by J. S. Bangs
“I wish he had not died,” Mandhi said. She allowed the tears she had been holding back to trickle out of her eyes. “I miss him. I hope the story brings his family some comfort.”
“You miss him,” Kest said with a little contempt in his voice. “Then why did you remarry so quickly? You took no time to mourn him.”
“Remarry? I didn’t remarry.”
“But you—” Kest gestured at her belly and milk-heavy breasts.
“No,” Mandhi said, alarmed. “Taleg died less than a year ago. I conceived just before then. This is Taleg’s child.”
Kest’s face went through a series of distortions, changing from horror to wonder to fear to joy. He stood to his feet. “I should go,” he said. He ran two paces toward the door, then turned back and said, “No, wait. Will you be here when I return from Kalignas?”
Mandhi hesitated. “Why? What is this about?”
Kest stood for a while, his mouth open, groping for words. “I want to… do something for you for Taleg’s memory. When I come back from Kalignas. Will you meet with me again?”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. Not too long. I’ll find you. I must go now.” He turned, pushed past Mandhi’s escort, and disappeared into the street.
Silence hung over Mandhi and Aryaji for a few breaths.
“That was very strange,” Aryaji said.
“Indeed,” Mandhi said. She rested her hand atop her belly. “Perhaps there was some Kaleksha taboo about pregnant women which we incurred?”
“But he only fled after he heard that it was Taleg’s child.”
“I don’t know. Help me up,” she said, extending a hand toward Aryaji.
Aryaji took Mandhi’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Mandhi brushed off and arranged her sari, then headed for the door.
“I wish I understood,” Mandhi said. “I wanted to hear about his childhood in Kalignas. Perhaps when he returns.”
“You’ll meet with him again?” Aryaji asked.
They emerged through the door into the street, where their escort bowed to them and raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. “We’re going back to the palace now,” Mandhi directed him, and he began leading them out of the Kaleksha district. To Aryaji she said, “Yes. How long is the voyage to Kalignas?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Aryaji said. “A month or more.”
Their escort broke in. “Sixty days with fair winds, eighty or more with foul.”
“So four months, at least, before he returns. By that time the child will be born.” A thrill of anxiety and anticipation passed through her. “Maybe he’ll want to see his nephew. And maybe we can get an explanation out of him then.”
Kirshta
The cold wind whipped around Kirshta’s shoulders, biting into his skin with fingers of ice. Snow whirled around his feet. His fingers were cold and stiff. Before him, a throat of stone opened, a bottomless tunnel lined with teeth of obsidian.
He fell.
The teeth cut through his frozen flesh. His blood turned into red drops of ice falling beside him. The endless throat rasped with hunger, and he fell, and he fell, forever—
“Kirshta,” Apurta said.
Kirshta opened his eyes and bolted off the ground. His heart hammered in his chest, and his arms were greasy with sweat. Apurta knelt next to him with his hand on Kirshta’s shoulder and a worried expression on his face.
Curse these nightmares.
“Are you well?” Apurta said.
Kirshta snapped, “Do I look like I’m well? Of course I’m not well.”
“What happened? I came in and found you sleeping, but you were shivering, and it looked like you were going to cut yourself with how hard your nails were digging into your palms.”
Kirshta shivered again, despite the warmth of early autumn within the tent. “I don’t know. I was dreaming….”
The nightmares had started a few weeks ago. An endless throat of stone, teeth of obsidian, cold and snow and ice, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his childhood in the mountains. He pushed that thought away—he never thought about his childhood. But in the nightmare he was there, back in the place where the slavers had taken him.
It seemed strange that something seen with farsight would migrate into ordinary nightmares. He needed someone that he could ask about the meaning of this, to ask why he kept seeing this throat of stone in his farsight, and to find out why the terror of it stalked him when he awoke.
But there was no one to ask. Ternas was burned, its library ruined, its masters killed. His only hope was to recover something from Ruyam’s books—and that meant he had to get into the Ushpanditya.
Apurta’s brows were wrinkled in concern. “Chadram wants you,” he said. “Are you able to come?”
“Yeah,” Kirshta said. “Just give me a minute.”
He found their water-pouch, took a long drink, then splashed the last of it on his face. A mid-day nap had seemed like a good idea with the army idling outside the walls of Majasravi. Next time he would think twice.
He stepped out into the early afternoon sun and let the heat on his bare shoulders burn away the ice he felt in his muscles.
Apurta chewed a piece of betel nut. “You ready?” he asked.
Kirshta nodded. “Let’s go.”
Chadram had set up a pavilion on the side of the camp closest to Majasravi, flying the red standards prominently on the corners of the pavilion and setting a guard where anyone who looked out from the walls would see it. Yet no one came to meet them. The gates were open, but it was as if no one was there.
Someone was speaking loudly as Kirshta and Apurta approached. “… no response to the messengers we sent into Majasravi, and they haven’t come back. So we don’t know.”
Chadram stood with his arms folded over his bare chest, looking toward the city. “And yet the banners of the Red Men fly above the walls.”
“Actually,” the man said, “once we approached the walls we saw otherwise. The banners are red, but they have the rice stalk of Am on them, not the spear of the Red Men, nor the moon-and-wheel of the Prince Imperial.”
“So what does that mean? Have the Amya dhorsha taken over the city?”
The messenger smiled at the joke. “I’m sure. Or perhaps someone else who wants to hide behind them.”
Chadram grumbled and began to pace through the shade of the pavilion. “So what else can our scouts report?”
“The smoke rises from the sacrifices in the Majavaru Lurchatiya. The white domes of the Ushpanditya can be seen, and there is no disturbance in the markets and the roads. The majority of the city, in other words, appears to be functioning entirely as normal. Only the Dhigvaditya is shut.”
“Very well.” Chadram’s gaze wandered around the pavilion. He pointed to another one of the Red Men standing at attention. “Jakhritu. Report to me on the Prince.”
Jakhritu bowed. “The Prince Imperial, Praudhu-dar, camps in the fields to the northwest of the city in the village of Srandhu. Our spies questioned the villagers and say that he arrived there five days ago.”
Kirshta felt a spark of recognition, something he knew or had known which was relevant to this man’s report. A moment later he realized what it was: farsight. He had seen something which connected to this, a binding which only now surfaced in his conscious mind. He listened further with heightened attention.
“And his retinue?” Chadram asked. “Soldiers? Arms?”
“About two hundred men in all,” Jakhritu replied. “A hundred armed guards, personal escorts for him and his family. The rest are his relatives, courtiers, ministers, allies from Gumadha. We gathered several names….”
Chadram shook his head. “Remember them for later. Lord Am slay me if I have to descend to involving myself in the bickering of Praudhu-dar’s party. In the meantime,” he gestured to one of his aides-de-camp, “compose a formal message inquiring after his intentions here in Majasravi. Be sure to include all of the formalities but don’t ha
il him as Emperor. Yet.”
Finally, he turned to Kirshta, spearing him with a glare, which was equal parts frustration, anger, and expectancy. “And you. Did you do what I asked?”
“Yes, captain,” Kirshta said, and bowed. Three days ago, when they had first come within sight of the imperial city, Chadram had ordered Kirshta to meditate every day, long hours if necessary, until his farsight showed him something about the city. He had done so, though it had made the nightmares worse.
Chadram nodded grimly. “Tell me that your study has been useful to me this time.”
“It has,” Kirshta said with a slight smile. He took a deep breath and brought to mind the exact words he had composed. He had labored for quite a while to forge the wordless certainties of the trance into a verbal form which would impress Chadram. “We who hear these words,” he said slowly, “will enter the Dhigvaditya at the dark of the moon, alive and unopposed.”
Chadram raised an eyebrow. “The moon is already a waning sliver. Do you mean to say we’ll go into the Dhigvaditya in the next few days?”
Kirshta’s confidence faltered. “No, I mean….” Now he was starting to look like a fool. “We will enter the Dhigvaditya when the moon is dark. I cannot swear that it will be at the next new moon.”
“And we might enter unopposed because we’re victors or because we’re prisoners,” Chadram said. “Typical thikratta ambiguity. Did you see anything about the Prince?”
The odd feeling of connection that Kirshta returned, but it was nothing he could explain to Chadram. “No.”
Chadram paced again, his gaze returning to the gray walls of Majasravi with the red banners of Am on their gates.
“Sadja-dar,” he said pensively, just loud enough for Kirshta to hear. “What is Sadja-dar doing?”
Kirshta’s feeling of foreboding increased at the mention of Sadja’s name. “Sadja-dar?”
“The Prince’s presence was not anticipated,” Chadram said. “This is not what Sadja-dar predicted. I’ll have to figure this out on my own.” He began to speak more loudly, so the whole pavilion could hear. “For now we go to the Prince Imperial. Send the messenger to Praudhu-dar tomorrow. The day after, perhaps we’ll meet with him. Kirshta, you will come with me.”
“Yes, captain,” Kirshta said. Chadram nodded and waved to dismiss him, but Kirshta cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Captain, may I ask a question?”
Chadram looked at him with annoyance. “What do you want?”
Kirshta’s pulse pattered. Nervousness and fear could undo him—though if he were still so vulnerable to fear, then he deserved to fail. He went to the corner of the pavilion and picked up an unlit oil lamp. His mind opened. The trance state had become easy for him, and he fell into it with little effort: the connection to all things, the knowledge of the elements and their natures, the honed will which could call the elements to life. Kirshta arranged himself before Chadram and closed his eyes. Fire was quiescent within the lamp already, so it was a simple thing to inhale and unite it with the air, and order it to leap—
And the lamp lit.
He opened his eyes.
Chadram was looking at him, his arms still folded, his expression unmoved. “How long have you been working on that?”
“Since Jaitha,” Kirshta said. “I discovered the technique and have been honing it in practice.”
“Practiced enough to be useful in battle?”
“Perhaps,” Kirshta said. He doubted it, but wouldn’t say so out loud.
Chadram turned back to watching the walls of Majasravi. “Well, it’s something. Keep practicing. Anything to impress the Prince Imperial with our usefulness is appreciated.”
* * *
The village of Srandhu was drowned beneath the flood of the Prince Imperial’s retinue. There was a single guesthouse in the town; all of its rooms had been taken by the Prince and his attendants, while the open spaces of the village were filled with tents and pavilions of white canvas, their interiors partitioned with screens of green and yellow silk. Khadir with oiled mustaches and gold rings strolled city streets, followed by mixed crowds of well-dressed servants and harried villagers in dark red linens.
The pitiful villagers looked haunted and desperate. The khadir seemed upset by the fact that they camped at the threshold of Majasravi, a half-day’s walk from the luxuries and palaces of the capitol, but they could not enter. Even if the Red Men of the Dhigvaditya would let them go into the city, who would dare leave behind the Prince Imperial?
The Prince’s residence in the guesthouse demanded decoration. Chadram stood at a door which had been furnished with a brand-new painted silk screen, waiting for the servant who answered to officially admit them to the Prince’s presence. A half-dozen guards and lieutenants waited with him and Kirshta. The Kupshira family emblem, a hand within a wheel on dark green silk, hung on posts at every corner, and the smell of sandalwood and cumin wafted from inside the guesthouse.
“What is taking so long?” Kirshta muttered. They had been waiting at the door for what seemed like hours.
Chadram looked at him sharply. “Don’t complain. Would you complain if you waited to meet the Emperor?”
Kirshta grimaced. He had seen the Emperor whenever he wanted to in the Ushpanditya, back when the Emperor was a senile old man confined to his chamber by Ruyam. Perhaps he’d have to readjust his expectations working with an Emperor who had his wits about him.
Time crawled by. Eventually a servant boy pulled aside the silk curtain across the door and said, “You may come in. The Prince Imperial is pleased to see you.”
The Red Men entered with Kirshta at their tail. The front room was strewn with silk cushions and half-eaten trays of spiced rice, with courtiers and courtesans leaning against the walls and sipping tea. The servant boy led them ahead, toward one of the rear bedrooms. The boy pulled the curtain aside and announced in a loud voice, “Kupshira Praudhu-dar the Prince Imperial, whose rule we await with fear and trembling, meets with Chadram of the Emperor’s guard. Enter and make obeisance.”
Kirshta followed the Red Men into the room bent at the waist, dropping to his knees to make a full prostration before rising. When he rose he saw a portly middle-aged man on a silk cushion, black hair shot through with silver, clean-shaven cheeks and a trimmed and oiled mustache. Kirshta’s breath stopped.
A king lay facedown on a marble floor in a pool of blood.
He had never seen the face of the man in his vision, and had never seen Praudhu in his life. But he knew with dream-certainty, with the certainty of farsight, that this was the man.
He clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking. He almost spoke without being addressed, almost prophesied to the king’s face. He bit his tongue. No, he wouldn’t tell. No one asked him, and he wouldn’t tell even if they did. This knowledge was his own to use.
The initial wave of shock and dismay began to subside. Kirshta observed the man more closely. He sat on a wide silk cushion in a relaxed rendition of the Nectar posture, one hand resting palm-up on his knee, and the other gesturing in accompaniment to his speech. His hands were heavy with rings, and silver chains set with dark green emeralds hung around his neck and rested against his belly. The hair of his mustache and temples had gone gray, and his jowls flexed as he talked. The old Emperor had been ancient, and his son was thirty years younger, but far past being a young man. His bearing and tone suggested arrogance and impatience—he had been waiting his whole life to become Emperor, Kirshta thought, and was half a day away from the place where he would finally do it.
“… and Kirshta, our thikratta in training,” Chadram finished saying. Kirshta snapped to attention and bowed.
“In training?” Praudhu said. His voice was unexpectedly raspy. “Who does he train with? I was told that Ternas had been ruined.”
“He trained with Ruyam,” Chadram answered. “Just two days ago I observed him lighting a lamp using the thikratta’s power. His mastery is real.”
“If I need someon
e to light lamps, then I’m sure he will be useful,” Praudhu said. “I had a thikratta advisor of my own in Gumadha, so I know what they can do. But I can hardly trust any man who was trained by that mad thikratta.”
“Ruyam oversaw the Red Men,” Chadram answered stiffly. “If I couldn’t trust anyone who had been tainted by his touch, then I couldn’t trust anyone at all.”
Praudhu murmured. “Yes, but my problem at the moment is precisely with the imperial guards trained by Ruyam. Your comrade—the name, it escapes me—”
“Dumaya,” Chadram said, “if you mean the commander of the garrison of the Dhigvaditya.”
“Yes, him,” Praudhu said. “He was told of my approach days before I came. If he were loyal, he would have opened the gates to me immediately. Unless the poison of that usurper still runs in his veins.”
Chadram answered with more care than usual, his speech a little more elevated, placing his words with the delicacy of a man setting a piece down on a crowded jaha board. “Indeed, the poison of the usurper must be flushed out. Ruyam died in Virnas, but his shadow extends to Majasravi.” He bowed his head to Praudhu. “We are similarly discomfited, cut off from Majasravi, unable to enter the garrison which was our home. But how may we help you?”
“Take the Dhigvaditya,” Praudhu said with an insouciant wave of his hand.
Chadram’s expression changed for a moment into one of shock, then he recomposed himself rapidly. “You know, my Prince, that no army has ever taken the Dhigvaditya by force. Ours is certainly not large enough to try.”
“The city suffers without its Emperor, to say nothing of the rest of the empire,” Praudhu said. “So tell me what you’ll do to remedy this.”
“My spies have entered the city freely,” Chadram said. “They report that Dumaya rules as military dictator, but he doesn’t disturb the khadir, the merchants, or the peasantry. So we might send someone in to infiltrate or subvert the Dhigvaditya. Remember,” he said with a slight smile, “the Dhigvaditya has never been taken by arms, but it has been captured by treachery.”