The Red-Stained Wings--The Lotus Kingdoms, Book Two

by Elizabeth Bear

  Mrithuri looked down. Syama’s big head lay under her palm, where the bear-dog had insinuated it. Mrithuri stroked the rough-soft brindled fur.

  “I should have sent you with Ata Akhimah,” she whispered, meaning the Dead Man as much as Syama. But she was selfishly glad she had not.

  What she had would be enough. It would have to be enough, because it was all she had.

  * * *

  Mrithuri endured the organization of her second wedding in as many days in a blur of pain and nausea. Someone had found Nizhvashiti. The Godmade awaited them on the dais in black robes, as usual, hung with some of the gold of its finery.

  “What is this creature?” Anuraja growled. “What is this mockery?”

  Mrithuri felt herself too far away to respond. But Hnarisha was there too, and he stepped in with a scraping obeisance.

  “You have no priest, Raja,” he said reasonably. “Nizhvashiti is a chosen of the Mother, preserved beyond life. Its good offices are therefore the fastest way for you to marry.”

  Mrithuri was greatly disappointed that Anuraja had not further flinched from being married by someone with the Godmade’s … unusual … aspect.

  Someone else had managed to procure enough dishes to pass as a feast, and Anuraja’s sorcerer had removed her befoulment from Sarathai-tia’s water. But this was no seven days of celebrations and feasting. No flowers were picked from the drought- and storm-wasted gardens. No one played music and certainly no one danced.

  Syama was locked away. All of Mrithuri’s comforts had been taken from her. She wanted to seek the Dead Man with her eyes, but did not dare. He was behind her, somewhere. She told herself he would always be watching her back.

  Always.

  She wished she believed it.

  She had been to many awful weddings in her role as dignitary. She didn’t think this one ranked better than any. Its one saving grace was that it was over quickly. Anuraja was no more eager to string it out than she was.

  The investiture followed on immediately from the wedding ceremony, almost before the wedding toast was proposed and drunk. Mrithuri’s new raja turned his back on her and left her standing in her crimson draperies. They had been married atop the dais, and now he crossed to pause at the foot of the longer, narrow flight of stairs that led up the height of the Peacock Throne.

  Nizhvashiti turned silently and drifted back a bit, so it was standing to the right and slightly behind Mrithuri. Mrithuri unobtrusively leaned one hand on the back of her chair of estate.

  Anuraja looked up at the long, golden, gemstone-paved sweep for some time, and whether he was contemplating it in triumph or nerving himself Mrithuri could not have said. She thought bitterly that her place would not change, unless she displeased him. She would have her same chair of estate. But it would feel very different to sit in it now, and she would sit there silently.

  And did she really think it would be a long time until she displeased him?

  She watched her cousin, watched his profile. Watched him firm his expression into stern, determined lines.

  He spoke, and Mrithuri was sure the words were intended for no one but the ghosts of the throne room. But he probably did not know yet that the Alchemical Emperor had worked his Science of Building into everything he made, and that any word said on the throne, however softly, could be heard from the consort’s chair. So it was she, and she alone, who heard him whisper, “Well, Grandfather. Not what you expected. But here I am.”

  With his own hand, Anuraja reached out and cast aside the velvet rope that guarded the perilous throne. And then, with a firm and determined step, Anuraja mounted the stair.

  It was steep, and had no railings. The risers were shallow-cut, and they were unpadded gold. He leaned forward under the weight of his royal trappings. Mrithuri was glad that her back was to the assembled witnesses and so her smile as she watched him struggle to ascend without groaning was hidden. It was petty of her, she knew. It was not kind.

  The borrowed strength of snakebite, she knew from experience, would be abandoning him by now. And he would feel all the worse for having relied upon it.

  She wondered why his sorcerer had not suggested he use more. Not out of concern for his health: of that she was certain.

  If it were anyone else—walking up that stair on legs she knew to be aching with gout, swollen with edema, and festering with sores—she probably would have felt pity. As it was she felt a sort of cruel and silent glee.

  That was when she knew that being married to Anuraja would ruin her. Not because his touch would corrupt her flesh—though it would. Not because he would make a slave of her, or try to crush her spirit.

  But because being near him would make her akin to him: petty, and awful, and cruel. The loathing would poison her. Remake her in the image of a bitter and twisted thing.

  These are the beasts that feed on war.

  The voice inside her was not her own. It was a woman’s voice, cracked with age. It had the accent of a Messaline.

  Great, she thought. Her fingers curved with the desire to claw her arm. Now I’m hallucinating.

  Something clicked, then scuffed, behind her. Once, and again. And again.

  She turned, stole a quick glance. Saw Sayeh ascending the broad, shallow mount of the dais on her crutches, an unintentional counterpoint to the man struggling up the much higher stair above.

  In moments, Sayeh was beside her. They exchanged silent glances. Sayeh leaned her crutch into her armpit, released the crossbar, and extended her delicate hand.

  Mrithuri looked at it for a moment, then with abrupt gestures stripped the fingerstalls off her fingers and took Sayeh’s hand in her own beringed, hennaed one. Sayeh leaned in and kissed Mrithuri’s cheek. She was much the taller.

  “Trust in the Mother,” Sayeh said against her ear, so close it might not carry, words stirring her earrings. Mrithuri was surprised to feel a shiver at the breath. “Trust the Good Daughter. Be thou dutiful, and justice will be served.”

  Sayeh’s hand closed on Mrithuri’s elbow, and only then did Mrithuri realize she had begun to sway. They will think me drunk.

  Well, who wouldn’t be?

  She turned to look Sayeh in the eyes, very close. The older woman’s eyes were very beautiful, flecked hazel, outlined in a little kohl. More with the shape of her mouth than with her voice, Mrithuri said back, “Do you suppose his other wives told themselves the same?”

  * * *

  Far above them, Anuraja turned and paused for ceremony.

  Mrithuri heard Sayeh take and hold a breath. She heard Sayeh murmur something that sounded like a prayer.

  Anuraja sat down between the mantling wings of the Peacock Throne.

  For a moment, nothing happened. His fingers were curled tight on the armrests. Slowly, he leaned back, relaxing into the throne—

  Both hands flew to his chest. He jerked once, as if someone had kicked him.

  A vast, collective gasp echoed into the empty arches above them, and was followed by the resounding silence of some hundreds of folk. The throne room was always filled with breath and rustling, shuffling feet, low conversations. Like the murmur of blood running through veins.

  This was the first time Mrithuri had ever heard it utterly silent.

  Anuraja slid from the seat of the throne and tumbled, rolling, down the long flight of stairs, past the two women standing on the lapis-tiled basalt platform, down those steps as well … to slump, oozing blood from somewhere, on the polished tiles of the floor.

  * * *

  Sayeh wiped her eye with the back of her fingers. “Well,” she said. “That was disappointing.”

  Mrithuri turned to her, rearing back like a startled cobra, with as much display of threat. “You were hoping it would accept him?”

  “Oh, no,” Sayeh said. “I was hoping he’d have a minute to appreciate that he was dying, is all. I wanted to see his face.”

  “You knew this would happen?”

  Sayeh shrugged. “I hoped for it. I admit,
I also thought highly enough of our illustrious ancestor to suspect he might actually have put a death spell on the throne, just in case somebody like Anuraja tried to sit on it. Also”—Sayeh smiled—“I had a suspicion that Anuraja’s marriage to you might not be valid. For one reason or another.”

  Mrithuri blushed. “If he’s not a true emperor, who is? We’re out of male relatives, Sister.”

  Sayeh shrugged. “There’s still that bastard Himadra and his brothers. And … my son.” She sighed, as theatrically dejected as a child. Then plucked herself up and grinned. “Well. Can’t be helped now, I suppose. How does it feel to be Dowager Empress, Mrithuri?”

  Sayeh might not have gotten to see Anuraja dumbstruck, but Mrithuri suspected her own face now made up for it. “I—”

  Her cousin seemed a little giddy. Perhaps she was, after all, feeling the intoxication of relief. Perhaps they both were. “I know, it was a very brief marriage. But still, here we are.”

  Mrithuri waved one hand, heavy with clashing bangles, at the empty seat above and the body slumped below. Ravani, she thought, was coming forward to inspect her dead raja. It was hard to be certain, though. Her eyes would not focus.

  She cried—she tried to cry. It came out a whisper: “You don’t expect me to sit on that thing!”

  Then she fainted.

  24

  Sayeh was not exactly surprised when Mrithuri collapsed into her arms. Nor was she surprised when the Dead Man seemed to step out of nowhere to sling an arm around the rajni … around the Dowager Empress, rather. Sayeh let him take Mrithuri’s weight, and sweep the unconscious woman off her feet. She was a starved-looking bundle of sticks swathed in a universe of embroidered incarnadine, and she seemed to weigh nothing as the wiry swordsman bore her down the steps. Sayeh followed, balancing on her crutch, considerably slower.

  They were met at the bottom of the steps by a huddle of Mrithuri’s and Sayeh’s people. “Get her out of here,” Sayeh said. She waved at the passage that led behind the throne. “Tsering-la, don’t leave her.”

  “Rajni—”

  She glared at him. “I will be fine. Am I not Sayeh Rajni?”

  He didn’t drop his eyes. But he breathed out over a pinched mouth and turned away. She turned her attention to Ravani.

  The sorcerer had rolled Anuraja onto his back. Anuraja’s eyes were open, staring. The blood Sayeh had noticed earlier was a thin trickle from his mouth. It stained his beard, and the stones where his face had lain. Wetness spread over the front of his tunic and trousers, sharply pungent.

  Sayeh cleared her throat. Ravani glanced up, and laid the wrist she had been holding across Anuraja’s chest in a mockery of decorum.

  Sayeh dropped her voice. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

  Ravani, in comparison, raised hers to ring across the hall. “It seemed likely. I’m sure it was his heart, though, and not the throne. Snakebite is not for everyone.”

  The sorcerer shrugged.

  “Didn’t you promise him a healthy heir?”

  “I keep my promises.” Ravani waved at Mrithuri. “If she survives the lack of that poison, she’ll be healthy enough.”

  Sayeh blinked. She remembered watching Anuraja strain on his way up the steps. She remembered how sick the snakebite made Mrithuri—a woman young, and strong, and healthy. “His heart?”

  “Or the throne turning on him,” Ravani said. “Who can really be certain?” She stood and flipped her braid behind her shoulder. Anuraja’s shocked and uncertain men were starting to organize themselves and come forward. “Well, I will be going. Pity you decided not to work with me. You might have a better chance of surviving this if I helped you.”

  She raised her left hand, upon which a heavy silver ring gaudy with diamonds and padparadscha sapphires flashed. With a popping sound like a cupped hand clapped to flesh, she vanished.

  Sayeh put her back to the dais and stood over the dead king, propped on her crutch. Dimly, she was aware of Ümmühan and Nizhvashiti coming up to flank her. Murmuring men came toward her, their faces confused, angry.

  This was the beginning of an ugly ending, she knew. But it was also an event she had prepared for. And more importantly, an event she had prepared them for, never quite knowing what it was she intended. By moving a piece, finding an advantage, where she could. As when feeling out an opponent in chaturanga.

  She raised her voice. She raised the hand that was not bracing her. “Pren!” she called, in her clearest and most queenly tones. “Najal! Are you here? Are you here, my gentlemen?”

  They were. And her calling them by name had the effect she desired. Anuraja’s other men stopped. They looked around. And her guards, now her allies—though they did not know it yet—stepped forward from among the others.

  “Here,” she said, making her voice soft and motherly now. “Here. My friends, we have been abandoned by the treacherous sorcerer. My friends, you must see to our emperor. You must lift him and carry him. He must be cleaned and administered to. We must protect his dignity. Let us bring him to a place of privacy, where this priest can care for him.”

  They stared at her. Anger, confusion. A hand on a sword. More than one. But she was calm, so calm. So certain. “Najal,” she said, once more. In quiet command. “Come and help your emperor again.”

  He blinked. Bit his lip. She thought he would look away. She thought she had lost him.

  He reached out and took the elbow of the man next to him. Stepped forward. Crouched. Placed his hands under Anuraja’s shoulders. The man he had touched stepped forward too. Then the other guard she had named.

  She could see her words spreading among them. Calming them. Leading them. Smoothing over them, like a balm.

  She did not smile, because she dared not smile. But a silent sigh of relief lifted her shoulders just a little, as—walking behind Nizhvashiti—Anuraja’s men bore him away.

  * * *

  Himadra floated in warm water, briefly free of pain, and thought that if he were emperor, he would arrange things so that he never had to leave. He would settle himself in a bath roughly the size of Chandranath itself, and his advisors and chefs could come and see him in rowboats. He’d eventually grow gills and take up a life as an newt, and leave all worldly cares behind.

  It was a beautiful dream.

  It ended, as so many lovely dreams do, with the harsh reality of an echoing voice calling his name.

  He sighed, and opened his eyes, and swung his feet down. They did not touch the sandy bottom. He hung, treading water, gently, and turned in place until he saw Navin standing on the edge of the pool. “I’m afraid you need to come out, Lord Himadra.”

  “I’ll do you the courtesy of assuming this is important,” Himadra said between breaths as he swam over. He eased himself into his lift and waited while the attendant raised him from the water.

  It hurt, leaving the water. But all sorts of things hurt. One did them anyway.

  He accepted a towel, waving to Navin with an impatient spooling motion while the attendant draped him in a soft, warm robe. He hadn’t even had time to wash all the sand from his beard.

  Navin cleared his throat awkwardly. “There’s a man made out of metal here. And an old blind woman. They say they need to talk to you.”

  Himadra paused. Hadn’t a metal man—a Gage, they called them—come through as a caravan guard at the beginning of the rains? The caravan had moved on quickly, because of plague.…

  He said into the towel across his face, “Of course they do.”

  * * *

  And so it was that the lord of Chandranath found himself seated at a table on the lowest level of his palace across from a Gage—who was crouched on the floor, not in a fragile wooden chair—and a woman he was pretty sure was a Wizard of some sort. She had the air.

  The table and chairs had been carried into the entryway because the Gage had insisted it was unwise for him to climb the stairs. Watching his metal feet grit on stone and carpet, Himadra could not much disagree with the Gag
e’s assessment.

  They had, however, both accepted wine. He wondered how the Gage drank it, but it seemed to go somewhere. And the exchange of hospitality made him a little more easy about whatever they had come for.

  When they were settled, and the demands of courtesy satisfied, Himadra folded his hands one inside the other behind his own goblet, and asked, “My strange friends, meaning you no discourtesy, but what is it you seek with the lord of Chandranath?”

  The Gage made an uncomfortable noise. “Your Competence. I hear you keep a sorcerer.”

  Himadra let the rich, flavorful liquor roll over his tongue. This, too, helped the pain—but he did not dare become too reliant on it. “I would not go so far as to say keep. Occasionally harbor.”

  “Is it your doing that he arranged the fall of Ansh-Sahal?”

  Himadra sat back so abruptly that the wine sloshed in his chalice. He found he had put his hand on his beard. He looked from the metal mirror to the silent old woman and back again. “Ravana? He’s barely around enough to—well, he’s barely around. He did go to Ansh-Sahal with me, and there was an earthquake. And just after we left, some kind of explosion.”

  “And you had nothing to do with any catastrophic dealings there?” the Gage asked, sounding far more interested than accusatory.

  “Well.” Himadra felt himself looking faintly embarrassed. “We did kidnap the heir. And his nursemaid. But honestly he really wasn’t safe there. His mother’s position was quite precarious. And I’ve accepted guardianship of the lad.”

  “A pretty piece of self-justification,” the Gage said.

  The old woman silently drank her tea.

  “You don’t think your sorcerer influenced you in these decisions?”

  “He counseled me with regard to them,” Himadra agreed. “But I’ve hardly seen him since, honestly. He comes and goes like a cat. And if I remember correctly, he was against the kidnapping of the boy.”