by J. S. Bangs
He stood, stretched for a moment, then touched the tops of Kirshta’s and Vapathi’s heads. “See you soon.”
He disappeared through the curtain and left Kirshta and Vapathi alone.
Vapathi leaned over and kissed Kirshta on the cheek. “Apurta tells good stories,” she said.
“Glad to hear that,” Kirshta said. “He always thought I told good stories or at least was more interesting than the average soldier.”
“Yes,” Vapathi said with a mocking lilt, “but I’ve already heard all of your stories.”
“You should have plenty of time with him, then. I might have to bring him with me when I start examining the soldiers of the Dhigvaditya, though.”
Vapathi scowled. “If you must. I should go get our dinner ready.”
Kirshta pulled at her arm. “You know, Vapathi,” he said, “we could choose to tell the Emperor that you’re my sister. You wouldn’t have to pretend at being my servant. You could get a room of your own—”
“No,” Vapathi said with vehemence. “I don’t want Praudhu-daridarya to know who I am.”
They had discussed this topic before, and Kirshta knew better than to push the subject. And Vapathi was probably right. Bringing her to Praudhu’s attention would only complicate things. “Well, whenever you or Apurta want to rest, you can come here.”
Vapathi pressed her hand against Kirshta’s chest and kissed him on the cheek again. Her finger touched the jagged scar where his ear had been sliced in half. “We know, Kirshta.”
She slipped out of the room with an impish smile, leaving Kirshta alone in his chamber. He glanced over the disheveled reed mat, the blanket which Vapathi and Apurta had left shoved into a corner, and the stacks of books which he had been examining earlier.
The books.
He sat down next to them. WHY TERNAS stared at him from the top of the slate.
“Why Ternas?” he muttered to himself again. He would have to read every book to find out.
He couldn’t wait.
Mandhi
Jhumitu mewled and protested as Mandhi handed him to the saghada. The man unwrapped the babe from his swaddling, and the cool air breathed across his naked form. A whine of protest. Around her Mandhi saw smiles on the faces of the other participants in the rite. Aryaji’s aunt Kidri put her hand on Mandhi’s shoulder.
A throb of loneliness passed through her.
“The chosen of Ulaur is pure as silver which has passed through the fire,” the saghada Nakhur intoned in the saghada dialect, lifting the squealing Jhumitu in his hands and bringing him to the basin of pure water. “The chosen of Ulaur is holy as the spotless ram. The chosen of Ulaur is clean as the rain which the amashi loose from the heavens.”
The people of Davrakhanda were kind—excessively kind, Mandhi thought—but they were not the men who should have accompanied her to the purification of Jhumitu. She wanted her father Cauratha, but he was dead. She wanted her husband Taleg, but he was dead.
My love, see your son. My father, see your grandson. She tried not to weep.
“Speak the name of the chosen of Ulaur,” Nakhur said.
“Manjur Jhuma,” Mandhi responded. Her grandfather’s name. The custom was to name the firstborn child after the father’s grandfather, but Mandhi did not know who Taleg’s grandfather was. And Taleg was gone.
“Jhuma is chosen of Ulaur,” the people repeated after Mandhi. “He is pure, he is holy, he is clean.”
The second saghada in the rite took a little cup of milk and poured it into the water, followed by a bit of the ram’s blood preserved from the sacrifice that morning. He muttered a blessing below Mandhi’s hearing, then cupped the mixed water, milk, and blood and poured it over Jhumitu’s head.
A howl of protest erupted from the baby’s mouth, his little red lips split in a squeal, his tongue curled up like a rose petal. He was so beautiful. Drops of water shone on his pale brown skin like sapphires.
“You who are clean, become clean,” Nakhur chanted. The second saghada cupped his hands in the water and poured it over Jhumitu’s chest. The baby’s crying grew louder. “You who are holy, become holy,” Nakhur repeated. The second washed Jhumitu’s legs and feet. “You who are pure, become pure.”
Mandhi stepped forward holding the clean white pansha for Jhumitu, the first item of clothing he would own for himself. She received Jhumitu from the saghada and wrapped him in the gauzy linen, wiping away the beads of water which gleamed in his hair. She kissed his forehead.
Her hands were the color of strong tea, and his skin was like tea mingled with milk. The milk of Taleg’s blood. Oh, my love, if you could see your son—
But he was gone.
Nakhur came forward with a little of the sacred milk and blood and placed a drop of it on Jhumitu’s lips. “The promise of Ulaur is to the pure,” he said. “The power which overthrew the serpent is on your lips, it blesses your tongue, it cleanses your belly, it strengthens your limbs, it purifies your inward parts. The promise of Ulaur is to Manjur and his descendants forever.”
There was a noise at the back of the chamber. Voices clamored. Someone shouted, “You should leave.” A response echoed in low, murmuring tones.
Nakhur glanced toward the commotion, a look of confusion on his face. But no more words were heard. Mandhi hugged Jhumitu closer to her chest. Whoever had made the disturbance, at least they had stopped. Nakhur came to himself a heartbeat later. He touched Jhumitu’s forehead and said, “As you are cleansed with clean water and the offering which is holy to Ulaur, so the words of your mouth are clean.”
Now came the prayer, the prayer which every Uluriya child learned from heart from the youngest age. She should rejoice, but her heart was heavy. Taleg should be here to hold the child with her. Rather than crying in her arms like a drop of milk in dark tea, he should be in Taleg’s arms, a brown leaf in Taleg’s arms of pink marble.
“I bow—” she began.
Her voice cracked. Her eyes stung, and she blinked away tears. A deep breath. She began again, speaking softly into Jhumitu’s ears.
“I bow my head to Ulaur, the light unborn, the word unspoken, the fire of ages, who overthrew the serpent, who drives off the unclean powers, who keeps Manjur and his children in purity and the good.”
She remembered little from the rest of the ceremony. The saghada uttered prayers, the other Uluriya in attendance pressed around her, and Jhumitu was subjected to innumerable kisses and coos as he was passed around the circle of the pure. Finally Nakhur sprinkled him for the last time with the sacred water, the other saghada fell silent, and Jhumitu settled into a comfortable doze against Mandhi’s breast.
Someone’s hand touched her shoulder. “Mandhi,” a man said. The saghada Nakhur, Aryaji’s uncle and guardian. “They demand to speak to you. They insist—”
“Who?”
Nakhur blanched. He looked away as if ashamed, then said, “The Kaleksha. They say they know, or they were one of…”
“I understand,” Mandhi said.
There was no need for him to be so reluctant to mention Taleg. But the Uluriya of Davrakhanda were vexed by the fact that Jhumitu’s father was Kaleksha, even if he had converted to the worship of Ulaur, and they handled their discomfort by refusing to mention it. Only Aryaji seemed to have acquiesced to the idea, perhaps because she was young, or perhaps because she served Mandhi every day and so had heard all of Mandhi’s stories about Taleg.
And where was Aryaji? Mandhi glanced around and spotted her maid whispering to a girl her age. “Go get Aryaji, if you will,” she said to him. “And then come with me to the Kaleksha.”
Nakhur stared at Mandhi in consternation. He pulled Aryaji away from her friend, then charged ahead of them to the entrance to the chamber.
“What is this about?” Aryaji asked, touching Mandhi’s elbow.
“Some Kaleksha men. Taleg’s relatives, I assume.”
Aryaji’s eyes grew wide. She had been present when Mandhi ventured into the Kaleksha quarter and met
with Taleg’s brother, but they had heard nothing from the Kaleksha of Davrakhanda since then. Mandhi suspected that Aryaji would have kept it that way. But the girl said nothing except to squeeze Mandhi’s arm a little more tightly.
Just outside the entrance of the bhilami, two barrel-chested, pale-skinned men crouched on the ground, shading their eyes from the noon sun under Nakhur’s watchful glare. As soon as they saw Mandhi they leaped to their feet, and a squall of furious speech erupted from their mouths. Nakhur shouted at them to be quiet, and the scene threatened to erupt into chaos. Two more Uluriya men stepped out of the bhilami and took up positions on either side of Mandhi and Aryaji. The shouting between the Kaleksha and the Uluriya died down a moment later, and one of the Kaleksha spoke in urgent anger.
“We should have been allowed in. We needed—”
“You can’t come in,” Nakhur insisted. “Only Uluriya may enter the bhilami.”
“No!” the man pointed to Jhumitu. He had a heavy Kaleksha accent, twisting the vowels and blunting the consonants the way the Kaleksha did. “That is my nephew’s son. If you are going to give him to your Power you must at least let us in to see.”
The men guarding Mandhi and Aryaji began to shout again, but Mandhi asked calmly, “Where is Kest?”
No one answered for a moment. Mandhi went on, “Last time I spoke to a Kaleksha, I spoke to Taleg’s brother Kest. But he isn’t here now. Where is he?”
“Resting,” the man said. “He fell ill on the voyage from Kalignas.”
“I see,” Mandhi said. “And who are you?”
“I am Adleg. Taleg was my sister’s son. And this is Glanod.” He gestured to the man leaning on the wall behind them, who hadn’t said a word.
“Very well, you are Taleg’s uncle,” Mandhi said. “But you are not Uluriya, and those who aren’t properly purified cannot enter the bhilami.”
The man scowled at Mandhi. “The child belongs to us!”
Mandhi hugged Jhumitu closer to her chest. “The child belongs to me.”
“Taleg was of os Dramab, and his son belongs to os Dramab,” the man said, gesturing wildly. His eyes were wide, and his face was growing red from shouting. “He belongs to his father’s family, not some wench he laid with—”
“I was his wife,” Mandhi said with a hiss. The man stepped back, surprised by the anger in her voice. “Perhaps you barbarians don’t distinguish between wives and whores, but we do.”
“May I speak?” the other Kaleksha man said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Adleg’s shoulder. Adleg tensed. He looked at his partner, then bowed his head and stepped back.
The other man was taller, with obsidian black hair and a fine, dense beard, combed and oiled, unlike Adleg’s unruly red mane. He spoke with a calm, sure voice, keeping his hands folded over his belly. “I am Glanod os Dramab. You and Taleg were married?”
“We were married by the saghada Ghauna of Virnas, according to the laws of Ghuptashya,” Mandhi said haughtily.
“And Taleg had submitted to the laws of your cult?”
“He adhered to the worship of Ulaur.”
“And are there others who will attest to that?”
“Here in Davrakhanda? Perhaps not—we seldom came here—”
“Because Taleg was ashamed to be seen again by the clan which he abandoned,” Adleg cut in. Glanod gestured for Adleg to keep quiet.
Mandhi shot Adleg a glare. “In Virnas he was well-known. You could ask any of dozens if they remember the Kaleksha man who was Uluriya.”
Glanod took a deep breath. “So we heard from Kest. But we were not sure. Perhaps there was a mistake.”
“The mistake was when he followed a woman away from his forefathers,” Adleg muttered.
“And you say he died?” Glanod asked.
Mandhi adjusted her grip on Jhumitu and nuzzled him close enough that his breath warmed her belly. A throb of pain passed through her. “He died. I held his hand on the streets of Majasravi while he bled out.”
Glanod bowed his head. He spoke in a low, serious tone that seemed to quaver at the edge of tears. “Kest brought this news to us. He met us at the last of the outer islands to bring the message. The os Dramab paid passage for me and Adleg to come here and find out for sure, and to properly lay his bones to rest. Do you know where he is buried?”
“In Majasravi,” Mandhi said. “He was burned according to our custom, and his bones were laid with the Uluriya in the bhilami there.”
“Majasravi,” the man said with consternation. “Very far from here.”
“And you will not disturb his bones.” Then she added, more gently, “I beg of you. Don’t try.”
Glanod shook his head and looked at Adleg. “We wouldn’t remove him from where he lay. But we will give him the honors of our clan, if you will allow us.”
“Allow you?” Mandhi glanced from Glanod to Adleg with confusion. “I don’t believe I can stop you….”
“But we beg for Jhumitu’s presence.”
“Ah.”
“The custom,” Glanod said, spreading his hands and lowering his voice, “is for a man’s son to burn an offering in his memory, if he has one. Jhumitu cannot burn anything yet—”
“Nor would I let him.” Mandhi cut in. “The Uluriya do not give their dhaur to the faithless powers.”
Glanod hesitated. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by dhaur in Amuran. But Kest will make the offering. We only ask that Jhumitu be present.”
“And Kest is here in Davrakhanda?”
Glanod nodded. “He sailed back with us but fell ill in the last portion of the voyage. When he recovers, we’ll perform the memorial. I know Kest was eager to see you again.”
A strange longing passed through her. Taleg was gone, but here was a final thread which bound her to him. A family she had never known. Not Uluriya, and not friends. But still Taleg’s blood.
“When do you plan to perform this memorial?” she asked quietly.
Glanod shrugged. “Kest should recover soon, but there are other preparations which must be done. It could be a month.”
“Then I will come,” Mandhi said. Aryaji squeezed her arm and drew closer in alarm. “Neither I nor Jhumitu will participate in any way which goes beyond the bounds of the law of Ghuptashya. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Glanod said. Adleg snarled where he crouched.
“Good,” Mandhi said. “Send a message to the palace at Davrakhanda when you know the day the offering will be burned.”
A light of surprise passed over Glanod’s face. Did they not know that she stayed in the palace at Sadja’s call? Adleg glanced from Glanod to Mandhi rapidly, chewing on the corner of one of his nails.
“We’ll send the message,” Glanod said. “Thank you.”
He bowed a little awkwardly, unused to bowing in the Amuran style. Adleg nodded, then rose and followed Glanod away. He glanced over his shoulder at Mandhi and the other Uluriya, grimaced, and shook his head.
“I don’t think you should go, Mandhi,” Aryaji said, as soon as they were out of earshot.
“That’s the same thing you said the first time we went to the Kaleksha district and met with Kest,” Mandhi said. “And I’m glad I went.”
“Yes, but… their shrine? Do you know what they’re going to do?”
“No idea,” Mandhi said, turning to reenter the bhilami. “But they’re my husband’s family. If your husband died far from his brothers and fathers, wouldn’t you want to bring them the news? Let them bury him and pay him their honors?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t marry a Kaleksha,” Aryaji said. “And I won’t go to the Kaleksha shrine.”
“You won’t?”
“No,” Aryaji said definitively.
“I agree,” said Nakhur. He stepped in front of Mandhi in the antechamber of the main hall of the bhilami. The smell of incense and milk breathed out from the inner hall, where the dark shapes of the Uluriya of Davrakhanda moved. “My niece will not go to any unclean shrine. I cann
ot forbid you, Mandhi, but if you go you go alone.”
Mandhi dropped her head. “So you say.”
“And I will urge Sadja to prevent you from going.”
She sighed heavily. Best pretend she was listening to them. “Then perhaps I won’t go.”
Jhumitu began to squirm in Mandhi’s arms, and he let out a little cry. “He probably needs to nurse,” Mandhi said. “I’ll find a place.”
And while she was nursing she would find a way to meet Taleg’s family whether Aryaji and Nakhur approved or not.
Navran
Veshta was waiting beside his courtyard pool when Navran and Dastha emerged from the ablution chamber. Habdana ran ahead of him shouting for Josi, while Veshta rose with alacrity from his rattan chair and bowed deeply to Navran.
“Here, sit down,” he said, offering the chair to Navran. Dastha took up his position beside the chair, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, one foot on the lip of the pool. Navran lowered himself into the creaking chair and accepted a cup of tea from Habdana’s hand.
“Navran-dar, my lord and king,” Veshta said, looking at the chair across from Navran with a little nervousness. He sat down after a moment of hesitation, as if he was unsure that it was safe to do so. “I was surprised at your insistence to come see me at my home.”
“This isn’t public,” Navran said. “I’m here for you.”
“For me, personally?” Veshta asked, a shadow of fear passing across his face.
“I have to ask you. About Josi.”
Veshta’s face tightened for a moment, his lower lip caught in his teeth, his brows hooding his eyes. He looked for a moment at the surface of the pool sparkling with the sunlight overhead. “Ah.”
“She said I should. It took me too long.”
Veshta breathed deeply. “I don’t know if it took you too long. Amashi would have preferred, I think, if you never spoke about her at all.”
Navran shook his head. “Not possible. She is my Purse. But she avoids me. I cannot run the kingdom this way.”