Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  Shvate

  “Shvate!” Adri called.

  Shvate heard his brother’s shout and tried to peer over the rim of the well. Another shaft of sunlight struck him directly in the eyes, causing him to cry out with pain. To his sensitive eyes, it seemed like the entire world had caught ablaze, the field burning with white hot sunlight. To even peer at it through half-lidded eyes, through the gaps in his fingers, was agonizing. Shards of pain shot into his eyes, piercing his brain. He could not think, move, act. Mere breathing was an effort. His skin was afire. His insides, too, were burning. Gone was the Shvate who had stood and loosed an entire quiver of arrows, flung spear after spear and javelin after javelin. Here was Shvate, a little albino boy who could not withstand direct sunlight for a moment without experiencing a subsequent day and night of acute, head-splitting agony.

  Even through the agony, he could hear his brother’s voice, calling.

  Even through his pain, he knew that he had to do something.

  Adri was in trouble. His brother needed his help.

  But how could he? He had no weapons left. He could barely stand up in the well of his own chariot. He could not open his eyes or see for the intensity of the sunlight beating down upon the field.

  At the moment, he was as blind as his brother, and his skin was on fire, his insides ablaze.

  Shvate crouched down in the well of the chariot, hugging his own knees, trying to push past the pain and the sense of utter helplessness he was feeling.

  He could not help Adri. He himself needed help—and who was there to help him? Not his mother, who would not even hug him as a child, who was repulsed by his white skin and pale eyelashes and colorless eyes. She regarded him as a freak of nature, a curse upon her life. A blight upon the world. Even the other children looked at him differently, treated him differently. Other adults too—speaking with extra care around him as if he was not merely albino but slow of mind as well. Everyone treated him like he was different, damaged, undesirable. And nobody came to his aid when he needed help, comfort, and protection.

  He was alone. And so was Adri.

  Brother, forgive me. We are each alone in our own private hell. Live through this. If you can.

  Vrath

  In the block of ice floating a thousand yards above the battlefield, the body of Vrath lay suspended.

  The miracle waters of the Jeel had worked their magic, healing the many hundreds of wounds inflicted by Jarsun—repairing the damage and destruction to organs, limbs, flesh, blood, muscle and sinew, bone and gristle.

  The process was not yet complete.

  Almost, but not quite.

  A little while longer, perhaps another hour or two, and the reparation would be complete. Vrath would be restored to his perfect self.

  But the voices of his nephews were audible to him, even inside his cocoon of ice.

  He could hear their agony, their suffering, their terror.

  They needed help.

  They needed him.

  The enemy was bearing down upon them. They were weaponless and isolated, exposed and helpless. The enemy was strong and ruthless. Druhyu of Druhyu was eagerly racing toward them, grinning at the thought of driving his blade through that young flesh, maiming and butchering the young princes of Hastinaga. The others were not as savagely inclined toward killing young ones as was Druhyu, but they were equally motivated to kill the princes. Killing them would end the battle, win the day, and secure a triumph for the rebellion. The world would rise up against Hastinaga and tear the empire apart, sharing the spoils among themselves. And they, the first to defy the might of Hastinaga, would enjoy the lion’s share. They would be emperors and empresses in their own right. Everyone would fear and be in awe of them forever after.

  All they had to do was kill two frightened young boys and show their chopped heads to the world, displaying them like prizes of victory.

  Inside the cocoon of ice, Vrath knew all this and more. He had to act now, before it was too late. It was not merely his responsibility, it was Krushan law.

  And Vrath always upheld Krushan law.

  With a sudden explosion, the giant block of ice burst apart—

  It shattered to fragments in midair, which fell to the battlefield below as a shower of tiny chips, none large enough to injure anyone and indeed already melting in the late morning sun as they descended toward the hot earth below.

  Vrath hung in midair, his skin still scarred and bruised, his reparation incomplete, not fully restored to his former strength.

  But he was still Vrath.

  He fell from the sky, falling to the earth with blistering speed, like the great eagle god Grrud bearing down upon the army of Nagas, and landed upon the field with an impact that shook every last mortal and beast for miles. The dust from his impact rose fifty yards in the air. When it cleared, he was visible there on bended knee, powerful shoulders hunched, head lowered.

  Slowly, he raised that great head, his mane of grey-white hair falling back over those mighty shoulders and arms, and turned his withering gaze to stare down the oncoming chariots and horses of the rebels who were racing toward the princes of the Burnt Empire.

  Vrath rose to his full height, standing astride the field, naked and weaponless, body still oozing blood from a dozen unhealed wounds. The oncoming rebels slowed, awestruck at his appearance and the sheer majesty of his presence.

  Behind him, Shvate and Adri still cowered in their chariots, aware that their guardian and protector had arrived at last, but still suffering from their respective conditions.

  Vrath spread his arms wide, gesturing to the rebels confronting him.

  “You wish to kill the princes of Hastinaga?” Vrath said, folding his arms across his chest. “Then you must kill me first. If you can.”

  Jilana

  After that, it was a rout.

  Without the demoniac Jarsun to keep the flame of rebellion stoked, the alliance fell apart. Confronted by the legendary Vrath, their morale as badly dented as their shields, the remaining rebel leaders surrendered with varying degrees of reluctance. There would be punitive measures placed upon each of their kingdoms, but all that was for later, in the messy aftermath of battle.

  For now, all that mattered was that the Krushan had won the day.

  Jilana wept.

  She fell back into her chair and sobbed tears of joy and relief.

  Once more, Vrath had fulfilled his word.

  He had protected her grandchildren.

  The House of Krushan was safe once more.

  Part Three

  * * *

  Karni

  1

  Karni executed a perfect swan dive from the top of the rock, her graceful body hanging suspended in the air for just a moment before slicing the surface of the lake with barely a splash. She emerged more than a dozen yards away, smiling.

  Her companions laughed and applauded. “Another perfect dive as always, Princess!”

  Karni tossed back her lustrous dark hair and swam strongly across to the far bank. It was a good fifty yards away, and even the strongest swimmers in her company did not dare try to race her. Karni was in the habit of swimming one hundred breadths daily, and could still race them all home to the palace afterward. They contented themselves with playing at swimming on the shady side of the lake, the more boisterous ones splashing water at one another and squealing, the vainer ones braiding flowers into each other’s hair to make the merchants’ sons in the marketplace turn their heads as they passed.

  It was a lazy afternoon, the sun slipping to the western sky, songbirds calling in the trees, flocks of geese and ducks flying overhead; butterflies flitted over the flowers, deer grazed on the soft kusa grass nearby, and at one point in the slow, indolent afternoon, a young lion crept down to the lake on the far side of the glen and drank his fill, keeping a wary but unafraid eye on the cavorting maidens, before slinking back into the shadowy depths of the jungle.

  Karni was on her eighty-ninth lap when she paused in midstroke,
treading water.

  Something was different. It was hard to pinpoint, but there was for certain a . . . change. The lake was suddenly quiet, and likewise the songbirds were silent, and the bees had ceased buzzing, and the dragonflies that had been humming over the water were now no longer anywhere to be seen. The ducks, too, had ceased their quacking in the rushes, and even the birds flying overhead now did so silently, the angled shadow of their passing the only indication of their presence.

  Across the lake, she could hear the faint sounds of her companions playing and laughing, but they too seemed to sense something was wrong, and hushed one another.

  From the forest, a lion emitted a single dismayed roar, as if protesting, and then he too fell silent.

  Karni turned in the water, frowning.

  A shadow began to grow in the center of the lake.

  The sky was clear blue, the sun dipping in the west but still half a watch from sunset. There was not a cloud in the sky to cause the shadow. Yet, as Karni watched with puzzlement, the center of the lake began to grow darker.

  Could it be fish? No. The shadow was circular and concentrated in the center of the lake, not moving the way a school of fish might move.

  As Karni watched, the shadow deepened, turning the sallow surface of the water black as pitch. The pitch-black circle of water then began to swirl.

  Karni was closer to the far bank of the lake than to the center. But even here, a good dozen yards or more from the edge of the strange pitch-black circle, she could feel the pull of the water.

  The swirling black water began to turn round on itself, swirling faster and faster. In moments, it became a churning, the water breaking and producing waves that should have been white-tipped but instead were dark. Now, Karni could feel herself being drawn in by the force of the churning, pulled toward the center of that swirling vortex.

  Strong swimmer though she was, she had to strain against the pull. Grabbing hold of a willow root that dipped into the water, she wrapped the tendril firmly around her arm, standing on the muddy floor of the bank in waist-deep water, and watched with rising alarm.

  The center of the lake had become a whirlpool.

  The whirlpool churned and spun faster and faster, like no vortex Karni had ever seen or heard of. It was as frenzied as a whitewater rapid, roaring now with great force. Across the lake, she could see her companions standing on the shore, backing away in fright as they watched this freakish display.

  Karni could not believe this was a natural phenomenon. She had been swimming in this lake with her friends ever since she first learned how, which was not long after she was able to walk. She was a young woman now, fourteen summers of age, and as such she no longer needed nurses to accompany her. Nor bodyguards, for the kingdom of Stonecastle was at peace and had been at peace for decades. The nearest neighbors, Dirda, Avant, and Hais, were not at war with Stonecastle or with each other. But for the first time in her life, she wished she had both bodyguards and a blade of her own by her side.

  Yet what good would a sword do against a water demon? she wondered.

  Nothing, probably. But it was all she could think of. That, and the realization that she should do as her companions had done and get away from the lake at once. Even if she ended up on the wrong side, and would have to walk all the way around the bank to get back to her companions and the pathway that led back to the palace. She had to get away from this thing, whatever it was.

  Yet some part of her resisted.

  She could not bring herself to turn and climb up on the bank, to run away from the churning maelstrom that was now roaring and spinning in a dervish-like frenzy, sending water spraying across the tops of the trees that surrounded the lake.

  Karni watched, compelled by a fascination she could not explain. The whirlpool swirled now in a descending cone, the dark water of the lake foaming white. The roar of the water drowned out all other sounds, but at the edges of vision, she glimpsed birds flying, animals fleeing, and underfoot, she felt creatures of the under-earth scurrying away from the waterside.

  Then something began to rise from the center of the maelstrom: a man.

  A holy man, clad in the red-ochre garb of the forest hermits, hair matted and piled overhead, possessed of the aging, withered limbs and wasted body of the lifelong penitent engaged in bhor tapasya.

  Yet there was nothing withered or aged about his eyes. They shone with a ferocity that was unnerving. Large and bulging, in a bony angular face, their irises were a unsettling grey. That penetrating gaze scanned the shore of the lake in such a way that Karni got the sense he was searching for landmarks to ascertain his exact location.

  Had he come from the underworld? How did a man emerge from a whirlpool in a lake? What force was at work here, raising this man up above the water, so as to make him float in the air?

  As Karni watched with open amazement, the old hermit lowered the point of his raised staff, pointing down at the whirlpool. At once, the maelstrom subsided, settling suddenly into a calm, unbroken surface. Likewise, the wind that had howled a moment earlier died away, and the ripples and waves caused by the disturbance ceased. So too did the cries of the agitated birds, the sounds of animals in the forest, and the scurrying of insects all subside.

  The lake was as calm and still as it had been before this holy man’s arrival.

  The hermit now stood on the surface of the lake, as comfortably as a man standing on solid ground. He began to walk across the lake, the soles of his feet dipping into the water lightly, merely breaking the skin of the water, hardly disturbing it otherwise—

  Heading directly for Karni’s side of the lake.

  As he neared the bank, he caught sight of Karni, seemingly registering her presence for the first time. This sent a sudden chill through her heart. All at once, the balmy summer sunshine felt icy cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, realizing how wet her garments were and how little she wore. Her outer garments lay on the other side of the lake, where her companions and she had discarded them. She wished her friends were beside her; they likely would have been screaming in alarm or excitement, but Karni was not given to outbursts of emotion. She stood her ground, remaining calm.

  The hermit was almost at the shore.

  He was staring straight at her now, his piercing gaze taking in her lack of proper attire, her disheveled and damp condition, her shivering posture . . . What must he think her to be? She looked far from a princess right now. As she glanced up anxiously, she saw his eyes darken visibly, turning from grey to jet-black. A darkness swirled around him like a cowl, exactly in the way the water of the lake had. A miasma enveloped his face and head; she could see his dark eyes shining from inside the miasma, directed only at her as he reached the bank at last and then stepped ashore.

  For a moment, the thought struck her that this man could be a Naga, one of those denizens of the nether realms who were said to rise, at their whim, to the surface of the world and assume any form they pleased. The man who emerged from the lake could well be such a creature—a snake in a man’s body. His eyes were as fierce as any snake’s venomous gaze. The darkness of the water could be caused by his venom, Karni reasoned, and perhaps this human form was just a disguise to enable him to approach unsuspecting humans.

  The hermit was still approaching, now mere yards from her.

  Those piercing dark eyes continued to bore into her, his concentration intense, and as he walked, his hand gripped the wildwood staff hard enough to cause his knuckles to turn white, every aspect of his posture suggesting a predator about to attack.

  Remember who you are, she told herself firmly. You are no ordinary young girl. You are Karni of the Mraashk, daughter of Karna Sura, sister to Vasurava, adopted daughter of King Stonecastle, princess and heir to the Stonecastle kingdom. You will not let yourself be intimidated by anyone—or any thing.

  She released the breath she had been holding.

  Gathering her errant emotions, Karni bundled them together, tied them in a tight knot, then t
ucked them away.

  With perfect self-control, she joined her palms in a namas, bowed her head low, and intoned, “Greetings, Great One. Welcome to our humble kingdom of Stonecastle.”

  2

  “Who might you be, young doe?” the hermit said.

  The intensity of his gaze seemed not to lessen even when she greeted him. His bony face and penetrating eyes remained as fierce, his posture still one of attack. Yet his voice was surprisingly pleasant, a startling contrast to his wild appearance.

  Karni inclined her head. “May it please your holiness, I am the adoptive daughter of Stonecastle, king of the Stonecastle nation. I go by the name of Karni, after my birth father, Karna Sura.”

  The holy man continued to regard her with the same severe scrutiny. She waited, unnerved inwardly but determined not to let it show.

  He then raised his staff and strode toward her. Karni resisted the urge to flinch, cry out, back away, or run, though all these presented themselves as desirable actions. The hermit reached the spot where she stood, still dripping from the lake, and passed her by without pausing, working his way up the path.

  And before long, he was gone. She could see him, striding away through the glade, his tall bony form moving through the trees. Away from the lake, away from her. Karni heaved a giant sigh of relief and all but collapsed to the ground, and there she sat, just breathing for several moments as she collected her wits.

  From across the lake, she heard the faint sound of voices calling. She looked up and saw her companions on the far bank, shouting and gesturing frantically. She raised an arm, acknowledging them.

  They gestured back, calling to her to come across the lake. Karni had never been so glad to see her friends, and got to her feet slowly, amazed to still be alive. When that old hermit had come striding toward her with his staff raised, she had been certain he was going to attack her. Now, of course, it seemed silly to have thought it. Why would an old hermit attack a helpless young girl?