The Archer's Heart (53 page)

 Chapter 48

K
ESHAN CARRIED A BUCKET OF WASTE FROM THE
K
ARVAZI
Bazaar outhouse into a waiting cart, to be hauled away by Tamarus Arundan’s son Lazro. He kept his grip on the bucket’s handle light but firm. He didn’t want to drop it in the crush of busy people. He slopped the filth into the stinking cart and turned to go for another. He dodged shoppers and the other Jegora who also worked this job. That he had adapted to his job surprised him. He’d never thought the stench of human feces would ever be bearable.

Of course, the knowledge that he would only be hauling shit for a very short time helped his attitude. The battle for the throne of Marhavad was only a week away and after that he would be a Triya or he would be dead. It was a comfort that he was lucky to have. His fellow Jegora had nothing but a lifetime of such drudgery to look forward to.

Lazro looked over his shoulder as Keshan banged his bucket on the edge of the cart to knock a recalcitrant lump free.

“Don’t you know some magic that will make outhouses clean themselves?” he asked.

“I prefer not to use shartas unless I have to,” Keshan replied. Only Jandu and Iyestar knew about Firdaus’ curse, and Keshan preferred to keep it that way, knowing that fear of his Yashva powers kept him safe.

Lazro owned the cart and was popularly known in the impoverished district of Prasta as the “vanishing man.” He made things disappear, whether broken axles, burned coal, or excrement. Jegora from all over the city adored him, because he owned his own mule, dumped their refuse, and treated them decently.

Keshan liked Lazro because he was a prolific conversationalist, and a young man fascinated with the world outside his own Chaya caste. As Keshan struggled with the other three Jegora responsible for keeping the outhouse clean, Lazro leaned against his cart and chatted with Keshan, seemingly undisturbed by the stench, the filth, or their untouchable status, as long as they never physically touched him.

“Are you really going to be Jandu Paran’s charioteer and fight King Darvad?” Lazro asked him.

“I’ll be charioteer, but it’s against the rules of war for me to fight Darvad.”

“So what happens if two Chaya meet on the battlefield?” Lazro asked.

Keshan dumped another bucket into the cart and wiped his brow.

“All the rules are established in the Book of Taivo,” Keshan told him. He smirked. “Didn’t your father make you read them?”

Lazro scuffed his bare foot on the ground. “I don’t read much.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t read them to you, then.” Keshan picked up his bucket. “Your father has a love of reading long passages to anyone in his company for longer than five minutes.”

Lazro laughed. Keshan smiled back, and then turned once more to make the trek through the alleyway to the back of the public market.

The main streets swarmed with shoppers. With the battle to begin in less than a month, people desperately purchased essentials in fear that the war would lead to shortages. Keshan remained out of sight of the Chaya and Suya caste citizens, sticking to the narrow alley with the rest of the Jegora as he completed his filthy task.

At the outhouses, an older man handed Keshan two more buckets. Keshan nodded and then trekked back once more to Lazro’s cart.

“But I don’t understand how Chaya are supposed to fight if they can’t fight the warriors.” Lazro picked up the discussion as if Keshan had never left. He liked Lazro’s conversational style. Lengthy pauses meant nothing to him.

“According to the rules, no Chaya warrior can fight against a Suya or a Triya, which means they will be relegated to foot soldiers,” Keshan explained. “They can fight other Chaya foot soldiers only.”

“But a Triya can fire upon them?” Lazro asked.

“Yes.” Keshan dumped his buckets. “The Triya can shoot you with arrows, and cut you down with swords, or club you with maces. And you can do nothing to them, on pain of death.”

“But that’s madness!” Lazro spat the betel leaf he was chewing on the ground. “Why even have Chaya and Suya soldiers?”

“To create larger forces, and to provide physical barriers against the other Triya.”

“So Chaya and Suya are just human shields.”

“Essentially. It’s just a reinforcement of the same pecking order you’ve always known, Lazro.” Keshan looked at his hands, and shivered in revulsion. Even though he had been meticulously careful about not sloshing the contents of his buckets, a trickle of sticky urine dribbled down his palm. He crouched and scrubbed it off in the dust at his feet.

“You’re too fastidious to be good at being a Jegora,” Lazro teased him. “Or even a Chaya.”

“I’ve improved greatly over the last month.” Keshan smiled mirthlessly.

“But this war could change everything, couldn’t it?” Lazro asked.

“Yes.” Keshan retrieved his buckets and headed back to the latrines.

Lazro’s curiosity bothered him. As he made several round trips to the cart, Keshan realized that Lazro must be considering joining the battle. He would have to talk him out of it. Most of the lower caste soldiers were conscripts, forced into service by the lords of their state as part of their servitude. But the Chaya and Suya of Prasta were exempt, as they served no lord other than the king. It was one of the few benefits for the lower castes living in the crowded capital.

By the time dusk approached, Keshan was exhausted, both with his job and with Lazro’s conversation. He never thought he’d grow tired of explaining things to anyone, but the last month had been hard on him, and he was a different person now. Bitterness crept into his soul, only amplified by the suspicion that, despite everything he told Lazro this day, the boy would probably join the soldiers anyway. There was glory to be had in war, and enough money to last a poor Chaya a lifetime. If he survived, Lazro could look forward to more respect in his community, and enough wealth to support his father and all of his sisters.

But the risk was monumental, and Keshan feared for him. He worried what Tamarus would do, if his only son went to war. Tamarus’ wife had died a few months after Keshan last saw her, and now his old friend lived alone, supported only by Lazro and his garbage-hauling business.

“Do you want a ride home with me?” Lazro asked Keshan. Keshan used the precious gourd of water he had with him to wash his hands. He looked at the heaping wet refuse in the back of Lazro’s cart and grimaced.

“After I dump this, of course!” Lazro laughed.

Keshan smiled. “No, but thank you. I’ll walk.”

Lazro waved and then moved to the front of his cart. He sat in the high seat and cracked his whip, forcing the old mule forward.

Keshan watched him go. His body ached. He stank. He couldn’t wait to get back to Tamarus’ house and take a bath. His friend’s unexpected generosity had given Keshan the little comfort he needed to endure this month of hardship, and his friendly, light-hearted conversations had helped ease Keshan’s loneliness. But what Keshan appreciated most of all about staying with Tamarus was the bath. The bath was everything to him now, now that he spent every day feeling so unclean.

Keshan mostly walked alleyways to return to Tamarus’ house, but there were a few public streets that he had to cross. He slunk in the long shadows, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

A man dumped a bucket of waste water out into the street and nearly splashed Keshan. He turned to rebuke Keshan, but then saw the small blue ribbon sewn on Keshan’s shirt, and quickly looked away. Keshan darted across the street, smiling to himself.

Everyone in town new what that ribbon meant.  

Four weeks ago, after Keshan had been assaulted by Draya children on the street in front of Tamarus’ house, Jandu had made a city-wide proclamation that anyone harming his cousin would be cut down like a dog. To assure there would be no confusion, Jandu personally stitched the symbol of his arrow onto Keshan’s shirt, warning the public that Keshan was protected by the prince himself.

Keshan thought the gesture was sweet but pointless. He never imagined anyone would abide by it. And yet here was more proof that the declaration worked. People feared Jandu’s wrath, and stayed as far away from Keshan as he tried to stay from them.

As Keshan headed down the muddy alley of Tamarus’ house, he saw men fleeing the road rapidly, and heard whispers so frantic they echoed like shouts. He looked up and saw Jandu himself, arms crossed and glaring, as he waited outside Tamarus’ door.

“Jandu!” Keshan called and hurried to him.

Jandu’s mouth curled up in a smile. “There you are. I’ve been waiting here ten minutes. Why is the door locked?”

“Tamarus is helping a family move,” Keshan said. He quickly fumbled for Tamarus’ large iron key. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I suppose if I said I was just in the neighborhood, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Keshan laughed. “No.” The keyhole was rusted, and Keshan struggled with the lock. When he finally got the door open, he waited for Jandu to enter, but Jandu didn’t follow him. Instead, he scowled at a group of Jegora across the road.

“What’s wrong?” Keshan asked.

Jandu jerked his thumb towards the Jegora. “They’re wearing my symbol.”

Keshan swallowed. “I know. Are you angry?”

Jandu frowned. “Just puzzled.” He stepped inside, and Keshan closed the door quickly.

“Once word got out that you were protecting me from assault, other Jegora began to make counterfeit symbols and wear them as well, in the hopes that they too would not be beaten.” Keshan watched Jandu for a reaction.

Jandu continued to frown in silence.

“I don’t think I can stop them,” Keshan continued. “But if you want, I could—”

“—No.” Jandu shrugged. “Let it be. If something as simple as a fake badge can keep them from harm, let them have it. No one else is doing anything to protect them. I might as well.”

Keshan felt stunned. Jandu stood there in Tamarus’ courtyard, as he had all those years ago, and look at him now. He was willing to let the untouchables wear his personal symbol, to keep them safe.

Keshan bathed in the courtyard, filling Tamarus’ narrow iron basin with water heated from the fire. As he lathered and washed his hair, Jandu leaned against the courtyard wall, filling Keshan in on all the details of the war preparation that was taking place in the palace.

Before, Keshan had felt a great sense of loss whenever Jandu discussed politics. It was once Keshan’s world, a world he was no longer part of, and he missed his old life like a phantom limb. But now, as Jandu leisurely chatted, and as Keshan bathed, Keshan felt a soft, easy contentment he didn’t think he could find in such a situation. He felt at home.

And Keshan came to the truth. He had thought that his mission was to change all of Marhavad society. But really, he only ended up changing one man.   

But at moments like this, when Jandu yawned and gossiped and told rambling stories, absent-mindedly weaving strands of long grass from Tamarus’ garden into some form of dinner plate, leaning against the wall and smiling at Keshan in the bath, Keshan realized, yes, it might all be all right. This one man might be enough.

Chapter 49

T
ERASHU
F
IELD WAS A LARGE BASIN, FLAT AND UNREMARKABLE
save for the way the dry grassland sloped upwards to meet the edge of the Ashari Forest. The forest formed the western boundary of the field and curved north, following the path of the river. The northern portion of the forest remained blackened with soot, a reminder of the great fire that Jandu and Keshan had started years ago for Mendraz. But even in three short years, vegetation sprang forth from the ashes, and saplings burst from the forest floor, lining the edge of the battlefield.

The Uru camp claimed the northern boundary of the field. The Parans and their allies staked the south. Far to the east, the fallow grazing lands stretched out in a seemingly endless view of wildflowers and grasses. Yudar ordered a trench dug across the eastern edge of the battleground to protect the grasslands from the spread of fires any shartas might cause.

The battlefield itself burst with delphiniums, blue poppies, and dozens of other wildflowers. The blooms waved enthusiastically to the camping armies, their colors as varied as the many brilliant standards and banners of the gathered Triya noblemen.

But the machinations of men quickly thwarted the rejuvenation. Within two days the flowers were ripped from the earth, and all traces of foliage vanished, leaving a dusty bowl as teams of oxen flattened the ground and prepared the field for chariots.

In the Paran camp dirt roads were leveled, dividing the sections and creating an instant city, almost one hundred thousand people and animals gathered together to watch, participate in, and facilitate this war. Infantry, cavalry and charioted officers were housed closest to the battleground, while the edge of the camp housed the numerous kitchens, medical tents, bathhouses, storage carts, animal stables, blacksmiths, carpenters, servants, and others who now tied their fortunes to the Paran princes.

Yudar’s tent marked the center of the camp, and was a large, circular structure of white wool suspended on nine poles, with a separate smaller tent attached for Yudar’s private chamber. Inside, furniture from neighboring allied states and thick carpets damped down the dust. The room became the central planning office for the war. It was comfortable, despite the slightly off-putting, wet wool smell.

Jandu chose a tent near the charioteers and archers. There were five units in the Paran army. Jandu assumed he would lead one of them, and was surprised instead by Yudar’s decision to appoint him general.

“You know more shartas than any man on this battlefield,” Yudar said proudly. “And you have proven yourself numerous times against insurmountable odds. I want you to lead our army to victory.”

Jandu’s emotions had flickered at Yudar’s compliments, a moment of love and gratitude breaking through the wall that Yudar’s betrayals had forged.

He worried that Baram would be insulted, having been passed as second eldest for the position. But Baram had merely hugged Jandu fiercely and told him it was the wisest decision.

In his new position, Jandu was kept busy and for days he had seen little of Keshan. The Jegora part of camp was behind the latrines, and they had little access to the rest of the makeshift city. Every attempt Jandu made to visit Keshan was quickly thwarted by a not-so-subtle request from Yudar, for Jandu to oversee the archers in their practice, the distribution of provisions, or the repair of chariots. All it would take was Jandu to look to the far southeast corner of camp, and Yudar would immediately grab his arm and throw Jandu at some problem.

On the eve of battle, both Paran and Uru armies met in the middle of the field to take the oath of honorable combat.

The beat of a thousand drums vibrated the blood in Jandu’s veins. Enormous energy radiated from Terashu field in sound waves. One hundred thousand men, bound by promises and fealty, gathered to swear themselves to the laws of war. Jandu scanned the crowd for a sign of Keshan, but it was impossible to spot him. There were over fifty thousand soldiers fighting for the Parans and past them, in the sea of faces, Jandu could not make out any individual.

Jandu stood beside Baram on a raised dais and watched Yudar and Darvad ceremonially greet the priest Onshu, who would officiate the battle.

Onshu made the sign of peace to both Darvad and Yudar. The priest’s purple robes fluttered in the light wind. His hair was thick with red sandalwood paste.

Onshu sang a brief prayer. Yudar and Darvad closed their eyes and brought their hands together to pray. Yudar was adorned in his golden armor, his forehead smeared with holy paste, his hair oiled and slicked back under his golden helmet. Jandu stared at him, a now-familiar sensation of disgust and pride washing through him.

Jandu felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Baram, smiling down at him with tears in his eyes.

“I have been waiting for this moment since the first time that bastard Firdaus rolled the dice,” Baram whispered hotly. Jandu nodded in response.

Onshu finished his prayer and unrolled a large scroll. He began to recite the traditional Triya rules of war.

“Two warriors may engage in personal combat only if they carry the same weapons and they are on the same mount,” Onshu said. His words echoed back to the edges of the crowd in repeated whispers.

“No warrior may kill or injure any warrior who is unarmed, unconscious, or whose back is turned away, as this is dishonorable in the eyes of God. None may raise a weapon against a warrior of higher caste than himself lest he offend God.”

Jandu’s eyes narrowed. The professional armies of each of their allied states were Triya, but the rest of the soldiers, almost half of them, were Suya and Chaya caste. That meant they could only fight their own equivalents on the battlefield. But they would be sitting ducks for the Triya in chariots and on horseback.

Jandu shook his head. “They’ll be slaughtered.”

Baram merely shrugged. “What did you expect? It’s the traditional rules of war.”

“Yudar should change them,” Jandu stated.

“Yudar isn’t going to change anything set down in the Book of Taivo,” Baram told Jandu. “Besides, look at Darvad. He’s the one who is supposed to be the champion of the lower castes, and he isn’t challenging the rules either.”

It was true. Darvad simply nodded with the ruling. Jandu noted, however, that Tarek Amia, who stood by Darvad’s side, looked ready to kill Darvad. Tarek had obviously expected Darvad to treat his Suya and Chaya warriors more humanely.

“No battle may continue beyond the light of day for this is the time the Lord has allotted for war. No harm may be done to a man, ally or enemy, who comes to pay respect at the funeral pyres of the fallen,” Onshu intoned. “Any man who uses a sharta to endanger the lives of civilians outside this battlefield will be put to death.”

“But at least we’re allowed to use them,” Baram said. He slapped Jandu on the shoulder. “You know more than anyone. It will definitely be to our advantage.”

“Mazar knows more than me, I assure you,” Jandu whispered, looking across the dais at his weapons master.

Jandu had spoken to Mazar several times in the weeks leading up to the battle, hoping to convince his old master to fight with the Paran forces. But while Mazar did not hesitate to express his remorse at having to fight against Jandu, he refused to break the holy oath he had made to King Darvad.

At first, Jandu was hurt, but his resolve had hardened over the weeks. Keshan was right. Holy oaths and vows that made no sense, when they justified actions that went against a person’s own moral standings, were pointless and dangerous. If there was one aspect of Triya culture that Jandu could change, it would be this slavish adherence to illogical oaths.

Onshu finished his litany of rules and then led Yudar and Darvad in a second prayer. As the priest blessed the two sides of the war, and prayed to God for justice, both armies joined in the prayer and the ground itself seemed to shudder with the thunderous timbre of so many voices. The drummers resumed their beat, and then the horns and conches joined in, a cacophony of battle cries and prayers and music and cheers and insults, and Jandu could feel their words in his scalp, tingling across his flesh. He spoke in unison with the soldiers, his body bombinating with excitement and adrenalin, to be here, at this moment, in history, with all these men.

Jandu’s prayers grew more fervent. He added a prayer to Mendraz, king of the Yashvas, hoping the demon would favor Jandu’s side of the war. Jandu knelt and supplicated himself and the men around him followed. Like a great wave, the entire Paran army prostrated itself on the battlefield, laying their heads to the ground and praying as if they all knew that this ground would also cradle their heads in death.

Onshu lit incense and poured butter onto the ground, and the ceremony concluded. Darvad and his advisors left the ceremony in one direction. Yudar touched Mazar’s feet in respect, and then led his own men to the Paran camp without a glance back.

◆◆◆

That evening, in darkness, Jandu bathed and then wound his way toward the latrines. He traveled an already well-trod dirt path behind the outhouses. He carried a butter lamp, as this part of the camp did not have lamps strung along the roads.

The Jegora camp consisted of ramshackle tents made of cotton fabric. Most of the men and women slept out in the open, on thin bed rolls gathered around open fires. As Jandu searched the faces in shadow for Keshan, most of the Jegora drew back, frightened of Jandu’s attention. A few who wore his blue ribbon offered him tentative, shy smiles.

“Keshan?” Jandu cried, looking upon the bleak faces around him. What used to disgust him now simply filled him with sympathy. He watched a woman wash her pan out with the one gourd of water she had, her hands clawed with age. She was beautiful once, Jandu realized, staring into her eyes. She had lovely hair, but her face was wearied with age and the elements, and she shied from Jandu’s glance quickly.

“Keshan!” Jandu called again.

“I’m here.” Keshan rushed to his side, looking out of breath. His hands were covered in soil and his black tunic was dirty, but his face lit with a smile when he saw Jandu.

Jandu raised an eyebrow. “Where have you been?”

“Digging.” Keshan patted dirt from his tunic. “One of the oxen died. I’m helping bury him.”

“I have something more important for you to do.” Jandu took Keshan by the elbow and led him past the latrines, toward the soldier’s section of the camp. Although many people were out, it was dark enough between the lamps that few noticed Keshan’s clothing or brands.

When they reached an open area of the charioteer’s section of camp, Jandu turned to Keshan.

“You still want to be my charioteer?” Jandu asked nervously.

Keshan smiled brightly. “Of course I will be.”

“Can you summon Mendraz’s chariot now? I’d like to have it ready for tomorrow,” Jandu said.

“I don’t know if it will work,” Keshan said. “Since Firdaus’ curse, my shartas haven’t been what they used to be.”

“That’s why I think you should try it now, when it’s quiet.”

Keshan nodded. He knelt to the ground and closed his eyes. His lips moved slightly as he whispered the prayer Mendraz had taught him all those years ago in this very forest. Jandu watched anxiously. Keshan finished and nothing happened. There was a flicker of light, but that was all. Keshan tried again. Sweat beaded his forehead.

Mendraz’s celestial chariot finally appeared soundlessly. Only the thump of one of the long reins against the ground made any noise. Jandu and Keshan both stared, wondering at Mendraz’s magnificent vehicle.

The wood was lacquered yellow and red, and then gilded in sweeping patterns of vines, the gold trailing up the sides of the car and forming a golden banister all around the edge of the car. In the center of the chariot, a thick mast provided balance, and Tiwari’s own peacock standard flapped above the yellow silk canopy stretched atop the vehicle. Even the seats were magnificent, crafted from silk and stuffed with feathers. It was the vehicle of the gods. And now it would be Jandu’s in battle.

“I had forgotten how beautiful it was.” Keshan admired the chariot, a soft smile on his face. Jandu stepped forward and ran his hand along the warm gold of the chariot lip.

“With you and this chariot and Zandi, we will be invincible.” He turned and smiled at Keshan who grinned back.

“Not without horses we won’t,” Keshan replied. “Nadaru has promised you horses, yes? Let me pick out the best for you.”

“All right.” Jandu nodded. “I have to talk to Yudar, but I’ll meet you back here within the hour.”

“I’ll see you then,” Keshan agreed. He looked radiant with his success at summoning the chariot and when he walked away he moved with the graceful pride that had seemed lost since his branding.

Jandu threaded his way through the evening crowds of soldiers and servants. The night before the battle, the entire camp burst with revelry. Yudar distributed wine to keep morale high. Women visited their husbands and sons, and Jandu felt an overpowering affection for all these people, gathered so bravely at the edge of an abyss, risking their lives for the fate of his family. As he passed through the crowds, people bowed to him or touched his feet. Here, he was a prince again, a royal Triya, fourth in line for Marhavad’s throne, and the years of servitude and starvation on the mountain seemed like they happened to another person, in another life.

Jandu reached up and touched the break in his nose. He would not let himself forget anything of the last three years. He needed that anger to fuel his strength tomorrow, on the battlefield.

Yudar’s tent was guarded by soldiers loyal to the Parans for many years. Jandu couldn’t remember the names of the two men who stood on duty now, but their faces were very familiar. They had protected Yudar since he had been a teenager growing up in the palace. Jandu remembered them crying when the Parans left for the forest. And now here they were once more, straight and proud at Yudar’s door, and Jandu couldn’t help but reach out and touch them both affectionately on the shoulders. The men looked shocked, that a Triya would do such a thing, but then they smiled and stood straighter.