Temple of a Thousand Faces (62 page)

The flames rose. Prak raised his flute with trembling hands. At first his notes were unsteady, but he managed to play a song that she had favored. As he played, an updraft of wind sent ashes skyward. Some flowers, still untouched by the fire, were lifted from her body. They swirled above the flames, and though most fell back down to be consumed, one small white orchid dropped between the brothers. Vibol reached out with cupped hands and
caught it. At first he didn’t seem sure what to do with it, merely staring at its trembling petals.

Vibol had hardly spoken since his mother’s death, and Boran knew that he blamed himself for her passing. Putting his hand on his child’s shoulder, he asked, “Do you see, my son? She is with us.”

“No,” Vibol replied, weeping.

“She is.”

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“But you’re holding her right now. She wouldn’t go to you…if she blamed you.”

Vibol stared at the flower, reverently touching its petals. He began to shudder, his hands shaking, his chest heaving.

Boran reached for his sons, drawing them against him. They put their arms around him, and he promised them that they would be happy, that somehow the flower gave him hope. He had sensed her presence when he least expected to, when her body was an inferno, when she was being taken from him. Her body was leaving, but she was not. She was within him, within them all.

They wept together, huddled close, seeking and receiving comfort in one another’s grasp. Vibol continued to cradle the flower, to hold it near his chest. “Are you sure?” he finally asked, his voice barely audible.

Boran nodded. Though he still ached and wept, he saw the flower as a sign. She was nearby. A part of her lingered.

He knew then that they would build their home right there, right beneath their feet. They would plant flowers where her body had once burned, and one day laughter would return to them, children would splash in the shadows, and life would grow and blossom.

And then, someday, when all was well with his sons, he would follow her. He would feel himself being carried away by the wind
as she had been. He would soar up, looking down on his loved ones, savoring each and every memory, cherishing the bond that would forever keep them together.

His sons were free now. They were safe.

Knowing that, she would rest in peace. And someday he would rest beside her.

L
ater that day, outside the walls of Angkor Wat, thousands of Khmers celebrated King Jayavar’s victory. Despite the distant commotion, within the Echo Chamber all was silent. Asal and Voisanne stood beside each other, hands together, backs pressed against the stone. They beat their chests, heard the distant bells, and sent their prayers of thanks upward.

Both smiled.

“I am blessed,” Voisanne said, “that so many of Chaya’s friends are still alive. She’s overjoyed to be with them.”

Asal nodded, still disbelieving that everything had led to this moment, that his dreams had come to fruition. He had expected to die, either with Voisanne or without her. Yet now he stood holding her hand, trying to convince himself that all of it wasn’t an illusion, that somehow he had emerged from so many horrors and miseries into a place of beauty and contentment.

“As I told you once,” he said, speaking quietly, “when I first came here, I looked up at Angkor Wat, and was so…so swept up in its majesty and its magic that I knew Khmers must be a good and noble people. To create such towers, such wonders, one would need a pure heart.”

“It’s true.”

“But what I did not know, my lady, what I did not expect, was that I would fall in love with a Khmer, with a woman who would make me feel more alive than I ever had.”

She brought his hand to her lips, kissing it. “And what are we to do now that the war is over?” She kissed his hand again, then gently bit the knuckle of his thumb. “Will you grow bored with me now that you don’t have to save me?”

“Perhaps,” he teased.

Voisanne laughed, pushing against him. “Is that all you can say?”

“No.”

“Why are you suddenly so quiet? Where has my brave Cham gone?”

His heartbeat quickened. He started to speak, stopped, and then smiled. “I’d like to ask you something. A question I’ve never asked before, nor do I expect ever to ask it again.”

“What?”

He took her hands in his own, facing her. “It pleases me to call you ‘my lady.’ But it would please me much, much more to call you ‘my wife.’ Will you share your life with me, Voisanne?” He bowed his head to her. “Nothing would make me more contented than if your face was the first and the last thing I saw each day.”

She rose to her tiptoes, pulling herself up against him, kissing his lips. “But I’ll be the last to close my eyes. I won’t want to leave you. Not even to sleep.”

“So it’s ‘yes’?”

“It’s ‘yes’ a thousand times over.”

Without another thought, he picked her up so that she still faced him, his arms wrapped around her thighs. She felt so light in his grasp, yet she was the most powerful force in his life. He would die for her, devote the rest of his life to her.

“I want to shout,” he said, grinning. “To shout my thanks to the Gods.”

“So do. Let them hear you.”

He stared into the blackness above, aware of something building
within him, a surging joy the likes of which he had never felt or imagined. Its strength was more potent than the rage of battle, the fear of death. It continued to build, gathering within his soul, igniting unknown fires within him. The joy lifted him upward, bringing him closer to the Gods than he had ever been.

And he didn’t need to raise his voice, to shout out loud, because the Gods knew what he thought, what he felt.

They rejoiced in the heavens together.

N
ear the top of Angkor Wat, Jayavar and Ajadevi stood beside each other and stared out at their city. Khmers of all backgrounds and ages had come to the immense grounds outside the temple to celebrate. People feasted, sang, prayed, and banded together to pull down any trace of the Cham occupation. The banners that had accompanied the victors to battle hung from many homes and even the towers of distant temples.

Ajadevi glanced toward the utmost summit of Angkor Wat, which glowed in the setting sun. Her gaze traveled in all directions, taking in the temple’s wondrous sights and then falling to the moat, settling on throngs of people who lined its shores or swam in its waters. She sensed the unity of her people, and her pride in them swelled.

She turned to Jayavar, who wore the golden sword of his father and a colorful hip cloth that depicted a variety of flowers set against a green background. Precious jewels dangled from his neck and wrists. He hadn’t wanted to dress in such a manner, but she had insisted. To rule as a king, he must look like a king.

The platform that supported them was empty of any other person. Soon they would join in the celebration, but for the moment, they wanted only each other’s company. They stood facing the setting sun and holding hands.

“The Chams are gone,” Jayavar said, nodding toward the north, remembering how he had led his army back to Angkor, seized the war elephants, and driven the remaining Chams from his land. “Our scouts tell me that the few Chams who survived our attacks have fled in disarray.”

“Yet you shall have to prepare for their return.”

“Yes, but what do the signs tell you? What do you see in our future?”

She looked toward the sun. Its face wasn’t the hue of blood, but a much lighter color, almost the shade of gold. “I see a potent Khmer army. I see strength. I also see peace and prosperity.”

“Good,” he replied, smiling. “Because we’ve wasted enough of ourselves on destruction. Now it is time to build.”

“Tell me what you will build.”

“Roads and hospitals, temples and gardens. I want to feed our hungry, cure our sick. I long for our land to be remembered throughout the ages as one of the noblest that ever existed.” He smiled again, laughing at himself. “Simple tasks, I know.”

“And you? What do you covet for yourself?”

“What I covet, I already have,” he replied, his eyes locked on hers. “All my other desires are for my people—and for you.”

She traced the outline of a silk bandage on his forearm. “And your heir?”

“If an heir is born, Nuon shall raise him. But you and I shall teach him. We’ll teach him and love him.”

Nodding, she repeated his last words to herself, feeling warmth spread within her. “We should go. The people await you. And Bona has asked to take you hunting.”

“He makes me happy.”

She started to turn, but Jayavar reached for her hand.

“Wait,” he said. “Just until the sun sets.”

“Why?”

“Because it shall be beautiful. And I want to share all such beauty with you.”

A smile graced her lips, and she moved closer to him. The sun touched the horizon, swelling, spreading its colors across rolling hills, upon faraway towers. The colors grew richer, almost as if a divine spirit was painting the landscape.

“Stay with me forever,” he said.

“I shall,” she replied, reaching for his face, knowing that she would.

While much is unknown about those who inhabited ancient Angkor, this much is true: In 1177, the Cham king, Jaya Indravarman IV, led a surprise attack against the Khmers. Though Jaya Indravarman’s victory was resounding, Prince Jayavarman VII and his beloved wife, Jayarajadevi, avoided capture. For the sake of my story, I simplified their names and condensed their time spent in hiding. In reality, it took them four years to gather an army.

After defeating the Chams in an epic battle on the Great Lake, Jayavarman and Jayarajadevi returned to Angkor, where they oversaw an unprecedented revival and ultimate expansion of their empire. Roads, hospitals, and canals were built, as well as Bayon, a marvelous temple dominated by carvings of Hindu Gods and the smiling faces of Buddha.

To this day, Angkor Wat remains majestic and noble, dominating the landscape as if it were the mountains that its builders tried to re-create. From Angkor Wat to Kbal Spean to the Great Lake, one can still walk where Jayavarman and Jayarajadevi walked, exploring the gifts that they left to the world, imagining times long since past but not forgotten.

Temple of a Thousand Faces
is my sixth novel, and in some ways it was the most difficult to write. Everything about Angkor Wat is epic, and my book needed to reflect those dimensions, to reincarnate a story that was nearly lost in the passage of time. Yet precious little historical record was available, so I had to rely on my wanderings within Angkor and my imagination to create this novel. I hope I’ve done justice to the people and culture that thrived so long ago.

The opportunity to create
Temple of a Thousand Faces
would not have been possible without the steadfast support of my wife, Allison, and our children, Sophie and Jack. I’m so proud of each of you, and am blessed that you comprise such a large part of my life.

I’d like to express my gratitude toward my agent and friend, Laura Dail, who encouraged me to once again create a piece of historical fiction. Ellen Edwards, my superb editor, worked tirelessly on
Temple of a Thousand Faces
, enhancing the plot and the writing. I’m also grateful to my parents, John and Patsy Shors; my brothers, Tom, Matt, and Luke; as well as Mary and Doug Barakat, Bruce McPherson, Dustin O’Regan, Amy Tan, Sandra Gulland, Pennie Ianniciello, Pheng Pouk, Sery Sok Thea, Darlene Smoliak, Serena Agusto-Cox, Louise Jolly, Dom Testa, Julie
Dugdale, Jon Craine, Brigitte Bednar, Beth Lowe, Shawna Sharp, Bliss Darragh, Diane Saarinen, Chris Doyle of the Adventure Travel Trade Association, and the delightful staff at the gorgeous Heritage Suites Hotel in Siem Reap.

To everyone in Cambodia who made me feel so welcome—thank you.

And finally, please know, dear reader, that I also greatly appreciate your support. In honor of you, and everyone else who has helped me, a portion of the funds generated from
Temple of a Thousand Faces
will be donated to the Jayavarman VII Children’s Hospital. This wonderful hospital, only a few minutes’ drive from Angkor Wat, provides free treatment to children in need.

John Shors
is the bestselling author of
Beneath a Marble Sky, Beside a Burning Sea, Dragon House, The Wishing Trees, Cross Currents
, and
Temple of a Thousand Faces
. He has won numerous awards for his writing, and his novels have been translated into twenty-six languages.

John lives in Boulder, Colorado, with his wife and two children, and he encourages reader feedback.