by Sarah Zettel
Ekkadi considered this carefully. The greed in her eyes was tempered by her stubbornly practical turn of mind. “It could be. It would be a way of humiliating the prince as well as keeping a spy permanently with him.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” murmured Natharie, ducking her head. Anger flared again, for herself and for Samudra. This time she was unsurprised at her own feelings. The prince had honor, the prince knew justice and sympathy. Whatever else he might be, these things made him better than the queen who would use him and bring him low if she needed to. “Aiy-ah. Every day this gets worse.”
“Take those words back, mistress, before it truly does,” said Ekkadi sharply.
Although she should not give way to such superstition, Natharie suddenly felt the Mothers’ eyes looking sharply at her.
“It is too late,” she answered.
“Yes.” Ekkadi was flat on her face kissing the floor in her obeisance a bare instant before Queen Bandhura glided back into the chamber.
“There. We have at last gotten my mother into her bath.” For a moment, Natharie saw a flicker of distaste in Queen Bandhura’s eyes and she stowed away that sight very carefully.
“Now.” The queen sat down again, again arranging her skirts neatly, which seemed always to be her first order of business. “At the time of the midday meal, the brother of my heart has arranged to meet an old priest near the queen’s fountain. You will find a way to listen to them. You will tell me all you hear and all you see.”
Natharie stared. She had told herself a thousand times that she would never again leave this place, that she must become resigned to her crowded, ivory cage. The fact that she was suddenly being ordered outside was difficult to comprehend.
“You must learn to stop goggling, Princess Natharie,” said Queen Bandhura sternly.
“Majesty.” Natharie struggled to pull her wits together. “How am I to get into the gardens?”
“That is clearly part of your task, my child. You may go now.”
A test. I am being tested to find out if I am a worthy servant. Natharie made the expected obeisance and took her leave, Ekkadi trailing behind her. She said nothing as she walked slowly down the corridor and she could feel Ekkadi’s impatience thrumming in the air.
Games, games, games. Games of religion, of conquest, of empire and blood. She knew such games. They were as much a part of the history and life of Sindhu as they were of Hastinapura. Natharie had come prepared to play. She had not, however, in her most frightened imaginings thought she would be playing for the queen and against the man for whom love was blossoming in her battered soul.
If all stayed as it was, she would truly be Queen Bandhura’s pawn. That would not do, not for the tenth part of an hour, let alone for a lifetime as Samudra’s wife and jailer.
She thought of the look of distaste on Bandhura’s face when she spoke of Queen Prishi. Then she thought how the old, sick queen had played the game too, and survived for such a long time. There was something under the veil of her eyes. Did she know she was hated? Did she still have allies? Would she welcome one more?
Queen Bandhura wanted Natharie to be her spy and scapegoat. What might Queen Prishi want?
Another question: What did Queen Bandhura want of Queen Prishi?
Natharie paused in her stately progress back to her proper place. “Ekkadi?”
“Yes, mistress?”
“Do we know how long the old queen has been ill?”
Ekkadi did not even pretend to demure. “Almost two years. All the doctors agree that she won’t last for another one. But then, they said that last year as well, apparently.”
“And how long has Queen Bandhura been in charge of the small domain?”
“Since Queen Prishi’s health began to decline.”
Of course. “Ekkadi, listen carefully.” She did not forget one word of what Master Gauda told her, but she must trust Ekkadi this far. There was no one else. “You must find me some gardener’s clothes, and quickly, and tell Master Gauda I need to see him in the library at once.”
Ekkadi bowed. “And what will you do, Mistress?”
No farther. It is enough that you know I am doing something. “Don’t ask that, Ekkadi. Just go.”
Worry briefly creased the maid’s brow, but she gave the salute of trust and hurried away.
Natharie stood alone beside the ever watchful figures of the Seven Mothers and all their heroic children. This time you cannot have cause to censure me, she thought to them fiercely as she retraced her course. She kept going, the sound of her sandals on the marble floor faint in comparison to the drumming of her heartbeat. Even you cannot approve of the murder of one of your own.
Queen Prishi’s chamber was not empty. She had known it would not be. The rooms of kings and queens were never deserted. But at least with Queen Prishi at the bath, the number of servants was small. A few girls and two old women went about their various tasks — shaking out silks, setting clutter in order, fanning the air, and sprinkling fresh rosewater to cover the scents of illness that the heat only increased.
Natharie set her face into a bashful smile and hurried in.
One of the servants, a puffy-faced woman with round hands looked up, a rebuke ready on her tongue. When she saw Natharie, she swiftly made the salute of trust instead.
“Forgive me,” Natharie said to the older woman. See, I know we’re all servants here. “The great queen sent me for some of her salts.”
That startled the maid. “Sent you …?” She blurted the words out before she was able to catch herself.
She dipped her eyes before the servant. See, I know I’m speaking of a most delicate matter. “Yes. I think her eyesight is not so good today. Is there something to bring her comfort for that too?” Be earnest. You care. She’s been good to you. Once more, Master Gauda spoke clearly in the back of her mind, guiding her deception.
“Ah, my poor queen,” sighed the woman. “The Mothers call her to the next life and we are left with that …” She stopped herself again. There was a clear reason this old woman was still doing nothing more than tidying rooms; she clearly had difficulty guarding her own tongue. That was good to know. “The doctors have given her an ointment. One more ointment. I tell you they are near useless, physicians, as bad as the sorcerers. If they can’t save her life, what good are they, I say?”
She had a good deal more to say as well, but she seemed content to mutter it to herself as she walked away. Natharie hurried to the alcove that was the old queen’s dressing area. One of the ways in which a slow poison might be best administered was to put it into something the victim used daily, and, by so doing, have them poison themselves. The array of bottles and boxes on the low tables, however, was bewildering. Each was a little work of art, sparkling with color and gilding. Most were covered with artful writing describing their contents and its benefits. She scanned the sparkling vessels, trying to bite back rising panic. Which one? What if she was wrong, and the poisoner did carry the compound on them?
Which is the greatest risk?
The one I’m running now.
She tried several of the jars, and found powders and perfumes and ointments. She smelled them carefully and tasted one or two, and found herbs and spices, and in one something she was fairly sure was urine and betel, and truly wanted to know which physician prescribed that for the queen so she could be sure to never let him touch her.
This is madness, she said to herself, setting that box down quickly. At the very least, it is a jump of reason large enough to land you in the ocean.
Then her eye lit upon a box with a lid decorated with vermilion and saffron. Such colors were used to anoint the brow for special occasions.
She saw the signs of luck drawn there, of health, and longevity, all woven together, and something else, weaving in and out between the letters. She looked close. Weaving in and out, a serpent. A sign for wisdom. She looked again at what seemed to be a smear of the red ink. No, not a smear. The serpent’s hood was spread.
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br /> A sign for poison.
She picked up the box, and opened the lid. Inside was yet another bright, white ointment. She sniffed. Jasmine and roses. For the complexion then. She dipped one finger in it and put the tiniest dab on her tongue.
Sharp, bitter, metallic. Wrong.
She closed the box. Could poison be absorbed through the skin? Yes. She’d heard of such things in the histories and in the ghost stories the guards told. She thought for a moment to tuck the box under her skirt, but there was no time. The maid was returning. She all but dropped the box and snatched up the nearest jar.
“Here, for my mistress’s eyes,” the maid said, handing over the gilded box to Natharie. Natharie took it with thanks, and wondered if only one of the medicines and cosmetics was poisoned. “She will not want to take it, but you must try to persuade her. She likes you, mistress. If you remind her of your connection to the prince she may do as you say.”
“I will do what I can,” answered Natharie honestly, and she hurried away.
If she is questioned, my story will not last a dozen heartbeats. Natharie’s throat was dry, and she had to ease her grip on the jar. I’ve moved too soon. I should have waited until I was sure Queen Bandhura trusted me.
But the memory of those hard eyes and that careless laugh made her shake herself. For that, I would have waited until the moon fell into the ocean.
Natharie held herself to a walk as she moved down the corridor. Her ears strained for the sounds of hurrying footsteps, for the cry of the maid behind her, or the guards in front of her. The Mothers watched her from their places on the walls and on the beams overhead. What did they see? Did they understand that in this she meant to help?
Help who? Help how?
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It was not a saying the Awakened One would approve of, but she had heard her father use it more than once, and she knew it to be true. At least, it could be. At least, a little, at least for a while.
It was better than playing Queen Bandhura’s game alone. It was better than being turned against Samudra.
The library was no more empty than the queen’s chamber had been. A dozen or so of the scholars, scribes, and bureaucrats that inhabited the small domain knelt before the reading tables. Their students and assistants sat beside them, or scurried to the shelves to fetch this book or that scroll. One or two glanced up at Natharie, and dismissed her. She had become as much a fixture here as they.
The great epics had their own alcove, and she went to it at once and selected the soft edged copy of The Adushtastra, kneeling down and opening its pages. She had barely found the page she needed when Master Gauda’s shadow fell across her.
His face was bland, as it always was. She bowed her head to him, student to teacher. She swallowed.
Let me be right. She prayed as he knelt. Let me not be mistaken in him.
“I have a question, Master. I cannot seem to correctly translate this phrase.” She pointed at first one word, and then another. Why have you taken such care of me?
The old eunuch frowned, then he smiled. “You are forgetting your grammar,” he scolded. “You are not looking at the key element of the phrase.” He turned a few pages back. “Now, follow along from here.” He pointed at another word, Natharie bent over the page and read.
Awake.
He understood then. Now came the great question. He had worked hard to keep his own secret. Would he risk it for her?
Gauda was watching her steadily.
“I understand,” she said, sitting back on her heels. She made her decision. “But what about this phrase here?” She pointed at a random set of words. “Doesn’t that alter the larger part?”
As Gauda bent to look, Natharie murmured, “Master Gauda, can you get a message to the old queen for me?”
He paused long enough for worry to stab Natharie’s heart. “I will do what I can,” he whispered finally.
Thank you. Whether she was thanking her teacher or the Awakened One himself, Natharie was not sure. “You must tell her she is not ill. She is being poisoned by her daughter-in-law.”
Gauda stared at her. “Are you certain of this?” he asked hoarsely.
Natharie nodded. “I found the poison in an ointment with her cosmetics.”
For the first time, Natharie saw Gauda lose control of his own expression, and the anger that came over him was more fierce than she would have thought one of his kind could know. “I will tell her,” he answered casually, his voice still wholly under his command. “And you? You have no time for this important duty?”
“I go to spy on her son.” Natharie’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “It is well, Master, that you have taught me how to play farce as well as drama.”
He returned a sour grimace. “We will see which this becomes, child.” Then, in the lightest of whispers: “Anidita watch your steps.”
She bowed as he rose and left her there, staring at the manuscript she had no concentration left to read. Once again, she had cast the dice. Now she had to wait to see how they would fall.
Anidita himself would not be able to help her if she lost this new throw.
Chapter Fifteen
The midday heat put an end to the training exercises. Samudra dismissed his men to eat and to rest until the relative cool of the afternoon. Pravan invited him to share his noon meal, an offer Samudra declined, although the smug look in Pravan’s eyes as he did so left him coldly angry. Makul also suggested he come sit and talk, but that was only a show of politeness, and Samudra turned him down gently. It was just as well. At this time he did not want to look too long into Makul’s eyes.
He tried once again to tell himself that there was nothing dishonorable about this subterfuge. What he did now was a simple matter of outflanking the enemy. It was a well-used and honorable tactic of war. The only difference was it must be done with words and with quiet deeds rather than with sword, bow, and chariot. Samudra removed his practice armor and handed it to his men-at-arms. He accepted the damp towel and vigorously wiped his face and scrubbed his head. Deception went hand and hand with honor in any battle. Mother Indu was Mother A-Kuha’s sister. This was just another kind of war. That he loved his enemy meant nothing. In this much, Hamsa was right.
When he looked up, Hamsa was standing at the pavilion’s entrance, as if summoned by his thought. She made the salute of trust and gave a small, tremulous nod in answer to the question in his eyes.
Good.
He had sent her ahead to make sure the gardens were clear of uninvited witnesses. He rubbed his eyes. He must find a moment to speak with her. She seemed so … frightened was the only word for it. She hunched her shoulders constantly as if to shield herself from prying eyes. It was hard, he supposed, to believe your master was part of a rebellion. He needed to tell her what was truly happening, lest her worry for him give the game away.
He got up as the men around him made their obeisances and walked out of the tent. The sun blazed down and the air was sultry. Makul saw him from where he sat with some of the older men; so did Pravan, who, hopefully, thought he was retreating in continued despair over the emperor’s preference for a preening upstart. Pravan was planning an expedition to try to face the Huni once again, and he had not told Samudra. He had told the emperor, though, and everyone knew it. Samudra had needed all his strength of will to keep quiet. Even thinking about it made his anger flare and brought the sweat out on his brow as he walked through the cool green garden under the shadows of the trees and the blossoms.
The queen’s fountain stood at the heart of the gardens. The first emperor’s wife ordered this constructed here, although she had died before she could see it completed. In the world of lush color, it was pure and black. The obsidian that made it had been brought from the farthest of the southern islands, as had the three sorcerers who shaped it. It was a lacelike sphere. Inside, three great birds spread their wings, shading and protecting those who came to the fountain’s rim. The water flowed down from the stone on which the birds sat a
nd into a basin. The obsidian was blacker than night and yet at noon grew hot enough to burn the unwary hand. More than once Samudra had wondered at its contradictions, and how many of them were intentional. The birds were caged, yet ever watchful. Lifegiving water sprang from dead stone. That which was black blazed with bright heat.
Samudra stood gazing through the brittle beauty of the cage to the birds within. He heard the sound of a gardener’s shears in the distance. Someone pruning tree or bush, maintaining the garden’s perfection. Each thing in its place, each thread a part of the pattern, a step in the dance. Samudra’s mind drifted back to all that Natharie had told him of her life in Sindhu. Part of him wondered if this was why the kings of the Awakened lands were so weak as to break their own vows against violence. They had no one to guard the heart of their world, as the queens did the small domain. Part of him wondered if he was even asking the right question with such a thought.
Part of him was remembering Natharie’s touch on his wrist. He knew the act of love. There was no soldier who did not. He had known it willing and he had, to his shame, known it forced. He knew how it seared and blinded, and made a man lost to himself. But he had never known its tenderness, its intimacy. He had never lain down beside a woman who cared for his heart, as well as for his place, his purse, or his strength.
Samudra shook himself. Why am I thinking of this? It was a thought for the future, and right now the future was as distant as the moon. There was every chance he would die for what he did next.
He cast about for something else to think of and saw Hamsa also was contemplating the fountain, leaning on her staff as was her habit.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, partly to distract himself, partly because he was worried for Hamsa. These past days she had been silent, even for her, and her eyes had the hollow look of one who had been denied sleep.
“I am wondering how they found contentment with their place,” she said, nodding toward the birds. “And yet still kept the fierceness they need to be good guardians.”
Before Samudra found an answer to that, the scuff of sandals on the crushed stone of the path turned him around. A man in priest’s robes approached. His back was stooped and he carried a fringed umbrella low over his head to shield himself from the sun.