Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  Like Samudra, Commander Makul was at first stunned to learn that Natharie could ride a horse. Also like Samudra, he accepted her declaration quickly and did not question the truth of it. Two friendly soldiers outside the walls supplied them with mounts, and despite the strange shape of the Hastinapuran saddle, Natharie managed to keep up with Makul as he set a brisk pace down the winding and increasingly foul streets of the city. Unlike when she had last traveled this way, though, those streets were sparsely populated, by fleeting, staggering shadows. Instead of stares and cheers, the pair of them drew only quick glances, or quick curses from those who had to dodge out of the way.

  So, it was not very long before the docks opened up before them. Makul tied the horses, bribed a beggar drowsing nearby to keep watch on them, and led Natharie down to the river. He clearly knew this place well, and he scanned the clusters of boats moored by the wooden piers. Some had lit lamps hanging from their masts, and it was one of these that Makul finally approached. With a shake, he roused the half-naked man sleeping on the deck and began dickering for the price of the boat and his hire.

  “Just the boat,” said Natharie in Sindishi. Makul turned, his eyes wide with renewed surprise.

  When the bargain was made and the man scampered off to get his newly filled purse somewhere out of reach of thieves, Natharie stepped on board. The river rocked the wooden deck, welcoming her.

  She wanted to feel delight. She would go home. She was free, but she could only look down the moonlit river and shudder. Her sacrifice had been for nothing. Her family had taken her offer of life and turned it to death.

  “Should I offer you my sword as well?” inquired Makul behind her.

  Natharie gave him a half-smile. “That art I never learned. I will content myself with readying the boat while you stand watch for us.”

  A muscle twitched in the commander’s sunken cheek. “I must return.”

  Natharie stiffened. “They will kill you.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. There will be many other things warring for their attention, and until the emperor gives the order, I am still commander over all, save the prince.”

  Where is that prince now? What is happening to him? Natharie looked southward again. For all she knew, the palace guards were already swarming the streets looking for her. I should go at once. There was just enough moonlight for her to read the river. It was broad here, and there was very little traffic this time of night. If she ran the boat out into the middle of the current, she should be safe from the worst of the shallows. Traveling by night would be safest anyway. If she was not hunted yet, she would be soon, and the longer start she had the better.

  But she did not move toward rope or sail. Fear held her, and instinct. There had been so much betrayal already in this one night, there was sure to be more.

  “I will wait here until dawn, Makul.”

  “Princess, the danger is great.”

  “I know, but hear me.” The decision steadied her. “So much has gone so badly wrong that I may not be the only one who will need to escape. Should you return to the palace, tell any who need to go I am here until sunrise.”

  Gratitude shone plainly in Makul’s eyes. He made the salute of trust and left her there without another word.

  The idea of sleep seemed not only ridiculous, but dangerous. Natharie spent the rest of the night learning what she could of the little boat. It was river-worthy, but barely. Even as lightly loaded as it was, it rode low in the water. The tiller was sound, though, and the sail was whole, and there was a spare canvas in one of the two chests. The other held fishing tackle, flints for sparking a fire, a pair of knives, and man’s loose tunic and pantaloons. Struggling under a stiff canvas blanket, Natharie shed her servant’s costume and put those on, winding the cap of cloth around her head to hide her hair. It was a crude costume, and ill-fitting, but it gave her greater freedom of movement than her skirt, and from a distance it would help hide her from prying eyes.

  At last, dawn sent its pale light across the sky, and the docks began to wake up. Those who lived on their boats roused themselves and shouted to one another. The smells of cooking rose over less savory scents. Porters, bearers, and traders emerged from the warehouses and shacks, ready to begin their working day. Gongs and bells rang out to greet the morning.

  Natharie sat on the boat’s single bench, alternately watching the shore and the river. Her stomach growled. Should she risk finding some food before she set sail?

  No. I have delayed too long already. I will be able to barter for something farther down. She still had some bangles with her women’s clothes. They would serve.

  The thunder of hoofbeats scattered the gathering crowd. Natharie looked up in time to see Samudra ride into the dockyard, rein in his horse, and stand in the stirrups, staring over their heads.

  Natharie leapt to her feet. She had been expecting Hamsa, or Ekkadi. If Samudra was here, either all was right, or all had gone far more wrong than she had imagined.

  Then she realized that Samudra, a prince of Hastinapura, rode alone. Not even Hamsa or Makul was beside him. He dismounted his horse, and left it. He gave its reins to no one, he did not tie it. He simply waded through the crowd toward the docks.

  She raised her arm, waving. He looked, looked away, and looked back again, before running down the docks to her little boat and clambering over the rail. He opened his mouth, then saw it was her face under the dirty cloth of her new cap.

  You should not be so stunned, Great Prince, she thought as his eyes started out at her. You’ve seen me in slave’s clothes before.

  “Can you get us away?” he asked hoarsely.

  You remembered I can sail. Something in this left her absurdly pleased in the middle of so much disaster. “Slip the mooring and push us off.” She jumped up onto the tiller platform.

  Samudra did as he was told, but clumsily. He had probably never before been aboard such a craft. It didn’t matter. They were at the end of the dock, so once Natharie pushed them off with the long-handled oar, they had a clear passage. The water was deep in this season, and kind Liyoni’s current was swift. It caught them up at once and Natharie was able to guide them out into the middle of her waters. Once she was sure they would not be snagged up, she raised the sail. The wind caught them, adding its speed to the current’s, and they were truly away.

  During the weeks of her seclusion she had imagined standing like this with the river breeze gliding over her skin and the rocking of a boat beneath her, and a thousand times she had told herself to put it out of her mind. Never once had she imagined that she might be flying from disaster to disaster. Nor had she imagined who would travel with her.

  Samudra sat on the bench, straight-backed and still, which was a sensible posture for so small a boat.

  “Samudra …” she began.

  He turned toward her, and she saw the tears pouring down his haggard face.

  Natharie gripped the tiller and concentrated all her mind on steering the boat, trying hard not to see the man in front of her, trying with all her might to give him a little privacy, a little dignity, so he might grieve.

  In silence they sailed away from the great city of Hastinapura, through the farmlands and on toward the wilderness, neither of them able to see what waited on the other side.

  When Captain Anun came running across what was left of the gardens, King Kiet and Queen Sitara were standing together with the Huni’s chief. Tapan Gol was showing them a demonstration of his archers, a mixed corps of men and women. Their black bows were deeply curved, and now a line of fifty of them knelt on the green grass. Two hundred paces away silk flags fluttered on wooden posts. The captain spoke a single word, and the archers knelt, drawing their bows, pointing their arrows high. The captain spoke another word, and together, they loosed. Those arrows flew into the air and rained down upon the silk, shredding the flags, pinning the scraps to the ground until there was not one bit of color remaining on the suddenly naked posts.

  Tapan Gol was grinni
ng, as much at the king’s and queen’s bland faces as at the accomplishment of his soldiers. Queen Sitara knew the Huni chief saw right through their façade. He knew his displays and exercises frightened them. He knew he could do as he pleased here and it was very likely they could not stop him. If they tried, and did succeed, they would most certainly lose the war to come.

  So it was almost a relief to see Anun sprinting toward them to kneel at their feet.

  “Hastinapura is on the move.”

  Sitara looked up at her husband. He stood there, heavy and solid, saying nothing. It was Tapan Gol who nodded with satisfaction. “It is good. My men are growing fat and lazy here in your sunshine. Come, King. You and I have much to discuss.”

  Kiet pressed his palms together. “With respect, Great Tapan Gol. There are matters I must put to my queen before any others. I will join you as soon as I can able.”

  Tapan Gol’s long eyes shifted toward Sitara. What he thought she could not tell. If she had a thousand years she would not be able to read this closed-mouthed, closed-hearted man.

  He shrugged. “As you wish, King.” He turned away as if they had ceased to exist, and shouted to his people in his own language. In answer the Huni raised up a huge cheer, brandishing their weapons in the air and clapping one another on the back. Kiet watched all this for a long, tense moment before starting for the palace. Sitara followed him.

  When they reached Kiet’s private chambers, he went first to the altar. With careful motions, he lit one of the cones of incense that waited at the feet of the gilded image of the Awakened One. For a long time, he watched the scented smoke rise, and Sitara watched him. She had hoped that, as the time for the war grew closer, she would grow more distant from her life. She was certain what the price of her part in the plan must be, and she was ready to pay. But instead, she had grown closer to all that she loved. Each day was brighter, each moment with children and husband more vibrant and precious. She understood that her heart was savoring the life it must soon lose. She accepted that, even welcomed it. She would finally end all alone and in fear, and it would be good to have a store of love and beauty against that time.

  His private meditations finished, Kiet bowed to Anidita’s image and said to her, “Do we need to send word to the sorcerers?”

  “Father Thanom said no. They are prepared for action. He said they would know when the time of need had come.”

  “Then we must pray they can do all they have said.” Kiet took both her hands, looking down at them. His own hands were warm and strong as ever, the touch as dear. “It is my will that when the monks come, Sitara, you go with them.”

  She had expected this. It was not in Kiet to let her go without protest. “No,” she said firmly. “I have begun this thing. I will end it.”

  “Just so, my queen.” He squeezed her hands gently, willing her understanding and strength. “You will stand regent for our son until he is a man. You will be the strong spirit for our people until they are able to resume their lives again. You will stand in the face of Hastinapura and the Huni both.”

  A wave of cold swept across Sitara’s heart. He meant it. He thought she could go through this life knowing all she was responsible for. “You will do all these things,” she reminded him. “You are king.”

  But Kiet only shook his head. “And if I am not in the battle, at best, our people will believe me a coward, and never follow me again. At worst, our enemies will know this for the trick that it is.”

  No. No. It cannot be. It will not be. “Let me take your place then. Let me wear your armor and wield your sword.” This was done by queens of legend. Had she not already done as much as they?

  “No,” he said again. “It is not possible.”

  “Kiet!” She grabbed his arms. She tried to shake him but it was like trying to shake a mountain. “You are not to die because of this thing I have done!”

  “That you have done?” He laughed, a mirthless, heartrending sound. “Oh, my beloved.” Kiet traced his thumb tenderly along her jaw. “That is too much arrogance. Do you truly believe that you could have done this without my consent from the beginning? I too am part of this, and I go to pay the price of it. It is my fate as king of Sindhu. Your fate is harder and my heart breaks …” His words faltered and his hand stroked her hair. Sitara closed her eyes, unable to look into his face and see the pain and determination there. “I may die for this, but you must live with what we have done.”

  Tears overflowed her eyes and ran hot down her cheeks. She clapped her hands over her face to cover them, but she could not stop them. “What did I do in my past life that it should come to this?”

  “Does it matter? This is where we are now and we both must do what is needed.”

  Sitara closed her mouth. She heard the break in his voice. He was near the end of his strength. She would not deny the courage that he had shown already by bringing him to tears as well. She folded her hands and bowed. “I hear the words of my king and lord.”

  “Sitara,” he whispered.

  Sitara threw her arms around him and kissed him hard, drinking him in. Then, she released him so she could go ready her children and to take up her future. With each step she left her heart farther behind.

  As ever, Divakesh dva Tingar Jalajapad, high priest of Hastinapura, sword of the Mothers, woke a few heartbeats before his acolyte, Asok, brought the flickering lamp that was the only sunrise ever to reach his cell in the mountain’s stone heart. The young man silently set down the lamp, gave the salute of trust, and retreated. It was well known that when Divakesh woke he wanted no communion save with the Mothers.

  Divakesh loved this moment. In the flickering light, it seemed as if his many images of Mother Jalaja truly did dance. Each aspect in its stone niche was different, each as perfect in its beauty as it was possible for an earthly thing to be. Each was only a pale reflection of the heavenly perfection of the goddess it represented.

  She had been the whole of his existence since his childhood, since his mother and father had brought him to the temple, and made him kneel before the altar. They had handed over what little money they had to the priest to take him in as an acolyte. All his brothers and sisters were dead of the plague in the village. They had walked miles to find a temple that would not shut its doors against the illness that might follow them.

  The last thing his father did for him was to kneel on the temple floor at his side.

  “Look at her, Divakesh,” his father had whispered hoarsely so only Divakesh could hear. “Love her with all your heart and you will understand, today and all the days to come. She will never desert you, not for hunger or any other need of flesh and bone. She is all the love there is.”

  Divakesh had gazed on that simple statue, not even turning around as he heard the tread of his parents’ bare feet on the floor, leaving him. He saw how this was only a representation, a symbol of something greater. Since then, he had striven to understand, and to be worthy of that greater divinity.

  As it did so often, Divakesh’s heart swelled taut with his secret. His only desire, his only need in life was to look upon the true face of the goddess, to see Her true eyes and know he was worthy. He would work a lifetime and more, and knew he already had. All his being for each turn of the wheel, Divakesh was sure, had been honed for that moment, and that he had risen so high in this life was proof that he was close.

  Today was a great day and it seemed to Divakesh the dance they danced was one of creation. Creating victory, creating blessing. The defiant and blasphemous princess was exposed for what she was and her influence on the small domain was ended. Within a few hours of the dawn sacrifice, the false sorceress would have her sentence publicly read. Then, she would come to stand on the great altar, and she would die. The shedding of her blood would purify the palace, and with that act, the army of the Mothers would march to war. Sindhu was the strongest and most arrogant of the protectorates that followed the vain Anidita. With Sindhu gone, that false worship would quickly crumble and true dev
otion to the Mothers would take its proper place.

  Feeling the depths of his many blessings, Divakesh prostrated himself before Mother Jalaja for a long time. Then he washed, dressed in his scarlet robe, and went to the common room.

  The common room, in the outer part of the temple living quarters, was quiet today. For once there was no conversation to be silenced when he appeared, only a hasty swallowing of rice and lentils by those who could not yet discipline themselves to perform the day’s first dance before they had fed their bodies. All knew it was a great day and all knew how it was to begin.

  It was still dark outside. Dawn was nothing more than a white line on the horizon and countless stars still shone overhead. The silhouette of the Queen of Heaven stood on Her pedestal above the ever-burning flame. Divakesh mounted the steps and prostrated himself before Her. All around him, the others lit incense and lamps. They made sure each of the Mothers had her due offering of saffron rice, and was properly anointed with oil and perfume. Divakesh’s own task was worship, pure and entire. He emptied his thoughts of all but Heaven and Heaven’s queen, so powerful, so beautiful in blessing, so terrible in wrath. It was Her wrath he would embody today and all would know the cost of betraying Mother Jalaja.

  Divakesh rose to his knees and made the salute of trust. Beside him, Asok waited, holding the white pillow where the sword rested. Divakesh lifted the great curving blade and kissed the flat. He tasted the steel and for a moment permitted himself to savor it.

  He stood. All the others had repaired to the stairs below the altar platform. This place, this office, was his alone. Divakesh raised the sword, and began the dance.

  Divakesh danced as he always did, with heart and mind full. He would give his best to the Mothers. He would hold nothing back. Praise, strength, breath, he would give all he had. If blood were demanded, he would give blood. He was the son of the Mothers. He was voice and heart and infinite soul. They were All, and he would show his understanding of this truth with each movement of his body, each beat of his quickened heart.