by Sarah Zettel
Yamuna lifted down one of the smaller jars. It was a graceful, curving vessel of red clay impressed with a pattern like a closely woven rope wrapping around it. Setting the vessel beside him, he opened one of the wooden boxes on his worktable. Inside the box were a number of small trays, each containing a different colored earth.
Yamuna spread a square of white canvas on the floor and sat down cross-legged before it. It was difficult to work with temporary or impermanent substances, but he had honed that skill over his long life, and he used it now. He drew it up from his blood; he drew it down from the air. Sharpening the focus of his mind and eye, he dipped his hand into the colored earths and sprinkled them onto the canvas to make his patterns. Colors wove together in a complex circle, layer upon layer absorbing the magic he brought, shaping it and binding it.
When all was ready, he turned to the clay jar and opened the lid. He reached inside and brought out a delicate, braided ring of black hair. This he laid in the center of his carefully prepared circle.
From that ring, a shape unfurled like a bird’s wing. It was a woman in simple white clothes, her hair divided into a hundred braids and tied back from her dark, worried face with a red ribbon. Had there been any to see, they would have sworn that the sorceress Hamsa now knelt in before Yamuna. Only the most observant eye would have noticed the fine hair bracelet around her wrist among the silver bangles that were her normal decoration.
Satisfied, Yamuna nodded. “Now, Hamsa, tell me all you have said to your princeling regarding our dearest emperor this day, and all that he has said to you.”
The image lifted its dark eyes and spoke, clearly and smoothly, a teller relating a well-rehearsed tale, and Yamuna sat in silence and listened. As he watched her, Hamsa’s shape watched him with eyes sharp and keen. He wondered then, as he sometimes did, how much this shadow saw.
It did not matter. She was his prisoner and would never be released. So, Yamuna listened, and the shadow spoke, as she must, and watched, and waited.
Chapter Eight
Pakpao Kamol knelt before the chief of the Huni, and was grateful courtesy prevented him from looking directly at the chief’s face.
Pakpao was a spy. He had been a spy inside the court of Sindhu and outside it since he was a boy of twelve. He had faced men who could kill him with their bare hands, and he had faced men who, with a word, could make him vanish from the earth. Never had Pakpao been in the presence of a man like this. Tapan Gol was not a man who moved rashly. This man stopped and considered all he did, especially in matters of war. Anger would not sway this man, although he clearly had the capacity for great anger. Greed would not drive him, although he surely desired riches. He was a man who used himself like a spear. Tapan Gol was a weapon, perfectly controlled and therefore perfectly deadly.
It was this that made Pakpao truly afraid.
Tapan Gol was a broad man with a thin line of beard outlining his jaw. His black mustaches hung down well past his chin. His eyes were hard and keen, like the naked swords of the men who stood behind him, like the arrows in the quivers of the women who stood guard outside. For all the Huni had sacked dozens of Hastinapuran towns, Tapan Gol displayed none of the spoils in his weather-stained tent. He sat in a simply carved wooden chair, and drank from a wooden noggin. His lacquered armor was in excellent condition, but clearly it had seen hard use, for its gilding and ornamental colors were chipped and scratched.
“These are the words of the great Tapan Gol,” said the black-coated translator who stood beside the chief. “Why would the king of Sindhu send embassage to me?”
“He does not, Great Chief,” said Pakpao. “I am sent by the queen.”
The translator relayed this to his chief. Tapan Gol sat silent for a moment, he then spoke. His voice was thin for such a big man, and nasal in tone. Such a man should have a stentorian voice, thought Pakpao. Then he recalled some of what he had heard of Tapan Gol’s deeds. Such a man does not need to use his voice in order to be heard.
“The queen must have great faith in this little man,” said the chief. Pakpao spoke his language and many others well, but this was the sort of knowledge he was accustomed to keep to himself. When he had trudged up to the perimeter of the encampment, he had spoken only Sindishi to the guards, and the officers, and finally the chief’s watchful translator. “With such as this to serve her, what could she want with me?” the chief mused.
His translator nodded and turned again to Pakpao. “And what could the queen of Sindhu want with the mighty Tapan Gol?”
Here came the words that would change the world. Pakpao did not hesitate. He was a servant only and he would do his duty.
“The queen wishes to say that if representatives of the great Tapan Gol came to Sindhu they would be sheltered and treated with honor, no matter what their numbers or where their errand took them.”
The translator relayed these words faithfully and Pakpao risked a glance up at the Huni chief. Tapan Gol’s brows had lifted the slightest amount. “I wonder if the king knows his woman plots treason? Probably not. Husbands seldom know these things. Ask him why she’s willing to do this.”
“The great Tapan Gol wishes to know why the honorable queen would extend such hospitality.”
It was the mark of an experienced man to be able to stretch out a believable phrase. Most likely, this one had stood at his master’s side for many years. Probably at least as long as Tapan Gol had been harassing the Hastinapurans. He was much trusted as well, or the chief would not be so careless with his words. Pakpao found himself wondering if this slender, black-coated man was more than just a translator.
“My great queen would extend this hospitality because she believes Tapan Gol’s aims and hers to be the same.”
Tapan Gol folded his arms. “I want to put an end to Hastinapura and grow rich in the bargain,” he told his translator. “What does this queen want?”
“The great Tapan Gol bids you speak more plainly,” the translator said to Pakpao.
Pakpao licked his lips and considered. Perhaps this was a moment for simple honesty. “The great queen, my mistress, has been offered grave insult by Hastinapura and wishes to see their destruction.”
The chief nodded. “Pride. So. Something we may all understand.” He stroked his chin with one finger. “What do you think of this offer?”
Much more than a translator then. You hide your strengths, and your true mind, Tapan Gol. “I think it is a great risk, but it may bring great gain,” his man answered.
Pakpao kept his gaze on the carpet and made sure his expression remained slightly nervous, as would be appropriate if he did not understand a word being said.
“I agree.” There was a smile in Tapan Gol’s words, and it sent a shudder up Pakpao’s spine. “We have known our time must be soon, and we have only lacked the route for our attack, and here it is. This may be our best chance, or it may be the Hastinapurans have allied with the Sindishi to trick us. So. I will take a boat with this man to meet his queen, and we will not give them a chance to change their minds.”
“And if it is a trick?”
“I will kill this one first. Especially as he has understood every word we’ve spoken here.”
Tapan Gol got to his feet in one fluid motion and left the tent. Pakpao prostrated himself, and closed his eyes.
Great Queen, he murmured deep in his heart. What have we done?
Radana, chief concubine to the king of Sindhu, lay beside her lord and master. A single lamp burned low next to her bed, bathing them both in an equal measure of golden light and shadow. The act of love was finished between them, and Kiet was drifting toward sleep. He had sent for her every night since the queen had left for the sorcerer’s monastery. Every night she had lain beside him, soothing him, satisfying him, giving him her company. Today, she had finally received the last message she had been waiting for.
Tonight, she would turn the tide of her own fortunes.
Radana let out a long sigh as if from her heart, and rolled away f
rom Kiet’s side. Her motion stirred him from his deepening languor.
“Radana?” He leaned over her, stroking her shoulder. “What is it, my little heart?”
“Nothing, my lord. Nothing,” Radana murmured, but she sighed again, letting the sound catch in her throat.
The king kissed her ear playfully. “There is something. Come, my lover, tell me what saddens you.” With a gentle touch, he coaxed her to roll over.
She let herself be pulled close, but she kept her head bowed. “It is not sadness.”
“What then, Radana?” She felt his smile as he kissed the top of her head. “I would not have you lacking in any comfort. Come, tell me what is in your heart.” He shook her just a little. “Your king commands it.”
So be it then. Radana bit her lip. “My lord … it is fear.”
“Fear?”
Now Radana looked up to let the king see her shining eyes. “I fear for you.” She laid her hand on his chest so his heart beat against her palm. “For us.”
“What could you fear?” he murmured. His voice was a little careless, but his strong arm pulled her closer, protective.
Radana took this as a good sign and snuggled yet closer, curling in on herself to appear small and frail beside him. “I … fear the queen.”
“The queen is safe where she is.” Kiet patted her shoulder indulgently. “The father abbot and the others will not permit her to come to harm.”
“No, I do not fear for the queen,” said Radana, letting her voice drop and fill with reluctance. Be careful how you play this part, woman. This is where you gain or lose all. “I fear her.”
“Do you fear she will be jealous of us?” Kiet laughed a little. He was still in his part as lover. Kiet enjoyed that part. It let him set aside his burdens as king, which, after all, was Radana’s purpose. “It is not in her nature to begrudge me your company.”
“No … my lord.” Radana sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them to her. She did not look at him, but lowered her voice to a whisper. “I fear the queen is disloyal.”
All the gentle lover’s indulgence left the king between one heartbeat and the next. “That is not possible.”
Radana was ready for this. She pressed her brow against his shoulder, moving her body close, letting breast and leg rub his. “I knew your heart was too good for you to believe betrayal. But, my lord, she … it grieves me …” She met his eyes again, pressing closer still.
“What is it?” snapped Kiet. “What have you heard?”
Radana turned her face away for a moment, looking into the deep shadows beyond the pool of light where they lay, as if making up her mind what to tell her lord and lover. Then, she straightened her shoulders and faced him squarely, her eyes dipped just enough for propriety. “Great King, Queen Sitara has sent your spymaster into the northern mountains to meet with the Huni.”
Radana watched fear settle over the king, and saw how that fear turned slowly to anger. “Who told you this?” he croaked.
Radana crouched down, huddling in on herself there on the bed. “My king, my love, do not be angry with me. I beg you.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut so that when she looked up, they would be shining with tears. “A cousin of mine is one of the royal bargemen. He is loyal to you, my king, and very frightened, he learned of this and brought me word at once so that I could bring it to you.”
The king stood, wrapped in the light quilt, and put his back to her. He walked to the edge of the lamplight and stood there for a long moment, contemplating the darkness beyond. Radana stayed as she was, hardly daring to breathe. She was so close, so close. Now that Kiet knew of the queen’s treachery, Sitara would be cast aside. Sitara would die and Radana would be queen. It only required a moment more. Just a moment more.
Kiet hung his head. “I wish you had not told me this.”
Triumph sang in Radana’s heart. “I am sorry, but I was so frightened for you, and for your daughter who is in Hastinapura’s hands. I could not permit the queen to bring the wrath of Hastinapura down on you when I knew I could prevent it.”
“Yes, Radana.” He touched her shoulder fleetingly. “You have acted as you thought best.”
She captured his hand, kissing its back. “I would never see harm come to you when I could prevent it, my love.” She pressed her cheek against his palm. It was so warm. Soon she would move it further down her body and remind her king how much she had to give him.
He ran a thumb along her jaw, looking deeply into her eyes. “It pains me to now have to place a guard on you.”
“What!” Radana cringed backward, but the king had her by the shoulders and his grip was strong enough to hurt.
“You cannot tell anyone what you know, Radana. Not now. I am sorry. Guard!”
A soldier entered the sleeping chamber at once, and made obeisance. “Take Lady Radana to her room and arrange a guard for her.” There was no regret or hesitation in the king’s voice as he spoke. “She is not to leave the palace, not even as far as the gardens. No one at all is to speak to her. Is that understood?”
Again the soldier bowed. He turned his stern eyes upon Radana.
Anger blazed in Radana, but she crushed it down at once. She made obeisance meekly, and on her knees she departed her king’s presence, letting her hair fall in a curtain before her face, in case some hint of the fury in her heart showed through. Kiet knew what his queen did! He had known Sitara’s errand when she left, and he permitted it.
Fool! Fool! she cursed herself. You spoke too soon! You should have learned more before you acted, found a lie if the truth would not do …
If the truth would not do. It sank in then, as she reached the private chamber her rank as chief concubine granted. The guard slid the doors shut behind her. This also was the truth: The king himself wanted war with Hastinapura, and Radana knew this secret, and he had let her live.
For how long? Radana knelt beside her own sleeping platform. She bit her lip in true consternation this time. When the king had time to reflect, Radana might find old Anun or one of the others entering her room bearing sweet dumplings laced with poison for her to consume, supposedly of her own free will. It was the death so often reserved for high ladies who offended.
But a king mad enough to try to make war against Hastinapura might be mad enough to leave me alive. She twisted her hands together. A single bead of perspiration slipped down from her brow. I might yet succeed.
And if I live long enough for the Hastinapurans to come? Her mind’s eye showed her the king lying dead in a welter of blood, and of all his women thrown to the soldiers of the Mothers. Fear took her. She trembled so violently that she fell down on the woven floor mat, unable to do anything but shiver as if overtaken by a raging fever. This was why the king had turned from her. This was the intensity of the madness that had taken him.
How could she owe any loyalty to a mad king? This realization allowed her to collect herself. She sat up, composed once more. Had he stood beside her, she would have tried her best to help keep Sindhu, and him, strong. She would have done anything. But in his madness he had turned to his equally mad queen. No. She owed him nothing anymore.
Now that she was able to think more clearly, she considered the details of her situation, allowing her gaze to slip this way and that, taking in what had changed, and what had not. One of Anun’s women surely stood outside the door, and she could see two others through the screens opening onto the long terrace. Watching them, she thoughtfully fingered the wide sash that tied her skirt.
Radana’s mother had been a concubine in a lord’s house. She had never risen to wife, but she had taught Radana all the arts that had kept her close to the king. She had also taught Radana all the skills she might need to know in case those more pleasant arts failed.
Obedient to her mother’s wise tutelage, Radana kept a certain mixture of resins and powdered roots about her person at all times. She had never spoken of it to anyone. A time might come, her mother had warned, when she might have to
take the mixture herself. More likely, though, she would have to slip it to some rival. Radana narrowed her eyes at the guards who stood so straight and so watchful outside her terrace doors.
Radana laid herself down on her sleeping platform, and when sleep did not come, she composed herself to wait, folding her hands and breathing softly, evenly. Much of a concubine’s life was spent in waiting, so she found it no hardship. Eventually, the night waned and the slanting sunbeams of morning crept into Radana’s room. She rose and stretched and washed her face in the moss-green basin of fresh water that had been left ready for her. The guards held their poses and their posts without seeming to waver. They were tired now, and thirsty. They would be relieved soon, and their replacements would stand there through the long, hot day. By evening, they would be ready to fall at once upon whatever food might be brought to them.
Now her hope must be that the privileges of rank would still be observed.
They were. The room’s inner doors opened, and Radana’s maid was allowed to enter, followed closely by one of the female guards. The maid set a lacquered tray of bowls in front of her mistress and bowed. Her eyes said she longed to speak, but she had been warned. Radana touched her servant’s head. The maid removed the bowls from the tray one at a time, placing them on the low table. She made obeisance once more. As she straightened, Radana stopped her with a touch. She took two gold bracelets off her arms, slipped them onto the maid’s wrists, and then embraced her tightly. Radana pulled back, still holding her maid’s hand, wiping her eye as if wiping away a tear. The maid looked over her shoulder at the guards on the terrace. Radana nodded her head, patting the maid’s hand in reassurance.
