Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  Hamsa had a second chamber, curtained off from her living quarters. A sorceress needed a workroom. Hers was spare. The low tables were clean. The chests were plain and unlocked. She had no great trove, like Yamuna. She had not had time or leisure to craft lasting tools for her own use.

  Time, leisure, or skill. She knelt in front of one of her plain chests. Inside were lengths of cloth and rolls of brightly colored ribbons. She selected a red ribbon, a blue one, and one that was pure white. She filled a simple clay bowl with water from the ewer in her sleeping chamber and brought it back to set before her shrine.

  She knelt, and took several deep breaths to calm herself and focus her mind. Then, she picked up the ribbons and laid them across her palm. Carefully, tentatively, for it had been a long time, she reached both within herself and without, to draw the magic down, to draw it up, to bring it to her, to shape and to bind.

  She knotted the three ribbons together and swiftly began to braid them with a delicate touch. They could not be too tight or the vision would not pass between them. She breathed over the braid she formed, letting it trap the exhalation, the words, the wish she formed.

  Show me the workings of Yamuna. Show me what he has done that touches upon the prince, Samudra. Show me.

  Show me.

  Gently she looped the braid around the clay bowl. Earth, air, water, future, past, she tied the ends of the braid together to bind them all.

  Show me.

  Show me.

  Hamsa gazed into the bowl, seeing the flicker of the rain-filtered light in the pure, clear water. Water compassed the world. Water always was and always would be. Water fell from Heaven and welled up from Earth. Nothing could be hidden from water.

  Show me.

  Hamsa gazed deeply, focusing her mind and her power. She breathed, full and deep. She looked at the clear water and felt the thrum of her power, and she saw …

  Nothing.

  Hamsa blinked. She looked again, and she saw … nothing. Nothing at all. She held herself, her mind open wide. She focused her breath, stilled all thought. There was only the working, the weaving. She felt the magic pulse in her blood and her sinews. It was all. There was nothing else.

  There was nothing. Nothing at all.

  Hamsa’s concentration wavered, and then it shattered, and there was nothing in front of her but a braid of ribbon and a clay bowl of water.

  Slowly, Hamsa stood. Her legs were perfectly steady. Like a woman in a dream, she walked from her chamber into Samudra’s. The prince had a private terrace, open to the sky and the rains. She pushed back the doors and walked out onto the terrace. The rains drenched her at once. Their roar filled her ears. There in the rain, Hamsa buried her face in her hands and wept, loudly, fully. No one would hear. No one would listen to her.

  Why me! She lifted her face to Heaven, letting the rain mix with her tears. Mother Jalaja, do you care so little for your son that you must send him a sorcerer without power? You who oversee all the work that we do, why can you not tell me what my purpose is!

  Rain filled her eyes, nose, and mouth, until Hamsa coughed and realized she could drown. I should drown. I should throw myself from the cliffs.

  But she could not. Cowardice or pathetic courage, she did not know which it was that took her back indoors. Her woman clucked and fussed and dried her off. Hamsa suffered her ministrations in silence. Then, when she was dressed and dry, she stretched out on her bed. She stared at the remains of her spell on the floor. The world was drifting away. She could not move. She closed her eyes and let exhaustion take her.

  Hamsa dreamed.

  She dreamed she walked through her home village, past the low hovels on paths of packed dirt. The cows looked up at her, swishing their tails. Goats bleated. But there were no people. She was the only human being. The rest were monkeys.

  Monkeys quarreled on the roofs of the houses. Monkeys groomed each other in the doorways. Monkeys chittered in the trees, eating fruits and nuts, and dropping the rinds down to the dirt with soft smacks.

  Hamsa stared at all this, her feet walking without her mind giving them any direction. The monkeys who looked up at her with their wrinkled faces and black, beady eyes did not scamper away. They screeched at her, as if to say, “What are you doing here? This place is ours!”

  She found herself at the temple, the one building of stone in the village. She mounted the steps, certain she must pray for understanding. But when she mounted the steps, she saw that the image of Mother Harsha, the Queen of Increase, to whom the village was dedicated, was not there. Instead there was a gnarled wooden throne, and on it sat a great monkey, a black creature with a white beard and bright, terrible eyes.

  The monkey drew back his lips, exposing his teeth in a horrible, yellow grin. “So, you come here. You think to come back you will find the way forward?”

  “I … don’t know,” stammered Hamsa.

  “Don’t know! Don’t know! Don’t want to know! Don’t believe!”

  “I do believe!”

  “But what? Eh?” The monkey stretched out his long arms, the black hair bristling. “This is what you believe! Belief in emptiness and chattering! Belief that Hamsa is alone, all alone!” He threw back his head and laughed, a high, shrieking noise that pierced her ears like arrows.

  Hamsa wavered. She wanted to kneel, but something told her it was important she remain standing. “Where do I go?” she whispered.

  She did not think the monkey could have possibly heard her, and yet it did and the shrieks of laughter fell away. The creature leaned forward, its wrinkled hands grasping the arms of the throne. “It is not for you, the middle way, little sorceress. You have lost that chance. If you wish to truly be able to aid your prince, it is only the last sacrifice that will bring the blessing you need.”

  Lost?

  “Lost!” The monkey leapt to his feet. “Lost! Lost! All lost!” He jumped up and down, thumping against the wooden throne. “Lost in tears and in wailing. Lost in the helplessness you believe in so deeply.”

  Hamsa bowed her head before his anger. “It is too late then.”

  “Eaaagh!” screamed the monkey. “You do not listen!” He pounded the arms of the throne with his black fists. “She listens only to the blackness in her head. Who put that blackness there?” The monkey swung down from its high seat and scampered up to her, leaning down, putting its leathery, bearded face so close to hers she could see nothing else. “Who doused the sacred fire inside you, Agnidh? Hmmm?”

  “I don’t …”

  But that was not right either. The monkey swung away, throwing himself back onto the throne. “Take this one away! If she will not hear, what is the good of speaking!”

  All at once, Hamsa was surrounded by a throng of monkeys, black, brown, white, crawling with lice and fleas, all screeching, jabbering, hooting. They lunged at her, grabbing her, pinching her. They pulled her hair and laughed as she screamed. The weight of their bodies toppled her to the floor, and all she could do was scream and scream and scream …

  Screaming, she woke. She pushed herself upright, panting. She was sweating, her heart pounded, and her throat was raw. Her room was dark except for the light of a single wick burning in the oil lamp that hung overhead. All around, she could hear the rush of the rains, but in her mind she heard the echo of the monkeys laughing and screaming in her dream.

  And of their great king speaking to her. You do not listen! She listens only to the blackness in her head. Who put that blackness there?

  Still gasping for air, Hamsa rose. She lit a second lamp and with trembling steps she walked back to her workroom. There were the bowl and the brightly colored braid as she had left them before the shrine of the Mothers. Hamsa knelt. She set down the lamp. Its light flickered, turning the clear water golden. She touched the braid, tracing it with her fingers.

  Lost. Lost in the helplessness you believe in so deeply.

  Hamsa swallowed the voice of nightmare, and drew her magic up. She drew it down from the air, out from
the rain, and up from the earth. She touched the braid, reweaving it in her mind, breathing out the voice, the omen of the dream that still filled her head and trembled in her soul.

  What has he done to me? What has he done to me?

  There was nothing. Nothing but the reflection of gold light on water. There never would be anything else for her.

  Hamsa gritted her teeth. No! I will not be made blind to myself. I will see! I will! She reached, stretching mind and soul until she felt they would break.

  On the water, the light stretched out, becoming a net of threads, like a spider’s fallen web. The shining threads wove together, binding to become colors, to become images. And Hamsa saw.

  She saw Yamuna alone in his chamber, surrounded by his vessels of secrets and of power. He sat cross-legged on the floor, one simple red clay jar open before him. His eyes were closed and his skin was slick with sweat. His lips moved, shaping and reshaping words she could not hear.

  Through the wall flew the shape of a bird, a great brown vulture with a thick, curved beak in which was held the shape of a child. The vulture landed before Yamuna, and carefully it set the child down. Neither vulture nor child cast any shadow. These were not flesh. These were shadows, essences. The vulture bowed his great head and faded away like smoke, leaving the child shape alone before the sorcerer.

  The child was a thin girl in country clothes, and Hamsa knew her at once. She could not look on her own self, her own spirit, and not know her.

  Slowly, as if it gave him great pain, Yamuna opened his eyes. He looked on the shape of the girl, and smiled. He said something else. The child Hamsa had been made obeisance to the sorcerer, turned, knelt, and crawled into the jar.

  Quickly, Yamuna’s hand reached out and slapped on the lid. His clever fingers molded a ring of red wax around it, sealing it tight.

  “NO!” screamed Hamsa, and spell and vision shattered and she was in her own darkened workroom again. She turned away from the gazing bowl and was abruptly and violently sick.

  “Agnidh …?” Her sleep-tousled serving woman stumbled into the room and saw. “Oh!”

  She helped Hamsa to her bed, brought her water to wash, a fresh breastband to cover herself, and wine to drink.

  So that was what Yamuna had done. He had not moved against Samudra, but against her. He had taken part of her soul, divided her spirit like that of mortal woman, and trapped part of her in that jar so she could never be whole. Without that wholeness of spirit that unique to sorcerers, she could not feel the invisible powers, could not be fully rooted in the world to fully affect it with the shaping of wish and will.

  Why was she so weak? She had been made weak, years ago. Why could she do nothing? Because she was bound and prevented.

  Hamsa swallowed. She was trembling. She clasped the goblet of wine her woman had brought. She drank again, trying to steady herself.

  So. Now I know. I know what I should have known before. But what do Ido?

  Mother of Mercy, what can I do?

  All the night, Hamsa sat in the darkness and listened to the rain, and tried to think, but the only thing that came into her mind was the words of her dream.

  …. it is only the last sacrifice that will bring the blessing you need.

  Only the last sacrifice. But when should that sacrifice be made? And how?

  But there were no answers to that question, or at least none Hamsa was permitted to know.

  While Hamsa slept, Yamuna sat before the image of Hamsa and smiled at the words he had just heard. “Poor little Hamsa. You do try so hard, but now you know you can never stand against me. Your strength was mine as soon as I knew your name.”

  He gestured, and Hamsa’s shadow made its obeisance to him. But then it looked up at him for a moment with its intense, dark eyes, and he saw a spark in them, a spark that was so very like the spark of life and power that came to a sorcerer before he made a working. It gave him pause. Then and only then did the shadow fade from his sight.

  It was only after a long and careful examination of the wards and seals that Yamuna was able to put the soul jar back on its shelf and walk away.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the Land of Death and Spirit, a small man in saffron robes waited on the oceans shore. The waves surged in and rolled out uninterrupted, filling the air with their rumble and roar.

  Presently, on the dunes that rose behind the man, two red-brown ears pricked up from behind the thin sea grasses, and then a black nose thrust itself into the open, clearing a small space for one bright green eye to peer down.

  Nothing else happened for a long time. Satisfied, the fox who owned ears, nose, and eye trotted down the dunes. She came up to the man, who did not glance down to acknowledge her, and sat on her haunches beside him, staring out at the restless, green waters.

  “She will not come, you know,” said the fox after a time.

  The man said nothing.

  “She holds you in greater contempt than even myself. I am a danger, but you are an upstart.”

  The man said nothing.

  The fox scratched her chin vigorously for a moment. “She may send a great wave to wash you from her beach. Or a flight of demons, if she’s very angry. I’ve seen her do such things. It would not be pleasant, and it would last a very long time.”

  Still the man held his silence, his gaze never shifting from the green ocean waves. His hand held loosely to his stick and he did not move.

  “Mmmm … I see. She’s already done that. You wear it well.” She looked out over the ocean for a time. “She might just decide to truly ignore you. You could be standing here for a thousand years, to no end at all.”

  The fox swished her tail back and forth, scattering small flurries of sand. “Do you know, I think I like you, man. I find I wish you luck.”

  The fox left him then. It was only when she was gone that a small smile appeared on the mans face.

  He continued to wait.

  Queen Sitara of Sindhu returned to her home as straight-backed and composed as when she had left it. Her brood of children greeted her at the docks surrounded by their aunties, nursemaids, tutors, and bodyguards. Sitara quickly saw who was missing from the gathering. Radana was gone; so was Captain Anun.

  So was the king.

  Sitara hugged her children and went with them to the rain-freshened gardens to run about for a precious little while and hear all about what they had been doing while she was “meditating” at the monastery. She cuddled Bailo on her lap and marveled at how much he had grown in these few weeks.

  She gossiped with her waiting women and the concubines, but when she asked about Radana, they all turned their faces away and refused to speak a word. Fear, formless and nameless, began to grow inside Sitara, but she held her peace. She would have this moment with her family. All other concerns could wait for just one afternoon.

  At last the swollen orange sun set over the trees and the insects took up their night songs. The hot wind blew, bringing the scents of fresh water on its back, letting all know that the break in the rains was done and the second rain would begin in the night. Sitara ate her evening meal with her children and saw them all to bed. They seemed to have accepted their sister’s departure, talking of her as if she had gone to get married, speculating a little nervously of when they might hear from her and what she might be doing now. They were, after all, children of the royal house. Even little Bailo knew his destiny was to go and do what the land and their dynasty required of him. She had left Lohit to come to Sindhu because it was required. Left Lohit, and had lived that much longer because she had. And because word of her home’s rape had come to her, she knew why it had to be so. She had to live so she could die bringing vengeance for her brother, for her old parents, for her mountain home that had fallen to the greed of the Mothers and their bloody sons.

  By the time she turned her footsteps to her husband’s private chambers the lamps and torches were lit. She sent a servant hurrying ahead to ask for proper permission. If Radana had someho
w managed to displace her in her absence, it was best that she observe formalities at this time. They would be a buffer against fear, against rage.

  When she was given permission to enter, she found Kiet alone, kneeling before the golden image of the Awakened One in its shrine against the eastern wall. Sitara entered softly, but Kiet still heard. He turned and rose in one smooth motion. She remained motionless, her heart beating hard at the base of her throat. Kiet looked older than when she had seen him last, his face more serious, more sad than it had been even a few short weeks ago.

  But he spread his arms to her and Sitara ran forward to be swept into his strong embrace, to receive his kisses and return them willingly, holding him as close as her arms could draw him.

  For a long moment they did nothing more. She had been mother before, now she was wife. The king and queen could wait just that much longer while she pressed her cheek against Kiet’s broad chest and heard his heart hammering within and felt his arms enfold her, stroking her back gently with the touch she knew so well.

  But, at last, he did pull away, and, oddly and suddenly formal, they knelt together on one of the broad platforms, tea and the sweetmeats the servants had discreetly placed cooling beside them.

  “What news do you bring me, Sitara?” Kiet asked her.

  She met his sad, serious gaze. It was the time to speak openly of what she had done. “The Huni are coming. The rivermen will bring them. Their chief will come when he is sure this is no trap.”

  Kiet nodded. “We will receive them.”

  “And while I have been gone?”

  “Radana has gone to Hastinapura. She carries news of what you have done.”

  The words dropped into Sitara’s mind like a stone. She had expected Radana to attempt betrayal, but of the ordinary variety, seeking power and prestige while her watchful queen was away. This … this treason had been so unlooked for, Sitara could do nothing but sit and stare. “Did you pursue her?” she asked, ludicrously. She only wanted to force her mind into motion again.

  “Yes. Captain Anun is still behind her, but there has been no news for over a week. It is likely Radana has slipped across Hastinapura’s border by now.”