Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  “Shvate!”

  He was looking at his companions when the voice spoke. Neither of their lips had moved. They were both staring raptly at the oval light, and Shvate did now as well. There was something mesmerizing about its steady pulsing rhythm. Brighter. Darker. Brighter. Darker. Brighter . . .

  “Shvate!”

  Shvate saw now that there was someone standing inside the oval light, dressed exactly the way she always dressed, looking exactly the same as the last time he had seen her.

  His mother.

  She stood on solid ground, on some surface in another place he recognized well. The oval light formed a passageway between that place where she stood and the place where Shvate was standing. He could see the floor beneath her feet, the walls to either side, the statuary, the palatial furnishings. He knew that place well. It made no sense—for her to be there and him to be here, both able to see and hear each other—yet somehow it was so.

  “Shvate, come to me. I need to speak with you.”

  He tried to turn his head to ask Vida how this was possible, if it was really happening or some kind of urrkh maya, an illusion caused by demonic sorcery. But he could no longer turn his head or look away. The oval light kept his gaze trapped. He was transfixed by the light and the woman standing inside it.

  “Shvate, please. We do not have much time. Come to me now.”

  He wanted to go to her. He wanted it more than anything else in the world. But still he hesitated, some part of his brain cautioning him, reminding him that he was in the lair of his enemy, that Jarsun was known for his sorcery, that demons were capable of elaborate, convincing illusions, that this could be a trap.

  “Are you afraid that this could be Jarsun’s sorcery? It is not, I assure you. Jarsun is far from here. He is occupied with another crisis of his own. That is why you could not find him in Reygar. This portal you see here is only meant for you to cross over, to come to me here, in Hastinaga. It is perfectly safe. Trust me. No harm will come to you here. Come to me now, my son.”

  That last word caught in his heart like a hook in the mouth of a fish. He was struck by emotion. How long had it been since his mother had sent for him? Too long. Even when he was a child, when he needed her, wanted her, she would shun him. When compelled to hold him for a moment on royal occasions, to present the appearance of a devoted mother and child, she could touch him with the tips of her fingers, just enough to keep up appearances. He could not recall a time when she had embraced him, hugged him, shown any real affection for him. But now here she was, standing before him, calling to him. How could he refuse? Perhaps this was the day she would finally embrace him, ask forgiveness for all those years of neglect and distancing, hold him tight and weep, or laugh, or show some emotion in his presence. How could he not go to her? He had waited for this day all his childhood, and even if it had come years later when he was a grown man, he could not simply turn away and ignore her.

  “How do I come to you?” he asked, feeling foolish at the sound of his own echoing voice. What must Mayla and Vida think? He wanted to turn to glance at their faces but the oval light was too compelling; he could not look away.

  “All you have to do is walk to me,” his mother said. “It is like stepping on solid ground. Have no fear, you will not fall into the abyss. The portal will bring you safely to me. Come quickly, son, before the portal closes and we lose this opportunity to speak. I have urgent news for you.”

  Urgent news. What did that mean?

  “I am fighting a battle, Mother,” he said, though he was already taking the first step forward.

  “What I have to tell you will help you be victorious. Come quickly, son. Before it’s too late!” She beckoned to him.

  Even if this made no sense at all, he had to find out what she knew. Winning the battle of Reygar was crucial to his life, his career, his entire family’s future.

  Shvate took another step forward, and another. He walked across thin air, over the abyss, and entered the oval of blue light. A peculiar vibration thrummed in his inner ears, resonating within him. He smelled an odd mixture of scents, things he had experienced at different times in his life. His body felt unusual, as if he were lighter, refreshed, stronger.

  He walked into the portal and passed through to the other side.

  3

  It was so bright here. Brighter than it had ever been, brighter than he remembered. Everything was tinged white at the edges, the corners of every object obscured by the white light, smoothed and blended into the whiteness that pervaded all. It was as if the world outside this place were entirely filled with blinding white light, as if they existed in a pocket of solidity in a galaxy of whiteness. The place itself was his mother’s private chamber in the palace at Hastinaga. He had been brought here occasionally by his wet nurses, to “spend time” with her. It held a mixture of memories for him: sadness, regret, loss, hope, longing, wanting . . . the childhood he had had versus the childhood he wished he could have had. The mother he’d had versus the mother he’d needed.

  “Son.”

  She was an apparition. A vision in saffron, red, and white. Despite being a widow, the princesses of Hastinaga were required to wear white only on formal occasions. In the privacy of her private chambers, she could wear what she pleased. It pleased him to see her wearing color: he had always felt saddened by the sight of her in white. Seeing her in white reminded him of the fact that his father was dead. But in color, he felt like at least he had her, his mother, and he could pretend that he had a semblance of a normal life, a normal family.

  “You look good. Strong. Healthy. I am so proud of you and all that you have achieved.”

  He bent awkwardly, reaching down to touch her feet in the traditional gesture of respect shown to elders. “Ma, aashirwaad.” Mother, bless me.

  “Ayushmaanbhavya, putr.” Live long, my son. She touched his forehead with her fingertips. They felt cool, cooler than he recalled, but he supposed it was only because of how cold the cavern was—but the cavern was in Reygar, while he was here . . . in Hastinaga?

  “Where are we?” he asked, looking around. There were windows at the far wall of the chamber, but outside, all he could see was blinding whiteness, as if nothing existed outside of his immediate surroundings, just this chamber floating in the cosmos, an island outside of time.

  “It doesn’t matter, son. None of this matters. What is important is that I have to tell you something very important. Something that will change your life.”

  “Change my life,” he repeated. He looked at her. She looked just the way he remembered her from his boyhood, but on the last occasion he had actually seen her, at his wedding, she had looked older, her pretty face lined with new signs of age, her hair tinged with grains of white. How was it that she looked younger and prettier now?

  “Yes. There are moments in life when we are faced with choices that determine the course of our future. This is one of those times.”

  He breathed in lightly. The air felt cooler too, despite the bright light and her garments, both of which suggested late spring or summer. That same mixture of odors, an amalgam of smells remembered from childhood and other odd, random odors and fragrances, all mashed together to form a peculiar concoction. “I still don’t understand how I got here.” He looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see the oval of crimson light through which he had stepped. There was only the doorway to his mother’s chambers. In the place outside, where the sentries ought to have been, there was only the same blinding whiteness, making it impossible to see further. That was another thing odd about this place: there were no people. No maids, wet nurses, servants, guards . . . nobody. He had never known it to be so empty before. A princess of Hastinaga always had dozens of people around her, for her service and her security. “Where is everyone?”

  “Never mind that, my son,” she said. “Listen. We don’t have much time. You must defeat Darinda.”

  Shvate’s attention returned to her. “Darinda?”

  “The king
of Reygar, the commander of the city kingdom you are attempting to conquer. He is your enemy. Did you not know this already?”

  Shvate frowned. “I know that Darinda is king of Reygar. But like all other Reygistani rulers, he is only a puppet. The one pulling the strings is Jarsun. He is the one I must defeat.”

  Princess Umber’s forehead creased; she shook her head impatiently. “Jarsun is beyond your reach at present. You will have another opportunity to confront him, but now is not that time. Today the enemy you face is Darinda, and only by killing him can you achieve your victory.”

  Shvate absorbed this. It did make sense. If Jarsun had been present, he would have revealed himself at Reygar by now. And it was true that Darinda was king of Reygar, and thus killing him would mean victory. “Where is he?”

  “He is in Reygar, but hiding from view.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me.”

  His mother made a dismissive gesture that he remembered well from his childhood. She used to make the same gesture most times when his wet nurses brought him to her chambers; he knew it meant I don’t have time for that now. It had hurt him deeply when she made that gesture, because she was not merely dismissing the wet nurses, she was dismissing him, her son. He felt the same pain now, in his heart. But now, it made him angry.

  “Before I tell you where Darinda is hiding, you have to do something for me.”

  So now we come to the nub. “What is it?”

  She smiled at him—a sweet smile that lit up her pretty face, made his heart skip. How he had longed for such a look of love when he was a boy, how he had hoped and prayed for it; yet, for all his effort, how rarely had he actually seen such an expression on her face: almost never. But she was smiling at him now, and it was suddenly as if all those years, all that pain, all that regret, was melted away. He was a boy again, and she his mother, and she was smiling at him, she loved him, she cared about him, and all was well with the world.

  “We have not spoken in a while,” she said. “It has been too long. We must spend more time together. A mother and son should confide everything to one another.”

  They should but, when were we ever mother and son? Shvate thought. Aloud, he said, “Yes.”

  “You must come visit me more often. We must take our meals together as often as possible. How strange it feels to be living in the same palace together and rarely seeing you, my son.”

  And yet, I spent my entire boyhood alone with wet nurses and maids and servants and guards, almost never seeing you, almost never taking a meal together, and never, not once, not ever, being fed by you, by your own hands. Isn’t that strange, Mother? A mother who never fed her own son?

  “It is strange,” he agreed.

  Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because she looked down suddenly at her hands, a pall coming over her pretty features. “I know I have not been the best of mothers. I did not spend as much time with you as I should have while you were growing. I had my own anxieties, of course: your father’s sudden death, the circumstances of your conception . . . I had suffered two great shocks, one after another. It was hard for me to keep up appearances.”

  What does that have to do with being a mother, with loving your own son? he thought, but listened in silence.

  “By the time I had recovered sufficiently, Vrath had taken you and your brother far away to the gurukul for your studies. You may not be aware of this, my son, but I was not permitted to visit you there.”

  Why would you travel hundreds of miles to the forest to visit me when you never once walked the thirty yards to my chambers next door to your own? Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking you would come to say good night to me, to kiss me and put me to bed, perhaps tell me a bedtime story, tell me sweet dreams . . . Yet you never came. Not once. Not ever.

  “I know you must have a great many regrets, perhaps even recriminations against me for things undone, words unsaid. Perhaps you even hate me for neglecting you during those years.”

  He looked away. “I don’t hate you, Mother.”

  Was this even his mother? He had no way of knowing for certain. Then again, did it really matter? To his mind, his heart, she was his mother. That was all that mattered. People exist as much inside ourselves as they do outside of us, often long after they are gone.

  She touched his shoulder. “I don’t blame you if you feel harshly toward me. I know how difficult it must have been for you.”

  He said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Had it been difficult? Unbearable. Some things were beyond the capacity of words to express.

  “But you are now at a crossroad, Shvate. The choice you face is crucial to your future. That is why I seek to guide you, to help you make the right choice. No mother wants to see her son fail, to squander his promise, the legacy of his birth, his heritage. You are entitled to so much, my son. It is time for you to claim it, to own it. The world is yours for the taking. You must apprehend it with both hands, or it will slip from your grasp.”

  He looked at her again. “I don’t understand. What are we talking about now?”

  “Choices, my son. Decisions. Destiny.”

  “Do you mean Reygar? I am here to take the city. Tell me where Darinda is hiding, and I will drag him out and fight him to the death. I will not leave without completing my mission.”

  Again the same dismissive gesture. “Reygar is one city, one kingdom. I am speaking of the world entire. Of wealth beyond imagining. Of power too great to be challenged. Of luxury, pleasure, sensual delights, whatever you desire, it can all be yours.”

  Shvate shook his head. “I still don’t follow.”

  “Shvate, my son, you can have it all. Everything you desire. Power, glory, adulation, respect, love . . . And I shall be there at your side. We shall walk up the steps of the throne dais together, mother and son. I shall sit behind you, guiding and mentoring you through the years. You shall be Emperor of the World, and I will be the Queen Mother.”

  He stared at her, astonished by her passion, her intensity. He had never seen his mother display such emotion before. The Umber he had seen as a boy had been reserved, pent, silent—speaking only to vent irritation, anger, or to dismiss.

  “How is all this to be accomplished?” he asked. “How does one become Emperor of the World?”

  “By doing whatever it takes,” she said, her eyes flashing. “By taking what is yours. By cutting out what is unnecessary.”

  “What does it take? What is it that is unnecessary?”

  She started to speak in the same heated tone, then stopped herself. She looked down at her hands, composing herself. When she spoke again, it was still with passion, but her emotions were banked now, under control. He sensed that he had glimpsed a side of her she had not intended to reveal to him. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed.

  “There are things you must do, my son. The path to greatness requires sacrifice, but do not think of it as such. Think of it as necessary evils. Things that must be done. Like cutting down or burning a forest to clear a space for a city. How many animals die when you burn down the jungle? And yet, without their sacrifice, there would not be a Hastinaga. All great edifices are built on the broken backs of such sacrifices.”

  He began to see a glimmer of what she was leading up to. It felt like she was walking him up to the edge of a precipice, preparing him to jump. He knew exactly what she was doing: he did the same thing when making a speech to his army before going into battle. She was rallying him, priming him, preparing him to do something that he would not normally want to do. Instead of arguing the point, he chose to go along with her.

  “What is this sacrifice you wish me to make, Mother? How may I achieve these ends? Tell me, what must I do to become Emperor of the World?”

  She stared at him, pleased. She beamed. She was delighted that he had acquiesced without an argument. She did not know him at all, despite having birthed him over two decades ago. Had she
known him well enough, she would know that he never argued, he simply found a way to get the other party to reveal all his best arguments, then simply cut him to shreds. He felt no sympathy for her lack of knowledge. Had she truly loved him, spent time with him, she would have known this. She would have known better than to try to manipulate him.

  “Son, I have seen your future. There is a darkness ahead on your path. Your wives, both of them, are unlucky for you.”

  “My wives are unlucky for me.”

  “Yes! I know you love them dearly, but if you stay with them, they will lead you down dangerous byways. You will succumb to things that will not aid you in your path to greatness. They will bring you down, and keep you down.”

  “You know this to be true?”

  “Yes. It was shown to me by . . . by someone of great power.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Abandon them.”

  “You wish me to abandon my wives.”

  “Yes. You will have other wives. As many as you please. All the world’s most beautiful women can be yours. They will fall at your feet.”

  He almost smiled at that. Mayla and Karni were not the kind to fall at his feet; they were more likely to kick him with their own. They were both proud, strong women with their own minds and self-respect. That was a large part of why he loved them so much. The thought of women falling at his feet as an appealing thing was so contrary to his own nature that it almost made him smile. But he forced himself to maintain a straight face. “Is that all?”

  “That and one more thing. You must deny your brother any claim to the throne.”

  “I must deny Adri’s claim to the throne.”

  “Yes. You are the elder born, yours is the first right. Besides, he is blind. A blind king can never rule Hastinaga.”

  What she said was not untrue—at least as far as history and custom were concerned. But that did not make it right.