard at her.

Hamsa had told her what was to come. Divakesh would paint her face with the horse’s blood. With this, she’d be pronounced clean enough to enter the palace.

It is only blood
, she told herself now as she looked into the priest’s stern eyes.
It is only ceremony. It will wash off
.

The high priest smiled a little, and Natharie steeled herself for the brush of his bloody fingers.

“Hold,” said Divakesh.

At that single word, the whole world fell silent. Divakesh released Natharie’s chin and clamped his great, bloody hand around her wrist instead.

She felt the world staring, emperor, priests, prince, sorcerers, the hidden queen. She felt the weight of that terrible silence. Not even a fly buzzed. No one dared so much as murmur. Dizzy from the sacrifice, heat, and shock, Natharie could focus only on Divakesh, and his little smile.

“Let this one, polluted beyond all other measure, come to the fire.”

He pulled her upright, but Natharie’s legs had gone to sleep long ago, and she sprawled facedown at his feet. She lay there a moment, ridiculous and ashamed. Without so much as a grunt of effort, Divakesh swept her into his arms like a sack of wheat and strode to the Mother’s pedestal. There, he dropped her again, and a cry left her, and she huddled at the feet of the goddess.

“Look on the Queen of Heaven, look on the one who danced the world into being, and who will bring its destruction when the day is good. Look on her, you who would dare elevate a mortal man to her equal, and see the truth!”

Shaking, Natharie lifted her head; she looked up at the form, magnificent and bejeweled and wreathed in flame.

“Speak the truth, little girl. See the purity of truth for all.”

What is it? What does he want?
The world spun. She was so sick, so dizzy. She wanted to faint, to cry, to answer, to give this man anything he wanted, just for a drink of water and an end to the blood and the confusion that roared through her.

“What is your sin? Speak before the Mothers and show how all may be made clean!”

Natharie looked up at the white-eyed goddess, and she saw the lotus and the blood and the fire that seemed brighter than the sun, and she remembered her womanhood ceremony and being held under the water while her lungs strained for air. The goddess rose above her terrible and splendid, forever dancing on her fire. She wavered in front of Natharie’s vision, and Natharie seemed to see her dancing the dance they said shaped the world, and would end it, and would begin it again. In a heartbeat, it seemed she understood all.

“Speak!” roared Divakesh.

His cry broke her trance, and the world snapped back into place around her. Divakesh the man held her, and made her huddle like a slave on the hot stone. Divakesh had stolen her beads, belittled her family, killed the great horse. It was not the goddess who demanded anything of her. It was the man, and the man would have nothing at all. She would defy him though it meant her death, and the whole of his world would watch her do it.

Natharie bit her tongue against her fears, and raised her head.

The silence stretched out, a handful of heartbeats, a handful of breaths. Divakesh stared down at her, his face thunderous with his wrath, and his eyes filled with disbelief. Natharie closed her own eyes. She felt herself sway. She heard the rasp of metal. She heard the drum of footsteps and felt the breeze of passage. The drum began its steady rhythm again, the world’s heart, the Mother’s heart, her heart. There was no other rhythm. Fear squeezed her until she was hollow, and still she held. She was going to die. Her blood was going to paint the feet and hands of Divakesh and his priests, and she would die alone and she would be silent.

Not alone. Her heart was full and it was open. If this was death, she would meet it and there would be life again. She would not be alone.

She felt the rush of the sword. She felt the steel touch her throat, and the edge draw along her skin, felt the warmth of her own blood. The pain did not come until a long moment later, sharp and clean as the cut had been, and with it came the realization that she was alive to feel the pain, and her eyes flew open.

Divakesh was on one knee before her, his breath heavy and rasping. He smelled of sweat and incense. He smeared her blood on his hand that was already wet with the blood of the horse, and dipped his scarlet fingertips with it. Those glistening fingers stabbed ruthlessly at her face and the pain sharpened and brightened and Natharie gasped, and the priest’s grin grew wild.

“The clean blood of sacrifice cleanses your pollution. The mark of the Mothers makes you Theirs, and it is by Jalaja’s will you live and die, in this life and in all lives to come.” Then, softly, softly, almost a lover’s whisper, he added, “And your whole world will pay for your silence.”