Upon a Burning Throne

by Ashok K. Banker

  She reached out for the bell by her bedside that would summon one of her maids, who would then summon the healer, but before her hand could reach it, a shadow caught her eye.

  There was someone standing by the verandah. Just outside her bedchamber. She could see the shadow behind the billowing drapes. It appeared to be a man: tall, lean, and clad entirely in dark clothing.

  “Who is that?” she asked, hearing the weakness in her voice. The act of speaking made her head pound and filled the back of her throat with bile. That awful smelling wind! If only it would stop.

  There was no answer.

  The wind continued to billow the drapes, rustling the sheets and bedclothes, even making her hair dance. Beyond the verandah, there was a strange light in the sky. The moon should have been full tonight, she knew, but the patch of sky she could see from here was dark, suffused with strange coloring. Almost like . . . an eclipse. But there was no eclipse tonight. The astronomers of Hastinaga were the finest in the world, and they had mapped out the schedule of the planets and stars for thousands of years in advance. The almanac showed every single eclipse, phase of the moon, even the phases of the unseen planets Rohu and Kattu.

  She tried to focus on the tall shadow outside her bedchamber, but her vision blurred and swam, the chamber rolling from side to side as she struggled to concentrate.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here in my chamber?”

  Still no answer. Just that festering wind and awful odor, and the strange hue of the sky—deep blue light shot through with threads of crimson and ochre.

  There was a person on her verandah, she was certain of it, but her eyes would not focus, her head and stomach roiled, and she continued to feel nausea growing in her belly.

  “Answer me!” she commanded, summoning up the queenly voice for which she was so notorious. That tone which made even the most powerful nobles, ministers, kings, and ambassadors quail and lower their eyes.

  A soft sound from the balcony, carried on the foul wind.

  “Daughter of fishmongers . . .”

  She could not have heard right. Surely that was not what the person had said! Who was this man? She could think of no one that tall, that lean, and what sort of person wore thick black robes from head to toe on such a warm night? She felt her body blazing with fever now, her insides in turmoil, and knew that somehow, her condition was being caused not by any ailment, but by the very presence of this person, this being.

  “Mother of whores . . .”

  She had heard enough. She turned back to the bedside table and reached for the bell to summon the maids. “I will have a dozen men here in an instant, and we’ll see about your mother then!” she said in irritation and pique.

  But the bell was gone. It was always kept in the exact same spot. Yet tonight it was not in its place.

  She knew it had been there when she had gone to bed; she had used it one last time to remind her maid not to disturb her until late morning as she wished to sleep in. She had set it back right . . . there.

  Instead of the bell, something else lay on her nightstand. She picked it up out of sheer curiosity, and felt cold, wet flesh and prickly scales.

  Despite the vile odors from the verandah, the object had its own distinct smell, which she recognized instantly. She was the daughter of fisherfolk, after all.

  It was a fish.

  Still wet and dripping from the river. A river fish—which she knew because she could smell the water pouring off it as if she had just plucked it out of the water. Her father had taught her that if she trained her nose, she could learn a great deal about a fish just by its smell. He could always tell you exactly how long ago a fish had been caught, and likely where it had been caught as well. She was not as gifted as he, and in her disoriented, feverish condition, she could not be certain of her senses, but the fish in her hand smelled exactly like the fish she used to catch in the river just outside her village. Except that her village was a hundred miles away, and this fish had been caught only a few moments ago.

  The fish wriggled in her fist suddenly. It shivered and shook, trying to escape her grasp. Still alive!

  She dropped it, hearing it slap down on the bed, then flop and dance desperately in its last throes.

  How could a fish freshly caught from her village land on her nightstand a hundred miles away in an instant?

  “Your father, your mother, your sisters, your brother, your village, your entire clan . . .”

  “Maids!” Jilana cried out.

  But her voice was hoarse and weak.

  “Guards!”

  The tall shadow on the verandah leered. She could not see its face, yet she heard the leer in its soft chuckling.

  “I will slay them all, every last one, like that fish that lies dying on your bed . . .”

  “Guards!” she shouted, louder now, yet somehow not louder than that wind, the keening screeching wind that seemed to be blowing at great force from some distant desert battlefield.

  “I took that fish from the river outside your father’s hut, while he lay sleeping only yards away. In a moment, I return to take his life just as easily. He will die writhing in my hands like a fish . . .”

  Jilana shut her eyes, ignoring the pounding of her head, the reeling of her senses, the blurring of her vision, the churning of her belly; she shut her eyes and concentrated with all her strength and might, and spoke a single phrase, a mantra she used only when absolutely necessary, for matters of life and death, in times of extreme emergency. This was such a time, she knew, and she did not hesitate to use it.

  An explosion of light and sound—and then a tall, dark figure loomed over her bedside, staring down at her with intense eyes that burned like twin suns in the eclipse of her senses.

  Adri

  Adri had never felt so content.

  He lay in languorous exhaustion, limbs asprawl, a film of warm sweat on his naked body.

  The night was warmer than usual, and had been for a while already, but he was only realizing it now. An unseasonal breeze blew through his bedchamber, bringing with it strange odors, distant sounds . . . He even thought he could smell and hear elephants, yet that was not possible. The royal elephant enclosures were on the far side of the palace, the opposite end to the wing in which his chambers were situated. Surely, he must be mistaken.

  Another gentle breeze stirred the thin garment lying carelessly over his lower body, and he smelled it again, distinctly this time. That was the scent of elephants, no mistaking it. It could not have been stronger had he been in a chamber directly above the elephant enclosures. But he had never even been to that side of the palace. He didn’t even know what lay on that side. Was it the palace cooks’ quarters? The palace guards?”

  A gentle hand touched his cheek.

  “My lord.”

  He smiled.

  “May I bring you some refreshment? Something cool to drink? Some fruit to eat? The pantry is not far from my room.”

  The smile faded from his face. He lay still, staring up at familiar darkness, smelling the scent of elephants, listening to the sound of the female voice, feeling the hand caressing his cheek lightly.

  Geldry would never offer to bring him refreshment.

  Geldry would never refer to their bedchamber as her room.

  Geldry spoke with a very distinct Geldran accent.

  He sat up suddenly, gripping the female hand at his face tightly, tightly enough to elicit a gasp of pain from the owner of the hand.

  “You are not Geldry.”

  “My lord, you are hurting my hand.”

  Adri released the hand and reached out in the same motion, finding the face of the woman sitting beside him, feeling her face, the soft smooth skin, the small snubbed nose, the wide set cheekbones, filled-in cheeks, the broad sloping forehead, the short hair . . .

  He jerked his hand back abruptly, shocked.

  “Who are you?”

  “My lord?”

  “Who are you?” He felt the urge to grasp her should
er and shake her, but he did not wish to cause her harm or discomfort. “Answer me!”

  “My lord . . . you seem upset. Is everything in order? Are you feeling unwell?”

  “I . . .” His head reeled. Somewhere outside but not far away, an elephant lowed softly in its sleep and was answered by several others. He smelled the familiar stench of elephant offal drifting on the warm breeze.

  He felt the weight of the bed shift. The woman had risen from the bed. He heard her move about the room, lifting something, and then heard the sound of water being poured from an earthen vessel into a smaller earthen vessel, a cup perhaps. A moment later, he felt her presence by his side, and smelled the water she held in her hand.

  “My lord, some water to bring you relief.”

  He took the cup and brought it to his lips. She continued holding the cup as well, and his fingers covered hers. He drank deeply, the cool water feeling like a blessing as it went down his parched throat and filled his belly. Her hand was soft, her fingers delicate—and he knew these were the same fingers, the same hand, that had caressed him so expertly the night before, had aroused him to such hard passion.

  He finished the water but continued holding the cup—and the hand that held it.

  “Who are you?” he asked again, but gently this time, with tenderness in his voice befitting a lover.

  “My lord,” she said, and he sensed her bowing her head instinctively, even though he could not see the gesture. “I am Sauvali, a maid in your employ.”

  He was silent, absorbing this information.

  “Where am I at present?” he asked.

  “In my room in the maids’ quarters, in the southeastern wing of the palace.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “My lord?”

  “I . . . do not recall coming here.” Ever. But he did not add the last part: it was obvious.

  “My lord, I do not know how you came here, I assumed you asked someone the way. I was fast asleep and lying in bed, when suddenly I realized someone else was here beside me. Startled at first, I rose and was about to cry out when you grasped my wrist and pulled me down to you. You whispered softly in my ears that you wished to lie with me. I could not refuse you, my lord. So I . . . I entertained you.”

  He was silent for another long pause as he tried to recall these events. He had no memory of rising from his own bed, walking all the way to this part of the palace—a distance of almost half a mile through winding corridors, up and down stairways and more corridors, presumably. Nor did he remember grasping her wrist and saying those words to her. But he could hear the truth in her voice. She was being completely honest. There was no deception in her.

  He groaned and rubbed a hand across his face.

  “My lord? Would you like some more water?”

  He nodded.

  She poured from the earthen pot and brought the cup back to him. He drank it gratefully.

  “Shall I fetch you refreshment, sire?”

  He shook his head, handing the clay cup back to her. He heard the faint sound of the cup being set on to the top of the earthen pot. She was a gentle person, her movements, her actions, all very smooth and sensual. He heard the tiny anklet bells she wore as well as the tiny bells on the chain around her waist as she moved. She was wider hipped than Geldry, her rear larger as well, but firm and fleshy. He was shocked to feel himself growing aroused again.

  “Is all well, my lord?” she asked, with genuine concern in her voice.

  He nodded. Then decided she deserved the benefit of an answer. “Yes, thank you, Sauvali.”

  “My lord, are you sure you would not like something to eat? You need nourishment to replenish your energies.” She paused, and he sensed her blushing as she tried to phrase her next words suitably, “You were extremely vigorous.”

  He felt his arousal growing.

  “You found me vigorous?” he asked, unable to mask the pleasure in his tone.

  “Yes, my lord,” she said with unmistakable shyness. He knew she had lowered her head and was touching her own breast, her finger circling the swollen nipple. She was growing aroused as well. He smelled the odor of her musk, her yoni dampening in anticipation. “In my village in Saugadha, we had a bull. I watched him cover the cows many a time. You were as vigorous as that bull tonight. Strong and powerful. I was pleased to receive your seed.”

  Now he was as hard as a rod of metal, harder than he had been in years. Even with Geldry, he had never been so filled with desire, so passionately aroused. With Geldry, there had always been a mask of ego, a keen sense of the difference between them, and a distance within Geldry herself, a remoteness, a form of detachment that kept her removed from even the most physical of acts, as if she retreated to a corner of her own mind, observing but not entirely present in the moment. Perhaps if Adri had not been blind since birth, gifted with other ways of seeing, the ability to see into a person’s heart and mind, he might never have realized this about Geldry. But because he did realize it, it had saddened him immensely, made him feel somehow smaller, less significant.

  It was not a masculine thing; while his ego did enjoy the idea that he was conquering, besieging, “taking” a woman as all men did, it was the fact that she herself was not deeply involved in the act as he was that disappointed him. At its most intimate, lovemaking was a meeting of not only two bodies, but two minds, two hearts, two souls. He brought everything to his moments with Geldry. The fact that she reserved something, held back, was puzzling and somehow a comment on himself, he felt. Even in her wildest moments of ecstasy, crying out with the joy of climax, she still kept a tiny portion of herself away from his reach. He had never understood that. It had made him try even harder at first, thrusting and pounding furiously, using all his newly learned skills as a lover to try to unlock that final gate, and in a way he had never entirely given up on that attempt.

  But she had begun to withdraw even further. Especially after their disagreement over Shvate’s bounty. And of late, it was as if she was withdrawing farther and farther each day. Lovers can read each other’s hearts: even when fully clothed, we are still naked to one another. Adri sensed he had lost another part of Geldry, just when he had thought that he was close to bringing down her last gate, and he had not even known that was possible. If it was, then it meant that Geldry might raise new gates in time, one for each time they disagreed or argued or fought.

  Over time, she would be unapproachable behind all her many fortifications. And he would be outside, alone and cold and lonely. He could not bear that thought. He didn’t care if she conquered and he lost; it didn’t matter to him that only he must win. Love was not a war, or even a competition. It was an alliance, the most passionate, intimate alliance of all. How could you build walls and embankments against your own allies? Why would you want to keep out your most intimate friend? He could not understand it, and it hurt him deeply.

  And now, here was this maid, a mere girl, judging from the feel of her supple young body and her voice, a low caste from the Daugasya clan, and she was treating him with such warmth and affection, such tenderness. She wanted him. She craved him. He heard the desire in her voice, smelled the lust in her loins, felt the passion in her heartbeat.

  Without another word or thought, he reached out his hand to her. Without the slightest hesitation, she came forward, her naked hip brushing against his erect lingam. He grasped her by the shoulders, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips, and pulled her down upon himself, entering and spearing her most tender space with his bull-hard maleness.

  Karni

  Karni was shaking as she emerged from the temple.

  She was sopping wet, her clothes dripping onto the black stone stairs as she climbed the last one. She stood for a moment, then lowered herself and sat down heavily on the top step, turning to put her feet on the one below. She bent over double, then hugged her knees for a moment, shuddering with emotion and with cold. The water was freezing, and she was icy chilled, but the shuddering was due to what she had seen
and heard.

  Finally, she stopped shaking and breathed deeply, exhaling. Her breath felt warm and comforting on her cold knees. She looked down at the temple’s first level. It looked quiet and placid, just like it always did. The whole complex was serene and calm. She always liked to spend some time after her prayer, just to commune with the godhead, to allow her thoughts time to gather themselves. It gave her a deep sense of inner calm and strength.

  She realized suddenly that she had forgotten the pooja thali. It was probably still in the inner shrine, on the floor before the deity’s altar where she had set it down. She had never actually performed the pooja or sung the aarti, rung the little bell and doused herself in the sacred smoke, partaken of the prasadam, none of the usual little ritual things she liked to do every time.

  On the other hand, she had never actually been given darshan of the goddess. Somehow, rituals seemed petty and insignificant compared to the presence of the actual deity. The pooja thali was not important in itself. She could get a thousand of them if she desired. The fact that Goddess Jeel had personally appeared to her, and had spoken at such length, was profoundly inspiring as well as startling.

  But what did it mean? Her mind was still reeling with the words the goddess had spoken. Still trying to make sense of all that Goddess Jeel had told her. What had she meant when she spoke of sacrifices and sons? Firstborn sons, at that. Surely she could not mean . . .