by Sarah Zettel
Ekkadi smiled to the darkness, curled her hand tight around her remaining ring, and hurried on.
Chapter Eleven
Agnidh Yamuna was receiving petitioners.
Hamsa stood in the threshold of Yamuna’s spartan chamber, watching. Looking a strangely ascetic emperor with his white breechclout and bare head, he sat on his woven mat behind an unadorned table. The court before him was a mismatched and ragtag gathering. Men and women both stood before him. Many had been baked rich brown by the sun. Wind and rain had tanned their skins to leather. Their clothes were simple, even ragged, their hair bundled into braids that were the mark of a sorcerer. Some carried staffs as she did. Some carried no more than begging bowls. The smell of unwashed bodies was strong and sour.
These were the sorcerers of the Pearl Throne. Not Divakesh’s holy sorcerers, these were mendicants and ascetics who walked across Hastinapura. These and hundreds like them were eyes, ears, and hands of the emperor’s bound sorcerer. Every ten days he met with those who had made the trek to the palace. They came to him to deliver news of what they had seen and done, and what they had left undone. Yamuna heard them all with patience and serious demeanor. When he chose to dispense orders, it was with a sentence or two at most. No one questioned him; no one dared. She certainly never had.
The great difference, Hamsa decided, between his court and his master’s above was that Yamuna had no advisor beside him. He could have surrounded himself with a hundred willing and experienced voices, or with a court of sycophants had he so desired, but Yamuna sat alone and issued his rulings without aid, consent, or compromise.
Each witness stepped into the carefully drawn circle which was said to remove falsehood from the tongue. Hamsa had never been certain as to the exact extent of its powers. Knowing Yamuna, he knew there were surely some hidden compulsions within it, but no one was permitted to study it closely, at least no one who spoke with Hamsa.
Hamsa remembered the first day she saw Yamuna. It was also her first day in the palace. The two sorcerers who had brought her weeping from her home to this room flanked her. Yamuna had been sitting in the same pose he held now, and he had looked up at her. Hamsa remembered how small she felt looking into those black eyes. She had never seen a face so devoid of emotion. He had nodded and said, “She is the one.”
And that was the end of it. As she had matured, Yamuna had remained a distant figure. After she was bound to Samudra, she was left to others to be tutored. She saw him frequently, of course. He stayed as close to his master as she did to hers. Because she was the prince’s bound sorcerer, however, she was not directly under Yamuna’s command. This meant she was not required to attend spectacles such as the one before her now, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. Yamuna with his remote, implacable power terrified her. He terrified her because he could lie to his master about the Mothers themselves, and no consequence came of it.
Hamsa could barely conceive of lying to Samudra. The binding ceremony was strong, as it should be. Sorcerers could be corrupted, just as other mortals. It was right that they not be permitted to harm those they were meant to protect.
If only the binding could prevent me from harming him through sheer lack of skill. Hamsa bit her lip.
Yamuna was now hearing from a bone-thin woman who clutched her begging bowl as if it were a charm against the one who sat before her. They were afraid. Every last one of them was afraid of the power and the knowledge of this man.
If any of them even knew her name, not one of them would fear Hamsa. At best, some might pity her. The bitterness of Hamsa’s heart seeped into blood and mind. Why had she been chosen for this life? Why was she not left to her village, to be midwife and healer and have four braids in her hair and a string of lovers who would age and marry and leave her to her solitude and her useful work? Or let her wander between villages with her begging bowl, performing cures and pronouncing the fortunes of newborn children. Anything so long as she could have been free, not tied to a life she could not live.
Samudra was in danger, and he turned to her less and less in his time of trouble and she could not blame him. What skill did she have, what foresight or understanding? In battle, it was his skill and not her workings that kept him safe. Her auguries were as certain as a dice toss, and the palace was no more her home than a stable.
Why had he not been given a sorcerer like Yamuna? Yamuna had been born in the reign of Chandra’s grandfather. He was old, even as sorcerers reckoned their lives, and he understood the heart and soul of the Pearl Throne. He had been bound to three generations of the emperor’s family and each passing year brought him more power, and more jars for that collection of secrets that so enriched him.
Mothers, why do you not let me go? Let a stray arrow find me. Let Samudra have someone who can do him some good.
She rubbed her head. Despair did nothing but breed more despair. That much she did know. She no longer had the luxury of wailing to the heavens about her misfortunes. Not after yesterday evening.
Samudra had spent the long, sultry afternoon on the practice field, wearing himself out against new soldiers and old comrades. He fought with sword and spear and, when his horse at last needed a rest, on foot with fists and knives. No one else seemed to think the prince’s burst of activity strange. The few fair days between the first and second rains were not to be wasted. What Hamsa knew that the others did not was that Samudra had been trying for many days to work his courage and his mind up to some goal. He had not yet told her what it might be. She knew it involved Makul, and that was enough. A clandestine meeting with him could only mean Samudra walked closer than ever to the idea of rebellion. He did not believe she was strong enough to be part of the plotting. Very well. She must accept that, but it did not mean she must remain passive. There were too many threads in the palace for one hand to hold them all.
Hamsa watched as a new petitioner made the salute of trust and walked the straight path that led into the bespelled circle. He was a small man who walked on tough, bare feet and wore a loose blue shawl that looked as if it served as blanket and shelter as well as clothing.
“What is your word?” asked Yamuna. No chamberlain spoke this question for him. No secretary wrote down his rulings. There would be no witness who was not here at this moment and no record for those who came after to learn from.
Perhaps he does not believe any will come after.
“Master Yamuna, I come from the city of Nadeen. There I told the sorcerer at the palace I was your representative, but I was still made to wait a full day before Master Avreshin and his people would see me.”
“You spoke in my name?”
“I did, Master.”
“Vasna.” Yamuna spoke the name mildly, and a woman who the years had made grey gave the salute of trust. “You walk next to Nadeen?”
“I do, Master.” Even if she had not been going that way before, she surely would now.
“You will tell Avreshin that he is summoned to me, and we will learn what he has done to inspire such a bold attempt.”
The whole gathering bowed at that, and over their bent backs, Yamuna looked directly at Hamsa. She flinched, but managed not to look away. She knew he had seen her fear, but nonetheless it gave her some small comfort.
She expected one of two things. Either he would turn back to his business or he would summon her to the circle. She was ready for either. But instead, he regarded his assemblage once more and said, “That is all for this time.”
Without any hesitation or question the sorcerers knelt to make their parting obeisance. They left in twos and threes, saying little. Most chose to depart separately. Everyone knew Yamuna watched who left with whom, and association could later become dangerous.
Hamsa felt obscurely reassured to see all the varied shades of fear displayed by her compatriots who walked the roads. It made her feel less of a coward.
When the chamber was cleared, Yamuna beckoned her forward, and she came. She gave the salute of trust. As she did, she not
ed without surprise that the wheel that had worked so powerfully on the assembled sorcerers had already vanished from the place where it had been drawn.
“How does our prince?” Yamuna did not invite her to sit, and she made no move to do so.
“He is upset about the destruction in the north.” Which was true, as far as it went.
Yamuna tilted his head to the side, feigning regret. “If he had carried out his orders instead of playing at making treaties, he would not now know this disappointment.”
Hamsa made herself meet his gaze and hold it. She did not tremble and that too was a small victory. “As ever, Yamuna, your words are wise and full of piety.”
Yamuna’s bright eyes narrowed. “Why have you come here, Hamsa? You have never done so before.”
“Because my prince is in need.”
Yamuna nodded and for a brief, bright moment, Hamsa thought he might understand. “The good of Hastinapura is what consumes us all.”
“Consumes.” It took all of Hamsa’s strength to stand where she was, to keep her hands loose around her staff, lest Yamuna see her white knuckles. “It is an interesting word. It means so many things.”
For a long moment Yamuna did not answer. When he did, his voice was mild. “Do you talk to me of rhetoric now, Hamsa?”
“Would such as I speak of matters of diplomacy to such as you? Never.” He will see. He will know there is another reason. He will know I want to be close to him for what is to come. My prince has not thought about Yamuna and how many ways he might disrupt a rebellion.
Or support one.
“Sometimes it concerns me that you do not clearly understand these things.” Yamuna leaned back a little. It was as relaxed as she had ever seen him.
“I know my place.”
“No, you do not,” Yamuna answered flatly. “You never have.”
Anger, weak but palpable, flared in her and gave her boldness to speak words she had not carefully considered. “Do you now instruct me?”
“I have undertaken to instruct you many times, but you seem to care nothing for such lessons.”
“When the student does not learn, is it the fault of the student or the teacher?”
Silence fell, thick and deep, so that Hamsa was sure Yamuna heard her heart thunder in her chest. Its beating threatened to shake her apart. She was a fool, she should not be here, she should have stayed in the small domain and tried to speak to Queen Bandhura.
At last, Yamuna nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you and your master require more direct lessons.”
The mention of Samudra touched her and she found the piece of lion inside that was true and would not fail, even if her skills deserted her. “Do you threaten my master now, Yamuna?” He knows. Oh, Mother of Mercy, he knows.
Yamuna leaned forward and she looked into his eyes, and she saw … nothing. There was no reflection, no human expression. There were only dark holes that dragged at her spirit and threatened to swallow her whole. “Do you believe you could stop me from doing anything I wish, Hamsa? Do you truly believe you have the power?”
Hamsa licked her lips. Her mouth was dry. Her knees were ready to buckle. “I have no illusions of my power.”
“Neither have I, Hamsa. Do not forget, I am the one who augured your place here. I know who and what you are. Your dance holds no surprises for me.”
Breathe. Loosen your hands. You must stand here. You came, you must finish your errand. You must do that much. “My skills, or the lack of them, are not what I came to discuss.”
“What is it then?” Yamuna folded his hands, at complete repose, ready to hear and consider anything she said.
Speak the truth. It is what you came to do. “You know so much of me, you know I do not play the palace games. This may be weakness, but there it is.” She gripped her staff tightly, her pretense at strength beginning to crack. “I do, however, know that there is no love lost between you and the high priest.”
This drew a small, thin smile from Yamuna. “There are very few whom I love, Hamsa.”
“So why do you support his lies to the emperor?”
Fire sparked deep within Yamuna’s dark eyes. “Ah, you noticed that. Very observant of you.” He pursed his lips. “It is strange, is it not? Our high priest wants nothing so much in this life as to look upon the true face of the Queen of Heaven, and yet he doesn’t know her when she does come.”
“But it was not Divakesh she came for,” said Hamsa, refusing to be distracted. “You claim you want to teach me. Here I am for my lesson.” She gestured broadly, surprised to find that both hand and voice had steadied. “Why allow the emperor of Hastinapura to remain ignorant of a summons from the Queen of Heaven herself?”
Yamuna pressed one finger to his lips, considering. “And if it pleases me to tell you, what will you do?”
“Wonder if you might have found … a different way to serve the Throne, if not the man who holds it,” she added with a bow.
His mouth curled into another of his thin smiles. “A reasonable reaction, Hamsa. Why would a mere bound sorcerer play a game against gods and emperors?”
“Especially when his power is dependent upon theirs.”
Without warning, Yamuna sprang. Hamsa saw only a blur of motion, and knew only that her staff had been snatched from her hand and that she was now on her knees. She felt the press of wood against her neck. Yamuna stood over her, bearing down on her with her own staff. “I am dependent on no one! No one!” he cried. “The emperor rules by my power, and mine alone! It is by my doing that he has no rival, that he has a wife who rules the small domain at her pleasure! The high priest stands by my whim only. The Mothers themselves stand only because I have not yet chosen to stretch my hand out to Heaven, but that will come in its time. Do not forget that, little Hamsa. Do not forget it for one moment.”
“No.” Hamsa gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. She dared make no other movement. “I will not forget.”
The staff lifted from her neck as Yamuna stepped away. Hamsa dared to look up and she saw his eyes softened with a terrible benevolence. “Be glad of your weakness, Hamsa. It keeps you and your master alive.”
She stayed kneeling. She was not sure she could stand. Her blood now seemed like dust in her veins.
“Not yet.” He bent down close. “First you will listen to me and you will listen with care. I want one thing from you, Hamsa, and one thing only. It should be easy for you. You will assist your master in all things. He is doing exactly as he should, and I would have him continue. You will support him in every way possible, and you will remember that my eye is on you. If I see you try to dissuade him from his chosen course, I myself will level your doom. Do you hear me, little one? Do you understand?”
“Why are you doing this? I came here …”
“I did not ask that. I asked do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Yamuna held out her staff and she accepted it, laying it down and then pressing her forehead to the floor. Then, hearing him return to his seat, she dared to stand, dared to turn, and made herself walk away.
She walked down the corridor and down the stairs, back to the women’s quarters, back to her own rooms. She found the way by instinct, rather than by conscious thought. Her servants fussed as she entered the room, but she waved them both away. Alone, she knelt before the small shrine where Mother Jalaja and Mother Daya, the Queen of Earth, danced. It was only then, under the protective gaze of the goddesses, that her mind seemed willing to dare thought again.
Yamuna was mad. That was what three hundred years of service had done. It had driven reason from his mind and replaced it with the illusion of power so great he thought he could topple the Mothers themselves.
But was his measure of his own power only illusion? The blasphemous thought made Hamsa tremble, but she could not escape it. No one knew how great Yamuna’s workings were, or how many secrets he hoarded in his jars and boxes. And what he had said was true. The emperor had no rival. Samudra ha
d always been too loyal, too honorable to take that role. Bandhura did rule the small domain, even though Queen Prishi still lived. And the Mothers had chosen Divakesh.
Hamsa remembered when the old high priest had died. He had been a mild man much given to study and to prayer, and seldom seen outside the temple confines. This had suited Chandra and Samudra’s father well. When his ashes had been given to the sacred river, the other priests had lit the great fire in the inner temple. Only the imperial family and the bound sorcerers had been in attendance. Hamsa had knelt behind the boy Samudra while his mother tried to keep him from fidgeting. There, the priests had begun to dance. It was a great dance, leaping and whirling, stooping to kiss the floor before each of the Mothers and leaping up again to turn and throw up their arms in praise of the creation, in wonder and delight at the gifts of Heaven that the Mothers showered on them all.
They danced until their feet bled. They danced until they began to falter. They danced until they fell. The last one who remained standing before the mothers, perfect in body and devotion, would become the high priest. None had been surprised that it was Divakesh, who was so strong and so sure of himself that even as the last rival fell beside him, utterly spent, he had not missed a beat but only stepped over the man’s fainting form to stand before Mother Jalaja and meet her gaze.
She thought there was nothing but pure love and devotion that could make such a display.
But what if there was something else? Hamsa straightened up. Magic could sustain strength. A spell, properly worked, could give an exhausted man the extra breath and will to carry on with his task.
Could Yamuna, who thought himself such a maker of kings, have perverted the ritual by which the high priest was chosen?
Then, slowly, another cold thought stole into her mind.
If he dared subvert so holy a rite, what else has he done?
Hamsa bit her lip. She needed to know what Yamuna had done, to Samudra, to the emperor. He would never tell her. She would have to try to take what she needed from the past itself.