Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Mihir glowered a moment, and then resigned himself to the orders he had received. “Yes, it will be done that way.” He saw the smile on Padmiri’s face and misinterperted it. “I suppose you wish to have sufficient time to return to the temple?”

  Padmiri was startled. “No…” She was astounded to hear her voice continue in regretful accents, “I have not been allowed this honor. The Rani wishes the temple to be cleansed before dawn, and if the work is as arduous as you say, you must not hesitate any longer. I will abide here”—the thought of walking any distance at all made her feel slightly sick—“and when it is over, I must call a periyanadu, for such is the will of the Rani.” How far had the celebration advanced? she wondered. What had Tamasrajasi done?

  The camp leader abased himself again. “It is the Will of the Rani,” he said formally. “The dam will be destroyed so that the temple of Kali may be cleansed before dawn.” He turned to his men and gave the sign that they should gather their tools.

  When the men left, Padmiri went and sat near the largest of the fire pits. It did not provide much warmth, but now that the heat of her activities had deserted her, Padmiri was grateful for every spark in the embers. Ghanesh, she decided, had taken his hand from her forehead once the builders departed, for she felt drained of all emotion. Neither terror nor desire nor vengeance moved her now. She waited in stillness to hear the first rush of the unleashed waters.

  Text of a letter from the Brahmin Rachura to the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iletmish.

  To the Sultan at Delhi in the ninth year of his reign, the Brahmin Rachura, who has sat at the side of the Rajah Kare Dantinusha and the Rani Tamasrajasi, sends his greetings.

  Doubtless this missive must alarm you, good Muslim, as the circumstances which require it be sent alarm me. Under most conditions it would be unthinkable for this communication to occurr, but I have learned of a few matters that cause me to approach you, for I made specific assurances to the Rajah Kare Dantinusha, and it has come to pass that I must act upon the instructions he left me.

  Not very many seasons ago, there was civil war in Natha Suryarathas, when brothers and cousins rose against the Rajah to their own ends. War exacted its price from us, on those who chose to challenge the will of the gods and bring much karma upon themselves. Also, there has been the matter of the tribute sent to you, O Sultan, and although I am not a worldly man, yet I assume that one of the purposes of this tribute is to prevent any of the Rajahs from acquiring enough wealth to make it possible to raise an army large enough to defeat the ones that you command. You are abhorrent to me, but I have heard things of you that lead me to think of you with respect. It has been said of you that you have made and caused to be kept a treaty with the demon known to the world as Jenghiz Khan. If this is true, and there are many who aver that it is, then it says much for you. I am subject to the Wheel, as you are, and if it is the will of the gods that one such as you must deal with this great destruction which has come upon the world, it is not for me to question what the gods have caused.

  I have been told that you recently were sent a document by the Great Mistress, Rani Tamasrajasi, and that much of what it contained was rash. She is very young—old enough for motherhood, most truly, but still more a girl than a woman. It is most unfortunate that she should so address you. I believe that the Commander of the palace guard has not yet had the opportunity to explain to her how matters stand between Natha Suryarathas and Delhi. She is a girl born to rule, of commanding nature and great honor. Were you to see her, you would know this as you know the bodies of your wives. You would know that the dreams she has come from the greatness of her family and the nobility of her caste. It is, however, essential that you do not confuse this great majesty of mind with a daily truth. Tamasrajasi does not possess an army at this time. Her forces are limited to the palace guard and a few men who tour the borders in the dry months, and place the standard of the kingdom where it may be seen and respected by all. I cannot doubt that if her ambitions were realized she would take a great many warriors into battle and would most certainly triumph, but it is not possible at this time. The will of the Rani is the essence of truth, and what she has told you reflects the broadness of her vision and the strength of her karma, but there is as yet no force to do her will. It is not known when there will be. Most surely she desires to take on all the trappings and glory of battle, and it is not to her discredit that this is her wish. That she has not yet found the means to achieve her ambitions in no way diminished her.

  Before you send your men to pillage this land and vent the whole scope of your anger upon Natha Suryarathas for the insult you believe our Rani has given you, be cautious, O Sultan. To attack one who is inspired by the gods will gain you many debts to pay in lives to come. Your reputation now is enviable for one in so unsettled a land. If you wage war with us, there will be others who will join with us, and you yourself will decrease the strength that has made you successful with the demon Jenghiz Khan. Allow our Rani her visions, but march only when you hear the tread of elephants and see the standards.

  In that I have betrayed the trust of my Rani but kept my faith with my Rajah, I have now shown myself unworthy to serve the Great Mistress Tamasrajasi. I have given my word that my things are to be burned and I will myself leave the palace to live in humble circumstances where the rest of my life may be spent in meditation and contemplation. It is the custom among those of us who know the turning of the Wheel to do this at the end of life, particularly where debts have been incurred. Do not seek to have any discussion with me, for that will not be tolerated by me or by the great Rani herself, whose service I have abused with this disloyalty.

  Purva Rachura Jarut

  Brahmin

  12

  Earlier the smaller animals had been bled and burned, and while this was done, they had robed him in golden silk and placed a crown on his head. Incense made blue wraiths in the air that did not entirely mask the stench of burning flesh and fur. Later there had been larger animals—goats, rams, asses and a horse. While the knives had done their work, the worshipers wreathed him in flowers and chanted the traditional words of praise as they bent forward to touch his feet with bloody hands.

  Saint-Germain told himself that he would become inured to it, that he need not participate in this butchery. He was unmoving, distant, but he heard the shrieks and howls and bellows of the animals and the hungry cries of those gathered to make sacrifice. Stoically he thought of Rogerio arriving at the border, traveling to Delhi and then to … where? He had many homes and Rogerio was known at all but the most ancient of them. But would his old friend go there? He wished to believe that it did not matter, that once he died the true death, none of it would matter.

  One of the priests approached his pearl-covered throne and prostrated himself, reciting words in a high, nasal singsong. Saint-Germain chose quite deliberately not to listen. He turned his thoughts to Padmiri. No word had come of her. If that meant she had not been taken prisoner or had been used more cruelly still, then he was … content. He kept his dark eyes turned slightly away from the enormous statue of Kali, and remembered other times and other gods.

  Tamasrajasi slit the throat of a large ram, standing so that the blood fountained over her. She screamed ecstatically, her face delirious with an emotion that was the dark side of rapture.

  At her signal, a huruk began to give out a steady, tense beat. As soon as the worshipers were caught by its pulse, it was joined by the high, wailing dhakevi, which was sacred to Kali, as it was made of horn and bone. The music was repetitious, insidious. It twisted and writhed in on itself, growing tighter, then looser, like the coils of a vast serpent. As the ram toppled at last, the instruments played more loudly, insisting, pleading, cajoling.

  Tamasrajasi began to dance. Her movements were slow and sinuous, at first hardly more than a series of gradually changing postures, made with great precision and formality. Then she began to extend her motions, making broader, more emphatic gestures. The instruments kept up th
e same spiraling melody, which now began to gain speed. Tamasrajasi danced with it, letting the sound run through her so that every variation of pitch, each intricacy of rhythm was picked up in a turn and angle of her head, the placement of a foot, the direction of her eyes, the arch of her hips, the curve of her arm, the position of her fingers. Her dyed skin was spattered with blood and she glistened in the torchlight as she turned, posed, turned, posed, turned, and turned, and turned.

  Those who had come to sacrifice watched her with devotion that bordered on adoration. Theirs was more than idolatry, for the woman they fastened on with their eyes was their priestess and ruler, the absolute mistress of their lives. It was this woman, supple as a child, whose will was the law of their homeland. She had chosen to array herself in the symbols of destruction, and therefore they sought it eagerly for the opportunity to be like her.

  The dance grew increasingly more frenetic. Much of her discipline was lost, but Tamasrajasi was not aware of it. There was only the glory of her power and the excitement of the music. She felt the worship and lust and envy of those who watched her, and it goaded her on.

  Sudra Guristar stood near the altar, swaying with the movement of the crowd and the music. His state of mind was elevated and he thought himself inaccessible, a cloud hovering over the place rather than a man in a crowded corner of a stone room. As entranced as he was by Tamasrajasi, he was also growing quite impatient with her. He had wanted her to show the worshipers that she had given herself to him, that she was, in fact, secondary to him, though her rank was greater. Now she lured them all with a promise that she could not fulfill, not to all of them. He could not upbraid her here with so many watching her, but he vowed that as soon as the sacrifices were finished and they left the temple, he would tell her how far she had transgressed. Next time he visited her quarters, he would leave bruises behind, and not all from lovemaking.

  She was very near him and when her eyes met his, they taunted him. Guristar started to reach out for her, but she escaped him and with distorted movements which were no longer graceful she approached the altar and made the three ritual abasements to the huge black statue. Behind her the crowd moaned and the music stopped. The temple fell silent as Tamasrajasi stepped onto the altar.

  The quiet intruded on Saint-Germain’s thoughts more than the noise and music had done. He saw the worshipers were looking toward the altar, and his eyes followed theirs. The despair that he had kept at bay surged over him as he stared at Tamasrajasi. She was elated, filled with the submissive concupiscence of her audience and her own sublime theodicy. Her laughter was abandoned to the point of madness. She displayed herself lubriciously, her hands sliding over her body, leaving smears of blood on the breasts and thighs.

  Sighs, murmurs, groans of longing and frustration ran through the assembly. A few of those watching began to touch themselves as Tamasrajasi had touched herself. The huruk started to beat again, this time in jumping, erratic, feverish pulses. The worshipers were no longer swaying, and where they had been passive in their yearning, now cupidity asserted itself. Languor disappeared, and in its place there was a mercurial excitement that moved like a physical presence from one of the worshipers to another.

  Tamasrajasi dropped to her knees on the altar. Her tongue flicked over her lips. “Sudra Guristar,” she called gently, as she might call a frightened child. “Come, my Commander.”

  This was what Guristar had wanted since the ritual began, yet he hesitated an instant before stepping forward. He knew what was required of him, and his body was ready. There was one quiver of doubt in his mind, which he stifled at once. Tamasrajasi was at last acknowledging him before her people. For a dizzying moment he felt the full glory of his power, ebullience coming perilously close to shock. He walked to the altar, aware of those who watched him, reveling in their passions as much as his own.

  “My Commander. It is as you wished it to be.” She reached down and pulled off the jacket he wore, then threw it aside. “Put your hands on me, my Commander. Do all that your desires demand of you.” She had his shirt now and was starting to unwind his sash.

  Guristar seized her buttocks with both hands, pressing his face to her red-streaked abdomen. His sash was gone and his pleated trousers dropped around his ankles. He felt Tamasrajasi take him by the shoulders and turn him to face the gathered worshipers. His distended organ blushed more hotly than his face; his pride made him want to dance as Tamasrajasi had done, but he did not do this.

  “This is my Commander,” Tamasrajasi said, her voice loud and husky at once. She turned him back to face her. “Now, my Commander, make your sacrifice for Kali.” Her fingers reached down his chest and she made room for him on the altar. “Lie under me, my Commander,” she instructed as he tried to pull her down. “Tonight I am the goddess.”

  It was little enough to indulge her that far, Guristar thought. What mattered was that she had granted his request and chosen him before all those who had come to the temple. He leaned back and moaned with pleasure as Tamasrajasi straddled him. Nothing had ever excited him so much. Never had he felt himself so massive. The huruk was beating to his breathing. As Tamasrajasi enveloped him he feared that his erection would harm her, perhaps even kill her. He lunged into her, once, twice, three times, when he heard the avid shout from those pressing nearer the altar. Before he could look about or ask what had happened, the pain hit him and he roared.

  Tamasrajasi stood up and held her hands out with Guristar’s sacrifice for the crowd to see. Blood ran through her fingers to the other puddles on the floor. “The first offering!” Tamasrajasi cried out, then stood between Guristar’s legs where the blood gushed out.

  The reaction was immediate. The frenzy which had been a current building in the crowd burst forth at full fury. Men, women, old, young, attractive, brutish, fell on one another without regard. The sounds were unbelievable.

  On the altar, Tamasrajasi stared down at Guristar, holding in one hand his severed organ, in the other a short, thin knife. She smiled at his revulsion and agony. “My Commander. Think of your aspirations. What an offering to Kali.” And she slit his throat, watching with a detached, slightly critical smile before signaling for one of the officiating priests to drag the body off the altar so that she would have room. Tamasrajasi handed her prize to the priest and indicated that it should be burned in the brazier before Kali’s statue. As she stood again, she looked across the stone room and her eyes met Saint-Germain’s. She grinned and waved the knife at him before scanning the worshipers for another likely sacrifice.

  Saint-Germain had seen a great deal of depravity in his long years, and was largely unaffected by it. This was different. It was as if all the worshipers were in the throes of a seizure, suffering the paroxysms of a terrible contagious disease. He could not hold himself entirely aloof from what was happening around him, and he experienced a resurgence of the pity he had felt earlier, but with more poignance and disgust. He was being defiled, just as all those in the temple were, and for the amusement of a voluptuous child. This wild coupling, the excess of it, the blood, all of it was empty. At his feet three men labored over the flesh of one woman, sating themselves without satisfaction. Saint-Germain closed his eyes a moment, but could not recapture the separation he had found for a time. Now he understood the full insanity he saw, the maniacal fury of it, and the hatred.

  At her place on the altar, Tamasrajasi had another man with her, and as she rode his loins, she reached down casually and castrated him as she had Guristar. This time she allowed the priests to slit his throat while she singled out another man. When she had tired of this and there were more than a dozen mutilated corpses at the side of the altar, Tamasrajasi came across the stone floor to Saint-Germain. “Soon I will bring your offerings. Would you prefer men or women to fill your veins?”

  It was useless and he knew it, but Saint-Germain made a last attempt. “Tamasrajasi, I am not precisely what you think, and I doubt that all the blood in this temple would have the results you wish. It isn
’t the blood, Tamasrajasi, it’s another matter entirely.”

  “If you will not tell me,” she said as if she had heard nothing of what he said to her, “I will select as I see fit. It will be a good death for those who give you drink. Shiva is a worthy god.” The dark juice which had stained her body was streaking now, and in places it had rubbed away entirely. She had the look of someone monstrously bruised, beaten to the point of death.

  “Tamasrajasi…” He stopped: it was futile.

  “When I lead you to the altar,” she said thoughtfully, “I want you to embrace me as you have my father’s sister. Bhatin told me that it was not like anything he had seen before, that even she was fulfilled.”

  He did not tell her that it was impossible. There was not time enough left to him, or left to the world, he added sadly, for Tamasrajasi to learn this. His feet were cold on the stones but the temple shimmered with a heat that did not come entirely from the braziers and torches around the huge room. Nor was the cold entirely from the stones.

  The musician who had been playing the huruk threw the drum aside and flung himself at a knot of entangled bodies. Only Saint-Germain was aware that the drumming had stopped. As Shiva, he told himself ironically, he ought to be the one with the drum. It pained him to think of the passing time, the beat of Shiva’s drum.

  Suddenly a young woman came up to him. Her eyes were febrile and she moved as if mounted on sticks. There were scratches and welts on her and she carried a knife in one hand. “Exalted Shiva,” she said to him as she bent low before him. “Take my life from me.”

  Saint-Germain reached out to the woman and lifted her up. His compelling eyes were compassionate and grieving. “I am not Shiva. Keep your life, use it for something better than this.” He reached for the knife, but before he touched her, the woman wrenched away from him and in a series of short, gouging strokes of the blade almost eviscerated herself before she fell. Not since his own death had Saint-Germain known such inner darkness as possessed him now. He started to rise, to walk toward the altar where Tamasrajasi lay in flowers and blood. If destruction was so precious to her, that much he would give her.