“Thank you. And I am just Raj, now more than ever.”
Senmut murmured something in his beard about the turning of the generations, the balances between man and god, the dialogue of love and discord, the acceptance and use of power, the borders of banality . . .
With a sigh Gard glanced back over his shoulder, upstream—no, he could no longer see the mountains framing the now defunct Alliance. Gone was the procession, torches smearing before his red-rimmed eyes, that had laid Menelik, Persis and Shikar to rest in their ancestors’ stone tomb. The chants of the priests had dissipated more quickly than their incessant questions— “Keep the bureaucracy,” Senmut had advised. “They do the real work. Makes changing rulers no more complicated than changing the linens on a bed.”
Gard could no longer hear the hoofbeats of horses carrying messages to Rajinder, or those that returned with the bewildered Apsuri garrison following Rajinder himself, who was less bewildered than determined. Tutors for Shikar’s sons and governors for the cities of the Alliance—taxes and trade routes, religious observances and distribution of excess food downriver . . . Not since he had left the Empire had Gard seen a ruler who could so gracefully but so sternly pour oil on troubled waters, creating a smooth surface that reflected concentric rainbows of respect and efficiency.
Trade routes. Pilgrims flocked up the roads and the river, from all corners of the Mohan, eager to see the miraculous transformation of Apsurakand into the seat of Saavedra, eager to hear of the miraculous appearance of Saavedra herself as the unbelievers perished at hands of great wizards.
Great wizards. By the time the ship had started toward Ferangipur, Tarek and Bhai were well on their way to becoming bogeymen, malevolent shapes that children checked for under their beds. But Gard no longer had nightmares, under his bed or anywhere else.
And Deva—well, the pilgrims would have deified Deva, but she ducked adulation, unimpressed, and walked on Gard’s arm onto the ship, with her plain white cotton sari looped modestly around her plain cotton face.
He turned back, securing his cheek in Deva’s lap, and gazed ahead, down the stream of the Mohan, into the future.
“Still no nightmares?” Deva queried.
“No. No dark passages, no pale passages, no wings, no hoofbeats. I seem finally to have worn them out.”
“Did you ever think that the nightmares were shadows cast by your power, and when you burned your power away you extinguished them as well?”
“Oh I have thought,” said Gard, “at great length.”
Deva peered down at him. “About Tarek?”
“He goaded me into exiling him rather than killing him. I lacked the nerve to kill him . . .”
“As did I.”
But it was too late to castigate himself for actions either omitted or committed. “I would really rather have been used by Tarek than by those elements of chance we call gods. At least Tarek existed.”
“Gard!” Deva exclaimed. “Can you deny that you felt the touch of Saavedra there, at the end?”
Gard shifted upon the hard wood of the deck. Something had indubitably possessed Deva—even his stubborn senses had perceived it. Whether it had been a deity or just her own determination he supposed he would never know. And whatever it was, external force or internal compulsion, it had now, thankfully, released her.
Screw the gods, anyway! They exist only in the perceptions of men! With an incorrigible grin he answered Deva’s question. “I felt your touch. I felt the refreshing breeze of your simpleminded certainties, bluffing Tarek into belief. Is there more than that?”
She pulled his hair playfully. The ship rounded a bend in the river.
The horizon widened, the arch of the sky darkened with a richer blue. Egrets flew in white exclamation points across the forest. One more watery curve, and Ferangipur would lie before them. Rajinder and Ladhani strained forward.
“If I took some of that explosive powder,” said Senmut to no one in particular, brow furrowed, “and put it in a long tube—paper? bamboo?—divided by partitions, each bit would burn sequentially. A controlled explosion would propel the tube into the sky. I could add dyes, for a shower of colored sparks—hmm—just right for a celebration . . .” His forehead smoothed and he called brightly to Deva, “It is almost the day of the Sun’s Awakening, the winter solstice and your birthday. We shall have a party.”
“My birthday,” said Deva. “So important in the prophecy. The prophecy that caused so much trouble and was not really fulfilled.”
“Not fulfilled!” exclaimed Senmut. “It was fulfilled to the letter.”
Even faithful Deva looked skeptical at that.
“The gods, I suppose, knew perfectly well what was happening,” Senmut continued, marking points with the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other. “It was our limited perceptions that interpreted the prophecy in terms we wanted to hear.”
“No doubt about that,” said Gard.
Senmut continued, ignoring the interruption. “Men think of war as glorious, and so, when Jofar, the warrior, led the Alliance to war, we thought he was the child who was to bring glory to Apsurakand. But in reality it was when Menelik adopted Jofar, and sacrificed Zoe toward his own martial ends, that Persis swore his death. And while Menelik was ruler of the entire Mohan, it was for only two months. In the end he did, indeed, die.”
“Ah,” said Deva faintly.
“And you, Deva. Your powers enabled Saavedra to reassert herself over the city of her birth. Now, Apsurakand is the holiest shrine in the entire Mohan, glorified by pilgrims from far and near. Do you see?”
“Oh,” Rajinder said, nodding. “I never looked at it that way.”
“Of course you did not,” said Senmut, beard bristling. “The gods work with damnable subtlety.”
Deva’s mouth wobbled. Her hand stiffened in Gard’s. “Subtly, yes,” she whispered, “their wonders to perform, and mortals to use . . .”
Was she feeling nauseous from pregnancy, Gard wondered, or from a comprehension of Saavedra’s ruthlessness? Quickly, he snaked his arm around her waist. Not only was he responsible for the former, but he had had his part in rubbing her nose in the latter.
She shook her head, doubting her doubts, choosing the solace of faith. Choose for both us, Gard asked her silently. But her eyes looked toward the river, no longer able to hear his thought.
What was much more intriguing than questions of intent and belief was how her face was not shaped any differently than it had been when she was beautiful. Perhaps her complexion was more sallow, and her eyes were the unprepossessing nutmeg brown of the river rather than the mysterious blue-green-violet of the sea, but still her features were uplifted by equal measures of intelligence and contentiousness. And yet now she was homely, the planes of her face not quite proportioned in the most pleasing dimensions, the angles not quite meeting in the most agreeable perspectives, her lashes a little sparse, her brows a bit uneven . . . Gods save me from beautiful women, he sighed. Deva is perfect as she is.
If they had a daughter, though—well, the child would no doubt be lovely. Gard envisioned himself some years hence, standing, sword drawn—except that he had no sword any more—fending off legions of irresponsible suitors. He knew all the tricks of lustfully irresponsible suitors—let them just try to seduce his little girl . . . He laughed helplessly.
“I think,” said Senmut, “that I shall write a story of the war and its causes. An object lesson for future generations. It would make quite a nice epic poem if I could somehow make it sound heroic. Perhaps I could attribute to the gods your role, Gard.”
“Yes, Senmut,” Gard said through his smile, “I did make a difference in this world, as you wanted when you first—kidnapped me?”
Senmut groaned. “Not as I wanted, boy. But then, some questions have very difficult answers . . .”
“When they have answers at all,” offered Gard.
“. . . such as how to deal with the character of Tarek in my story.” The name splattered
across the deck of the ship like a bucket of cold water.
After a moment Rajinder said, “He dared to manipulate the gods themselves. I really rather admired his independence.”
“Rather disappointing,” said Ladhani, “that in the end he proved to have been used more thoroughly than any of us.”
“Was he?” Gard asked. “He used Bogatyl, yes. He used Bhai. He even used Raman. But was it his idea to tempt the goddesses with the pomegranate, and lead them into tempting Vijay? Did he deliberately sacrifice Jofar, or did he lose his touch—briefly—then?”
“It did rather take him aback, I think,” continued Senmut, “to discover Deva was his daughter. But he very quickly added her to his scheme. I doubt if he really would have sacrificed her.”
Again Deva grew very still. Gard tightened his arm around her waist and said, “Or would that, too, have been illusion? Was it I who forced him to actually confront her?”
She leaned into his embrace. “Because I sided with you,” she said. “Coincidence, perhaps. Chance. A flick of the hand of fate.” And as he peered quizzically up at her, she added, “You are a gambler, Gard, as Tarek was. Except you know when to stop.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Now.”
A sailor shouted. The sails flapped thunderously and the ship turned. There, a dark silhouette on the lavish glare of the evening light, was Ferangipur. For a moment Gard saw it whole again, battlements stalking proudly toward the height of the great tower, the palace a confection in lace, the rows of temples like divine gaming pieces strewn upon a mortal maidan. He saw elephants gathered before its gates, and a troop of imperial cavalry arriving with letters from Andrion . . .
No. Even Andrion was constrained by time and distance. By the time he did hear from the Emperor, Gard could simply send him a copy of Senmut’s story, properly annotated with reality, the borders between the mundane and the supernatural tidily defined. From his own viewpoint, of course.
The sun sank below the horizon. Pure translucent shadow draped itself over the ruins of Ferangipur. The stump of the great tower, the brick and board filled corrugations in the walls made the city looked like a gap-toothed grin. A village idiot, Gard thought, weathered but innocent.
Children rushed shouting down to the ship, among them the smudged and ruddily healthy face of Narayan. Ladhani, crying and smiling at once, waved to him. He carried a bouquet of weeds plucked from among the tumbled blocks of the city, pale violet blossoms winking in the wind. “Loosestrife,” Senmut said, nodding sagely.
Sailors rushed to bridge the gap between ship and riverbank. Rajinder handed Ladhani over the railing and down the ramp. Senmut patted his robes, fussing, “Now where did I put my lens?”
The minuscule gnat that had been Gard’s dragonet buzzed from one eardrum to the other, furrowing his mind. “There it is,” he said, pointing toward Senmut’s pouch hanging beside a hatchway.
“Thank you, my boy.” Senmut retrieved the pouch and bustled away.
Gard stood, hand still outstretched, pointing. Now that was interesting. The little daemon was not quite gone. Finding lost objects—that might be a valuable skill.
Deva stood, sniffing away a slight gloss in her eyes, and smoothed her sari. “Well, wizard-ji. Are you coming?”
Rajinder and Ladhani, waving their loosestrife like a banner, started toward the city. Their escort of children frolicked before them like dolphins before the bow of a ship. Senmut handed Srivastava across to the ground of Ferangipur and stood watching as she ran her tongue between her lips and inspected the city. Her stiff, sere face relaxed into a smile.
Beyond the silken sheet of the river, beyond the coral-encrusted islands, a gibbous moon hung like a tear upon the cheek of night. A falcon coasted serenely overhead. Its wing tips brushed the tear and transformed it into a baroque pearl. Gard saluted the raptor—well, great-grandfather, I have made something of myself at last. Just what, I am not quite sure . . .
With strong beats of its wings the falcon swirled away into the sky and disappeared.
Deva waited patiently, her plain face glowing with the mingled light and shadow of dusk. Goddess, demoness, shakhmi . . . Her power over him was by most elemental of spells. Gard took her hand, patted her stomach, and said, “So, love, we have come home.”
“It is about time,” she replied.
About the Author
After starting out in science fiction and fantasy, Lillian Stewart Carl is now writing contemporary novels blending mystery, romance, and fantasy, along with short mystery and fantasy stories. Her work often includes paranormal themes. It always features plots based on history and archaeology. While she doesn’t write comedy, she believes in characters with a sense of humor. Her novels have been compared to those of Daphne du Maurier, Mary Renault, Mary Stewart (no relation), Barbara Michaels/Elizabeth Peters, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s colleague Charles Williams.
Her fantasies are set in a mythological, alternate-history Mediterranean and India. Her contemporary novels are set in Texas, in Ohio, in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, and in England and Scotland.
Of her Lucifer’s Crown, Library Journal says: "Blending historical mystery with a touch of the supernatural, the author creates an intriguing exploration of faith and redemption in a world that is at once both modern and timeless.
Of her Shadows in Scarlet, Publishers Weekly says, “Presenting a delicious mix of romance and supernatural suspense, Carl (Ashes to Ashes) delivers yet another immensely readable tale. She has created an engaging cast and a very entertaining plot, spicing the mix with some interesting twists on the ghostly romantic suspense novel.”
Among many other novels, Lillian is the author of the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron cross-genre mystery series: America’s exile and Scotland’s finest on the trail of all-too-living legends. Of The Secret Portrait, Kirkus says: “Mystery, history and sexual tension blend with a taste of the wild beauty of the Highlands”. Of The Burning Glass, Publishers Weekly says: “Authentic dialect, detailed descriptions of the castle and environs, and vivid characters recreate an area rich in history and legend. The tightly woven plot is certain to delight history fans with its dramatic collision of past and present.”
With John Helfers, Lillian co-edited The Vorkosigan Companion, a retrospective on Lois McMaster Bujold’s science fiction work, which was nominated for a Hugo award.
Her first story collection, Along the Rim of Time, was published in 2000, and her second, The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth, in 2008, including three stories that were reprinted in Year’s Best mystery anthologies.
Her books are available in both print and electronic editions. Here are her other Smashwords titles. Here is her website. Here is her Facebook fan page.
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