Abounding Might

by Melissa McShane

  The man and woman stood and bowed to the man. He inclined his head and said a few words, which the man responded to. Daphne wanted to prod Fletcher for a translation, but was afraid to break the spell the man had cast over the proceedings. Everyone surrounding them was as intent on the newcomer as she was. He had to be Vaachaspati.

  Vaachaspati turned to face the audience, spreading his arms wide and high above his head. He said a few quiet words. Everyone except Daphne, even Fletcher, responded in a grand chorus that sounded like a flock of birds winging past overhead. Vaachaspati lowered his arms and took his seat on the commodious cushion, settling with his back to the man and woman. If they were his patrons, surely that was an insult? Daphne resolved not to make judgments about a culture she barely understood.

  Silence fell again. After a few moments in which Daphne felt the tension in the air might make her scream, Vaachaspati spoke, and the musicians struck up a tune in a key Daphne could not recognize. The funny stringed instruments wailed like women weeping for their lost children, yet somehow it was not sad. It was not merry, either, but some emotion Daphne had no name for.

  Vaachaspati’s voice was powerful, a warm baritone much like Fletcher’s, and although Daphne could not understand his words, she knew a master storyteller when she heard one no matter what language he spoke. She was so caught up in the sound of his voice it took her several minutes to realize she had no idea what he was saying. “Captain?” she said quietly.

  “It is the story of a woman, the daughter of a wazir, and the prince who falls in love with her,” Fletcher whispered. “Their love is forbidden, and she must disguise herself as a man to save her life.”

  The audience suddenly drew in a breath as one, and wails went up from the listeners. “The woman and the prince are waylaid by bandits, and the prince’s head is lopped off,” Fletcher said. “It is a dramatic moment in the original language.”

  “Dramatic in translation, too,” Daphne whispered. Very likely this was the sort of tale proper young Englishwomen did not listen to. She leaned toward Vaachaspati, wishing she spoke his language.

  The men and women surrounding them wept openly, as if their grief were immediate and personal. Vaachaspati paused in his tale, his eye falling on Daphne. He spoke a few more words, and cheering erupted.

  “The god has restored the prince’s head,” Fletcher said.

  “Then the story is over? That did not seem very long.”

  “It is only the beginning of the young woman’s trials.”

  Daphne listened intently as, with Fletcher’s murmured translation, the poet’s tale came alive. When the young woman, still disguised as a man, rescued her love from the witch who transformed him into a ram, she cheered with the others, laughing at how caught up she had become in a story she could barely understand. Once more, the poet’s eye fell on her, quelling her. He alone in the crowd was somber, as if he had performed some terrible duty only he understood the meaning of. She wondered if he were a Discerner, if he were sanctified to his role the way the Scorchers were.

  The music came to an end, and the exuberant cheering died away. Vaachaspati stood and paced around the cushion, not speaking. Finally, he said something, addressing the ground, that sent the musicians scrambling for a new melody. Fletcher went very still beside Daphne. “This is a new tale,” he said. “He has never told it before tonight.”

  Daphne shifted her weight. The dampness of the ground had seeped through her skirt, and her posterior ached, but leaving was impossible. “Is that… does it mean something?”

  “That he shares a new story when Europeans are in attendance—I cannot believe it is coincidence.”

  Fletcher moved closer, putting his head near Daphne’s so his warm breath caressed her ear. “I will translate as I can,” he said quietly, “but I may not be able to keep up.”

  Daphne nodded. The lanterns had begun to flicker as if their fuel were gone, and a young woman dressed in red silk brought fresh ones and lit them with the power of her talent. Vaachaspati ignored her, speaking clearly to the crowd.

  “There was a prince,” Fletcher said, “who ruled from the sea to the sky. He was wealthy and wise, and all came to bow before him. He was… this does not translate, I apologize.”

  “It is all right. Please, continue!”

  “His dominion was great, and much envied by other princes, but he was powerful, and defeated all who would conquer him.” Fletcher paused when Vaachaspati did. The entire garden fell silent. “But the prince had a weakness, and it would be his downfall.

  “The prince had two wives, both as beautiful as the sun. The first became big with child, and when the ten moons were complete—it is how they measure time to confinement—she was delivered of a daughter. The second, too, had a daughter. The prince doted on his daughters, but longed for an heir so his dominion would not pass into obscurity.

  “One day a foreign ruler came to call. This ruler was unlike the others; he claimed he did not wish to conquer, but to live in harmony, trading at the prince’s cities and sharing his vast wealth. The prince Discerned that this ruler was as honest as he claimed to be, and welcomed him as a brother.”

  The garden echoed with moans. “What have you not said?” Daphne exclaimed.

  “It is—I cannot explain, except that the Discernment—I will have to tell you later. It is a sad twist in the tale, and I am falling behind.”

  Daphne nodded. She could not take her eyes off the poet.

  “The foreign ruler promised many things, but the most compelling was a promise to ensure the prince’s dominion never failed. The foreign ruler had many great magics at his command, and the prince believed he could give him the heir he so longed for.

  “So the prince began giving the foreign ruler gifts. First, gifts of money and jewels. Then properties. Then he gave him the diwan, the principal trading concession. But still his wives did not conceive. The prince, his heart breaking, took to his bed, begging the foreign ruler to have pity on him. To his very last breath, he believed if he were only faithful, he would see the son he so longed for.”

  Vaachaspati fell silent once more. His eyes were locked with Daphne’s. Looking away was impossible. She felt a great knot in her chest, a powerful ache at the prince’s pain. “The prince died, and the foreign ruler took his lands,” Fletcher said, his voice flat and emotionless. “His people and his wives were dispersed, his property claimed by the foreign ruler that the land might not fall into destruction.”

  “Oh,” Daphne said. “I thought… the other had such a happy ending…”

  “Not all stories end happily,” Fletcher said. “But—he says this is not the end. The prince’s dying wish was granted. The younger of his wives gave birth to a son, five months after his father’s death. And—now he is speaking in a metaphorical way—someday the son will restore what the father has lost.”

  “Restore?” Daphne said.

  Fletcher looked impassive. “Indeed.”

  In which Bess demonstrates an Extraordinary Speaker’s talent

  ore moans went up from the listeners, and a few people were weeping. “But if he is to restore—”

  Fletcher shushed her. He was listening intently to Vaachaspati’s words. “War, between the foreign ruler and the son, but… the son has dark forces at his command, and the story ends with a warning. It is the strangest story I have ever heard.”

  Vaachaspati took a seat on the cushion. He looked utterly exhausted. The man in the chair stood and clapped his hands. Immediately the audience began rising, dusting themselves off and making their way past the tree line toward the road. “But—is that all?” Daphne said.

  “It seems so,” Fletcher said. He helped her rise and gave her his arm. “Let us see if we may speak to him directly.”

  They had only taken a few steps toward the seated poet when the Discerners came out of nowhere and intercepted them. One of them said something even Daphne could understand was a no. Fletcher spoke to them in his calm voice, making them both
hesitate and glance over their shoulders at Vaachaspati, who didn’t seem to notice their presence at all. Finally, the Discerner said a few words, making Fletcher nod, and he and Daphne proceeded toward the road.

  “What did you say?” Daphne asked. “It did not sound like a rejection.”

  “We are permitted five minutes’ conversation once the poet has recovered,” Fletcher said. “We are to wait by the road until we are summoned.” Behind them, the lamps went dim, and the garden was swallowed up in darkness, lit only by the sliver of waning moon that sailed high overhead and one low-burning lantern. Daphne glanced back and saw the poet, still seated on his cushion, his head bowed as if in prayer. The Scorcher finished trimming the lamp and walked toward the house.

  Daphne was grateful for Fletcher’s arm as they navigated the garden to the more well-lit front of the house. “That story was for us,” she said.

  “Undoubtedly. The prince of Madhyapatnam, dying without an heir, has his lands taken by the East India Company so they will not fall into anarchy. Some elaboration, naturally, but that is the essence of it.”

  “But how could Vaachaspati have known what we were looking for? And a lost prince? It seems too coincidental for words.”

  “We were not subtle in our search this morning. Anyone might have told him what facts we were looking to confirm. We must speak with him. If his story is true, and there is a lost prince, he might be the one behind the unrest Madhyapatnam has faced.”

  “But what does it mean, that the son has control of dark forces?”

  “I do not know. Something to ask Vaachaspati. The story certainly lacked the animosity toward the Company one might expect. But Madhyapatnam has flourished under Company rule, so perhaps it is not so surprising.”

  Daphne jigged from one foot to the other. “When will they summon us?”

  “Patience. He is not going anywhere.”

  They stood in silence, watching the rest of the audience members flow past them down the road. They all appeared to be on foot, even the ones dressed in silks the way Vaachaspati’s patrons had been. Daphne wondered if that were some kind of ritual, as well, humbling themselves before the representative of God. She considered asking Fletcher, but their silence was so companionable she hated to break it for anything so irrelevant as that.

  “Investigation aside, I have enjoyed this evening,” Fletcher said abruptly. “Seeing India through your eyes is refreshing.”

  “I have always longed for this kind of adventure,” Daphne said. “I no longer regret leaving the Peninsula, as I would never have had this opportunity there.”

  “You did not leave by choice.” Fletcher’s voice was quiet, and Daphne dared not look at him, for fear he would see her shame written on her face.

  “I did not,” she said simply.

  “Ensign Phillips told me. You lose consciousness at the sight of blood.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That would make serving on the battlefield difficult.”

  “It is why—mostly why—I am in India, Captain.”

  Fletcher was silent. She glanced quickly at him and saw he was looking off into the distance, not at her. “Then your service yesterday was truly extraordinary, if you were able to convey me in the condition I was no doubt in.”

  “Please do not be grateful to me, Captain, I feel I do not deserve it.”

  “Something else happened in Spain, did it not?”

  She let out a long, weary breath. “I failed in my duty, and a man died. You very nearly died. I cannot—it was luck—”

  “It was not luck. It was sheer perseverance.” Fletcher took her by the shoulders and turned her so she had to look at him. His eyes were fierce even in the lamplight. “Lady Daphne, I honor you for what you have overcome. We all of us who serve in war have deaths on our consciences. Do not permit this one to rob you of your victories.”

  “I hate being weak. It feels so much like failure, and if I am to fail I want it to be on my own terms, not because my body has betrayed me.”

  “I understand. My talent is strong, but it is also the source of my greatest weakness. It is humiliating, feeling that loss of control, and I feel such shame—”

  “Captain, you have nothing to feel ashamed of! I—you are laughing at me, how dare you?”

  “Lady Daphne, listen to yourself. If you will not permit me to feel shame at my weakness, how can you possibly justify it in yourself?”

  It felt like a light went on inside her heart. “I—but it is different—”

  “Only because you insist on making it so. Forgive yourself, Lady Daphne, and move forward.”

  His eyes were so intent on her, his hand rested on her forearm, and she felt a sudden urgency to put her arms around him, not to Bound with him but to take comfort in his embrace. She could tell the moment he became aware of her desire, because that slow, mysterious smile spread across his face. He took a step toward her, clasping her other hand with his free one.

  A scream shattered the night. Fletcher’s head whipped around to stare at the darkened garden. He released Daphne and ran for the tree line. Daphne took three staggering steps after him, said an unladylike word, and Skipped past him to alight just inside the garden.

  The red-clad Scorcher woman knelt beside the cushion, supporting Vaachaspati in her arms. Daphne Skipped to her side and helped her hold the man up. His head lolled to one side, his body a dead weight. The woman gabbled uncontrollably at Daphne, then screamed again, and again, words in Hindoostani Daphne was certain no one could understand.

  Footsteps pounded across the lawn toward them. “Give him to me,” Fletcher said, taking the poet in his arms without waiting for the woman to respond. He supported Vaachaspati so his head tipped back, shifting his beard to expose his throat, and Daphne bit back a scream. A long, lurid line of bruising circled the man’s throat. His eyes were wide open and staring. Fletcher placed his cheek close to Vaachaspati’s mouth. “He’s dead,” he announced, then repeated himself in Hindoostani.

  The woman screamed again, this time a horrified wordless wail. More footsteps, and shouting, came toward them. The woman shoved Fletcher away from the body and lit the lanterns with her Scorcher talent. Fletcher rose and took Daphne’s hand. “We have to leave. Now,” he said.

  Daphne lifted him and Bounded them to the Residence’s entrance hall, where they stood clinging to each other, not out of desire but from a mutual need for reassurance. Daphne could not help seeing that still, staring form whenever she closed her eyes. Finally, she stepped away from Fletcher, and said, “Should we not have stayed? To help?”

  “Europeans near the body of a respected holy man? That Scorcher woman might tell them we had nothing to do with it, but she was out of her mind with grief and it is not something I wanted to rely on. We would just have been accused of murder.” Fletcher let out a deep, pained sigh. “We may be accused of murder anyway, depending on how stricken that Scorcher was.”

  “But we were nowhere near!”

  “Irrelevant. They will be looking for someone to blame.” Fletcher shook his head. “Let us see who is still awake and discuss our next step.”

  There was no one in the drawing room. “I did not realize the time,” Fletcher said when he observed the mantel clock. “You should retire, and we will discuss this in the morning.”

  “I cannot possibly sleep after that. Was he killed to prevent him talking to us?”

  “I can see no other interpretation. Vaachaspati was well-loved and respected, and as far as I can tell had no enemies. His death benefits only our enemy, who could not permit him to share whatever information he had. When we capture this man, I will take great pleasure in bringing him to justice.”

  “I feel rather bloodthirsty about it. What are we to do, Captain?”

  Fletcher took a seat and gestured for Daphne to sit near him. “We must verify the existence of a missing third child of the Prince. An heir. Someone must know… though I do not know why I am so certain of that, given that we have heard
no mention of him in all the investigating we have done.”

  “If we knew where the wives went, we might ask there.”

  “True. That may be the next best step.”

  “Or…” Daphne drew up her legs, not thinking that it might be immodest. Her Indian clothing left her feeling so much freer than her normal garb. “Suppose some of the Prince’s household is still in Madhyapatnam? They might know of the child. You have no doubt been speaking with the men of the city—well, what about the women?”

  “That is a clever idea, Lady Daphne. And your friend Gopika might be able to lead us in the right direction.” Fletcher yawned. “You may not be able to sleep, but I certainly feel the need. Good night, Lady Daphne, and thank you for your company this evening. I regret that it had to end so horribly.”

  “So do I. I felt as if I knew Vaachaspati, despite never once speaking to him. Such a tragedy.”

  “We will solve this mystery, and bring him justice.”

  Daphne nodded and Bounded to the dark security of her bedroom.

  She undressed, folding her Indian clothing away into the depths of her trunk, and donned a nightgown, then stood before her window, brushing her hair. Who could have done such a thing? What could possibly be worth taking a man’s life to protect? She thought about the house, about the garden, and wondered how the murderer could have slipped past the Discerners. Her last sight of Vaachaspati had shown him sitting alone. Someone might have made his stealthy way around the far side of the house, silently walking up behind the exhausted poet, flinging a cord around his neck—Daphne shuddered and put the image far from herself. Dwelling on it would not bring the man back.