by Sarah Zettel
But you survived. You survived and she believes. You have won that much.
Now all that remains is to do it again, and again, and again. Bile rose in Natharie’s stomach and she swallowed hard against it. Help me, Anidita, for without your eyes I am going to be lost in this maze.
But there was nothing to do but pull on her mask, even as Bandhura did, and walk into the sunny viewing rooms, calm and happy for all this little world to see.
Chapter Sixteen
Beyond the Shifting Lands wait the homes of the gods, the Heavens and the Hells. They are part of the Land of Death and Spirit, surrounding it, permeating it, and yet as separate from it as the worlds of flesh and mortality. They are great cities, forest groves, whole worlds of splendor and glory, distinct from each other with their own borders and their own guardians.
It was to the edge of one Heaven that Vimala, A-Kuha, Mother of Destruction, the Deceiver, drove her chariot. She had scarcely reined in her terrible steeds when the gates of the shining city opened. Her serpents hissed a warning an instant before the form of her sister and queen flew toward her. On wings of lotus and terror, Jalaja, the Queen of Heaven, hurled herself against her sister with the force of thunder that rocked the world around them.
“Traitor!” she screamed, and her curved sword clashed down. Vimala danced backward, her own blade flashing to block her sister’s blows. Her arm was cut already by the first assault and divine ichor dripped down.
“Calm yourself, my sister!” cried Vimala as their swords clashed together yet again. Her steeds hissed warning, but she only retreated.
“What right have you to steal what is mine!” cried Mother Jalaja. She burned like lightning, like ice. She was all the wrath of injured destiny and the vengeance of generations, and even Vimala hesitated before her might.
“I stole nothing.” She made herself say as she backed away yet again, trying to put herself out of range of the sword of the goddess. “The girl Natharie was never yours.”
Jalaja circled her sister, less frantic now, but no less angry. “She came to me of her own will.”
“She came to your lands. Not one threat of your sword on earth has been able to make her yours.”
The Queen of Heaven only snorted at this, but she did not raise her sword. Not again. Not yet.
“You mince words, A-Kuha. You irritate me.”
Vimala made her gamble, recklessly, ready for bloody consequence, as was her nature. Her serpents pressed close about her throat and shoulders, ready to shelter her from the wrath to come. “I am not surprised.” Vimala smiled. “If the girl had truly been yours, I would never have been able to make this bargain Or …” She paused, as if considering carefully. “Do you say the power of your word and your due sacrifice is so small?”
“What are you doing, Deceiver?”
Now Vimala made her answer in earnest. “Showing you what you should have seen these long years before, Sister. We are ill-served within our lands.”
“These lands are mine. If you share in them, it is at my whim.”
At this, the Mother of Destruction bowed her head. “So it is.” Her lowered eyes glinted with all the strength of will and steel. “It changes nothing. You are ill-served.”
“By you, my sister.” The words were flat, and bitter as poison.
But Vimala only shook her head slowly. “Oh, no, Queen of Heaven. In me you have a great friend, although you will not see it.”
“Now you say I am blind?” Jalaja raised up the sword. Her wings of divine war spread out behind her.
“And deaf,”answered Vimala mildly.
“I will strike off your head!” Jalaja swung the blade down. Vimala, ready, skipped backward, and still she felt the heat as its edge brushed past her shoulder. Her serpents hissed loudly, their mouths gaping and their white fangs bared.
“And then what?” Vimala said, her grin showing her own sharp teeth. “Who will take my place? What blood will you yourself lose as you shed my blood?”
But Jalaja shook this off question. “You overreach yourself, Sister. For all your clever words, you too are ill-served. The one you claim for your prince will not breaks the pattern of the dance. His vows to Indu and to me will not leave his heart.”
“I know.” Vimala sighed. “He is a stubborn one. So, we are even in our misfortunes. I propose we settle it with a wager.”
With that, she had her sister’s attention again. The divine blade was still as Jalaja’s eyes narrowed. “What wager?”
And so I have you, my sister. The Queen of Heaven loved to gamble as much as any mortal queen, and her sister had known this since they came into being. “As your champion has failed your test …”
“It is no true test. The emperor is not my true champion.”
Vimala let out a short sigh, as if giving into her sister’s stubbornness. “Then let it be this way,” she said. “Put forth a test for your priest, any sort you choose. If he responds in honor and true faith, then the order he maintains is upheld. All remains as it was before, save that you may then strike off my head for my insolence. But if he fails, I will set forth a test for my prince. If he defeats the temptations set before him, then you acknowledge that he is worthy to be emperor.”
“What are you doing, Vimala?” whispered the Queen of Heaven.
Her sister, her other self, her enemy, her counselor, spread her hands. “What I must, Jalaja. Whether you will it or no, these are my lands too, and my servants and I will not leave them as they are.”
“And if your prince wins? What forfeit do you claim?”
“The Pearl Throne. It will become right and proper within the dance that Samdura sit there.”
They stood still before each other, these two. They were great as the sky, small as sand on the shore, they were all things precious and base together, they were beauty and terror, wisdom and foolishness, all at once, all together, all separate. They were each distinct and they were one being indivisible, and they stood outside the worlds and inside the heart and they watched each other. In another place, at the same time, in other aspects they danced together on a green sea, churning the waters, the infinitely complex pattern creating the new day, and still at the same time they stood here, caught in each other’s game.
Perhaps not even they understood the mystery and paradox of their selves. It simply was as it must be.
The Queen of Heaven lifted her sword hand, and the blade at once became a white dove that flew into the air above the shining city. “Very well. It shall be as you say.” Now it was her turn to sigh, cocking her head thoughtfully to one side. “I think I shall regret your death.”
“Save your regrets until my head decorates your belt.” Vimala shook her hips, rattling the skulls that hung from her girdle. Then she raised her blade and held out her free hand to her sister. The Queen of Heaven took the Proffered hand and locked her gaze with the Mother of Deception.
Slowly, the two began a new dance, and beneath them, the world turned.
With the grey light of dawn, Radana arrived at the docks of Hastinapura. Most of the way she had been confined to the filthy hold with the rats and the stinking cargo of eel guts and medicinal reed bulbs which were the boatman’s stock and trade. She could see the light through narrow chinks in the deck, however, and she had learned to tell, by the feel of the motion of the boat and the shouts of the family above, when they pulled up to a dock.
She had carefully selected a family boat, so as not to have any man or men try to take payment in kind from her. She still had her wits, and a knife beneath her skirt, but she did not want to have to waste them on such foolishness. The wiry, naked-breasted woman who ran her man with a sharp eye and sharp tongue was more than willing to take the two gold anklets to see that Radana arrived in secret, and unmolested. It had, however, been a painfully slow voyage. No amount of persuasion or extra payment could convince either the woman or the man to miss a single one of their regular stops along the way, where they traded and gossiped, drank and left offe
rings for the next stage of the journey. It was excruciating, but it was worth it. If the family was even questioned by the king’s men, Radana had no notion of it.
And to undo the king’s madness, I can be patient.
She told herself this over and over again, until it became a part of her meditations.
Now, overhead, she heard a heel thump three times on the deck. This was the all-clear signal they had arranged. Even these ignorant river travelers knew a human could not live days at a time without air. The signal was followed by a thump and shuffle and the hatch was thrust aside, sending a shaft of dim light down into the dark hold. With it came a host of sounds, incomprehensible voices of humans and animals, the creak of ropes and the crack and thud of heavy burdens. Radana clambered up the splintered ladder and gazed out for the first time at the river port of Hastinapura.
Her heart sank. She had expected it to be large, but the rumbling river of human activity surging around the docks was deeper and broader than she had ever imagined.
The riverwoman elbowed her in the ribs.
Radana yelped, and came back to herself in an instant as she saw the woman holding out her dirty, calloused palm. She did no more than grunt, but her meaning was plain. She wanted payment and she wanted Radana off her boat.
Very well.
Radana handed over the ankle rings she had promised. With her chin high, she stepped from the boat onto the tarred dock. She kept her gaze straightforward and proud as she walked forward. She was noble and she was strong. She was not a river scrap of nothing.
The bluff worked. Porters and traders made at least a little room for her. She needed to find a bath, and a place she could hire some honest bearers and a palanquin. She could not arrive at the Palace of the Pearl Throne alone and on foot. Through the shifting mass of heads, shoulders, and animal torsos in front of her, she could glimpse the narrow, dark streets that led away from the open docks, and she shuddered at the thought of what waited in there.
“Well then, here’s a pretty lady a long way from home.”
The creaking voice startled her, but Radana managed not to jump. She turned slowly, with all the dignity she had learned in Sindhu’s court, and looked down. There, in the meager shade under a pile of rice sacks, crouched a withered old man. He wore nothing but a breechclout about his skinny hips and his iron grey hair was divided into countless braids, bound back in a greasy cloth winding.
“Not so far as that, father,” she answered, the Hastinapuran words feeling light and slick on her tongue.
But they were comprehensible, because the old man grinned, showing filthy and broken teeth and answered, “You think not?”
You will not make a victim of me, old man. “You are a sorcerer.”
That only made the old man grin more broadly. “I am, pretty lady, and my sorcerer’s eye,” he tapped his temple with one scarred, horny finger, “sees you are in want of guidance.”
Don’t look at the streets. Don’t show indecision. She kept her haughty expression fixed, but only barely. “Anyone who served me honestly would find himself well rewarded.”
With surprising speed, the man leapt to his feet. “Then permit me to be your guide.” He bowed, moving like a spry boy, for all his face was as wrinkled as a walnut. “Where are we going, pretty lady?”
“To the Palace of the Pearl Throne.”
That made him pull back, but only for a moment. “Ha! Pretty you may be, but they are a cage of beauty there.” He waggled his finger at her. “What makes you think they’ll open the door for one more bird?”
“Does it matter to you?” Radana answered with a small shrug. “Take me to the proper gate, and you will be paid, regardless of what happens afterward.”
He shrugged broadly. “As you say then, pretty mistress, but first, I must have new clothes.”
“Why?”
“Pretty mistress, look at me.” He spread his arms wide to make sure she missed no detail of his emaciated self. “You are lovely but I am not. I cannot walk among the gardens of the noble and the blessed.”
“Beggars and sorcerers are holy.” She said it as a delay. She was silently adding up the jewels she had brought. She had only so much gold with her. Palanquins and bearers cost money, and she must pay for her own bath and some fresh clothing of good quality …
“This is my city and I know the rules of its streets, pretty mistress.” He spoke simply, without the wheedling, greedy tone she knew well from the lesser sort of merchant. “Do you want to go to the palace? Buy me new clothes.”
It made sense. If he was a cheat, he was a good one. She could not be led to a palace by a beggar. Stranger that she was in this place, she could see that much. “Very well, father. You will have your new clothes. And you will help me hire some honest bearers and a conveyance.”
“Of course, of course: A pretty lady cannot arrive on foot. You are most perceptive. Come, mistress, come.” He grinned again, bowing and sweeping out his hand toward the dark alleys of the city. “I will show you all.”
They did not arrive at the Palace of the Pearl Throne that day. The sorcerer, whose name was Madhu, insisted that by the time they acquired all they needed and made their way through the streets, it would be late in the evening and the gates would be closing. So, Radana spent the night at a hostel for female pilgrims. The place was crowded with strangers but clean, and in the morning she was still unmolested and in possession of her gold. After she broke her fast with bread, spiced rice, and oranges, she and Madhu began their journey through the streets of the city.
Radana was absolutely beggared, but at least she had put on enough of a show that none of the soldiers in the streets challenged her right to pass between the great stone houses of the wealthy, the noble, and the gods. She was clean, scented with sandalwood, and wrapped in Hastinapuran style in rose-colored silks. The hired palanquin was painted green and trimmed in silver with a cloth of silver canopy to provide shade from the sun. The bearers wore matching trousers of bright blue. Madhu led the way, his ebon walking stick held before him. He now wore a coat, trousers, and slippers of pure white. His greasy headcloth had been replaced by a neatly wound cap of madder red.
The Palace of the Pearl Throne seemed to grow out of the mountainside and Radana clasped her hands together when she saw its gleaming stone walls and intricate carvings, the richness of the guards’ uniforms, the splendor of the gardens. There was more wealth and power here than in the whole of Sindhu. The king was mad, truly, utterly, completely mad, to even wish to stand against all this.
The two guards that had come with them from the outer walls led them down the broadest of the white paths through the paradisiacal gardens and around to the left side of the inner walls. There arched a gate of carved teak, and on the other side, as Madhu had assured her, waited the Audience Court.
Although it had been a day of strange and awesome sights, this was what made Radana stare slack-jawed.
The Audience Court was a broad stone expanse, open to the sun, and filled to the brim with people. People milled about aimlessly. They talked and argued and bargained with all the force and fervor of merchants in the market. Some carried wooden trays or buckets and shouted out that they had water and food for sale. Every caste and kind was there, from beggars hunching in the center of the court where there was no chance of shadow from the walls reaching them, to noblemen in silks with servants to hold fringed umbrellas over them.
While she stared, the arched doorway to the palace opened, just a crack. The crowd roared and surged forward up the steps. The soldiers were ready for this and leveled their spears, shoving the shouting mob back and away from the man in the long, green robe who emerged. Perhaps he spoke, but over the voice of the crowd, Radana could hear nothing. A single man scurried up the steps and made the salute of trust to the green-robed man, and fell into step behind him. The doors closed, and the crowd fell back, each person who remained cursing in disappointment and trying to reclaim his or her little space on the stones to wait again.<
br />
Radana saw at once how it was. Probably you could bribe someone, if you knew the right palm to cross, but if you had no gold left, you could wait a hundred years and be no closer to that door.
Radana’s shoulders slumped. All the strength that anger and righteousness had lent her fell away in a single instant. For the first time since she left King Kiet’s chamber, tears threatened.
Her guide missed none of this.
“Now then, now then, pretty lady,” Madhu chided. He ran his hand around her jaw so close that she could feel his heat, although he did not actually touch her. “Do you think I brought you here to abandon you to this mob? You must have patience, pretty lady. You must have faith.”
His grin was sly and she had to resist curling in on herself against the heat of his gaze. She had been prepared for this too. If it was her body that would gain her entrance she would bargain with that too, but not until she was left with no other choice. That kind of use showed quickly on a woman, and Radana knew she must be seen as gold, not dross.
Radana lifted her head. “What can you do?” she asked sharply. “I have nothing left.”
“What can I do?” Madhu pulled back, striking a gallant pose. “I am, after all, a sorcerer. You will see what I can do.”
The bearers were getting impatient, eyeing one another, wondering when they might break in on this little conversation. Radana had only their fee left to her, and if they demanded more for having to wait …
“Very well.”
She rose from the palanquin. The petitioners at the gate had watched her entrance with some interest. But as she was delayed, they turned back to their own conversations and schemes. Madhu paid off the bearers, who made their salutes to him, picked up their palanquin, and left without a backward glance. Now only Madhu was with her.
“What will you do?”
Madhu just grinned and tapped his long nose. “My pretty lady must be patient just a little while longer. Just a little and she will see what I can do. Have faith, pretty lady. Remember, I have got you this far.”
