Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  He climbed up the wide stairs to the eighth ring of the palace, the place where the emperor lived. No one challenged him. No one stopped him. The guards parted as he approached and dropped at once into obeisance.

  The imperial bedchamber lay at the center of the ring. The night servants, all of them mutes, waited in the outer chamber, alert for the slightest sound issuing from beyond the gauze curtains that sheltered the imperial bed. Even these guardians of the emperor’s comfort kissed the floor as Samudra strode past them. He pushed aside the curtains and saw the rumpled sheets, and the two bodies lying beneath the covers.

  “Brother.”

  But it was Bandhura who sat up, pulling the sheet up around her. She looked at him for a moment. Then, gracefully, deliberately, she rose from that bed, drawing on a pale robe that billowed around her as she walked toward him, but not before Samudra saw her body, full and perfect in the silver moonlight.

  “What is the brother of my heart doing here?” she asked softly. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpets as she approached him.

  “I must speak with my brother,” Samudra told her bluntly.

  “Our sovereign sleeps, as you can see. What matter will not wait until morning?” Her words were mild, but her eyes were sharp, especially for one who should have just awakened from sleep. Samudra had a sudden image of Bandhura lying awake beside Chandra, waiting. But waiting for what? Did she know he had left Makul’s house on foot? How had that word come to her?

  “It is a matter between him and me, sister of my heart.” He did not try to keep his voice down. Chandra stirred on his pillows.

  “For shame, Brother!” Bandhura slapped Samudra’s arm lightly. “A soldier should know restraint. Whatever you have to say, it can wait for the morning.”

  “No,” said Samudra flatly. “It cannot.” He stepped to the side. “Brother!”

  Chandra rolled over. He blinked heavily and looked about him. When he saw his wife and his brother, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

  “What in all nine hells is this?” he demanded groggily.

  Samudra brushed past Bandhura, feeling the heat from her angry glower as he did, and stood beside his brother’s bed.

  “Come with me, Chandra.”

  Chandra squinted up at him. “Where?”

  “Out of here.”

  “What do you mean?” Chandra scratched his scalp.

  “Come out into the streets.” Samudra pointed toward the doorway where the servants crowded, crouching in the shadows, uncertain of what to do. “The Queen of Heaven is looking for you.”

  Chandra stared at his arm. He blinked again, bleary-eyed. “What in the Mother’s name are you talking about?”

  “Your dream. Divakesh lied to you. It was not a devil. It was Mother Jalaja who called you.”

  Memory and comprehension came slowly to Chandra, but they did come and the look on his face shifted from confusion to annoyance. “Don’t be an ass, Samudra. Why would Divakesh lie?”

  “I don’t know.” Another lie. I do know, but I can’t speak here. These are things that should not be, not here in the heart of all things.

  Chandra sighed, shoving his stringy locks back from his face. He propped himself up on both elbows now. “So, how came you to be a dream interpreter?”

  Samudra knelt. He caught his brother’s gaze and saw the disbelief, and the boredom. “Because I left the palace tonight. I went to the streets in your place. I met Mother Vimala there.”

  Chandra grinned at him, fierce and lascivious. “Brother, whoever you met, I want some of what you had to smoke with her.”

  “Chandra, I am not lying to you.” He put all the strength of the truth he had in his voice. “Brother look at me.” See what I have seen. See the blood and the dust. See these eyes of mine that have looked at the Mother of Destruction and Deception. “The Queen of Heaven is calling to you. You are surrounded by liars as we are surrounded by walls. Chandra, Brother, I am asking you to trust me in this. Please, come with me.” He held out his hand. Show the queen you trust me, that all her effort has been for nothing. Please, Brother.

  Chandra stared at his hand, and for a moment, Samudra saw something flicker in his eyes. It was the fear, the fear he had seen beside their father’s pyre when Chandra realized he truly would sit upon the Pearl Throne.

  Then, his brother collapsed backward onto the bed and rolled over. “Take him out of here.”

  Samudra stood, slowly. He was shaking again. Bandhura’s hand was on his arm. “Brother of my heart …” she began sternly.

  Samudra did not wait. He left his brother to her, and descended to his own place below, entering his own rooms without remembering anything of the route he took to get there. He saw nothing clearly except his brother lolling on the silken bed, and Bandhura standing over him, her robe covering the nakedness she had so deliberately exposed a moment before.

  “My prince?”

  Hamsa stood before him. Had she been here all this time? Of course she had. She would not rest with the other attendants in comfort at Makul’s. She would come at once to the palace, and stay awake until he returned.

  But Samudra did not answer her. He went out to his balcony. He wanted fresh air on his face. He wanted to see the stars, and the moon, which was his sign, a white half-circle amid the diamonds of the sky.

  “My prince,” said Hamsa again, sinking to her knees in front of him. “What happened?”

  He hung his head and touched his brow. The blood of the goddess had dried, and came away on his fingers, as a prickling, rusty powder. In slow, halting, wondering words, he told her all that had occurred, outside and inside.

  He rubbed his fingertips together. “I should kill myself.”

  Hamsa took his hand, stilling his fingers. “No, Samudra.”

  “Yes, Hamsa.” He looked up, past her, to the silent moon. “The Mother of Destruction is come to me. If I stay in the dance, I will bring down the world with me.”

  “That is not what she said.”

  “That is what will happen.” He turned back to her. “If you dare say that is what must happen, that I must break the ways of my fathers, I swear upon my eyes, Hamsa …”

  “Samudra.” Hamsa cut him off with a sharpness rare for her. It made him truly see her for a moment. “I don’t know why Mother A-Kuha came to you,” she admitted. “But I do know this.” She stabbed a finger toward the world beyond the walls. “The Mothers do not speak to the ones they mean to destroy.”

  She spoke so strongly and with such conviction, Samudra found he could not help but believe. After a few moments, he whispered, “What do I do then?”

  “I don’t know this either, my prince.” She bowed her head. “But understanding comes with time. You know the art of waiting, my prince. Wait now. Watch. Discover your enemy and the enemies of Hastinapura. When you know their names and faces, you will find the way to defeat them.”

  Softly, Samudra spoke his final fear. “What if the enemy is my brother, Hamsa?”

  Hamsa swallowed hard, but she lifted her face and met his gaze. “It changes nothing, my prince. Nothing at all.”

  Samudra felt his face harden. “No,” he said. “I do not accept that. It changes all.” He stared out at the moon, which waxed and waned, changing each day and yet remaining always the same. It was a sign both of constancy and inconstancy, so it was birthed by Mother A-Kuha.

  The Mother who claimed him from her brighter sisters. How could he resist the claims of a goddess?

  A new idea came to him, blossoming in his mind like a black and beautiful lotus. What if he did not appear to resist? Even a goddess could be swayed by appearances. The epics and histories told of it happening many times. What if he pretended to dance Mother A-Kuha’s dance, but only in the service of Mother Jalaja, who was honor, and Mother Indu, who was victory? After all, one did not fight a cunning and deceitful enemy with the same tactics one used against a man of straightforward honor.

  Lives would be lost. Precious lives. Dear lives.
He would be spoken of as a traitor … but there might be a way yet … and when that way unfolded, he would reaveal whose son he truly was.

  He lifted his eyes to the star-scattered heavens. With resolution came hope, and the warm, close weariness that would bring sleep. Hamsa watched him and he knew she worried, but she would understand; when she saw what he brought to pass, she would understand. So would the world, and the Mothers who watched over all.

  So, eventually, would Chandra.

  Bandhura, first of all queens of Hastinapura, stood at the foot of her husband’s bed and watched Samudra vanish into the shadows. She glared at the servants crowding in the doorway. They kissed the floor and returned to their darkness and waiting.

  “Bandhura …” murmured Chandra groggily.

  “I am here, my husband.” Bandhura shed her robe and lay down beside her lord, cradling his body against hers, stroking his arms and his brow lightly, soothing rather than exciting, whispering words of gentle sleep and rest in his ears.

  After a few moments, his breathing grew deep and regular again. She lay there for some time, making sure he was far enough gone into sleep that he would not miss her warmth. Her ladies silently wrapped her in enough layers to satisfy modesty, and she walked into the outer chamber.

  “Bring me the high priest Divakesh,” she said to the nearest mute. The slave kissed the floor and hurried away, still bent so his head would not rise higher than that of the queen.

  She settled herself into a nest of pillows, arranging her skirts automatically. Divakesh gave no sign of noticing female beauty, but his eye for incorrectness was keen.

  The high priest himself entered silently a few moments later. He knelt and bowed over his hands to her, his eyes lowered, all motions proper, but they were hollow forms. He did this because he must, not because it was right. Bandhura had come to understand this shortly after she became Chandra’s first wife. Chandra did not seem to notice, and Bandhura had decided it was best to keep this knowledge to herself, for a while.

  “It is time we spoke truth together, Lord Divakesh,” she said.

  Divakesh assumed a kneeling position before her, his eyes cast toward the floor, but she saw the swift flicker as the priest dared look at her for the swiftest instant. “Yes,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. “Perhaps it is.”

  “Do you know what happened to Samudra tonight?” She never assumed Divakesh lacked information day or night. She felt it safer to overestimate his abilities than the reverse.

  “I know he left the palace, and returned in agitation.” Divakesh’s eyes flickered to hers again.

  “He came here. He told my husband to obey the dream he had and leave the palace with him.”

  Divakesh’s glance darted at once to the curtained bed, where the emperor still sprawled safely asleep.

  “The prince was, as you say, in a state of great agitation,” Bandhura went on. “I am most concerned, Lord Priest, and I would know what measure you take of the prince.”

  Divakesh remained silent for a long moment, choosing his words with care. “It is in my mind that your brother-of-heart Samudra will try to leave the palace, to take war to the Huni on our northern borders.”

  “Is this not a thing to be desired?”

  “It may seem so, Majesty, until one looks closer. Then, one may perceive what it truly means for Samudra to be out and among the soldiers whose might protects the Pearl Throne from all harm. He will have daily contact and conference with men who are surely impure. For him to speak with them in a familiar fashion, as he is often known to do, is to allow pollution into his heart, and theirs.”

  Bandhura’s eyes narrowed. “Pollution?”

  Divakesh nodded. Behind his eyes seethed a ferocious anger. He did not see her now. He saw something else entirely, and Bandura realized she knew what it was. He was looking at the tall Sindishi princess with all that boiling anger, the one who had made him look like a fool as he tried to break her on the altar, the one who, if reports were to be believed, was already a fair way toward insinuating herself into Samudra’s impervious heart.

  “Pollution,” said Divakesh again, and his great fists tightened. “Such as might blind a man and keep him from seeing how the Mothers have set things in their proper places. The low and impure will see a man of might before them, and they will forget the true pattern of the dance. Such is the way of those who are imperfect in their understanding. It is best that they are kept far from such sights.”

  Now it was Bandhura’s turn to sit in silence, turning his words over in her mind. “Lord Divakesh, do you in truth believe Samudra will try to bring my husband down?” She spoke the words coldly, practically. She had done her best to weaken Samudra, to drive Chandra from him, not because she believed that the first prince was disloyal, but to render him useless to those who were.

  “Samudra burns,” said Divakesh. “His place on the wheel is as the bars on a cage. Whether the Mothers or demons speak to him, he will listen, and soon. Witness his fascination with the heretic princess, Natharie.”

  Ah! So, you are worried about our Princess Sacrifice. Bandhura suppressed a smile. “He should have been kept here where he could be watched,” she murmured, to see what Divakesh’s answer would be.

  “And what, my queen, would that have done?” asked Divakesh mildly. “He would have gone to fight the Huni himself, or it would have been seen that he had been deliberately held back by the emperor’s distrust. Had Pravan defeated the Huni, we would perhaps not have had to speak these words between us, or if Samudra had been allowed to go but had been defeated … but even then …” He made a great show of sighing deeply. “The smaller princes place great faith in Samudra, and they would have felt his defeat to be the fault of the emperor, not of Samudra himself.” Slowly, Divakesh raised his eyes to look directly at her. “And, were Samudra to die, Mothers forfend, I doubt that faith would be transferred to Pravan, say, or …”

  “Or to their emperor,” Bandhura finished for him. “Yes. I know it well.”

  Few understood that she truly loved her husband. She loved the beauty of his body, and the fragility he struggled so hard to keep hidden. She was proud to be his haven in loneliness. His devotion to her, even over his other wives, went straight to her own heart. Samudra gave himself out as an honorable man, but honor did not chafe at its place. Honor served. If the prince’s honor was true, he would not wish his brother to be other than what he was. He would do all he could to strengthen and support his emperor.

  “You will speak to the emperor of this?” she asked, her voice and heart both stony.

  Divakesh bowed over his hands. “As I have before, but I believe in the charity of his heart, the emperor will not believe his brother guilty of the final treachery. This speaks of the purity of his being.” Divakesh’s eyes glittered as he spoke the words. “It is in my heart that it is you, first of all queens, who must stand against Samudra for the emperor’s sake, as you have so often before.”

  Double meanings. Double meanings, even now when they needed to understand each other most clearly. Bandhura felt her mouth harden. One day, the high priest too would have his reckoning. Despite his ascetic practice and constant prostrations, his own heart was far from pure. She wondered what he really saw when he looked on Natharie and what he wanted from that tall Sindishi woman.

  “Thank you for your words, Lord Divakesh. We will speak more soon.”

  Divakesh accepted this as his dismissal, bowed once more and backed out of the chamber. Bandhura stayed where she was, facing each unpleasant thought that passed through her mind in order to discern which might be true and which were merely her own fears.

  Samudra will not harm you, my husband, she vowed in her silent heart. He will not harm either of us.

  From his chamber beside the emperor’s, Yamuna looked through the slit he had made in his door and watched the high priest leaving the queen’s presence. He stepped back from the door, wondering what had been said. Bandhura had a talent for court life,
and was, to the surprise of all, fiercely devoted to her imperial husband. She would guard him like a tigress, watching her prey from the shadows, stalking for as long as necessary and waiting in patience for the precise moment to make her open attack. He could not have asked for a better queen, even though her trust of him was only partial, which spoke to the woman’s intelligence.

  It did mean, however, that Yamuna must keep his own plans that much more closely hidden. No matter. He had carried his own secrets close before the woman’s grandmother was born. He could carry them a while longer.

  Compared with the rest of the palace, Yamuna’s chambers were spartan. Only a few plain and graceful pieces of furniture adorned them. What made his chambers unusual was that they held one of the few locked rooms above ground in the whole of the palace. This was Yamuna’s own treasure-house, and no hand but his could open the ebony door.

  He stood before the door and undid the red ribbon that held back the grey braids of his hair. He had woven the ribbon with his own hands and his own skills. He threaded it through his fingers in a particular pattern, reaching within and without to call the magic, to enliven and awaken the weaving laid in place so long before. He laid his hand against the warm wood of the door, and the door, which had no handle, bar, or latch, opened.

  Inside it was utterly black. Yamuna retied his hair, lit the three hanging lamps, and closed the door. Around him, the lamplight showed a workroom that might have belonged to an apothecary, or a maker of inks. Low, stained worktables stretched out on the floor. Bundles of herbs, dried plants, roots, and chiles hung from the ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves were lined with jars — great glass bottles as brilliant as jewels, small alabaster jars sealed with colored waxes, jars of onyx and obsidian, jars of carnelian and jade and jasper, jars wrapped in straw plaits, jars carved with elaborate runes and signs that not even Yamuna could read, and jars of plain, dull clay.