Dhara stiffened, clearly afraid Sakhi’s oldest would run and fling himself at her, as he always did at Siddhartha. He raced to Sakhi instead and threw his arms around her neck. The topknot came completely undone and he felt his head in dismay. He was very proud of this sign that he’d begun his schooling.
“A methenger,” Arjuna lisped, scurrying after his older brother and plopping down next to them. He gazed up at Bharata with worshipful eyes.
Mitu emerged from the passageway with Bhima, the youngest, toddling behind. A palace page clad in blue and gold livery followed them both. “Princess Yasodhara,” the boy said, bowing low. “The Kosalas have broken their treaty with our Kalamas allies. The king has called all officers to appear at council.”
“At last. A real fight.”
Sakhi went cold. “You think we will go to war?”
“The king has been waiting for the right opportunity. The Kosalas are losing control of their vassals. Suddhodana would like to strike a blow and weaken them further.” Dhara stood up and brushed herself off. “I have longed for Prince Virudha to take the field, so I could avenge Father,” she said with fierce eagerness.
“What about Siddhartha? Will his father let him fight this time?”
“You mean, my dear Sakhi, does Siddhartha want to fight?” Uttara drawled, her lips curled in her habitual smirk.
Dhara glared at her and the smirk disappeared. “Whether he does or doesn’t, I most certainly will.”
War council
Swift galloped through the palace gates, panting and snorting. Dhara leaped off almost before he stopped, threw the reins to the stable boy, and raced down the airy corridors to the royal family’s wing.
“Emba!” she called, breathless.
The maid scurried in and bowed over joined palms. “Your highness.”
“Braid my hair. I’m going to council.”
“Your highness. Shall I call for Embalika to dress you?”
“No.” The simple antariya was best. A man could get away with a wearing a courtier’s silks and jewels to plan a war, but not a woman. Besides, this antariya’s creamy color set off the golden tone of her skin. Perhaps drape it in a more modest, soldierly fashion to cover both breasts.
She sat on a low rosewood stool in front of her dressing table, on which stood her polished silver mirror in a frame carved with vines and flowers. Emba picked up the ivory comb from the table, but before she could begin to run it through Dhara’s hair, Dhara turned and snatched it out of her hand. “Go away,” she said. “I’ll do it myself.”
Emba looked down. “Very well, my lady.”
Dhara concentrated on calming herself. This was no skirmish with ill-equipped and unwilling Kosalan vassals who would surrender as soon as the fight began. It was real war. A chance for glory. A chance to show what a woman warrior could do.
She took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. The imperfections in the polished tin’s smooth surface distorted her reflection only somewhat. A pair of delicately slanted eyes looked back. The slight angle and folds over the lids set her apart from the round-eyed Sakyas. Though she had Gautama blood on her maternal side, her paternal lineage was pure Koli, so her eyes were dark brown, almost black, instead of the famous amber color Gautama men passed to their children.
The reflection smiled as Dhara raised her arms and separated her thick hair into three hanks. Her skillful fingers wove them together, over-under-over, into a glossy black braid, and tied its end with a length of ribbon Sakhi had embroidered for her in their early days in Kapilavastu.
Her look softened, became wistful. It was sad but not surprising that she and Sakhi had grown apart. Sakhi was stuck in the past. Though she was rich beyond anything she could have dreamed, she still wanted to be a good Brahmin woman. She had no daring. Even back in Dhavalagiri, Sakhi had tried to discourage Dhara’s dreams of glory and her desire to become a yogi. Just as her mother had.
Dhara had gone to Mala anyway. Dhara was grateful for the powers of perception and physical control that Mala had awakened in her, which Nalaka helped her to strengthen and hone. He had become a beloved guru. But what her former guru had become, she could not understand. She wanted to think it was some enchantment, but if that was so, Mala wasn’t as strong as Dhara had believed. This disturbed Dhara. She wondered if she could commit such evils in war.
Nalaka said that pure motivation sometimes lessened the stain of deeds that were against dharma, as when a soldier, defending his people against attack, slew a ruthless enemy in battle. In the same way, it was her dharma to fight those who killed her father as he tried to protect his people. The time had come to test her warrior’s mettle and seek righteous vengeance for his death.
She took off the ribbon. No frippery for the war council. The mirror, marred a bit by a small dent, reflected Dhara’s proud face. Then the dent began to move, distorting more and more of her reflection. It expanded over the mirror like ripples on still water when some creature breaks the surface. She could not look away but peered at her undulating image. Her heart began to race. Something was reaching for her from the unfathomable darkness that lay below the reflection. It drew her against her will, sucked her awareness of her self, her soul, out of her body. Her sunlit chamber grew dim as the unseen force overwhelmed her.
Dhara, my girl…
“Mala,” Dhara whispered. “Is it you?”
“Your highness?”
A page who served Siddhartha was calling. The sunlight returned. She rose and knocked over the low table, sending the mirror and her jewel box clattering to the stone floor.
“How dare you disturb me?” Dhara glared at the blue-clad boy, unsettled at what the mirror had shown her.
The boy jumped back and bowed. “I come from Prince Siddhartha.”
“Yes, yes. Tell His Highness I’m coming.”
The boy backed out. The slap of bare feet running on stone grew fainter. Dhara drew several shaky breaths. This sense of being nothing more than a bright image moving above infinite blackness had overtaken her before. Nalaka said it was a necessary stage on the yogi’s path inward. Siddhartha found it exhilarating and sought it, but it never seized him unawares as it did Dhara, which was bad enough. Today Mala’s voice had come out of that blackness. She should tell Nalaka. He had been encouraging her to stay with this feeling, experience it to the fullest extent, to see the light on the other side of the darkness. If he knew Mala had spoken to her, he might change his mind about that.
She must put this experience aside. She went to her meditation cushion. Do the sequence of short inhalations followed by long exhalations. Draw the energy into the spine. Follow the breath up from the root chakra out through the top of the head.
It took only a few moments. Calmed, she rose from the cushion. Her hands trembled lightly as she donned the sword belt Sakhi had woven for her a few years ago, circling her waist with the sun god’s golden svastikas on a lapis blue background. She slid her dress sword into its gold-embossed leather sheath.
This was her chance for glory. Or for death.
Dhara, my girl…
It was Mala. Her beloved guru giving her a sign.
Or was it Angulimala? Giving her a warning?
She shut her eyes, tried to read her own heart, tried to touch Mala’s mind.
Nothing.
She opened her eyes and hurried to the council hall.
The king had not yet arrived, but officers of all troops—chariot, cavalry, infantry, and elephant—stood around the large rectangle of groomed sand outside the council chamber, discussing the Sakyan army’s best course. Everyone was talking at once and no one noticed when she came in. She was glad. Her calm was not deep.
The tension in the room was palpable. She turned her full attention to General Sukesa, who stood with one foot on the wooden frame, his golden sash stretched over the blue uniform that covered his paunch.
“Kosalas lose more often than win these days,” he was saying, though he could hardly be heard above the hubbub. He rubbed his care-worn, clean-shaven face as he swept his gaze over the assembly until his dark eyes rested on Dhara’s.
Dhara saw a question in his eyes. He had seen her leaving the palace, and when he learned she would visit Bhallika’s wife, he’d told her that he was worried about Sakhi. She had been like a daughter to him since they met at poor Tilo’s side. His own wife had died giving birth to stillborn twins a few years ago, and Sakhi was big enough to be carrying two. Yes, everything is all right, she indicated with a slight nod, shrugging away a lingering worry in her own mind.
The general straightened. “Their favored strategies have always been trident or the turtle.” Sukesa sketched an oval on the fine white sand with a long, slender wand of dark mahogany. “The turtle,” he said, tapping the oval, “hides in its shell.”
“Those cowards will choose that strategy, I’ll wager,” Satya said, his eyes seeking Dhara’s approval. He was a lieutenant in her cavalry, proud to be one of Princess Yasodhara’s thirty horsemen. They were all half in love with her. “As great a fighter as Angulimala,” her men liked to say. They meant it as a compliment. After all, Angulimala was a valued Sakyan ally. But the comparison made her uneasy.
A few younger officers around the sandpit laughed in agreement. When Dhara did not, Satya’s broad smile faded and he ducked his head.
“Let’s hope not,” Siddhartha said. “To defeat the turtle, we must outlast it. We must disrupt Kosalan supply lines in territory surrounding the Kalamas clan. That would be difficult.”
“We?” Nanda’s sarcasm echoed off the palace walls.
“You know what I meant, Nanda,” Siddhartha said quietly.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Nanda looked more the soldier, bigger all around, tall and thickly muscled. Siddhartha was slightly smaller in stature, supple and lithe, and beautiful as a celestial being: golden-skinned, the mesmerizing amber Gautama eyes, soft curls framing an oval face. Dhara caught her breath. Desire rippled through her.
He glanced at her, sensing her thought, but his was hidden from her. Why? In the early days, they had plumbed each other’s consciousness, become so close Dhara feared she might lose herself in him. Now it was not so.
As much as she loved him, she was half glad of the distance. Perhaps he was too.
“I don’t see why we’re going to war for Kalamas, anyway.” Nanda crossed his arms over his thick chest. Though Siddhartha had spoken of stepping aside in his half-brother’s favor, Nanda didn’t believe it. His faction whispered in his ear that Siddhartha wanted to seize the leadership of the Prince’s Battalion from Nanda and prove himself as a warrior. “They’re just a minor clan,” Nanda continued, “of no consequence to our larger strategy—”
“We made a treaty to protect them.” Suddhodana strode through the portal. Joined palms, bowed heads, and murmurs of “my lord” and “Your Majesty” passed through the assembled officers like a breeze through kusha grass. Suddhodana inclined his head in return. “We will not renege on our obligations, Nanda, just because it is inconvenient.”
“We had an agreement with the Kuru-Pancalas, too,” Nanda challenged him, “but we did nothing when Prince Virudha attacked them.”
“We had an agreement to supply weapons and horses to the Pancala rebels,” the king said with mild condescension. “The ruling Kurus are Prasenajit’s willing vassals.”
Nanda’s color rose. “You know very well, Father, that the Kuru king is a despot his own family despises, and holds power only because Kosalan troops support him. Virudha massacred those very Pancala rebels and captured our weapons and horses, and now uses them against us—”
“Enough, Nanda!” Suddhodana would listen to Siddhartha but had little patience for public disagreement from his younger son. Nanda winced and clamped his lips shut. Sometimes Dhara empathized with him. Sometimes it was hard to be noble Siddhartha’s wife; it must be harder still to be his brother.
“The Kalamas situation is different,” the king continued. “My spy at the Kosalan court has sent word that this war is not Prasenajit’s doing, but Virudha’s. The king prefers to consolidate what remaining vassals he has, keep the peace at least for the moment. The prince wants to restore fading Kosalan glory.”
“He’s a bad one, my lord,” General Sukesa said. “He’s never forgiven you for keeping him hostage.”
“Especially that you kept him in that Koli backwater until he was ransomed, instead of in luxury at the palace in Kapilavastu,” someone said. There were a few titters. Everyone looked at Dhara.
“He failed to appreciate the fresh mountain air,” Dhara said. “Such ingratitude.”
Some of the senior officers chuckled and others coughed behind their hands, but the lieutenants of Yasodhara’s Cavalry laughed a little too loud as they exchanged proud glances. She could almost hear them thinking, Our captain rides and shoots as well as any of Suddhodana’s men, but she’s a damn sight better-looking, and more clever. They were right, she thought with inward satisfaction.
Siddhartha cleared his throat as the laughter died. “That changes things,” he said. “Virudha will never forget that while the Sakyas and Kolis held him in Dhavalagiri, they made him carry their night soil. His sorcerer says that he will cleanse his karma when he wipes our two clans off the face of the earth. This is his chance to make good on his vow.”
“Nonetheless, Virudha doesn’t command all the Kosalan armies,” General Sukesa said.
“Then he will be no match for us Sakyans,” Nanda declared.
Nanda’s lieutenants nodded and a few called out. “That’s right!”
The king raised his hand. Everyone quieted. He turned to Siddhartha. “What are your thoughts, my son?”
The brothers’ eyes met, and Nanda looked away in angry silence.
“As Satya pointed out, the turtle is a coward’s strategy. Virudha is vicious and traitorous, and has transgressed against the dharma of mercy in countless ways, but he’s brave. I think he will use the classic Kosalan trident.”
“General, you’ve faced this formation many times,” Suddhodana said. “Explain to the younger officers.”
“Your majesty.” Sukesa bowed his greying head. “It works like so.” He sketched a trident in the sand with the dark wand. “The troops all form here.” He tapped on the long shaft. “They are assigned to one of three columns—that is, the left, right, or center prong. They march in single file, forming the trident’s shaft, you might say, until splitting into the three prongs.”
“Single file?” one of Nanda’s lieutenants said. “That’s ridiculous. We could decimate them by coming at them from their flank—”
“We wouldn’t have time while they’re in a single column. We’d extend our formation too far, too fast. Don’t underestimate the skill of their archers, who ride the heavy old-style chariots that are drawn by four horses and carry seven bowmen to a vehicle, and don’t disregard their infantry’s strength. They carry shields so big they can create a defense as impregnable as a small village’s walls. But they do have a serious weakness. Kosalan commanders follow their orders rigidly. Once the troops are committed to a prong of the trident, they will not shift to another or break formation.”
“That is why, your majesty,” Siddhartha said, “I suggest the Garuda strategy. The eagle formation.”
“Excellent,” Suddhodana said. “Proceed with your planning.”
… Dhara was running up the hill to Jayasena’s temple to find Siddhartha. He had gone there to dance the destruction of the universe.
Why are you doing this? she cried out to him as he whirled and dipped.
I want to know what is beyond the darkness, he replied.
She struggled up the hill, gasping for breath, but the faster she ran the farther away he was up there, dancing, dancing
the end of existence of millions of beings, of the mountains, rivers and seas, of all the worlds.
Then she was climbing Dhavalagiri. A huge pinkish moon shone down on the peak. Its snows shimmered. She strained toward them while sharp rocks cut her feet. A root reached up like a living thing, grabbed her ankle and sent her sprawling and tumbling, down, down. She struggled to stand, hands and shins scraped and bloody, her lungs bursting. When she looked up, Siddhartha was whirling faster and faster as stars winked out, one by one, and infinite darkness swallowed the moon…
Dhara woke panting and sweating. She rolled over toward Siddhartha, who was lying next to her on the low bed, breathing evenly. He stirred but then rolled away, still sleeping, moving from her in his dreams.
When she had finished the interminable war councils, with packing and preparations to leave, and returned to her chambers, he was already asleep. He hadn’t stayed awake for her.
She took another breath and reached to brush a curl from Siddhartha’s cheek, but her hand stopped in midair. He had encouraged her in all the training, the military exercises, the minor clashes, knowing they had but one goal: a war with those who destroyed her clan.
A war in which she could die.
She had wanted to fight Prince Virudha, who had slain the tigress Rani; and whose forces had killed her father; her mother, too, most likely; and so many Kolis, and destroyed her village. She wanted Virudha dead, by her hand.
But she could die. An arrow in the throat, an enemy’s blade in her belly, an axe buried in her skull. She broke into a cold sweat while Siddhartha sighed in his sleep and shifted slightly.
Dhara slid out from the bed, flung the cream-colored antariya around her, grabbed the black antelope skin from the floor and stepped into the private garden outside her chamber. She laid the skin atop the boulder next to the pool and sat, trying to control her trembling.
The Mountain Goddess Page 33