by Sarah Zettel
For the first time, Hamsa’s mouth hardened with anger. “Assuredly.”
“Then why did he not say so?”
Hamsa snorted, an unusual sound for her. “You must ask? Yamuna hates Lord Divakesh.”
Samudra felt himself frowning. “But then why not expose his … mistake? It would embarrass him before the emperor.”
For this, Hamsa had no answer. Her gaze fell and her hands twisted her walking stick.
“Is it possible Divakesh could have honestly missed the sign?”
Hamsa shook her head. “I think he chooses to close his eyes.”
The feeling of weapons waiting, of hidden depths in his home, closed around Samudra again. “They would ignore the call of the Queen of Heaven for fear and jealousy. That my brother is so served …” he murmured.
Hamsa lifted her eyes. “Yet you do not speak to him. Why not?”
Samudra rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps I too am afraid, Hamsa.”
“Perhaps?” she repeated.
Samudra sighed and folded his arms, his attention flickering to the hallway. He heard nothing, felt no warning instincts wake his mind. “Now, my sorceress, you will tell me what it is I fear.”
Hamsa hesitated another moment, but she did answer. “You fear having to believe the worst of your brother,” she whispered. “You fear that if you speak to him any further of these things he has dismissed, he will leave you no choice.”
He wanted to deny it. It could not be true. He was a soldier and he was afraid of nothing. At the same time, he wanted to take his sword and cut that fear out of himself. “Yes.”
Hamsa bowed her head, humble before the bitterness she heard in that one word.
Samudra rubbed his own head. He ached. He did not want to think any of the thoughts that thronged in his mind. He did not want to speak anymore of what had happened that day. He wanted it to be done, to be gone, to be some mistake. “Hamsa, you must be as exhausted as I am. Go get some rest.”
“And what will you do, my prince?”
Samudra found he could not bear to stand still a moment longer and brushed past her. “I will do as I said. I will go visit my mother.”
And mother will send for her private clerk, Tasham, and I will finally finally know what has happened in my absence.
Despite the turmoil within him, it felt good to walk the palace corridors again, good to be surrounded by the rhythms at the heart of Jalaja’s dance, to see the cool wood, the bright gold, the polished stonework and carvings telling again and again the history of Hastinapura and the Seven Mothers. It was here Samudra felt most deeply his part and place. Here he was most whole, even more than on the field of battle, for in this place lay all that the battles were fought for.
It was said that was part of the magic of the palace. The sorcerers who oversaw its building had worked bindings of duty and place into its patterns so that those who ruled the Mothers’ land would follow the Mothers’ words. Samudra found himself very much wishing that were true. Such mighty magics would help soothe his anger, and restore him, and more importantly Chandra, to the right path. He needed that belief very much now.
The Palace of the Pearl Throne was a city beneath its vaulted roofs and ivory beams. There were those who never entered the world outside its walls. Indeed, some were forbidden to leave, lest the pollution of the outer world render them unfit for their office. The edifice was constructed as a series of nine rings, one inside the other, each rising higher until all culminated at the Throne’s chamber.
Each ring had its own function and patterns to which it must adhere. The seventh ring of the palace was the zuddhanta, the women’s quarters. The name was misleading, as many folk other than women dwelt there. Of course, Chandra had his suite of concubines, as their father had. These, for the most part, served out their time and went on their way to be married or to set up their houses, seldom leaving a mark or impression on the memory. The seventh ring was also, however, the place of the unmarried princes and princesses, Samudra and Chandra’s half-brothers and sisters, their nieces, nephews, and cousins, and of the wives and families of highly placed servants to the Throne. It was a city within a city, and those who lived there had their own name for it. They called it the small domain.
The small domain was the place where Samudra had grown up. Then it had been in the strict care of his grandmother. As was the custom, his own mother, Queen Prishi, had taken charge only when her son Chandra became emperor. All the palace was his home, but it was these particular halls he had raced up and down as a child, these balconies he had looked out of to see the pageants and processions of the city. It was here he’d learned all the princely arts save that of war, and it was here he returned when that training and service was done. Memories flocked about him as he walked the passages between the princess’s suites — of riding and shooting with his father, endless mischief with his brother and other siblings, the procession of tutors who struggled courageously to din something into his head that didn’t have to do with weapons, chariots, or horses. The time his father informed him that if he didn’t want to become a proper prince, he could be a slave in the wheat fields, and actually sent him down to the fields for a month to labor beside the sun-cured men who laughed at his soft hands and weak arms. After that, languages and poetry became much more bearable.
Chandra, on the other hand, had garnered much praise from his tutors by the expeditious method of discovering which ones he could bribe and what their price might be. Samudra had known, but had never told their father because his brother had wept and made Samudra swear not to.
Chandra understood people well. His langour and lack of restraint when pursuing pleasure and luxury made this easy to forget.
The center of the small domain was the queen’s viewing chambers, a complex network of open rooms separated by beautifully carved arches. Each space was designed with care for its ordained purpose — for sewing, for sitting, for singing and performance, for dining. As first prince, Samudra had his private suite off these chambers, and as he could not appear before his mother dusty and unkempt after a day spent fuming and sweating at the gates, he went first to his own rooms. His personal attendants, Bori and Amandad, had, as usual, prepared all things for him. The bath was filled. Fresh robes of burgundy silk, rings of gold and garnets, and soft slippers were waiting once he was dried. They also laid out a light supper of bread, spiced chickpeas, and honeyed dumplings.
Feeling once more the proper prince rather than the rough soldier, Samudra returned to the viewing chambers. It was his mother’s habit to sit in the “garden” and watch moonrise. Occupying a huge terrace, this inner garden was as carefully and lovingly tended as those outside. Tiny birds nested in its perfect trees, cats basked in the sun, and water trickled from half a dozen fountains. The whole chamber smelled of greenery, oranges, incense, and perfume. An ivory latticework enclosed the whole of it and was cunningly carved so that light could enter, but no one, even had they been able to climb to this height, could see through from the outside.
As he entered the dim garden, he saw a cluster of ladies sitting amid the miniature trees and his spirits lifted. Queen Prishi, his mother, his father’s first wife, was a wise, quick-witted, strong woman. She had guided him through the morass of court intrigues all his life and ruled the small domain with a firm hand. She would know what he should do.
“Brother of my heart! How glad I am to see you!”
At the sound of that voice, Samudra’s hopes toppled yet again. It was not his mother who sat on the carved stone bench, but Bandhura, his brother’s beautiful wife, with her flock of ladies at her feet. As he approached, she smiled up at Samudra with all seeming joy.
Samudra remembered to fold his hands and kneel with proper respect, even as the ladies made obeisance to him. “I salute the first of all queens.”
Bandhura stood, took his hands, and raised him up. “Come, let me kiss you.” She suited actions to words, kissing his brow although she had to stand on her toes to reach it.
“It is good to have you home again.” She resettled herself on her bench and with a gesture had a servant come forward with a cup of wine. In the blend of silver moonlight and golden lamplight, he could see her appearance was perfect in every aspect, as it always was. Yet, Samudra had learned to watch her eyes closely. There, he could sometimes see the hard glitter betraying the flint heart within the silken queen. He saw it there now. He also saw that neither his two cousins nor his nearest half-sister sat among Bandhura’s ladies as they had when he left.
“I had not thought to see you this evening,” Bandhura was saying. “You seemed so tired during the ceremony.”
We will not speak of my outburst, of course. Nor of Divakesh’s … demonstration. But tired. Yes, I was tired, and I am. “I have come to see my mother.”
Her hand went to her mouth, a little gesture of deprecation for not thinking of something so obvious. “Of course.” Then, she dropped her eyes, hesitating. “But, this is so … Brother, I must tell you …”
Samudra waited until he could keep the impatience form his voice. Bandhura’s artifices wore on him, and worried him. “What is it?”
“Your mother, our mother, has not been well of late.” She murmured as if speaking of a subject that might be thought immodest. “I fear the years weigh on her. She is … easily tired these days.”
A fresh bolt of fear shot through Samudra. “She is ill?”
“The physicians say not.” There was no confidence in the statement. “She has already taken to her bed for the night.”
Samudra bowed hastily to Bandhura. “I will ask her ladies if she sleeps yet. If not, perhaps she will still see me, briefly.”
Bandhura frowned. “If you think it wise, Brother …”
No, but I will do it anyway. He bowed once more and left Bandhura to whatever thoughts lurked behind her perfect face.
The emperor’s mother, as mistress of the small domain, had her private suite of rooms at its center, which was symbolically the center of life in the palace. Her eunuch guards knelt in silence for Samudra as he slipped through the doorway, treading carefully so as not to break the silence of the shadowed chamber.
Nonetheless, a small, round woman rose up at his entry. Her greying hair was pulled back in a simple knot. Samudra smiled. Here at last was a welcome face. “Damman. It is good to see you. Does my mother sleep?”
The waiting woman gave him the salute of trust. This was the same woman who when he was a child had more than once had grabbed him by the ear and marched him to his bath, or his bed. “Not yet, my prince, but it would not matter. She said most clearly that if you came, you were to be allowed entry.” Her eyes darted to his face for one bold instant before she turned away. “I am glad you are home,” she whispered, and Samudra’s fear grew colder.
Damman led him through the open sitting rooms into the bedchamber. Only one of the hanging lamps still burned. In the dim light, Samudra saw his mother propped up on her pillows, her head lolling back on the fine linen sheets she had always preferred, and her eyes closed. Her normally busy hands lay on the gauzy coverlet, thin and still.
His heart beating hard, Samudra knelt beside her. “Mother?”
Slowly, Mother turned her face to him, and to his horror he saw it was blighted by dark scabs where the skin had peeled back. “My son,” she whispered hoarsly. “I have missed you.”
She moved her hand toward Samudra and he took it gently. More scabs roughened her palm. The room was close and warm, but her bony fingers were cold. “How are you?”
One corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I am tired, as I’m sure the daughter of my heart has told you.”
“You do too much.” He made the statement on reflex. He could think of nothing else to say, seeing her there so weak and listless.
“Bandhura agrees with you. She has been so good as to take many of my burdens onto herself so that I might rest more completely.” The words were mild, even grateful. Only one who knew her very well would hear their edge.
“Surely that is what you need.”
“Surely.” She spoke to the ceiling now. “As you were needed to supervise the collection of tribute. Asking you to lead the expedition to repel the Huni would have been too grave a strain as you are still recovering from the death of your father four years ago.” She knew then. Sick and weak, maybe dying, she knew what had been done.
No! he wanted to shout. No, I do not want this. I want my home, I want to lead my men and follow my brother and the Mothers. Bitter shame filled him, but those selfish desires did not abate. “Mother … where are Ila and Tustia? And Saryu?”
“Ila was sent to Lady Teshama to be her head waiting woman. It was Bandhura’s judgment that she should have an opportunity to make a brilliant marriage in that province. Tustia is herself married now, to the lord of Nagishi Province.”
“So quickly?” Tustia was Samudra’s half-sister, his closest in age and the one he cherished most.
Mother shrugged a little and pulled her hand from his to wave it upward, toward the ninth ring, where the Pearl Throne waited. “The emperor was most anxious to see to the change of administration there. The former Lord Nagishi was found to be diverting tax monies for his own use.”
“But …” Samudra shook his head. “Tustia was betrothed to Tasham.” Tasham had soldiered at Samudra’s side when they were both still youths, but he had never developed a taste for war and instead settled happily into a counselor’s robes. For all Samudra taunted him about a life of endless numbers and dry words, he had to admit Tasham did his work well, and cheerfully, and could be trusted utterly. That was why he had made Tasham his eyes and ears in the small domain while he was gone.
“Tasham is dead,” said his mother flatly.
“What!” Although he knelt, Samudra felt his legs tremble. Samudra had always thought that when he finally married, he would take Tasham to his estate with him. That soldiers should be dead was one thing, but Tasham was only a bureaucrat, and Samudra’s own age …
Is there anything here left to me? Anything at all?
“An accident. He was thrown from his horse and drowned in the river.” Her hand moved to touch his fingertips. “I am sorry I was the one to tell you.”
For a long moment, Samudra could not speak. It might have been an accident. Such things happened. The Mothers knew Tasham was no horseman but Samudra could not make himself believe that.
He leaned close to his mother and whispered, “How bad has it become, Mother?”
“You do not yet know?” His mother’s cold fingers brushed his cheek. “Oh, my son, your wits have not yet returned from your travels.”
Samudra looked deep into his mother’s weary eyes. Then, behind them came a thump and a shuffle and Damman’s voice saying “Oh, pardon, pardon, First of All Queens!”
Samudra sat bolt upright.
“Clumsy …!” cried Bandhura, and this was followed by a second thump that was surely Damman dropping hard and fast to her knees before the queen’s wrath.
“Bandhura?” called Queen Prishi plaintively.
“Mother of my heart?” Bandhura pushed through the draperies that separated the bed alcove from the chamber beyond.
“Daughter.” Queen Prishi made an effort to push herself up on her pillows, and failed, but still she smiled in open welcome. “Come, sit and stay. I was only catching my son up on the little news of our doings here.”
“You should not tax yourself.” Bandhura hurried to her mother-in-law’s side. “I will have tea brought to you.”
Queen Prishi patted her hand. “So thoughtful. Never have I been better cared for,” she added to Samudra.
Samudra found he was standing, but he could not remember having moved. “What is wrong, brother of my heart?” asked Bandhura.
Samudra swallowed, swallowed outrage, swallowed impotence and fear. “Nothing, Sister, but the emperor invited me to dine with him, and I believe I must accept.”
She smiled so sweetly he knew she was satisfied her m
ission had been accomplished. She had cut off what conversation he might have had with his mother. “Of course. I will attend our mother here while you wait upon our lord.”
Samudra’s mother looked up at him, her face shrewd despite all. “Was there something else you wished to say to me, my son?”
Samudra licked his lips, and wondered if he dared. Yes. Yes I do. I must. “Yes … the princess of Sindhu, Natharie, has come to guest with us. It was my hope you would grant her audience, let her know she is welcome here. She finds us very strange and is, I think, afraid.” He looked straight into Bandhura’s eyes as he spoke, and saw again the glitter of flint. There, I will not speak either of what was done today. But I will wonder, sister of my heart, what you think of it, and of my lord Divakesh. I will wonder too why you do not care to let me have private conversation with my mother.
“Of course, my son,” said Queen Prishi. “If you wish it.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Samudra kissed her brow and tried not to feel how slack and dry her skin was. It was the skin of a very old woman. Then, he bowed to Bandhura. “I salute the first of all queens.”
Before she could utter whatever pretty platitude she had reserved for this occasion, Samudra left. However, instead of turning toward the corridors and staircases that would take him to the dining hall and his brother, he found himself drifting toward the terrace garden again. Bandhura’s ladies had dispersed and he was alone. He breathed in its clean, green scents, taking himself into the shadows to hide the thoughts he could not keep from his face.
When their father died, Samudra believed his brother truly mourned. Chandra stayed sleepless beside the pyre for three nights, tending the fire until it was pure enough and hot enough to receive the emperor’s body. As the flames enfolded their father, Samudra saw tears falling down his brother’s cheeks. During the ceremonies and sacrifices that elevated him officially to the rank their father had held, Samudra thought he looked nothing so much as frightened.
Oddly, it was that fear that had given Samudra hope that Chandra understood how serious his life had become. He prayed that the Mothers would open Chandra’s narrow, frivolous heart and let the welfare of Hastinapura enter into his thoughts.
