Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  By the time the two sons, Adri and Shvate, were born to the princesses Ember and Umber, every caucus of power in Hastinaga was unambiguous in its loyalty. Every last denizen of the land, even those sworn allies in far-flung corners of the empire, raised their voice in celebration and joy. For the greater prosperity of the Krushan meant the greater prosperity of them all. Such was the promise of Vrath’s regency and administration. Having two additional heirs to the throne could only mean that this prosperity was now guaranteed even after Vrath’s eventual demise, if and when such an event ever occurred.

  Even those who secretly resented the power of the Krushan throne and wished and hoped for their downfall were effectively shut up by Jilana’s announcement. The last vestige of hope for the naysayers and dissenters was crushed.

  So they all did as any sensible player in the game of kings must do: they bowed down to the Krushan dynasty, celebrated its continuance with the birth of the two new male heirs, and occupied themselves in building their own fortunes, setting aside for now all thought of secession or rebellion.

  The period that followed the birth of the two boys was a golden one in Krushan history.

  The kingdom of Hastinaga, the vast holdings of the Burnt Empire, all grew in prosperity and repute. The gods showered their blessings, spawning bountiful crops and rich harvests. Flowers and fruit colored the landscape, providing fragrant garlands and sweet nectar. Beasts of burden undertook their labor without complaint; animals mated and littered and were content; birds filled the air with cheer. Traders prospered; artisans found ample work; bards were rewarded well enough that they composed odes of joy.

  Prosperity, gainful employment, and the absence of local unrest changed the character of the citizenry. Even the commonfolk of the kingdom gained a reputation as being honest, fair-minded, jovial. Soldiers were brave; gurus more learned than ever; students better behaved and eager to gain knowledge. People respected one another and upheld Krushan law. Rites were performed as prescribed; charity was given without complaint; robbers and thieves found more opportunities to earn lawfully than through criminal acts. Pride receded, anger was quelled, greed was shunned: when all was plentiful, no man had reason to covet another’s wealth, possessions, or stature. People aided one another in their rise to success. What use was competition when partnership benefitted both parties more profitably?

  Across the country, it seemed as if the Age of Prosperity had dawned anew. It was as if the sun of history had traveled backward in time and the world was young and fresh and full of hope once more.

  It was only as the boys grew old enough to be seen and heard by one and all, once the public ecstasy at the royal issue had faded, once the heirs stepped out into the public view, that the kingdom and the world realized to their shock that the rumors were true after all.

  11

  Prince Adri, the younger of the two princes, was as blind as a stone. He was gifted from the outset with an extraordinary number of compensatory abilities. He could hear, smell, sense, and feel far more sensitively than most. With the help of Palace Guru, he learned from a nascent age to develop these abilities and use them to cast a kind of sensory net around his body, moving and maneuvering with astonishing grace and agility in the trickiest of settings. He was even able to fight in this fashion against sighted warriors, and often offered up worthy opposition.

  But his opponents soon learned that while his senses and training could compensate for his blindness, Adri had a fatal weakness: his temper.

  All an opponent had to do was whisper the word “blind” in any combination of insults—“blind fool,” “eyeless wonder,” and “owl prince” were among the less offensive epithets—and Adri was lost. Overcome by anger at first, later by frustration, then by despair, and finally by a crushing, debilitating paralysis of mind, will, and body, he would lose the bout. This weakness grew into a canker, which in turn blossomed into a condition in its own right. One day, the blind prince threw his weapon aside with a clanging finality and went to his chambers, from whence he did not emerge for either food, water, or conversation for a whole seven-day. After that, he was never the same, reduced to a rail-thin, dark-souled shadow of his former self. He never touched a weapon again or tolerated being asked, however kindly, to consider taking up arms again.

  12

  Prince Shvate was, just as his name suggested, “white colored”: an albino with milky pale skin and colorless eyes that could not withstand bright light. The light of the sun was so torturous to him that from a tender age, he fell into the practice of sleeping by day and emerging at sundown. This in itself was regarded as scandalous, and indeed was even considered by some to be against Krushan law. Yet he was a prince of Krushan. And no one dared speak ill of this or any other habit of the princes of Krushan. By night, his milk-pale complexion seemed to glow in pitch-darkness, frightening many a soul that glimpsed him in the hours of the owl watch. His condition rendered him able to see sufficiently even in the dark, like a predatory animal, and so he trained under cover of night, requiring only the faint gleam of shielded lamps for the benefit of his instructors and sparring partners. In time, this disadvantage turned into his keenest advantage, enabling him to fight when no other warrior could. Even so, the stricture against raising weapons after sundown rendered even this unusual skill a fault, and armed the bows of his detractors who spoke ominously of Krushan law being violated. The fact that the stricture against fighting after sundown was intended for those who could not see by darkness meant nothing at such a time; to most, the letter of the law was more important than the intent of the law.

  In a world which scrutinized every facet of a royal heir mercilessly, accepting nothing less than the most rigorous standard of genetic perfection, neither prince was fit to rule. How could a blind king face an attacker, let alone lead an army into battle? How could a paleskin command respect from his opponents? Strong though he was, and sound of body and mind, the very sight of him would undermine his regal stature, people argued—and, also, how could he fight effectively when the bright light of morning was unbearable to his sensitive eyes? A weakness of any kind was unacceptable. And thus both princes were deemed unfit to rule by Krushan standards.

  And yet, they were Krushan princes; sons of Virya and Gada under Krushan law, regardless of the fact that they had been surrogate-fathered by Vessa—he was, after all, Jilana’s son and a renowned seer-mage and, as such, acceptable as a sire under Krushan law. They were conceived, carried to term and successfully birthed by the late kings’ wives, Ember and Umber, in the presence of hundreds of palace faithful and preceptors, who monitored every stage of the process as custom demanded, confirming the biological lineage beyond the shadow of a doubt. Nobody could dispute their legitimacy.

  For their naysayers, it was a quandary.

  And one that would lead to a dangerous spiral of events.

  If the seeds of war had been sown when Vessa fathered progeny upon the princesses Umber and Ember—and also, incidentally, upon their maid—then the coming of age of the princes Adri and Shvate represented the first green shoots of that seed, poking their way up thornily to emerge from the rich soil of Hastinaga into the gloam of the northern sun.

  The seeds of war were about to sprout a great tree of violence, one that would tower above hundreds of millions of lives in the Burnt Empire. And the fruit of that great tree would be a terrible dark and cankerous thing, bitter as heart’s blood.

  Part One

  * * *

  Adri

  1

  Adri’s earliest memories from boyhood were of a voice and a hand.

  His brother’s voice and hand.

  He did not recall the specific details of the first time, but he recalled one particular time when he, a little toddler, had stumbled and fallen.

  Falling was something he did often early in his life. Skinned knees and bruised elbows were such frequent occurrences that his were always scabbed. But there were falls and there were falls. Some resulted in more than skinne
d knees and bruised elbows. He suffered a string of injuries, none too serious, but each sufficient to deliver more lasting damage than mere bodily harm alone.

  In most cases, it was his self-confidence that was really hurt. To be able to run, to play, to gambol, or even to simply walk without constantly falling or colliding was something even the most ordinary of children enjoyed. Yet he, a prince of Hastinaga, heir to the great Burnt Empire, could not take more than a few dozen paces without injury. Could not play with the other children he heard laughing and squealing and running about with such abandon. Could not do as his growing, energetic little body desired. There was no outlet for his boundless energy. No cure for his problem.

  The royal household did everything possible to ensure his safety and comfort. There were wet nurses and maids everywhere. But he was a child, a strong, robust boy with a growing body and eager, questing mind. He wanted to run, play, yell, jump, tumble, to unleash the dog of youth.

  These luxuries were denied him.

  He had to sit and listen, merely listen, as other children did all those things. When he tried, as he often tried, to join them, it would always end the same way, with him falling or colliding, injuring himself, bleeding and cut, or bruised and battered. And each time, his self-confidence diminished, along with his zest for life.

  A bitterness took root in his heart.

  Questions arose: Why me? Why deny me this most basic of abilities? Why punish me in this manner—and it is a punishment, is it not? For what crime? What was my karma in past lives that I need suffer so in this one?

  Though everyone assured him that it was neither karma nor punishment, simply an accident of nature, he could not believe it. A wet nurse, the very one who had nursed him from birth, always told him that he had been handicapped because otherwise he was too strong, too brave, too intelligent, too powerful. The gods feared your might, she told him as she dressed his injuries and wiped his tears. They feared that you would come to the afterworld one day and challenge them in their own abodes, so they took away your sight that you might never find the way.

  I don’t want to challenge the gods, he cried. I don’t want to go to Swarga, I just want to see.

  Ember said nothing. She was barely present in his life.

  A shadow, a presence, a physical body that offered no warmth, comfort, or affection, she only saw him at bedtime, when he was brought to her after his bath, after he had been cleaned and dressed and made presentable, to bid him a good night. Even then, she did so absently, with strange formality and a sense of distance. Even when he hugged her, she would start by patting him on the back, as if admonishing him for something he had done, then, if he continued holding on too tightly or too long—which was almost every night at first—she would speak to the daiimaa, and the wet nurse would gently untangle his little hands from around her neck and separate mother and son.

  Adri could not recall a time his mother had fed him, dressed him, bathed him, washed his cuts, dressed his wounds. Telling her about the day’s accidents only seemed to elicit the same response from her: a stiff silence followed by a curt “I see.” No offer of sympathy, no words of reassurance, no gentle caress or any other show of support. Simply that vaguely disapproving “I see.” Even the choice of phrase seemed designed to belittle him. I see . . . and you don’t, you silly little blind boy.

  She never said anything more hurtful than that; she simply never said anything that showed affection, or love.

  Adri heard other children with their mothers, the way they spoke and laughed together, played together, ate together. He heard babes suckling at their mothers’ breasts. Heard the female voices cry out with alarm when they saw their children injured or about to come to harm, heard the distress and concern in their maternal voices.

  Adri never heard such emotions in his mother’s voice.

  And on that day, the day when he fell, and a hand reached out and took hold of him, a voice spoke and strengthened him, it was not his mother’s hand or voice.

  It was his brother’s.

  2

  “Adri!” Shvate cried.

  Adri gasped as he felt his feet swing out over emptiness.

  He scrambled backward, trying to find his footing on the edge of the riverbank. The heels of his feet slipped on the loamy mud. He felt himself falling, heard the roar of the water below, and absurdly thought, At least I can’t scrape my knees or elbows on water.

  Then his brother’s strong hands were grasping him tightly beneath his armpits, surrounding his chest like a vise. Shvate’s breath was hot on his left ear, grunting and exclaiming as he too seemed to struggle with the wet muddy ground, then he yanked hard on Adri, and both of them fell on their backs.

  They both lay there a moment, the mud yielding and cool underneath.

  Adri could feel the soft evening sunshine on his face, and on his arms and legs. He knew his special silk anga garment and dhoti must be soiled from falling in the mud, were perhaps even torn. He could hear the voices of the wet nurses and the younger maids from behind him, calling out his name, then came the sound of footfalls slapping the damp riverbank. A moment later, he felt the presence of people all around him, helping him up and fussing.

  “He was about to step off the edge!”

  “Into the river!”

  “He could have drowned!”

  “The water flows so strongly here, he would have been taken downriver in a flash.”

  “He would have been a mile away before we started after him.”

  All this was said and more like it.

  Adri was used to it.

  He had been the center of many such scares and alarms.

  But he knew this was different.

  It was the anniversary of his naming day, for one thing.

  Then there was the river: he had never fallen into a river before.

  And of course, there was Shvate’s voice, right beside him.

  “Adri, are you well?”

  He turned his head toward the sound of his brother’s voice.

  He attempted a smile.

  Then, remembering what one of the children had told him—You look like an urrkh when you do that!—he spoke aloud.

  “Shvate.”

  “Yes, Adri?”

  “Brother.”

  It was all he could think of to say at that moment.

  Gratitude, affection, respect, adoration, all packed into that one word. Brother.

  The moment was interrupted by the wet nurses, who then began fussing over Shvate as well. As did, before long, Uncle Vrath and Grandmother Jilana.

  “You saved your brother’s life, young Shvate.”

  Adri recognized the smooth deep tones of his uncle’s voice. They always reminded him of the roar of the river itself for some reason. Though that was hardly possible: for how could a man’s voice resemble the sound of rushing water?

  “Had he fallen into the river, he would have drowned, or been dashed against the rocks downstream,” Grandmother Jilana said, her husky, sonorous tones unmistakable.

  Adri heard Shvate snort, a dismissive sound. “That would never happen,” he heard his brother say. “Not as long as I’m nearby.”

  There was a brief silence. Adri sensed that the elders were looking at each other in that moment, then at Shvate. He knew this from similar silences during conversations with other adults. People always did that if you said something unusual or unexpected. They looked at one another. He wondered why they did it. What would they see, after all? Each other’s faces? Surely faces did not change from instant to instant. Only voices could convey emotion, as far as he knew. But he also understood that there was much that he did not yet know.

  He heard in that silence their pride for his brother, and heard that pride reflected in Shvate’s reply. Not as long as I’m nearby.

  Adri felt a surge of emotion rise in his chest, then tears rolled down his cheeks.

  That was the first time in his life he had a sense that there was someone in the world who actually car
ed if he lived or died, and who would risk his own life for him.

  Brother.

  Shvate

  Shvate had a deep sympathy and love for his brother.

  Ever since he could run and play, he had wanted to play with his brother, run alongside him, team up with him against the other children. He was proud to know he had a brother, a fellow heir to the great Krushan throne. It made him feel as if he was part of something bigger than himself. An empire, a dynasty, a tradition . . . a family.

  It had been difficult accepting that Adri was not like him—or like any of the other children. Sight was something that Shvate, like most people, took so much for granted that he could not truly understand how anyone could not see and yet live. How could you not see all the colors, the shapes, the light, the people, the places, the things? It was unthinkable to him.

  When he was younger, he had thought that maybe someday this would pass, that one day Adri would wake up and suddenly be able to see. Everything would be fine then. Then he and Shvate could run and play, and be kids together.

  Shvate even dreamed of this, happy dreams in which he and his brother had wild exotic adventures together—fighting urrkh, battling the enemies of the Burnt Empire, besieging enemy forts, quelling rebellions, squashing troublemakers. These were all things he had heard of their uncle Vrath doing, things he dreamed of doing himself someday soon, once he was old enough to fight.