by John Shors
“Me?”
“We…we can escape together.”
Thida shook her head. “But where would we go? What would we do?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about escape until just now. Until just now, I’ve wanted to die.”
“What changed?”
Voisanne looked again at the lotus flowers, envisioning her father as he compared them to the expansion of the soul, and to her. “Because my father wouldn’t want me dead. Because I want to bloom again…for him. For everyone I loved.”
“And you’re not afraid?”
“I have nothing to lose, so how can I be afraid?”
A long walk to the northwest of Angkor Wat, Phimeanakas Temple still shone like the sun, though it was more than a hundred years old. The three-leveled temple had steep stairs leading up each side. The stairs were flanked by statues of lions, while the corner of each level held a massive stone elephant. On the upper level, the central tower, which was square at the bottom and tapered at the top, was covered in gold. The sparkling gold seemed to give life to Phimeanakas, which was visible from great distances.
The grounds near Phimeanakas had been cleared of the giant trees that would otherwise have obscured the temple. A sandstone courtyard was warm against Indravarman’s feet as he studied his opponent, Asal. Both men held shields and wooden practice swords. Indravarman liked to spar with his officers, and Asal gave him a better fight than any other man. More than a hundred other Cham warriors and officers were gathered around the combatants, heads bowed but eyes staring up. Beyond this group, war elephants and horses were held in check by slaves. Several Cham philosophers with whom Indravarman liked to debate stood at the periphery of the group.
The fight would begin only when the king was ready, and for now he was content to study the temple. He wondered how the Khmers had mined such a vast amount of gold and if he should have it removed, melted down, and brought to his homeland. The gold on Phimeanakas alone represented an almost infinite wealth—money that could have been spent expanding the Khmer army and bringing ruin to the kingdom’s enemies. Instead the Khmers had decorated a temple.
Indravarman wasn’t sure what to think of the golden tower. As a Hindu, he was pleased that the Gods were so honored, but he also believed that the Khmers had been weakened by their wealth. A people once bent on conquest had grown soft with their own success, creating mountains and heavens as if they had become the very Gods they wished to commemorate.
From the corner of his eye, Indravarman also studied Asal, who seemed as still as the golden tower. Many warriors would have spent time adjusting their armor or wiping their sweating brows. But Asal did nothing of the sort. He simply stood, facing Indravarman, his sword extended and his shield held high.
Indravarman attacked without warning, moving quickly, but not quite as fast as he might have. He had never shown anyone whom he hadn’t killed his true skill, and Asal was no different. Still, Indravarman’s wooden blade blurred as it swept through the air, and Asal was barely able to raise his shield in time to ward off the blow. Asal stepped backward as Indravarman pressed on with his attack, his great strength allowing him to reverse the direction of his blade and to bring it upward, toward Asal’s groin. This time Asal parried the stroke with his own weapon—sword struck against sword, and shield met shield. Both men grunted. Indravarman pivoted his wrist, simultaneously thrusting his weapon forward as if it were a giant dagger. His blade slid past Asal’s. The younger warrior dropped to avoid the blow, but Indravarman had expected such a maneuver and brought the edge of his shield up, slamming it into the bottom of Asal’s chin. The impact opened a wound that immediately bled. For an instant, something flashed across Asal’s face. Rage, perhaps. But then the look was gone as he counterattacked, forcing Indravarman to use nearly his full strength to defend himself.
The combatants attacked and retreated for several minutes. Finally, when both had received minor wounds, Indravarman lowered his weapon. He laughed. Had it been a real fight, he was certain he would have killed Asal, and this knowledge gave him enormous joy. Battle, even with its pain and injuries, always made him feel young, and his bout with Asal was no different.
“Walk with me,” Indravarman said, and then headed toward Phimeanakas.
As they climbed the temple’s northern stairs, Indravarman studied the guardian lions. Defiance had been etched into their faces, and he once again wondered where Jayavar was. Surely the exiled prince was building an army and planning to retake the city. Po Rame’s spies had heard such whispers, though no one knew Jayavar’s location.
After reaching the temple’s top level, Indravarman walked to the central tower and placed his hand against the warm gold. Asal’s chin still bled, and red drops fell onto the gray sandstone. “Now you’re a part of their temple,” Indravarman said.
“I—”
“Were the priests executed this morning?”
“Yes, Lord King.”
“How did they die?”
“With grace.”
Indravarman nodded. “Why were they all old and feeble?”
“Because, Lord King, they were held in the highest regard. Your message was heard.”
An elephant trumpeted below. Indravarman looked to the west, eyeing a swath of empty space and wondering if the Khmers had planned to build another temple nearby. “Where is he hiding, Asal? Where would you hide?”
Asal scanned the horizon, shielding his eyes from the sun. “He’s near.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not certain, but—”
“Tell me.”
“Because he can defeat us only if he knows what to expect, Lord King. And the only way to learn about us is to study us.”
“So how do we trap him?”
Asal shifted his weight. “We invite an attack. We appear to spread ourselves thin when in truth we’re as hard as teak.”
Indravarman moved his hand along the gold, marveling at its uniformity. “Po Rame plans to bring me Jayavar’s head.”
“Po Rame can try. But it’s easier to boast than to do.”
“I boast and I do.”
“Yes, Lord. But that’s why you’re king. Po Rame is nothing but a plague.”
Indravarman remembered the rage that had flashed on Asal’s face. He would have to be careful of this one. Asal was valuable, but at some point his importance would diminish, and when that day arrived, he would have to die. “Find me Jayavar,” Indravarman said. “Find me Jayavar and you shall know wealth beyond your boldest dreams.”
“My dreams are humble, Lord King. I only wish to serve you.”
“Why? Why do you only wish to serve me?”
“To fulfill my duty. To ensure the station of my unborn sons.”
Indravarman patted the gold. “You’re wise to keep secrets, Asal. Some men hide gold. Others cover a mountain with it. You, I think, would conceal such treasure, though I’m unsure what you covet. Someday I shall know. You shall tell me, and whatever you seek I shall provide.”
“I’ll hope for that day, Lord King.”
“Leave me.”
Asal nodded and walked back down the stairs. Indravarman watched him depart, wondering how long it would take to discover his desires. Every man had desires, and through those wants he could be exploited. Indravarman sensed that behind Asal’s stoicism lay a dangerous unpredictability, which made him potent on a field of battle and the most valuable of all Cham officers. But Indravarman had come to power by understanding his friends and his foes. Asal remained a mystery, which was both troubling and fascinating.
You’re worth a thousand men, Indravarman thought, still watching Asal. And that’s why, once Jayavar is dead, you shall join him. Because a king doesn’t surround himself with the mighty, but with the meek. And you’re mighty, Asal. You hide secrets from me, and that’s why I shall have to kill you.
The Great Lake was everything that its name boasted. During the monsoon season, the lake swelled to about a hundred miles
long and twenty miles wide and was so large that it could have been mistaken for an inland sea. For generations, Khmers had fished the lake, pulling immense catfish, carp, and perch from its brown water, which connected with the Mekong River. Small fishing villages built on stilts dotted the shoreline—a verdant stretch of land that was often flooded.
As far as Boran could tell, the nearby settlement was abandoned. Its thatch and bamboo homes, hardly big enough to accommodate a sleeping family, were empty. Boran had been to the Great Lake before and knew that the Khmers who lived here spent more time on their boats than in their homes. They must have seen the Cham army approach and fled to a different area.
Boran paddled his boat beneath the homes, the stilts providing ample clearance, since with the end of the monsoon season the water had already started to recede. The homes reminded him of skeletons—lifeless and vacant. Behind him, Prak and Vibol whispered. Soriya sat at the rear of the boat, where she pretended to mend a net, just in case they were spotted by a Cham patrol. Their knives and axe were hidden beneath strips of dried catfish.
They had discovered the Cham encampment the previous evening. Scores of Cham boats were beached and docked on the northern edge of the lake, which was just a day’s walk from Angkor. The Chams had obviously sailed to the site from their homeland, bringing supplies necessary for war and occupation. Trees had been felled and crude shelters built throughout the camp, which Boran guessed held several thousand warriors. He’d been afraid to venture near their enemies and had not moved beyond the fishing village, which provided good cover.
Telling his sons to be silent, Boran continued to paddle his boat beneath the Khmer homes. Though he was used to the smell of dead fish, the stench beneath the homes was nearly overwhelming. Bamboo pens built in the water held the carcasses of turtles, alligators, and catfish. During normal times, the animals would have been fed and then either sold or eaten. But the Khmers had obviously fled in haste because no one had released the animals, or returned to feed them. Bloated carcasses floated on the surface, teeming with flies and maggots.
Trying not to gag, Boran steered clear of a pen and maneuvered his boat toward the biggest dwelling. It must have been some sort of communal fishing outpost, as it was far too large for a single family. The structure rose from immense bamboo stilts. Boran was surprised to see a sleek boat moored at the bottom of a ladder and wondered why such a fine craft had been left behind. The boat would be useful, and Boran decided to take it, paddling with efficient, practiced motions. He was about to ask Vibol to grab it when voices rang out above. There were Chams inside the structure, and Boran immediately ceased all movement. His boat drifted through the water, scraping against one of the stilts. Someone was laughing. Boran’s heart began to thump with such strength that he feared the Chams would hear it. He silently cursed his stupidity, appalled that he’d placed his family in danger. More laughter erupted from above, and it was apparent that at least two men occupied the structure. The Chams began to talk. Footsteps sounded. Vibol reached under the dried catfish and removed the axe. Boran shook his head, but Vibol paid him no heed, instead pointing to the other boat, which they could now see was full of weapons, food, and supplies. The Chams must have been scouts of some kind, perhaps about to leave for a long journey. Vibol gestured toward the weapons, indicating that the Chams were defenseless. Boran shook his head again and carefully back paddled. To his dismay, Vibol grabbed a stilt and held the boat in place.
The laughter came and went like the wind. Vibol started to pull them toward the ladder, but Boran grabbed onto another stilt, holding the boat still. He shook his head, silently pleading with his son. Soriya left her position at the boat’s rear, moving over the mounds of dried fish, placing her hands on Vibol’s shoulders. She pulled herself against him, whispering into his ear.
The Chams stopped laughing. They moved about the room above.
Soriya’s brow pressed against her son’s as she continued to plead quietly. At first he only yanked harder on the stilt, but as she persisted, his determination waivered. He finally let go. Boran pulled back on his paddle, drawing them away from the Chams. His strokes were silent, strong, and steady. To bump against a stilt would betray them, and he moved with care, maneuvering his boat beneath the neighboring home and then the next.
Feet suddenly appeared on the ladder and Boran froze. His boat continued to drift as the Chams emerged. There were three of them, and though they carried no weapons, they were obviously warriors, as their bodies bulged with muscles. The Chams settled into their boat. They must have been drunk on rice wine. Their laughter came in great bursts and their movements were clumsy. One of them retched over the side of their boat, prompting the others to mimic his movements.
As the Chams paddled away, Boran thought about reversing his direction and attacking them. Perhaps this was the time for Vibol to wet his blade with Cham blood. But a drunk enemy could also be a fearless and terrible enemy. Moreover, the Chams were likely skilled at killing. Vibol was strong but untested. Prak could hardly see. And if they were to lose, Soriya would be ravished.
Boran paddled backward, creating distance between his family and the Chams. The enemy warriors headed toward the vast Cham encampment. With each of their oar strokes the figures grew smaller until they were little more than dots on the horizon. Boran finally stopped paddling and let his boat thump into the stilts of a dilapidated home. “If you ever do that again, Vibol—”
“You’re a coward,” Vibol interrupted, turning to face him. “You’re nothing but a coward! They were drunk and we could have killed them!”
“We came here to spy, not to kill! That means finding the biggest fish, not butchering the little ones.”
“Then we came for the wrong reasons! Don’t you understand that? They attacked us! They killed our friends!”
Prak put his hand on his brother’s arm. “If we learn about them, if we study them, we can kill a thousand of them with our information. We can lead our brothers here. We can have our revenge.”
“So now you’re against me too? The three of you against me?”
“I’m with you, Vibol. I’ve always been with you.”
Vibol shook off Prak’s hand. “They killed her for no reason. They…they did things to her. And if you’re all too afraid to get revenge, then I’ll get it alone. Do you hear me? I’ll do what needs to be done!”
“I’ll help you, Vibol,” Prak replied. “I will. Just give me time. Let me—”
“No!”
Soriya started to speak but stopped, instead reaching for her son’s hands.
“Leave me be!” he shouted.
“I love you.”
“If you love me, Mother, if you really do, you’ll let me go. I’ll find my own boat and chase down those Chams.”
“You ask the impossible.”
He turned away from her. “Then you don’t love me. Because you won’t give me what I need.”
Monkeys leapt from branch to branch, chasing one another, causing leaves and twigs to tumble from great heights. Though sometimes a monkey would drop a few feet, strike a thin branch, and appear destined to fall to its death, no brown blurs plummeted from the canopy. In all her years of watching the playful creatures, Ajadevi had seen only one such demise. She’d certainly come across injured monkeys, but most of those wounds were from teeth and claws. Sometimes the monkeys got carried away with their antics, fighting savagely in the treetops.
As usual, Ajadevi rode in the middle of the column. She had been talking with a young officer who seemed in awe of her husband, and after a while she grew weary of his fawning and let her horse fall back. During the past few days of travel, Jayavar had done better at dealing with his men, and Ajadevi no longer felt pressure to keep up their spirits. Jayavar rode, spoke, and schemed with his officers, filling them with confidence. Ajadevi had always found such interaction tedious. She pursued it when necessary but much preferred to talk with Jayavar, study the jungle, or pray.
Earlier in the da
y, they had come across a ruined and deserted temple, decorated with carvings of dozens of female dancers. The cheerful asparas held flowers and musical instruments. Large ficus trees had grown on top of the temple, their roots wrapping around stone walls and towers. Ajadevi was certain that many decades had passed since anyone had cared for the sacred place. As she’d studied its intricacies, she was reminded of a distant time and place. And that reminder gave her an idea that she wanted to share with Jayavar.
He finally finished strategizing with his officers and directed his horse toward hers. She watched him approach, eyeing him both critically and with affection. Though his shoulders and face were lined with grime, it seemed that his strength had returned. He no longer perpetually studied the ground, but examined the jungle instead. At least some of the time, rather than searching for the spirits of his loved ones, he appeared to look for his enemies.
“You seem better,” she said softly, wanting their conversation to remain private.
He pulled his horse alongside hers. “The closer we draw to Angkor…the better I feel.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s home. And the men are filled with hope.”
“And you?”
“I’m filled with uncertainty—though I’d rather possess uncertainty than despair.”
A monkey screeched and she glanced above. “I’ve seen something.”
“What?”
“When I was a child, I traveled to Kbal Spean. The setting…moved me. In a way, I think it’s even grander than Angkor Wat.”
Jayavar’s horse stumbled over a log and the prince lurched forward, then righted himself on the silk pad that comforted both him and his mount. “I’ve never been to Kbal Spean. Tell me about it.”
“At Kbal Spean a narrow river runs over beds of sandstone. Long ago, Hindu priests carved images of Vishnu, of Shiva, and of sacred animals into these beds. In the monsoon season the river covers the carvings. In the dry season they are revealed. The place is sacred. But best for us…it lies within a valley that is thick with bamboo. There’s game, fresh water, and vantage points from which to view an enemy. We could hide an army there and never be found.”