Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  “How shall I speak of what is lost to me? How shall I give tongue to what the gods themselves look on in wonder?”

  She knelt, bowing her head in despair. She rose, striding in her anger, thumping the butt of her spear on the floor, throwing out her hand, clenching her fist, crying to the heavens. This speech belonged to the Golden Prince, Hastinapura’s second emperor, who defeated the wild men of the forest who had killed his father, and in so doing secured Hastinapura’s peace for a thousand years.

  The patterns she had to walk were formal and strange to her. She had been told repeatedly the angled, stylized steps made part of the greater, subtle weaving of the play. Master Gauda had been drilling her hard to this. He drilled everyone hard. Natharie was constantly surprised by his unflagging energy. He, in turn, was astounded at how quickly she came to master the Golden Prince’s dance. She did not tell him about the staff and empty-hand practice that she had learned during her extended childhood, and the fact was, there existed many similarities between the dramas of the Hastinapurans and the dramas she knew. Her skill as a storyteller enabled her to learn these poems. She even recognized some of the stories they enacted. But where in Sindhu, players told straightforward stories through staged song, the Hastinapurans wove many stories together in their dramas, with long asides of historical poetry. She could dance and she could speak, but the greater symbolic melding of the two that was absolutely necessary to the epic remained beyond her with her few weeks of this training. Still, she could pour herself into the words, even when she glimpsed the leer on the emperor’s face. Her own loss, her own impatience were still raw, and here she could give vent to them. It kept her whole, for it gave her a safe way to show what she must keep hidden, the pain and the anger, the threats and the fear.

  How much does Master Gauda know? The thought cut through her concentration and she hesitated for a broken heartbeat. “… How can I look again at her eyes when I have failed in my first duty. Ah! What man am I that I cannot keep my beloved safe? What gods conspire against me?”

  She knelt, her head bowed, one hand clutching the spear, ending the piece in the same pose with which she had begun. Her heart was hammering, her mouth was dry, her hand was shaking. The ringing in her ears was so loud, it took a moment to hear the applause that her imperial audience scattered toward her.

  “Excellent!” cried the emperor. “They breed them tall and bold in the southlands. What did you think, Tarish?”

  A lighter voice, it must have belonged to the young man, answered. “I have never heard the piece performed so well, Your Majesty. You honor us by allowing us to hear it.”

  The emperor guffawed. “You’ve taught your boy his manners, Pankaj, very good. I think we’ll soon see what he has left to learn!” He laughed again at this jest, and the others joined in, the men a little nervously, Natharie thought.

  She was beginning to wonder what she should do. She had not been dismissed, but she was not being addressed. She could not stand, but crouching here like this was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and the sweat was trickling down under her false mail shirt. At the same time, she wanted to listen, to find out who this man and his son were and why they were nervous.

  “And you, my Lord Divakesh?” croaked Queen Prishi. “What do you say?”

  Natharie heard the rustle of cloth. A shadow fell across the floor, and she saw two broad feet shod in gilded sandals come to stand in front of her.

  “Look at me.”

  Natharie looked and saw the high priest staring down at her as stern as any angry god. She said nothing. The emperor, the queen, the strangers, all in the room were watching her. She kept her hand on her spear and tried in her heart to keep from wishing she could raise it up and strike him down.

  Anger. Ignorance. These are the strongest fetters. Why did her heart doubt that in the face of this man?

  “I say she does not yet truly understand what the Mothers have in store for her,” he said in a tone that was more mild than any she had yet heard him use. “But she will soon.”

  Natharie swallowed. The healing scar at her throat tightened.

  “Oh, have done with Divakesh,” called the emperor. “Let the Mothers take care of their own business tonight!”

  The high priest turned toward Emperor Chandra and bowed. “We are at the heart of the dance here, even in quiet celebration we cannot forget that, nor can we allow a canker within that heart, or surely it is we who carry out the Mothers’ will who will be punished for it.”

  She could not see Divakesh’s face as he spoke, although she desperately longed to know who his eyes sought out with that speech. But she could see the emperor clearly, and she saw his half-drunken merriment drain away into naked fear.

  “So, Lord Divakesh,” said Queen Bandhura swiftly. “What would you have me do? Scourge her? Have mercy. Should I forbid her access to the dramas for the crime of being born where the Mothers meant her to be?” There was some strain under her words that Natharie did not understand, as if she were willing Divakesh to comprehend something beyond her words. “The girl is far too amusing to waste on embroidery or bath salts, or the virgin’s dance. Do you not agree, my lord Tarish?”

  The young man bowed where he sat. Despite this, Natharie heard his voice clearly: “If I were able to have my will, she would be locked away from all eyes save mine.”

  At this, the emperor let loose another laugh, and took another huge swallow from his cup. “Natharie, you have made a conquest! Be careful, Tarish. You will have to fight my brother for her! Where is my brother?” He looked about as if expecting Prince Samudra to appear.

  “Ah, my son, did I forget to tell you?” said Queen Prishi weakly. “He sends his regrets that he must be late. He will attend you before the evening is over.”

  The emperor’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was not so drunk as he appeared. “He’s been mysterious since his return, my brother, and brooding.” Then a benevolent smile spread wide across his face. “We must take greater care of him.” The emperor turned his eyes upward to his wife.

  Queen Bandhura smiled in return and smoothed Emperor Chandra’s brow with her palm. “I myself will see to it, my husband. What he needs is more time in the company of his favorite to soothe his troubled spirits.” She winked broadly at Natharie.

  “Well, he should suffer a bit for his inattention.” The emperor’s smile grew mischevious. “Tarish, you will escort Natharie back to her rooms. Natharie, show the boy the terrace garden on the way. It is most lovely in the sunset.”

  Natharie eased herself back onto her heels so she could stand more gracefully. She did so in time to see that the young man, Tarish, had gone white in the second before he made his obeisance before the emperor. His father, puzzled and not entirely pleased, made the salute of trust. Then, Tarish stepped up to Natharie and made the salute to her.

  Divakesh watched it all, his face thunderous.

  Which is something, I suppose.

  Awkward and uncertain, Natharie passed her spear to Ekkadi, who had come up behind her. She modestly folded her hands and cast her eyes down, acting the polite lady beneath her glittering prince’s garb and stylized makeup, and waiting for Tarish to join her. Neither of them dared to glance back at the grinning emperor as they walked out into the corridors. Tarish remained silent beside her, doubtlessly feeling at least as awkward as she did. His presence was like an itch she could not scratch, and she was less sure than ever what to do.

  Tarish cleared his throat. “You are from Sindhu?”

  “I am.”

  He nodded. “It is a beautiful place.”

  That startled her. “You have been there?”

  “A few times. My father is a great builder. He says that to properly understand the art it is necessary to see how the great palaces and temples are made elsewhere.”

  They came to the garden terrace. It was well past sunset now, and the sky outside was black. The moon peered through the latticework, leaving silver light and shadows all across the tiled fl
oor. Ekkadi quietly directed lesser servants to light two of the oil lanterns, then shooed them away.

  Natharie walked to what had become her customary bench beside the lattice, peering out at the waning moon. “You do not sound as if you enjoyed your travels.”

  Tarish shrugged. “I am not an adventurer. It is the pleasures of home and the city that call to me.” He smiled as he said it, which spoiled his attempt at assuming a jaded expression.

  “You do not find always being in one house dull?” The moon was bright. Above and around shone the diamond stars. It was the first time she had seen them since the rains began. If she cocked her head just so, she might be able to make out some of the constellations, and perhaps see the glint of the river, flowing down toward home.

  “Home would never be dull were it graced by such as yourself.”

  Keep your mind on what you’re doing! Natharie bowed her head, and hoped Tarish would take it for maiden’s bashfulness. “You flatter me.”

  “I mean what I say.”

  “Then …” She lifted her eyes to his. The boldness here makes an appealing contrast, said Master Gauda’s voice in the back of her mind. “I thank you for your kindness.”

  His smile was broad and his eyes both surprised and pleased. She found herself suddenly sorry that all this innocent gallantry was not being spent to better purpose. She turned back to the moon and stars until she could muster a smile. Be pleased with your lover! Master Gauda barked in her mind. He has risked much to be here with you! You are modest, not dead!

  “What good fortune brings you to us this evening?” The words rang clumsily in her ears, but Tarish gave no sign of finding the question strange.

  “The emperor and my father must discuss the progress of his new palace in Amarin. Or, the lack of it.” Tarish grimaced.

  Natharie managed a look of concern. She reached out and touched Tarish’s arm. You are the first link to the outer world I have found. Speak with me, please. Tarish blushed, and laughed. “It will be settled soon. There was an accident … My father believes that we should use freemen for the building. He says free artisans are better at their crafts and work harder. But … the emperor is in a hurry, and while he was on his inspection tour, the work went late, and a rope snapped, and a beam fell. We lost ten men, and many of the others refused to continue. Father came to explain this to the emperor, and the emperor has told him to use slaves and bound craftsmen if the freemen will not work as they are bid …” He shook his head. Natharie left her hand where it was for a heartbeat, and then eased it forward. Now her palm lay across his forearm, which was warm and well shaped, she noted. This boy had done work in his life. “Father should not have come,” Tarish whispered. “Everyone knows how the emperor is … he should have gone to Prince Samudra. He is a diplomat even more than he is a soldier. Everyone knows …” The boy shook himself. “I’m a fool,” he said, remembering where he was. “I should not be talking about such things with a beautiful woman here beside me.” He covered her hand with his.

  Natharie drew back reflexively. Then, remembering herself, she reached up and took off the helmet, shaking her hair down and letting it cascade across her shoulders.

  “Will there be trouble for you over this?” She set the helmet aside, silently hoping Ekkadi would not dart forward to retrieve it. But her maid had an excellent sense of these things, and stayed in whatever shadow where she had installed herself.

  “This?” His fingers edged toward her hand again, and she caught his eye, with what she hoped was a warning glance, and he smiled. “Oh. No. My father will do as he’s told. You do not win the freedom to create great things if you do not have the trust of your patron, Father says. He has been a lifetime earning that trust. I hope the freedom comes before his time ends.” He shook his head again, and went on, striving for lightness and unconcern. “The men will grumble, perhaps a wall will be knocked down in protest, but in the end they’ll do as they’re told.”

  As do we all.

  An idea came to Natharie, straight out of the epics she had been studying so diligently. She turned to fully face the boy in front of her, who was clearly not used to palaces or the women who dwelt there. “May I … tell you what I would like very much?” she said softly.

  “What is that?” She saw plainly, his imagination was already flying ahead of himself. He too, of course, read the poets.

  “Would you … could you …” She made herself hesitate, and blinked her eyes shyly. Natharie, don’t play this too heavily. “When you have gone, would you write to me?” If she began receiving letters from an admirer, no one would wonder if she was seen occasionally scribbling down lines of her own. She could send Ekkadi out to deliver them, and if Ekkadi occasionally slipped down to the docks with an extra missive in her hand …

  She feared Tarish would be disappointed with this simple request, but instead he smiled and bowed graciously. “It would be my deepest honor. You must be lonely here.”

  “It is very different from my home, and sometimes it is hard.” These were the first true words she had spoken to him, and she felt a stab of guilt for it.

  “Then allow me to ease your days, my lady.” He boldly took her hand and bowed over it. “To hold further conversation with you, even through my poor lines …”

  The shadows moved, and they both looked up to see Prince Samudra standing in the archway, watching them.

  Tarish dropped at once into full obeisance. Natharie found herself cursing inwardly for a long moment, before she remembered she should do something similar, and knelt.

  The prince paced forward, his arms loose at his side. For a moment, Natharie thought he was about to reach for knife or sword. Ludicrous. He was unarmed, but the thought was there nonetheless.

  “Hello, Tarish,” said Samudra.

  “My lord prince,” answered the boy, with no more than a tiny tremor in his voice.

  “I believe your father is wondering where you are.” The prince spoke in a voice of absolute neutrality.

  Tarish was naive, but he was not slow. “Then, with your permission, I will go take my proper place beside him.”

  “You have my permission.”

  Tarish made the salute of trust, mustered his dignity, and beat a decorous retreat from the garden, leaving Samudra standing in the silver moonlight, a lace of black shadows over his face and form. Natharie kept kneeling, with no idea what might happen next, only trying not to be afraid.

  “Please, get up.”

  Natharie did. She watched him. The prince held himself stiffly, looking both more awkward than Tarish, and more dangerous than the boy could ever hope to.

  “I apologize for my lateness. I was … arranging an important meeting.”

  Natharie suddenly felt very tired. She hoped bitterly that Tarish would not decide on the prudent course and fail to write. She needed the letters, and the rumor of a liaison. It would deflect all other rumors. With all these thoughts and hopes, she did not have room to think up a neutral answer. “Why should you apologize to me?”

  Samudra seemed to consider this, and had no answer, except to sigh. “I came to see how you were,” he said at last.

  “And what did you see?” No sense and no mercy. Collect yourself, Natharie. You think you need that boy? How much more do you need this man?

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Young Tarish overreaches himself.”

  Natharie’s heart beat hard once. She found she could not stand anymore, and abruptly sat down on the curving seat. The leaves of a fern tickled her wrist. “Then it is true. You do consider me yours.” Be quiet, be quiet, Natharie. You are still on the stage. Remember your part, remember your lines. Put your feelings to work.

  Samudra was a long time in answering, and when it came, the answer was soft. “No. You are not mine. You belong to no one here.”

  Anger, useless at worst, dangerous at best, flooded her heart. All she could remember now was Divakesh standing before her. His threats rang in her ears. “You seem to be the only one
who believes this.”

  “Except for yourself,” said Samudra immediately.

  “For the moment.” She thought on Divakesh’s anger. So many threats lay under his words. She had learned enough to dissemble for the boy, if not the prince; when would she be able to dissemble for the priest? How long before she would want to? He was the one who threatened her family, her land, all she held sacred.

  Stop. Remember where you are now, this moment.

  Samudra took one step closer. “No one will take the freedom of your heart,” he said softly, urgently.

  There were many things she had thought to say. She had meant to ask whether he now considered her impure for allowing a man to look on her in lust, as happened in so many of the Hastinapuran epics. She wanted to ask if he intended to tell his mother to keep an even closer eye on her. But those words, meant to be coy and hard, dried up in her heart as she looked at his face. He had come forward and stood in a patch of moonlight, and despite the tracery from the lattice, she could see him plainly, and she saw his honesty and his old pain, and one other thing.

  Desire. He looked on her and he wanted her. She had seen the look in other men’s eyes in other times and other places, but never on one who had the power to put action to their desires. New fear shook her, and she took refuge in a more familiar anger.

  “Tell your priest Divakesh that no one owns me.”

  His face went still. The desire, the loneliness drained from his eyes, replaced by a kind of angry disbelief. “Is this what I am to you?” he asked hoarsely. “Divakesh’s ambassador?”

  Natharie swallowed, and the line of old pain on her throat warmed. Why did she connect this man so closely to Divakesh? Why could she not stop thinking of the high priest every time she saw the prince?

  She knew the answer. It was not because she believed the prince his servant, but because she knew the prince hated him too. She had known it from that first day when he had rebuked the man publicly, from all the times she had sat and talked with him, and from the pain she saw on his face now, at her words.

  “No,” she said softly, honestly. But as she looked at the strange hope this single word sparked in the prince’s demeanor, a new question rose in her heart. What is this man to me? She could not believe he was only a tool, a way to make herself useful to her homeland. She welcomed him in a different way but she had resisted putting a name to the feelings that warmed her when they walked, when they spoke, or when they sat in a comprehending silence. She was afraid of what name might come to her. That fear made her angry, and that anger made her put him close beside Divakesh in her thoughts. “I spoke hastily. I ask your understanding.”