The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  All of which had been more than enough to satisfy Chandra. Escaping Samudra’s subtle traps was not so easy.

  He had been summoned to the emperor’s balcony the morning after the wedding rites. A dainty breakfast had been spread on low tables beside the bathing pool. The emperor, the Father of the Throne, Samudra the Usurper, sat on cushions of rose-and-gold silk, indecently close to his queen, who had been draped in silks and linens in all the colors of flame. Servants clad in white paced silently back and forth, filling goblets and removing plates. All the while Samudra’s bound-sorcerer, the woman Hamsa, stood as still as the pillar that shaded her, one hand resting lightly on her staff. The queen’s bound-sorcerer was nowhere to be seen, a fact Samudra noted with disquiet as he knelt and bowed his head to the tiled floor.

  “Agnidh Yamuna,” said the emperor in a perfectly friendly fashion. “Rise. Sit with us. There are matters we would discuss with you.”

  Hoping his silence would be taken for respectful humility, Yamuna lifted himself from the obeisance and knelt on the sky blue cushion the servant set down for him. A few slices of bread, thick with candied fruit, and a goblet of tangerine juice were placed in front of him, for it was known that as part of his asceticism, Yamuna ate only the simplest and plainest of foods. He was not one like Agnidh Hamsa, to gorge himself whenever the opportunity arose.

  “We wanted to take this opportunity before you leave with Chandra to thank you, Yamuna, for your loyal service to our family,” Samudra went on.

  Yamuna bowed his head. What was running through the usurper’s mind? What did he want?

  “I did not succeed the throne under favorable circumstances,” Samudra went on. “I do not deny it. I have since tried my best to make peace within the palace as well as without.”

  Samudra was a soldier. His mind worked at all problems as if they were campaigns. Yet, he had convinced more than one enemy to surrender without bloodshed using the promise of a liberal treaty in place of a long siege. He knew well how to flatter, and when to use a soft word while laying his naked sword across his lap for the enemy to see. It was Samudra who left his brother, and Yamuna, alive, when all around him, including the queen, urged that they be killed.

  “The wisdom of the Father of the Throne is well known,” murmured Yamuna piously.

  The queen’s eyes flashed, seeing the platitude plainly for what it was. Yamuna did not care. Whatever plan they had concocted between them, Samudra would not permit her to disrupt it through something so trifling as anger.

  “Yamuna, I have known you as long as I have known any. You have been with my brother his whole life, as Hamsa has been with me. I know your service does not come easily to you, and it comes less so now that Agnidh Hamsa has taken your place beside the throne to do the rites of empire and sacrifice in your place.”

  Yamuna glanced sharply at Hamsa, who did not even raise an eyebrow to indicate that she saw him. Not that Hamsa had ever deigned to take much note of him since her part in Samudra’s … ascension.

  “I accept my place.” Yamuna told the lie smoothly and without inflection. He had, after all, said it often enough. “I do the office the Mothers have given me.”

  “I can break your bond with Chandra.”

  Yamuna’s head jerked up. Samudra’s face was perfectly open, and perfectly frank. The queen raised a gilded goblet in a slight toast to Yamuna before she drank, watching him carefully over the bejeweled rim.

  “I am bound to the life of Chandra tya Achin Ireshpad,” said Yamuna firmly. “It is a thing fixed and cannot be broken.”

  “Yes, it can.”

  Samudra was too much of a soldier to recline on his pillows, but he did lean back a little, letting Yamuna get a good look at the full length of him. He sat, straight, cross-legged and calm, with an imperial bearing Chandra could never have managed. His hands rested on his knees. It did not take much work for Yamuna to imagine the sword lying under them.

  “Agnidh Hamsa has found the way. There are bonds that my word as emperor, Father of the Throne, the one who is joined to the land, may break. This is one of them.”

  To his shame, Yamuna felt his mouth go dry as he realized what Samudra was truly offering him. Freedom. Were his bond broken, he could walk away from Chandra, from the Pearl Throne, and from all the petty cares that clustered in its shadows. He could step into the sunlight and go where he would. He could even walk into the northern lands on his own, and seek out his destiny there without having to coax and crawl before Chandra and his son.

  Freedom.

  Yamuna had to swallow before he could make himself speak clearly. “But such a thing could not come without price.”

  “There will be no further price.” Samudra shook his head. “You are dissatisfied with your service. You do not like your place in the shadow of the throne, and you will like the southlands even less. That is enough. You have proven true when your master most needed you, and I am willing to reward that fidelity by releasing you now.”

  Yamuna’s heart beat hard within his chest. Samudra was not lying. Not he. Oh, he was not above a ruse and deep deception when it suited him, but not like this. Not a bald lie to an enemy’s face.

  What do you want? Yamuna thought, working to keep his expression bland. He added another thought. What do you know?

  Then, he saw it. You know your brother to be harmless and ineffectual. That is why you let him live when you could have killed him. For all you would do, you would not shed family blood without true need. You will get him out of the court, you will give him women to keep him watched and sated, and you will send me away. You know he has ideas of regaining the throne. Despite all, Yamuna felt his eyes narrow. And you know where they come from.

  If my bond is broken, if I leave him, the last true danger to your rule is gone for good.

  But what did Yamuna care for any of that? The politics of empire meant nothing to him. They were but the means to an end, and Samudra had just offered to remove all need for them.

  Freedom.

  Yamuna laid his staff down at the fountain’s edge. The monkeys there proved reluctant to desert their territory and splashed and scrambled to the far side, shrieking insults at him as he stripped off his loincloth and sandals. The water ran clean and pure into the red stone basin, warmed by sun above and stone below. Yamuna scooped the clear water into his hands and used it to wash the dust of walking from his body. He poured more water over his head and combed his fingers through his hair and beard to clean them as well. He rinsed his mouth and spat, startling the monkeys again and making them leap and scream in frustration, waving their arms at him, plainly saying “go away, go away!” The male leaned across the edge of the fountain, baring his teeth and growling low in his throat, but he made no move to attack.

  Very like Chandra. Yamuna rewrapped his cloth and picked his staff back up. His fall was not undeserved.

  Well, Yamuna, what will you do?

  Those were the words the queen had spoken to him on the sun-drenched balcony. The break in the rains was quite welcome, and all were enjoying it. To all appearances she was a leisurely lady, stretched across a suite of pillows, picking at the dainties before her with her right hand and listening without too much attention to the business of her husband.

  It was a ruse, and those who believed her wits were not as sharp as her husband’s swords often learned of their mistake far too late.

  “Father of the Throne,” said Yamuna, stalling for time. “You ask me to break the oath of a lifetime with the words of a moment.”

  “It is not breaking an oath to be lawfully released from it.” Samudra nodded toward Hamsa. “Tell him what you have found, Agnidh.”

  Hamsa turned her head toward Yamuna, as if she were just becoming aware that any conversation was taking place before her.

  “When the Mothers came to bless the Pearl Throne built by Madher, first of the emperors, they brought with them Laws that the emperor must obey, and the Laws in which the emperor must be obeyed.”

&nb
sp; I know this as well as you, woman. But Yamuna sat silently.

  “Among these laws is the prescription that, as the emperor is father over all born in the shadow of the Pearl Throne, his alone are the hands that finally hold all oaths and contracts made to the throne and the imperial family.” Her eyes glittered amber in the sunlight. “All oaths.”

  Was it true then? Was there no bar to his leaving Chandra to fend for himself, to walking away, to devoting himself to study and asceticism until his ends were reached, until he could stand in the north lands and call down the Mothers, god to god?

  “I beg you, Father.” Yamuna bowed down and covered his face with his hands. “Give me time to think, and leave to seek solitude to take my heart’s council.”

  “Of course,” said Samudra amiably. “You may give us your answer tomorrow.”

  So, Yamuna had come here, to this place of old power and chittering monkeys to seek his answers and understand what he must do. If he needed the bond Chandra and Kacha’s formal conquest would bring in order to find his divinity, then he could not free himself. But if he did not …

  Past the fountain, Devang became a plaza with curving walls that were the towering red cliffs, carved with reliefs of the gods; playing games, calling down storms, healing the sick, sitting in judgment over the demons. The only other decoration had been carved into the smooth floor.

  It was a sun wheel, a pattern of concentric circles and radiating arms. Each circle was filled with meticulously carved planets and stars along with their ruling gods and elements. It was so large it was difficult to take in all at once down here in the plaza. One had to scale the cliffs and look down on it to see its true sweep.

  It was also what Yamuna had come here to find. Years of study and searching through the oldest texts and tablets had led him to believe that this was part of a weaving, one that could allow the skilled to see into the future, one of the most difficult of the sorcerous arts. He had traced a trail of hints and possibilities, from ancient acolytes to worn carvings on pillars that marked ancient cities and shrines to one great, black pillar of iron that was supposed to mark the spot where the gods stood to create Hastinapura from the surrounding ocean.

  From his small travel bag, Yamuna pulled a tiny vial made of obsidian. In it was a liquid it had taken him a lifetime’s work to distill. Patient skill and patient magic had been woven into this liquor to bring it properly into being, and now he would use what was left to make this last, most important decision.

  The stone wheel spread out before him, its carvings as elaborate as the pattern woven into the finest carpet. Yamuna cracked the seal on the vial and pulled out the stopper.

  Gently, reverently, he stepped onto the first circle of the wheel. He held the vial before him, and tipped one drop of the golden distillation onto the burning red stone. Its rich, heady scent rose up at once.

  “I give you to drink of the fruits of the trees,” he said, walking forward so that the soles of his feet pressed the liquor into the stone. It was slick and hot underfoot and its perfume wafted about him. Another careful drop, another careful step. “I give you to drink of the flowers of the field and the blood of life.” Yamuna kept his words steady, matching them in time to his steps, and his offering of the sacred liquor. It was not easy. The scent soaked into his mind as the strong liquor soaked into his skin, turning him dizzy and making him feel far too light. The heat began to burn his much-toughened soles, but he held himself firmly. This was a weaving of the most delicate kind. Although it was built on a foundation of stone, all was done in air, the least solid of all the elements. He must not miss a single step or syllable.

  “I give you to drink of fire and water, of earth and air. I give you to drink of the world, of all that is present and past. I give you to drink of myself. I walk the paths of stone and I pour out all I have that you might drink. Only show me, show me what is yet to come. Show me, show me if I may accept what is offered and gain what it is I seek.”

  Heat beat down. The air felt strangely dry for this season of rains. It seemed to grate against every pore. The scent of the liquor was too thick to be mere vapor. It was a tactile curtain, thick and binding, pressing against him, smothering his breath and making his footsteps unsteady. But he did not feel afraid. He felt buoyant, as if any step might lift him off the ground and allow him to fly freely away. The sensation made it difficult to see. His own hands and voice felt far away. The scented curtain surrounded him and supported him. It was a rich veil between him and the world, removing all care, all responsibility, lifting him into the air, dissolving him from flesh and the cares of the flesh, the world of the flesh, winding and binding him into a new world, where he himself was nothing but a vapor.

  In this new world, the wheels that had been beneath his feet turned freely in the golden light of the sun. All that drove mortal destiny was visible. Each of the figures danced within its own sphere, the gods at their wars and their justice, the symbols turning like the wheels themselves, pausing to point this way, then that, to bestow fortune or tragedy to the immortal dramas unfolding around them.

  As a vapor, Yamuna wafted calmly over the turning wheels, until one of the turning symbols stilled before him. It was an empty throne. It pulled at him, airy being that he was, and he saw himself sitting in it. The gods crowded around his feet, ready to greet him as great among them. His left hand held a lotus, his right held a sword, and he knew himself to be powerful, even as the immortal reckon power. He tossed up the lotus and as it fell, he sliced it neatly in two with his sword and the petals rained down upon the old gods who lifted their hands to catch them, accepting his bounty, and he knew that beyond the range of his golden vision, the Seven Mothers saw all this, and grew unquiet.

  Yamuna drifted closer to this vision, this turn of the wheel that promised him all he sought, and he saw that around his neck was a golden collar, and from the collar dangled the severed end of a golden chain. His broken oath, his freedom from Chandra brought him to this throne. Yamuna saw all this and rejoiced.

  But the wheels kept turning. The throne turned under Yamuna, the sword turned, the severed lotus turned, and all the dances moved, but Yamuna did not move, and their turning toppled him from his seat, and lotus and sword fell, and pierced his side. Yamuna saw himself sprawled at the feet of the gods, impaled upon his own sword, covered in the petals of the lotus, his hand stretching out toward the other end of his chain as if seeking to join the two together again.

  The wheels turned and the world turned, and their current caught up the vapor that was Yamuna and spun it wildly around until all became a blur of red and gold, heat and heady perfume, senseless, swirling, spinning ever faster until the force of its fury cast Yamuna out, back into his flesh, falling hard against the unmoving stone wheel where he had begun.

  Yamuna tasted blood where he had bitten his tongue. More blood trickled down his split chin onto the carved wheels where he sprawled, darkening and hardening quickly in the baking sun. He felt as parched as a stone himself, but he could not move. All force of will and strength of body had been wrung from him, and he had no choice but to lie unsheltered in the sun until they returned to him.

  But he had seen what he needed to see. If he severed his chain, if he allowed his vow to be annulled, it would bring his destruction.

  So, my little Prince Chandra, it would appear I need you yet awhile longer.

  At last, burning from the heat of the sun above and the heat of the stone below, Yamuna made himself move. He crawled one painful inch at a time back toward the fountain. The sound of the cool, trickling water sent tremors through his frame. The monkeys, chased away by his magics, had returned now, and they hooted and screamed at him. Aware that he was much weakened, perhaps even dying, they grew bold and scampered close to shriek at him before running back to the safety of their niches. He crawled forward, concentrating only on moving arms and legs. At last, he fell into the fountain’s shallow trough. Water cascaded over him like the blessings of paradise. He lay in th
e fresh water, drinking with his mouth and with his pores, until the burning lessened and he was able to stand without shaking, and reclaim the meager clothes that he had laid beside his pouch and staff.

  Dressed again, but feeling only a little stronger, Yamuna knelt in the shadow cast by the nearby temple. He opened his pouch and took a little bread to eat with fresh drafts from the fountain. Then, he brought out another bottle. This one was a squat, ungainly jar of red clay, the exact color of the stone around him. Yamuna had made the vessel from clay from a spring close to Devang, and with his own hands he had carved the weaving patterns that covered its sides. More red clay, carved with a representation of the sun wheel at his feet, sealed the jar tightly.

  Yamuna took a deep breath. This would not take much strength, which was fortunate, as he did not have much to give, but it would require a show of strength. He crossed his legs, stiffened his spine so that he sat up straight and fixed his face in a stern attitude.

  Then, he swiftly cracked the seal and cast the jar away.

  The air above the jar blurred and warped. Opaque figures formed slowly, as if they pulled their constituent elements from the surrounding ether. They grew red and gold, like the surrounding sun-baked stone. They lengthened and separated into a crowd of four, all standing on sinewy legs, with taloned feet. Torsos, armored and chained, thickened and sprouted terrible arms that ended in clawed hands clutching spears and curved swords. Fangs as curved as those blades protruded from gaping lips. Sail-shaped ears hung with gold turned in Yamuna’s direction, as did the terribly alert, round, yellow eyes. Wings, heavy with feathers the color of old blood, spread from their shoulders.

  The first among them, the tallest, with the most terrible eyes, roared out a wordless challenge and rushed toward Yamuna, shaking his weapons and raising his wings to blot out the sun so that all Yamuna could see was a shadow in the shape of a nightmare. He did not permit himself to flinch, even as the demon stabbed his spear down at his heart and his eyes, at his hands and his private parts. The demon could not harm him. The invisible bonds that restrained it were too well forged.