Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  But even that dream had come crashing to a halt.

  Adri had refused Shvate’s offering, had joined his palms and told his brother that he could not accept the treasure as it rightly belonged to Vrath, the elder of the house. He had asked Shvate to take it to Vrath and offer it to him with humility and grace.

  Geldry had been so shocked at hearing Adri speak those words to his brother she had wanted to grab her husband’s arm and say, What are you doing? Take the treasure! She had not actually said those words—or anything—aloud, for Adri had already spoken, and his brother was already agreeing with him, saying that Adri was a true Krushan, respectful of his elders and adhering to Krushan law.

  To hell with Krushan law! To hell with respecting elders! Geldry thought. She had wanted to tear off her eyeband right then and there and give her husband and her brother-in-law a piece of her mind.

  But she didn’t—she had somehow restrained herself. Even so, Mother Jilana had seen her trembling and misunderstood her condition.

  “Daughter, are you well?” she had asked, then told the maids to accompany Geldry to her chambers as she appeared to be fainting.

  Geldry had gone with the maids, not because she was fainting or ill, but because she had been sick with rage. How could Adri have made such a decision without even discussing it with her first? How could he refuse a fortune of that magnitude without even asking her opinion? What would Vrath do with all that wealth? He already had a hundred times, no, a thousand times that much in the coffers of Hastinaga. He was the true emperor of Krushan in all but name, and he didn’t even use his power for his own needs. What a waste!

  The Krushan didn’t need more treasure; they were already the richest family in the world. But to Geldran, those five thousand wagonloads would have meant a historic change of fortune. Geldry could have done so much with it, for the Geldrans, for Geera, for her father, her brother, her sisters . . . and yes, for herself too. So what if she used some of the gold for her own purposes? She had equal right to it, did she not? Wasn’t Krushan property supposed to be matriarchally owned and held? And she was the matriarch of Adri’s house, and thus should have received that treasure.

  After that day, her relationship with Adri had soured. She had never completely forgiven him. She had confronted him afterward, and he had seemed shocked by her anger, her outburst. That had enraged her even more. How could he not understand her emotions? She had a right. She had a claim to that wealth. Yet he had treated her like she didn’t even matter. And so it was then that she saw it was true what they said of the Krushan, that they were totally male-dominated, women-suppressing . . . just like so many other nations, despite their claims to the contrary.

  “Geldry . . .”

  She started. In an instant, she removed the eyeband and looked around the room, seeking the source of the whisper. No conscious thought went into it; her hand simply snatched the band off her head. Her right eye was blurry from being shut for so long, and so she rubbed it with her knuckle, trying to clear her vision. Despite the bright moonlight streaming in from the verandah, there were pools of darkness across the large bedchamber. The lavish furnishings, mirrors, statuary, art, and pillars produced multiple reflections, shadows, dark corners. A dozen people could be lurking in those shadows, and it would be impossible to see them unless one walked right into them—or they walked right out.

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly as dry as old leather. The palace was strongly guarded, the princely chambers formidably so. There were a hundred thousand of Krushan’s finest permanently garrisoned in the city precincts. Only a handful of assassins had ever dared attempt ingress to the royal chambers: none had survived beyond the entrance. Those blackguard efforts had all come decades ago, long before Vrath’s time. Under his reign, there had never been any such attempt; the rumor was that those who even spoke of such things were executed on the spot. Hastinaga had a no-tolerance policy when it came to treason and assassination: simply discussing it was grounds for execution. Even the kusalavya bards who composed and sang epic ballads to entertain the populace sang of Hastinaga being “anashya,” literally unconquerable, or unassailable.

  “Geldry . . .”

  She gasped. She had heard it distinctly this time. A whisper calling her name.

  She rose from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting and looked around the large chamber. There was no sign of movement, no sign of life. The air was so still, so humid, sweat beads continued to form on her forehead, face, and neck. She felt a trickle of sweat roll down her back. She took a step forward, her vision finally clearing sufficiently for her to see normally. There! Over by the far window, a movement. She took another step forward and saw the shadow make a corresponding move.

  She gritted her teeth in frustration.

  It was her own reflection, visible in the polished metal surface of the mirror she used to examine herself after her bath each day: the eyeband always got wet and slipped off anyway, so she had taken to removing it before her bath and then replacing it with a fresh one afterward. Sometimes, she was slow to replace it, taking her time examining her own reflection in the mirror, before and after dressing herself: slender, tall, shapely, strong. A fine Geldran figure. A warrior’s figure, but also a queen’s. Words like “stately,” “elegant,” “sensual,” and “alluring” had been used to describe her by the fire-singers, the roving itinerants who sang for their supper in the rough hills of her homeland. Unlike the kusalavya bards of Krushan, the fire-singers used ribald, lusty language and didn’t hesitate to speculate in their songs. She had heard a song about herself that had almost made her blush once—and it was hard to make a Geldran blush, so that was saying something.

  The things the fire-singers had said about her—that she was a warrior-princess who loved as lustily as she fought, that the bedroom and the battlefield were both her playgrounds, that men were her rivals and her lovers both at once . . . Those verses, so evocatively described—forcefully sung by the light of a roaring fire on a cold winter’s night high in the wild mountains, with a belly full of goat mutton and liquor—came to her now. She was that Geldran. Not merely the blind wife of a blind prince of Krushan. She was a warrior and a conqueror, in a long line of warrior-conquerors. She did not fear shadows at night, or whispers in the dark.

  “Geldry . . .”

  She spun around. The whisper had come from behind her. She was sure of it this time. From the verandah.

  She started forward, but stopped. Weapon. She needed something to defend herself with if it was an intruder.

  In Geera, no one was ever without a weapon. Here, in Hastinaga, she had been dismayed to learn that princes and princesses did not arm themselves within the city’s walls. According to Mother Jilana, to do so would suggest that they were afraid. To hell with fear, Geldry thought, what about self-defense? When they had tried to remove her cache of weapons, some of them historical relics handed down over generations, she had almost thrown a fit. Her sister-in-law Karni had come up with a diplomatic solution: keep the weapons in her chambers but mount them as displays. Art. The idea was ridiculous, but there they were, her grandmother’s sword and her great-aunt’s stabbing dagger, tastefully mounted on marble stands and in velvet cases.

  She stood on tiptoe and took down both the sword and the dagger. Now armed, she turned back to the verandah, ready to face whatever threat lay in wait in the moonlight.

  Karni

  The stone temple steps felt cold and damp to Karni’s bare feet. She could feel the grain of the stone, the pitted and dimpled surface worn away by rain and the elements over time. She held her garment up with one hand to avoid it trailing on the wet stone and getting soiled, and her prayer offerings in the other hand. The light from the torches set at intervals was unnecessary: the moon alone was bright enough to illuminate her way.

  This was the oldest temple in the region, said to have been instituted by the great Kr’ush himself, founder of the dynasty. Unlike the newer, more ostentatious temples with their
marble pillars and vaulting facades in the richer parts of the city, this ancient shrine was barely visible from the narrow dirt path which was the only way in. Aboveground it looked like nothing noteworthy, just another small ancient shrine, its black stone stippled with age, moss, lichen, and flowers. It sat in a small grove whose trees crowded in so densely, they almost blocked out the city around it. Though within the city precincts, it was surrounded on three sides by thickly wooded or scrubby areas, foraging grounds and preserves which were meant to be filled during times of siege. It was like a little forest within the heart of the city, and once you entered the grove where the shrine reposed, you could almost forget you were the greatest metropolis in the known world.

  That was one of the reasons why Karni liked coming here: it felt secluded, remote, private. Especially now, at this late hour, on a day which was neither a day of festivity nor of fasting, there was barely a soul here. Most of the city’s residents performed their rituals at their own local neighborhood shrines, usually dedicated to the more popular deities. The few large temples that attracted greater numbers on festive days were in the more populous areas of the city. A small industry of flower sellers, priests, acolytes, craftsmen, even prostitutes and sellswords, always gathered around any large place of worship, making those areas the most crowded parts of Hastinaga. Over the centuries, this small unimpressive-looking shrine had fallen out of favor with the more fashionable, leaving it without the usual infrastructure most temples enjoyed. Karni brought her own flowers, which she had freshly plucked with her own hands from a field nearby, and was carrying them in a fold of her garment.

  She had left her sandals in the chariot. At her request, Adran waited on the dirt track while she walked the several dozen yards to the stone steps. The structure visible aboveground was only the top of the temple; the actual shrine was below ground level, because that was where great Kr’ush had discovered the stone effigy of the deity buried in the ground. Or so the story went.

  She reached the first underground level. From here, she could still see the surface, the tops of trees, the large blood moon looming in the sky, and hear the distant sounds of the city. There was something strange about the night: odd sounds and disturbances, packs of dogs barking or fighting for no reason, other animal cries and even screams and shouts. She didn’t pay it too much attention; her attention was directed inward.

  That was why she had come here to this favorite shrine: the troubles of the world at large were too overwhelming for her to deal with; it was hard enough dealing with one life’s problems; she couldn’t begin to understand how one dealt with the problems of an entire city-state, a kingdom, an empire. Even as a girl, that part of queenship had never attracted her. As the wife of a future king of Hastinaga, she knew she ought to take more interest in the complex, layered nuances of Krushan politics, but for the life of her she could not bring herself to even feign interest in such matters.

  Shvate was not unlike her. A man of action, he was always happier wielding a sword rather than a scepter. Even now, he was away in Hastinaga Forest, hunting with Mayla. They had both asked Karni to accompany them, and on the previous such trip, she had gone along. But she hadn’t been inclined this time and had begged off. Mayla had been more disappointed than Shvate; she had enjoyed their woman-to-woman talks by the campfire during that last hunting trip. Karni had as well, but she enjoyed her time alone even more. She knew they would enjoy their time alone together as well: they’d be hunting and drinking and feasting—and yes, making love—lustily through the night and day, enjoying their time to the fullest.

  That was fine with her; she loved Shvate for his physicality, his ability to get to grips with anything without a fuss, just as she loved Mayla’s quick wit and even quicker hand. She missed both her husband and her sister queen while they were away, but also needed time to herself. As she always said to Mayla, only half jokingly, “Better we’re apart for a while and miss one another, than stay together all the time and grow fed up with each other.”

  Right now, as she continued to descend the stone steps to the second underground level of the temple, she was content to be alone. The moonlight, the late hour, the solitude of this place, the cool, wet stone underfoot, the ancient shrine, these things were immensely comforting. She had been uneasy in the palace. There were strange sounds from the city, peculiar odors in the air. And there was that awful blood moon hanging low in the sky, as if some gigantic red-eyed demon had opened an eye in space and was looking down malevolently upon Arthaloka with malicious intent. The air had been too still, filled with strange whispers and distant echoes. She had felt so uneasy in the palace, alone without Shvate and Mayla, and it was too late to go to Mother Jilana’s chambers, so she had sent for Adran, apologizing for troubling him at this late hour.

  “You need never apologize to me, my princess,” he had said graciously, “I live to serve.”

  “Thank you,” she had said. “I wish to go to the temple.”

  He had taken up the reins as she got into the chariot. He knew which temple. It was he who had suggested this shrine in the first place, telling her at the time that it was the oldest of its kind in Hastinaga. He drove her without further conversation, and when they arrived, he had only requested that she bring him a little prasadam for his wife and son. Charioteers, like most lower castes, were not permitted entry into most temples, but there was no prohibition against high castes sharing their sacramental sweetmeats with their servants. “With pleasure,” she had said, meaning it.

  Karni arrived at the second level of the temple. This was almost fifteen yards belowground. Only the sky above was visible here, glowing with the eerie light of that ungodly moon. For a moment, she thought she heard faint screams from the city and paused to listen. But there was only the sound of water trickling somewhere, and a silence so absolute, she could hear every whisper and tinkle of her own garments and jewelry when she moved. Similar to the upper level, it was a large square hollow carved from solid stone, with a smaller square space carved out for the shrine in the heart of the complex.

  She approached the entrance of the shrine, paused to touch the bell above the carved stone doorway, sounding it once. The brass voice sang out, enveloping her with echoes. She loved the way the tone of the bell resonated in her chest; she could feel it in the bone cage that surrounded her heart, could feel it penetrate to her heart itself. It calmed something deep within her soul, brought a sense of tranquility she had been craving all day, perhaps all her life.

  She shut her eyes, joined her palms together, and uttered the sacred syllable: “Auma . . .”

  The resonance of the bell merged with the sacred word, filling her with such an exquisite sensation of bliss, she smiled involuntarily. She opened her eyes, amused and a little embarrassed at herself for smiling at worship, but it felt so right. She felt peaceful, at ease.

  The stone shrine set into the ground had been carved from a single solid block of black rock. Adran had told her that the great Krushan had put his finest craftsmen to work, cutting the stone monolith, carving out doorways, windows, interior spaces. They had done a magnificent job. The shrine itself was small, barely enough inside for two persons to walk around the central square where the sacred fire resided, but it was beautiful in its very simplicity and perfection. Karni experienced a sense of bliss here that she had never found in the largest, most popular temples.

  She stepped over the wooden threshold and into the temple. It was dark here, the stone-cut interior dimly lit by little clay lamps set against the walls. There was no wind to disturb the clay lamps here, and the flames stayed steadfast, but the black stone seemed to absorb their light, leaving only just enough for her to make her way forward a few steps at a time. She bowed to Gnash, in his auspicious place on the right after entering, then to the other deities in turn, spending an appropriate amount of time with each one, before finally moving to the rear of the space. She paused to light the clay lamp in her offering plate before moving on.

  An
other flight of steps cut spirally into the stone led down to the next, lowermost level. She climbed slowly, careful to hold her garment out of the way and her thali close to her body to avoid jostling it against the curving wall as she descended. The stairs seemed to go downward for longer than she remembered, the only light coming from her clay lamp, which, being on top of her offering plate, only illuminated her own face and the wall above her. She had to feel her way by touch, stepping very carefully and slowly. She wondered how tall, largely built persons were able to navigate these stairs. She couldn’t imagine someone like Vrath making his way down them.

  She finally felt the flat stone floor of the lowermost level under her bare foot and exhaled the breath she’d been holding. She was not claustrophobic by nature, but there had been an instant when she’d thought the stairs might go down forever, without any end, and the idea had been nightmarish. She paused and turned to glance up, convinced that there had been at least twice as many stairs this time as on her last visit, but the diya’s feeble light only showed the curving wall and a few yards of winding stone steps. The rest merged into the black stone ceiling above her, indistinguishable in the dimness.