Sword of the Deceiver

by Sarah Zettel

  Slowly, Divakesh realized he did not dance alone. There was another with him, matching his movements, as he turned, as he knelt, as he swung the sword high. Outrage shook him, and yet he knew he could not stop. To stop would be to break the pattern, to allow imperfection into the dance of praise, and he would not permit that. He spun again, straining to catch a glimpse of the one who violated the sanctity of the dance.

  It was a woman. She turned just at the edge of his vision. He glimpsed her before he made the bow. Gold flashed on her arms and about her waist. And more. He whirled again, and paused, holding the pose. He could not see her. Where had she gone? Pivot slow, kneel again. There. The flash of movement, the white flash …

  The white flash of diamonds and gold. And Divakesh lifted his eyes to the pedestal before him.

  The image of Heaven’s Queen was gone. There was only the stone pedestal and the rising flame. And the woman who danced beside him. Divakesh prostrated himself instantly, fear and wonder rushing through his blood. It was Mother Jalaja with whom he danced. The Queen of Heaven was beside him now, not just in image, but in divine truth. Wonder dizzied him and he feared he would fall unconscious with the glory of it.

  She moved without a sound, and yet Divakesh knew She came nearer. Some distant part of him was aware that all the others, the priests and the acolytes, had also dropped down in worship, but he could spare no real thought for them. Every fiber in him felt Her approach as one felt the wind, the warm sun, or the nearness of fire.

  “Look at me, Divakesh.”

  Trembling, Divakesh obeyed. She was glory itself. She wore an aspect akin to that of the statue he had danced before. But on Her living form the gold was crude and cold, an encumbrance more than adornment. She was the awesome purity of the night sky; the calm and the storm together were in Her eyes. Before, he had thought he had seen Her holding a sword. Now, he saw it was a delicate lotus She cupped in Her hands.

  “Divakesh, my priest. Do you know me?”

  “I … Yes, Queen of Heaven. I know you.”

  “Yet you did not know me so recently.”

  As soon as She spoke the words, he was before the emperor again, within his own body and yet apart and watching himself. The other self was so proud, yet so afraid and weak, and his voice was as harsh as the vulture’s when he said, “Oh, my sovereign, that was an evil dream. The woman was a devil, the temptation of sin calling you to forswear your purity and pollute yourself by mixing with the outcasts and the blooded.”

  Divakesh clapped his hands over his face in shame and fear. “I feared my emperor was deceived.”

  “How could any take my shape in deception, Divakesh?” Her voice was so mild, so sad, it wrung tears from his eyes. He looked up and saw Her gentle sorrow and wished at once to grope for the sword at his feet so he might end himself and never cause even the slightest grief to Her again.

  “I … I spoke error. I beg forgiveness.”

  She smiled then and all the world was right in an instant. “You have it, my priest.”

  Such beauty, such wonder. There were no words. Not even the dance was praise enough. “I do not deserve it.”

  She cocked her head. “Why not?”

  “I … I …”

  She laughed, and there had never been music so pure. When it faded, Divakesh felt a stab of sorrow.

  “You are taking my children to war, Divakesh. Why are you doing that?”

  Divakesh found he did not understand. Why would She ask such a question? Was it a test? “I … it is the emperor …”

  The Queen of Heaven frowned, and Divakesh prostrated himself again, his frame trembling as if it would shake apart. “It is you, Divakesh. Why?”

  Confusion racked him. This was Her war. Her will. “But … surely you know, Mother of All. It is for your glory. To spread your worship and eliminate falsehood and show that your rule in Heaven is absolute.” His tremors eased as he spoke and some measure of his confidence returned.

  “Have I asked that my worship be increased?”

  The question so stunned Divakesh that his head jerked up and for a moment he looked into the goddess’s stormy eyes.

  “But …”

  “I am who I am, Divakesh, have I ten worshippers or ten thousand.” Her voice was great enough to shake the heavens and soft enough that he had to strain with all his might to hear a single word of it. “The stars know my name, the sun knows it and the earth sings it with each dawn. This is truth and will not change for your war. What great honor do the fires of forced worship bring me?”

  “But …” He shook. He wanted nothing more than to bow before Her, but he could not. He did not understand how this could be, and yet he knew he must understand. “The followers of Anidita teach falsehood …”

  “Why do you believe there is only one path to Heaven, Divakesh?”

  He could not look at Her. She burned too brightly. He had to close his eyes, to put a shield of darkness between himself and Her. But it did no good. Her presence was not to be lessened by anything he could do.

  “But … you … Hastinapura is your home.”

  “And within that house I will be secure, Divakesh. Believe this.” She was closer now, and he could do nothing but lift his face and look at Her, at the calm and the storm of Her. She whispered now, words that only his deepest soul could hear. “Do not turn your eyes from this truth, or I will have no choice but to visit blessing upon others who see me more clearly.”

  “But, we are your children … and …”

  “Yes. You are.” She stepped back, lifting lotus and sword to the rising dawn. “Let that be enough for you.”

  And She was gone.

  Divakesh blinked. The pedestal was still empty. The image and the substance of Jalaja both had left him.

  Divakesh bowed his head and began to weep. He sobbed like a child, his despair complete. Priests and acolytes rushed up the stairs to the altar. Some began to ask questions, their voices a meaningless gabble in his ears.

  “Did you see Her?” He clutched the hand of the one nearest him without any idea who it might be. “Did you hear?”

  “I saw only a great light, Holy One,” answered a man. Asok. It was Asok. “And you danced with it, and it spoke …” He swallowed hard. “She spoke against the march to Sindhu.” Asok’s voice broke and tears shone in his eyes. “Master, what have we done?”

  What have we done? What have I done? Divakesh stared at the empty pedestal from which the Queen of Heaven had vanished. He tried to recall the perfection of Her form, but could not do so clearly. It was too much for his mortal mind. He remembered Her light, Her warmth, the intensity of Her presence as She spoke. She said … She told him …

  Within that house I will be secure, Divakesh. Believe this.

  “We must go to the emperor at once, Holy One,” whispered Asok hoarsely. He was still shaking. All the priests were. Some wept tears of fear and wonder. Most were still on their knees, unable, it seemed, to move from this spot, this moment. “We must tell him to stand down the army and go no further with this war.”

  Divakesh bowed his head. Beside the burning light of Mother Jalaja, he saw Natharie of Sindhu facing him down, her own blood dripping from her throat, unafraid before him and before the Queen of Heaven though he could strike her down as due sacrifice. She knelt, but remained defiant in her vanity and blasphemy. He thought of the king and queen who brought her into this life, of their whole country, thousands upon thousands of souls equally blasphemous, equally defiant and unafraid before the great light that had come down to him. It could not be that Mother Jalaja meant this unspeakable, galling pride to continue. It was incomprehensible that the Mother of all that was true and perfect should permit error and blasphemy to reign inside Her borders.

  Within that house I will be secure.

  It could not be true that the little foreign princess with her beads and her unashamed eyes understood better than he did. It could not be that his understanding that he had worked so hard for, the austerities to
which he had pushed himself, the sleep and food and love denied and sacrifice in the service of the Mothers had been in error.

  “Holy One?” said Asok again, his voice trembling as badly as his hands. “Holy One? Should we not go to the emperor now?”

  But it was a different voice Divakesh attended. A different phrase, that was the heart of all She had said.

  Within that house I will be secure.

  Yes. That was what She meant. Of course. It was his flawed understanding that had confused him for a moment. Divakesh raised his head. He looked at Asok, and Asok jerked backward. Divakesh felt the holy light burning brightly inside him, and knew it was that which made his acolyte afraid. Asok did not understand yet. That was all right. It was his role as high priest to make all things clear.

  One motion at a time, Divakesh stood. “Lohit was not of itself formally part of Hastinapura,” he explained patiently to those around him, who had heard and not understood. They could not have understood what had confused him. “The treaty had been differently worded, and the nature of the tribute was separate from that paid by Sindhu. It had been wrong to punish Lohit, which was not truly a part of the realm of the Mothers.” He must accept that sin and do proper penance to right the balance again. “But Sindhu is a part of the empire, and so must be brought into proper worship and be made pure.”

  They stared at him, the priests on their knees, the young men on their bellies. Their mouths gaped, showing how stunned they were at the clarity of his perception. Asok had gone white in shock.

  “Holy One …” Asok began.

  “Have you a question?” inquired Divakesh coldly. “Speak. I will tell you the truth. Mother Jalaja has shown it to me.”

  Asok’s mouth opened and closed several times, as understanding of what had truly happened sank into him. Divakesh thought perhaps his acolyte should have shown more wonder and less fear, but fear was appropriate. Wonder would come later, when this first flush of feeling had faded. “No, Holy One,” Asok whispered, and his voice shook, although Divakesh could tell he was trying very hard to keep it calm and steady. “I have no question.”

  “It is well.” Divakesh turned back to the empty pedestal. There was no need for Mother Jalaja to be there anymore. She had filled him with Her Essence, and Her Truth, and it shone in him so clearly as to make Her lesser servants shake in his shadow, and Asok, his face taut and pale, could no longer stand to meet his burning eyes.

  All his work, all his sacrifice and study and denial, had finally brought reward. Divakesh made the salute of trust to the pedestal. Thank you, Queen of Heaven, for your blessing upon this great task. I will show you I am worthy of the charge you have laid before me.

  With his new and greater understanding shining in his eyes, Divakesh lifted the great sword once more, and as those around him fell back, he began to dance.

  Chapter Twenty

  Below the Palace of the Pearl Throne, Hamsa waited in the dark, and tried to keep breathing.

  She had known about the warren of cells that lay below the garrison tunnels. She had known it was a filthy, stinking place without hope, that it was forever cold and dark in a land of heat and light. She had never in her worst imaginings thought she would find herself cast into one of those cells, where the ceiling was too low to allow her to stand up, where the rats got to her scanty scraps of bread before she, groping in the blackness, could find them. She had never dreamed of iron fetters on her wrists and ankles tearing into her skin until each became a ring of fire eating into her flesh, or that there would come a time when each ragged heartbeat made the arrival of death that much more welcome.

  She would have forsaken her final mission and lain down to die if it were not for the soldiers.

  They came whenever they could steal past their compatriots whose loyalties were to their new commander, Pravan. They knelt with her in the darkness, slipping her a little clean water, a slice of orange, a piece of fresh flat bread. They whispered to her the news. “They’ve not found the prince yet,” they would say, or “Makul is still free. Pravan needs him to order the troops.” Or, “We’ll free you if we can.”

  They meant it, that last promise, but she knew with dull certainty that it was impossible.

  She heard the creak of hinges, and she cringed. She could not help it. But no light came to blind her as it did when her wardens entered. There was only the sound of shuffling cloth against filth and straw.

  “It’s me, Agnidh,” whispered a young man’s voice. “Taru.”

  “Taru,” she breathed. Her throat was dry and her lips were split. “Did you …”

  “I did.” Clumsily, their flailing hands found each other. He opened her fingers, and placed in them a small knife. It was not even as long as her palm, a delicate thing for splitting open the tiniest of fruits. But it would do. It would do.

  “Hamsa. Forgive me, forgive me, but there is no more time. I am … we are come to take you to …”

  So. It had come then. It was time to take her before the sword of the Mothers. She had thought Yamuna would come to gloat over her before this happened. But no, why should he? He held her soul tight in his jar. What could she do against that?

  “Agnidh? Agnidh, do you hear me?”

  It was Taru speaking, the frightened and heart-sore boy come to do a difficult thing with what mercy he could offer. How long had her little reverie lasted? She didn’t know. She tried to smile at Taru, and then remembered he couldn’t see her. It seemed now she could see in the dark. She saw her mother and her father. She saw the old woman who taught her in her home village. She saw Samudra as a long-legged boy, running races while his brother cheered him on. She saw Samudra as a grown man looking at Natharie with his heart in his eyes. She gripped the little knife.

  I will buy you both a blessing, Samudra. Even if I am Yamuna’s prisoner, I can still pray.

  “Agnidh …” began Taru again. “There’s something … I must tell you. Something’s happened with the priests. They’re all afraid.”

  This last word penetrated Hamsa’s dulled mind. “Afraid? What could Divakesh’s priests be afraid of?”

  “They will not speak openly, but there are whispers that there was a vision, maybe of one of the Mothers, and it spoke against war with Sindhu. But Divakesh says it spoke in favor of it, and now he walks through the palace telling everyone that it is a holy cause.”

  “He did this before.”

  “Not like this, Agnidh. I’ve seen him. His eyes … I’ve seen madness, Agnidh. It takes men in battle sometimes. It’s not the holy breath that makes Divakesh look like that, I swear it.”

  Hamsa swallowed several times. If she had not known that Divakesh had already lied about Mother Jalaja’s appearance to the emperor, she would never have believed it. Again the goddess had come to him, and again he had lied? No wonder he had gone mad. Such a thing would break a mortal mind in two. She thought this almost idly. It didn’t really matter. The one who held her here was not Divakesh. He was just the one who would kill her.

  “If he is mad then why do any still follow him?” she managed to ask.

  “Because the emperor says we go forward. He says none are to question or oppose Divakesh. I think some tried to tell him, but … we set out tomorrow at dawn.”

  Hamsa could picture it, a trembling priest, or perhaps even Asok, Divakesh’s acolyte, kneeling before Chandra, and him listening to every word with a small smile on his face. The petitioner would look up hopefully at that sly and lazy countenance, and would hear the emperor say on no account would their plans change. All would go just as Divakesh had said.

  And they would not understand. They would not understand that the emperor had made up his mind to destroy Divakesh, whom he in his own twisted understanding blamed for Samudra’s betrayal. And he would use his entire army, his entire empire to do it. He would let Divakesh’s madness take the fore until Divakesh understood how badly he had failed. Only then would Chandra let him die.

  So, Divakesh would be defeated. That
was good to know. But until the emperor’s slow, cruel vengeance could take hold, there were so many other things that could happen, and in all that time, Divakesh still ruled and Yamuna still held her chain. That chain led only one place.

  “Well then,” she sighed. “We had best not keep the Sword of the Mothers waiting.”

  “Agnidh …” said Taru again.

  “No.” She stopped him. “You have done what you can. Now we will both do as we must.” She tightened her grip ever so slightly on her knife. “It would be a great kindness if I could pray before I die.”

  “If you wish, you are allowed to go to the temple before …” His voice trailed away. She smiled to let him know it was all right, before she remembered he could not see her.

  Taru’s touch led her out of the cell and raised her up. Her legs were weak as water and the chains dragged at her joints, stretching them almost to the breaking point, and even the dim, greasy light of the corridor burned her eyes. Taru led her out into the main corridor. The air still stank, but it was fresher here than in her cell, and Hamsa breathed it deeply. Her chains did not allow her to do more than shuffle along. Two other soldiers walked behind her. Were they also Samudra’s men? They were silent and their eyes were hard. She could read nothing in them. Not that she had much strength or thought to spare. She must bend all her thoughts to the temple, and to what must happen next. Her focus must be strong, her will all on a single point, her heart as undivided as her sorcerer’s soul.

  They walked down empty corridors. Not even the slaves were to be allowed to look on her, or to touch so much as her shadow, lest her impurity and rebellion infect them. The soldiers who accompanied her would be carefully cleansed when their task was done. Divakesh would make sure of that.

  She was not, of course, taken to the imperial temple where she was used to worshipping with Samudra and his family. There was a little place set aside for slaves and those who were to die. It was behind a door carved with only a single lotus, and the nave was barely large enough to allow three people space to kneel. But it was still a temple of the Mothers, and their images danced here, each statue life-sized and carved with loving detail, the red stone gleaming like warm, living flesh in the lamplight. Someone had lit the sacred fire and even spared her some incense. Its perfume was heady after the stench of prison.