Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  Hastinapura. The great empire to the north. Natharie had been only four years old when they last came. She remembered being held in her mother’s arms to watch Father as he led away the long columns of the army. Father had been gone for more than a year. When he came back, he was dusty and he stank, and he had the wound that left a white and ragged line behind his ear, but he was triumphant. He and Mother had talked a lot about treaties and other things she did not then understand. She did understand that her father had persuaded the emperor on the Pearl Throne not to bring his armies into their land of Sindhu and take her parents away.

  Now, three times a year, Sindhu sent tribute up the river on long lines of flat-bottomed boats: bales of rice, great logs of teak and mahogany, chests of the gold dust that washed down from the white mountains into the streams that fed the Liyoni. All of this went to Hastinapura, where the men were so afraid of women they locked them up and wouldn’t even look at them in the time of love, yet allowed sorcerers to live right in the palace with the king, instead of sending them into the forest monasteries to study and pray and keep the temptation and corruption of power away from the weak and the vulnerable.

  These were the red-and-gold men who walked over their grasslands behind the shining black horse. This was the lead soldier with the cold eyes. Eyes that had seen blood sacrifice over and over again, that helped it and honored it. Eyes that looked on the land of Sindhu and saw it as their property.

  Then she thought of Malai alone in her chamber, at least as frightened as she herself was, and bewildered at the wreckage of this celebratory day. When the maids finished tucking the last fold of Natharie’s scarlet gown, she rose and went to her little sister.

  Malai’s nurse, old Seta, was finishing Malai’s hair, braiding it with gold as she knelt on the floor, looking more stunned than patient still. The girl had been dressed in emerald green embroidered with golden birds. She was a delicate child, Natharie thought fondly, sadly, and she would be a beautiful woman when her turn came.

  Natharie must have made some sound, because Malai turned her head. She did not speak. She just tilted her chin up again, letting her interfering older sister know that she was still angry.

  Natharie was smiling; and since she was not refused permission to enter, she walked into the room. Malai smelled of sandalwood, sunlight, and sweat. Seta placed a pillow for Natharie beside her sister. Natharie knelt on the cushion and began to speak. She spoke slowly and calmly, falling into the rhythms of reciting an old poem, grateful for the distance and discipline the pretense gave her. “In Hastinapura, when a new emperor ascends to the Pearl Throne, they have a week of mourning for the old emperor, and then a week of sacrifice and celebrations for the new. At the end of this time, a black horse is sent out from the city. The horse roams where it will for a year before it returns to be sacrificed.”

  Malai swallowed and Natharie nodded, silently acknowledging the little girl’s thought. The Seven Mothers who were worshipped in Hastinapura demanded blood for the smallest blessing, it was said. The magnificent creature they had seen was destined for the knives of the priests.

  “Whatever land the horse crosses is said to belong to Hastinapura, by the will of their Mothers.

  “Centuries ago, an army of conquest followed the horse, but now it has only an honor guard, as you saw. If any of those who accompany the horse do not come back alive, and with enough celebratory tribute following them, it is the land where they were last seen that will bear the blame, and the punishment.”

  Slowly, the meaning of those words sank in and Malai shuddered. Natharie knew what she was thinking, because she had been thinking the same thing since they had reached their home and she was able to think at all. The emperor on Hastinapura’s Pearl Throne expected more tribute. Wealth. Servants.

  Women.

  There were always women in the tribute. Mostly servants, but every so often, a daughter of one of the high houses.

  Why did it have to come today? Mother had wailed. Today, when Natharie became a woman and was ready to be given in marriage as the treaty spelled out. True, the contract had not been formally witnessed, but letters had been exchanged between the kings, promises had been made, and her name had been bound to those promises. Yesterday, when she was still a girl, she could have been the one to go to Hastinapura. Now, if a daughter was demanded, there was only tiny Malai left to go.

  Nausea gripped Natharie’s stomach. Only little Malai, the youngest of three daughters. Only a daughter, with three brothers who would remain in the house. Oh, no. Malai was not too much to ask. Not too much to give to Hastinapura and their bloody goddesses to prevent a war.

  The thought made Natharie sick, even as she realized the same reasoning could apply to any of them.

  “But we have a treaty,” Malai said, invoking the word like a magic charm. It had prevented so much, surely it could prevent this.

  “We had a treaty with the old emperor,” said Natharie. “Our father, and our ambassadors, say his son is a very different man.” She had heard the gossip late at night, after banquets and around corners. The new emperor was not well liked. He was shiftless and lazy. The most daring, when they thought no one was listening, wondered softly if King Kiet had made the Hastinapuran treaty knowing that when the old emperor died the young one might not be able to hold the new lands. Natharie had often wished this was true, but if it was, that plan would come to fruition too late for Malai. “There are … complications with his rule. It may be he has decided it is time to make his authority …” Her mouth twisted sourly. “Well understood.”

  Malai stared up at Natharie, her wide brown eyes blinking for a moment. Then she leaned forward, wrapping her arms tight around Natharie’s neck. Natharie hugged her back, as if she could keep her sister safe with the strength of her own arms.

  “All will be right, little sister,” she whispered. “The wheel turns for us, that is all.”

  But she did not feel serene or resigned as she spoke. Instead, she felt hard as flint and as sharply edged, and when she tilted up Malai’s chin so her sister had to look into her eyes, she knew an anger so fierce, Natharie was surprised Malai could not feel its heat.

  “Come, Sister.” Natharie stood, holding herself with all the poise she could muster. “Let us go hear what is required of us.”

  Cool and graceful, Malai rose, much more a woman than the girl who ran laughing to the river, and followed Natharie to the audience chamber.

  The audience hall was already full by the time they reached it. Father sat on the ancient golden throne, the three-tiered crown on his head and the ivory staff in his hand. Mother, crowned in gold and pearls, sat at his right. Beneath the great symbol of her rank, her face was rigid and cold.

  Look on her, she thought toward the Hastinapurans. We do not fear our women in this land.

  On Mother’s right-hand side, Natharie’s full-blood brothers and sisters sat absolutely still, without prompting from their nurses and governors who stood behind them. All of them, even little Bailo, were arrayed in their best clothing and crowned according to their birth order. Kitum, the oldest boy and the heir, did his best to look regal, but his young face was pale. He had listened well to his teachers, and knew enough to fear the northern empire.

  To the left of the dais knelt the viceroy and the servants of the throne in their golden robes and collars. The “aunties,” father’s four concubines, knelt below these. Their children were arrayed with them, as serious and as still as the full-blood royals. What was to come affected them all. No one would be left untouched. For once even sly, insinuating Radana looked concerned, and all the fear was almost worth it for that sight.

  Natharie walked deliberately, gracefully between the throne and the kneeling Hastinapurans. She moved slowly, keeping each gesture separate and precise. She knelt before the dais and set the edge of first her right hand, then her left hand on the woven rush mat and pressed her head to them in obeisance to her father. Beside her, Malai did her best to move in time with h
er older sister.

  Natharie counted five full heartbeats before she rose with Malai and walked slowly to assume her place at little Bailo’s right hand. Natharie brushed Bailo’s hand with her arm as she sat, a gesture they had used many times before, and felt him move his little finger in response. They could not hug or even look at each other in formal audience, but they could share this bit of warmth and silent reassurance.

  We are all here. We are together in this.

  She wished she could give such reassurance to Kitum.

  As she knelt in her place on the carved platform, she was able to take stock of the Hastinapurans. Their leaders — the hard-eyed captain of the soldiers and the red-and-gold priests — knelt on the mats before Father and the throne. They all looked very proper and respectful, save one. The tallest of the priests let his gaze impatiently flicker here and there, taking in the audience hall with its golden images of the ancestors, the gods, and the Awakened One. His face grew more deeply sour with each thing he saw. His huge, hard hands plucked restlessly at the cloth of his robe where it lay across his thighs. What actions did those hands wish they could take?

  The one woman who had accompanied the Hastinapurans was also there. She knelt at the back of the hall with the servants and the soldiers, her white clothing making her stand out among the vivid hues of silk and gold. Natharie felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine. She must be the sorceress who followed the prince. The rulers of Hastinapura had sorcerers accompany them wherever they went. Could this one weave some influence from where she sat?

  No. If that could happen, Father would have denied her entrance. Natharie tried to remind herself that Father knew much more of Hastinapurans and their ways than she did, but the trust she needed was hard to find.

  Suthep, father’s wizened viceroy, thumped his ebony staff on the floor. At the same time, the great gong was struck, the deep, long sound reverberating throughout the hall.

  “Kiet Somchai, Great King of Sindhu, will now hear the petitioners before him!”

  The gong was struck again, and Natharie suppressed a smile. Petitioners. Very good. The deep frown on the big priest’s face showed he keenly felt the insult.

  The captain of the soldiers kept his face absolutely still and dignified as he made his bow from where he knelt.

  “Great King, I am Prince Samudra tya Achin Ireshpad, First Prince and Son of the Pearl Throne. I bring you greetings from my brother Chandra tya Achin Harihamapad, Emperor of Hastinapura, Revered and Respected Father of the Pearl Throne and Beloved of the Seven Mothers.”

  Prince? It was all Natharie could do not to stare in shock. This man in plain and dusty armor, commanding a tiny troop of soldiers from horseback, was a prince? Father would not even send one of her half-brothers out with so little to mark and protect his rank.

  Father nodded once in acknowledgment of the prince’s statement. “You are welcome here, Prince Samudra. What has brought this honor to our house?”

  The big priest flushed, clearly angered by this feigned ignorance. Natharie concentrated on remaining properly composed and calm. Malai shifted her weight, probably itchy. Natharie flicked her little finger. Malai caught the gesture and stilled.

  “Great King,” said Prince Samudra, seemingly unperturbed by having to state his errand aloud. “As well you know, when a new emperor ascends the Pearl Throne it is right and proper that all who receive the Throne’s protection celebrate the continuation of peace and harmony by sending gifts and ambassadors.” He spoke Sindishi without a trace of accent, which somehow eased Natharie’s feelings toward him. She also noted that in his well-mannered speech, he said not one word about the horse, or the soldiers. This one was a diplomat as well as a prince.

  Again, Father nodded. “And this we did. When Emperor Chandra took his father’s place, four years ago.”

  The Hastinapuran prince’s face tightened for a moment, and Natharie thought he might be suppressing a sigh. She found herself wondering how many times he had knelt like this, and made this same demand of other kings. Sindhu was one of twenty “protectorates,” taken by the old emperor. Were all of them visited by the horse and the prince?

  “Your gifts were received with great thanks,” answered Samudra solemnly. “But as the great king knows, not all the proper ceremonies were able to be completed at that time.”

  The big priest’s fingers were tapping now, showing how difficult it became for him to hold his impatience at bay. Natharie felt a cold knot form beneath her heart.

  “And they are to be completed now?” Father asked.

  The prince nodded once. “Even so.”

  Father considered this for a long, uncomfortable moment. The priest’s frown deepened, although the prince remained calm.

  At last, Father said, “I am delighted that the emperor is so secure in his place that he is now able to turn his mind from the affairs of state to the affairs of Heaven by which blessing each of us has our place on the wheel.” Father kept his voice carefully bland. “We are happy to house and feed the pilgrims of the Pearl Throne as they cross Sindhu and, of course, they will be under the king’s protection. I will speak to my generals about proper escort.”

  Natharie’s fingers threatened to curl into fists. He’s going to make them say it. He’s going to make them demand the tribute.

  “I am honored to receive the great king’s assistance,” answered Prince Samudra, inclining his head once more. “I fear that we may have to trespass on your hospitality for a little while longer. There are several matters which require discussion.”

  Now it was Father who frowned, in apparent confusion. “Can that be done? It is my understanding of the ceremony that you must follow the horse wherever and whenever the Mothers lead him.”

  That hit hard. The big priest was now the same scarlet color as his robes, and the prince, for a fleeting second, looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Great King,” said Prince Samudra quietly. “You and I both know what is happening. I ask your tolerance and forbearance.”

  “Yes, we do know what is happening,” Father answered. “You are saying that our offerings and embassage of four years ago were inadequate.”

  The prince took the accusation without flinching, and met the king’s eyes. “I would never say that, Great King. You know this.”

  Father leaned forward, looking down on the kneeling man. “I thought I did, Prince Samudra.” He spoke softly, but his voice was pitched to carry through the hall. “But if the purpose of this so-called sacrifice is not to wheedle more tribute out of your protectorates, what is it for?”

  Which was the end. The big priest shot to his feet. The golden scarf around his thick neck slithered to the floor with the violence of his motion. “Barbarian!” he shouted. “How dare you profane the holy mysteries! You worship a vain human who dared deny the Mothers! You sit on your gilded …”

  “Divakesh!” The prince also stood swiftly. “Silence!”

  It was too much for little Bailo. A whimper escaped him and he cringed backward into his nurse’s arms. All Natharie’s other siblings took the opportunity to huddle together. Natharie made herself sit still. She was the oldest. She must remain still, as still as Mother was, as still as Father on the throne. Even while the court gasped and muttered, they would be absolutely correct. Behind them and on either side, the guards had shifted their grip on their spears and their swords.

  If the priest noticed any of these things, the only effect was to increase his rage. “I will not be silent!” His voice shook from fury. “You will tell this petty chief that his children belong to the Mothers as does any other thing They see fit to require of him! You will tell him …”

  “Priest,” said the prince, and this time his voice was low as the first rumble of the earthquake. “You will leave the hall at once. You will not reenter it unless I send for you and then you will only do so in proper respect for the great king.”

  They stood there, each daring the other with his own pride, authority, and h
istory. Natharie risked a glance at her father, and she saw a tiny smile on his face. In that moment, she understood. Father had not been speaking to the prince at all, but always to the priest. He saw the weak link and he pressed against it until it broke.

  The priest turned on his heels and marched toward the door. Before the tension could break, Radana startled them all afresh, by leaping from her place with the other concubines and scuttling forward to claim the golden scarf the priest had let fall.

  “My lord?” She knelt in front of him as humble as any servant, holding the scarf up for him to take.

  It was a wonderful move. It broke the terrible tension his outburst had brought. Natharie was sure she heard one of the serving women snicker.

  The priest, who could not turn any more red, snatched the scarf away and left the hall. Radana bowed deeply to the king and queen and returned to her place with the other concubines, a smile of smug satisfaction on her face.

  For all this, it was now the prince who was shamed and he who must act humble. Which he did, bowing deeply. This time, his forehead touched the mat.

  “Great King, I am truly sorry for this outburst. Divakesh is diligent in his piety and it is my fault for not instructing him more carefully on the ways of the Awakened lands. It will not happen again, I promise you.”

  Father sat back, looking haughtily down his nose. “That is the man who will perform the sacrifice when it is time?”

  “Yes, Great King.” The prince sounded plainly puzzled.

  “The horse then belongs to the Mothers and he will … send it to them at the appointed time?”

  “Yes.”

  Now Father spoke with cold precision. “Given this, what did your man mean when he said my children belong to the Mothers?”

  Murmurs flitted through the air. Natharie heard again the sound of shifting weight, the faint jingling of scaled armor as the soldiers readied themselves in her defense, in the defense of all. At the same time, fear bit hard into her. The priest did not mean they were to be killed. He could not. Did the Mothers drink human blood? Ima, Bailo’s nurse, held him close, murmuring comfort. Natharie was ashamed of herself for thinking his nurse should sit him up straight. They could not afford to show less than perfect dignity now.