Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

Father Thanom slid the paper door open slowly, releasing a shaft of golden light. For a moment, he watched whatever lay within and then beckoned her. Sitara stepped carefully through the low doorway.

  Inside was a room lit to the brightness of day by four great brass lanterns that hung in its four corners. In its center sat a ring of monks and nuns whose voices rose and fell in the thrumming, rumbling chant. Through their ring of bodies, Sitara saw a mandala made of sand. Her breath caught in her throat at its shining beauty and she took an involuntary step forward to see it better.

  In the lamplight, the mandala blazed like a thousand jewels. All the colors of the rainbow were in that pattern, and all the shades and hues that came when those colors blended together. It was wider across than she was tall and she could not count the rings or comprehend the details and symbols that filled the space between them. At first she thought the rings were separate, concentric circles, but as she looked more closely, she began to see they were subtly connected, one to the other, the first to the last. Each complete and separate, each bound to the other. Her mind blurred. The air before her rippled and her skin shivered in acknowledgment of a power she could feel only at the very edge of her senses. The monks’ droning made the air throb. It sank through her skin and found an answering rhythm in her heart and her breath. All the holy sorcerers save one sat perfectly still, their eyes half-closed in deep concentration as they sang. One young monk held out his fisted hand, letting a slow stream of red sand fall to join the glorious pattern that stretched out between them. It seemed to Sitara that the scarlet grains trickled out in time to the endless chant.

  “What is it?” Sitara managed to whisper.

  “It is Sindhu,” answered Father Thanom. “It is the past spiraling into the future and the future to the past, for this moment, for it will change. It is changing even now.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, about the beauty, the complexity, about the sound and the fall of the sand all woven together, but the abbot shook his head and pointed to the door. They slipped outside into the thickening evening. Behind them, there was no hesitation in the song, no pause in the falling of the sand.

  For a moment, Sitara could only stand and gulp down the evening air, dizzy with the brilliance and power of what she had seen. Then, Father Thanom spoke softly. He did not look at her. It was as if he spoke only to the night.

  “And the sorcerer came to the Awakened One and said to him, ‘Master, tell us, what is right action for those whose souls are not of the three parts but are single and alone?’

  “The Master said, ‘Right action consists of four parts. Compassion. Understanding. Wisdom. Acceptance. Without compassion no action can be good. Without understanding, no action can be right. Without wisdom, all action is slave to ignorance. Without acceptance of consequence, there is no learning, no wisdom, no understanding, and no compassion.

  “‘Therefore,’ the Master said to the sorcerer, ‘if you say your soul is alone and apart, seek the right action you desire alone and apart and act not until all four parts of right action are held within your hands.’”

  Sitara kept her silence, uncertain of what answer she could make.

  “I have spent much time thinking on that last phrase,” Father Thanom continued. “‘If you say your soul is alone and apart.’ Does that mean the sorcerer’s soul is not a single thing as we have been taught? That we are as divided in spirit as those who cannot call the magics?”

  “I do not know, Father.”

  “Nor do I.” He sighed. “But I believe had that sorcerer gone to Anidita and asked his question but a little differently, we would not be isolated here.”

  Although the night around them was warm and heavy, Sitara felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling and her hands growing cold.

  The abbot glimpsed the fear in her and shook his head. “Fear not, Great Queen. I was born to feel the magic of the world inside myself and outside, and to have the ability to weave that power to affect the world. I accept the law that those like me should have a cloistered life, where we can steep ourselves in study and prayer and act only when we may do so with compassion and right understanding. That is the purpose of the mandala, as is the purpose of all we do here. Right understanding of Sindhu.”

  “It is an enormous task to understand the whole of Sindhu.”

  A smile flitted across Father Thanom’s face. “Which is one of the reasons we so seldom act, and why when we act, we do so little. It is difficult, Great Queen.” His voice grew so soft she could scarcely hear it beneath the myriad of other night noises. “Not all cloistered here have patience. Their power is restless within them despite all we do. They wish for the power and the patronage they see open to those who follow other ways.”

  Sitara swallowed. She felt the chant behind her. She felt it in her bones. Its power crawled across her skin. What would that power do if left to itself? “No one here is prisoner,” she said, because it was the proper thing to say and her frightened mind could think of nothing else.

  “They are if they wish to remain in Sindhu.”

  Enough of fear, Sitara told herself sternly. “There is nothing I can do,” she said. “The law is clear.”

  Father Thanom nodded as if this was not only expected, but welcome. “Know this, Great Queen: If Hastinapura begins to make … demands against Sindhu, there are those here who will not oppose them, and as you know, it is a difficult thing to stop sorcerers from speaking to each other should they so choose.”

  The monks’ song, the sorcerers’ song, still droned at her back, and the power of it still touched her, feather-light but constant. The queen thought of the woman in white who sat so silently beside Prince Samudra at the tables and the councils. Sitara wondered what she did in her silence and what woven power she might have borne with her. A sorcerer’s workings could be secured in a ribbon, or a lump of clay. She thought of the sorceress leaving a spell behind, a curse or some thing that would break her home, break the royal line if it did not yield. She thought of her children and bit her tongue hard so as not to speak her fear.

  “What do you advise then, Father?” Sitara said. Be cold. Be stone. You cannot be weak. Not now, not ever again.

  “This is the understanding the mandala brings me. This is a time of change. That violence will come. Indeed, it must come.” Father Thanom frowned, seeing she knew not what before him. Perhaps he was reading the mandala from memory. “It is the smallest act and the greatest love that will turn the wheel to peace again.”

  Sitara closed her eyes, her heart both weary and hard. “What good does this knowledge do, Father?”

  The abbot faced her squarely. “It tells us, daughter, that it is time to act, and you have not come here to refrain from action, but to take it. I also wish to see a future for Sindhu, as she is, as an Awakened land. I ask you to permit me to help you act.” He moved closer to her. “Tell me what you plan, my queen. Let me and mine help you.”

  “When you tell me there may be spies in your own house? I need help, Father, but how can I trust so much?”

  “Because you must give restless hands work and restless hearts a purpose, lest others do so first.”

  With that, Sitara made her decision. “Father Abbot,” she said. “I have a message that needs to be taken to a man in Paitong called Pakpao Kamol. Can you send one of the lay brothers?” The dedicated monks did not leave the monastery except for ceremony or strictest need.

  “Of course, daughter.” He held out his hand. She saw the question in his eyes, but knew he would not ask. It was this that gave her the final strength she needed. From the waistband of her skirt, Sitara took the note she had written on the barge on the previous day. She had not dared to carry it on her person from the palace. The writing was weak and wandering, not at all like her usual hand. Sitara handed the paper to the abbot. He tucked it into his sleeve without reading the direction written on it. “I would pray, now, Father,” said Sitara. “And then visit my people. When that is done, you and I shoul
d speak further.”

  Father Thanom bowed. Side by side in silence they returned to the temple. The abbot touched her head one more time in blessing and left her there. As she knelt alone before the Great Teacher, Sitara felt her fear draining from her. All decisions for the moment had been made. All action that could be taken at this time had been. What understanding she had was in motion in the world.

  Sitara turned to the image of Anidita, bowed her head, and finally began to pray.

  In the darkness, outside the temple, a second figure watched Father Thanom leave on his errand, and softly stole away to the river gate, to watch and to wait and to send his own words where they must go.

  Chapter Four

  Prince Samudra stepped from the barge onto the crowded, noisy docks of the city of Vaudanya, the capital city of Hastinapura. As his sandal touched the tarred boards, his first feeling was one of profound relief. The year was over, and he was home. The city that had known him since his birth surrounded him. Its magnificent stone and marble was supported by terraced hills and backed by mountains of emerald and onyx, sapphire and snow. At their base waited the Palace of the Pearl Throne, shining ivory-white and granite-pink in the painfully bright light of midday. Once he entered there, he was home in truth.

  A year. A year of wastelands and deep forests; a year of sleeping in shifts to keep Divakesh safe from whatever tiger or snake might be fool enough to try its fangs on him; a year of visiting the courts of conquered lands and telling threadbare and defiant kings that they must give the gifts of triumph and celebration yet again.

  It had been a year without real news of home, or of the northern borders. Only the briefest of missives from the palace had reached him, and those said only that all was well and he should continue on with his so-vital work of following the horse and the high priest.

  But now he was home, and soon there would be real work, fit for a prince, which would serve the land and the Mothers, and not just the vanity of Divakesh.

  The docks were a blur of colors, an ocean of noise, both human and animal, and a world of stench. Shirtless men, their bodies gleaming with sweat, hoisted bales and sacks, chests and cages. Elephants lifted teak logs off the open barges and laid them in neat stacks on the shore. A man with skin so dark it was nearly black shouted at a herd of silky white goats that bleated scornfully in response. A merchant poked through a sack of peppercorns with a wooden stick while the seller fluttered and twittered beside him. Samudra found himself looking for the black horse who had been his reluctant guide for the past year. It was easy to spot the creature even in the dockside’s riot of activity. It had a golden halter on now, and was tossing its great head this way and that to keep the reins out of the hands of its keepers, turning its body and stamping its hooves, looking for a way out of the crowd that surrounded it. Any moment now, it would rear and kick back. Divakesh stood to one side, shouting at the grooms and lesser priests, seemingly unwilling to come too close to the sacred, scared animal.

  Samudra smiled grimly.

  It got used to freedom. What will you do now, Divakesh?

  Samudra was under no illusions as to who had convinced his brother Chandra to finally undertake the horse sacrifice. Samudra’s only consolation was that the priest’s machinations had missed their mark. What could Divakesh do to influence the Pearl Throne if he, like Samudra, was following the black horse about the countryside?

  If influence was what Divakesh wanted. Samudra’s thoughts turned for the thousandth time to the priest’s outrage in the court of Sindhu. He’d known Divakesh to be … single-minded in his service of the Mothers, but that moment showed that Divakesh’s devotions might run deeper and more stark than he had guessed, or feared.

  Patience, he counseled himself. I will soon be able to tell Chandra how his high priest behaved himself. Let Divakesh explain his insults to his emperor.

  A legion of clerks and eunuchs swarmed up to the tribute barges. Nominally, Samudra was supposed to be supervising this final unloading of goods, slaves, and hostages. In reality, that could be handled much more efficiently by those trained to it. He was more than willing to stand back and let them do their work, until he saw the grooms struggling through the tide of activity trying to lead Samudra’s own horse, Rupak, to him. Ten days on a river barge with only the briefest periods of real exercise had left the animal in no mood to cooperate.

  Samudra caught the horse’s bridle and stroked the broad neck, whispering to the proud animal, reassuring him that all was right. Rupak whickered and stamped, but agreed to be calmed, and Samudra felt himself calming as well.

  “My prince.”

  Hamsa had come up beside him. She kept as far from the horse as the crowds and goods permitted. Samudra smiled patiently. Hamsa had never truly taken to riding horseback. Unfortunately, fate did not allow her a palanquin or litter like other ladies of rank. She must stay beside him, so she must ride. “How was your journey?” he asked.

  One corner of her mouth twisted up. “You spend ten days in a barge with the revered high priest, the sword of the Mothers, my prince, and then you ask me that question.”

  Samudra’s own smile was grim. “We must all follow the steps of the Mothers’ dance as they are laid out for us.”

  “That is easier for those who set the dance than for those who follow.” Hamsa’s tone was utterly bland as she spoke those words, but Samudra knew that the depth of the feeling that lay beneath them matched his own.

  “You speak the truth, elder sister.” He sighed, his gaze skimming restlessly over the roil of activity around them. His horse caught his mood and stamped uneasily.

  “This will be the longest day,” said Hamsa. Samudra grunted in agreement. Once everything was organized, there would come the procession and then the sacrifice. There would be nothing but ceremony until dusk. And for what? For a glorified tax collection.

  Triumph and honor indeed.

  Hamsa leaned on her staff and followed his gaze. Did she know he was looking for, praying for, a messenger? Probably. She was one of the few to know he had made his former comrade Tasham his proxy inside the palace. Tasham was to watch and wait, to influence quietly when he could, and to find a way to report in secret the instant Samudra returned.

  Samudra cast around for something else to think about. Anger seethed just below the surface of his thoughts. If he gave it the barest chance, it would burst free. “How is the princess Natharie?” he asked, finally.

  Hamsa shook her head. “Frightened,” she said softly. “And with reason.”

  Samudra grimaced. “I had hoped you would be able to help her.” As hard as he had tried, he had not been able to come near Natharie on the whole, long voyage. Divakesh had managed to keep them firmly apart. Samudra had thought if he had tried to see the princess at midnight, he would find Divakesh standing sleepless beside her. But he had tried his best to watch over her, and it had been a surprising relief from the tedium of the voyage to do so. She was a beauty, yes, but it was her calm, her strength, that drew his eye again and again.

  “I tried,” Hamsa was saying as she twisted her staff back and forth. “But … I fear being what I am, I gave her little comfort.”

  The self-reproach in those words was bitter and plain. Samudra shook himself from his reverie and touched Hamsa’s shoulder. “That the Awakened lands fear sorcerers is not your doing.” This was not all that lay under her words, and they both knew it, but still, she gave him a grateful glance. “She will have to be shown there is nothing …”

  A figure in grey stopped to make obeisance before him. Samudra glanced at it, nodding reflexively, and then saw it was Lady Usha, the steward of the zuddhanta. They were opening the last of the long line of boats, and permitting the passengers to disembark. A gaggle of young women stood at the foot of the walkway. A few were women of rank, dressed in bright colors. Gold and jeweled brooches ornamented their hair. More gold hung from their ears. Others were more plainly dressed and sparingly ornamented.

  As Samudra watc
hed, Princess Natharie descended from her barge. She looked dazed but proud. She had not yet seen Steward Usha striding toward her, nor had she seen the gold and silver chains that Usha’s servants carried.

  But Samudra did. He shoved Rupak’s reins into the groom’s hands and started after her. But the crowd closed in again behind the steward’s train. By the time Samudra had threaded the maze of startled humans, nervous horses, and heaped goods and palanquins being slowly forced into a rough line, Usha had finished shackling the servant girls together with the silver chain and was turning to Natharie.

  “No,” he said.

  The steward turned and saw who had spoken. She dropped quickly into the salute of trust, but not before he saw her square her shoulders, ready to assert her authority in this matter.

  “Princess Natharie has come to serve her land among us freely and with honor,” Samudra said, raising his voice to make sure Natharie could hear him. He met her eyes, and tried silently to tell her that he had been there all along, that he would not let anything happen to her. “There is no need for this ceremony.”

  What is happening here? Natharie’s eyes were cool, her anger plain, and the sight of it tore at his heart.

  Usha looked up, saw that he was serious, and covered her eyes again. “As you command, my prince.” She moved away, but Samudra did not miss the hard and appraising look she gave Princess Natharie.

  Nor did Natharie miss it. Clearly, she strove to remain calm, but her nervous glance kept darting from him and Hamsa to Divakesh where he stood with the priests, casting his long shadow over the slowly forming procession.

  Samudra opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but before the words could come, a hoarse shout broke over the continual noise of the docks. “My prince! Prince Samudra!”

  Samudra turned. A large, shirtless man, sweat gleaming on his deep brown skin, elbowed his way through the crowd, earning shouts and curses in response. He knelt on the dock beside Samudra’s horse and held up a fold of paper sealed in green wax. Samudra recognized the man as belonging to Commander Makul’s household. Makul was Samudra’s own battle-father, who taught him much of the art of war and the work of soldiering.