by Sarah Zettel
He raised his fist to the strange, green Heaven and shook it. “What is the good of leaving me my mind and will if I cannot act!” he shouted, his words ringing through the silent world.
“Many ask that question.”
Samudra spun on his heel. Behind him stood a small, slim figure in a loose, long robe of pure white. He could not tell whether this was man or woman. Its face was as smooth and big-eyed as a child, its hair was black and pulled back in a neat queue, and its hands were unlined by work and unroughened by weather. It wore no rings or jewels that spoke of rank or status.
“For most it fades away with time.” The voice was light and soft, and yet it vibrated strangely in Samudra’s mind, almost as if it were not one voice but a chorus of them. It could have belonged to no one, or everyone.
Samudra knelt at once, bowing his head and folding his hands. “Forgive me, Father Death.”
Death touched Samudra’s head, and the touch was as cold as the poison had been and as gentle as his mother’s kiss. “You are forgiven. You are also summoned. Come with me.”
Samudra swallowed his questions. He was dead. He could only follow.
Death led him up the green hill to the white walls of the city. Their feet (Death’s feet were bare, Samudra saw them as they appeared and disappeared beneath the white robe) made no noise on the cool grass.
The walls cast no shadow and the gates of the city stood open. A thousand different images decorated their sides: doves, swords, blooming lotus, raging fires, and, he shuddered to see, snakes with their mouths agape and their fangs bared.
“Where is my wife?” he asked.
“It is not for me to know the business of the living,” said Death, and they walked under the archway into the city.
The city was as fabulous as its gates. Its streets were broad and gleamed like veinless marble. There were no hovels, no garbage, no waste or dirt of any kind. Each building was a magnificent temple, and Samudra realized the scents he had smelled before were those of incense rising from sacrificial fires. Trees grew green and vibrant from the marble, spreading flower laden branches which added their scents to the perfumed air. Birds were everywhere. They sat on the temple roofs, they roosted in the branches. They were all colors; scarlet, veridian, royal purple, vibrant blue. They opened their beaks and stretched out their throats, and Samudra knew they sang, but his ears heard nothing.
“Why am I deaf to the bird’s song?” he asked his guide.
“That is for your host to answer,” said Death, and they kept walking.
In a little while, they began to pass people. Samudra had heard tales all his life of the beauty of celestial beings, and now that beauty surrounded him. No two were the same. There were men of soft and sensual beauty, women whose beauty was hard as a sword. They were white as the moon, black as the night. Some were tall and slender, some as round and comfortable as the image of motherhood. Some had great wings hanging from their shoulders, some had feet or hands like bird’s claws, some had jewels where their eyes should have been, and still others had the black and white bodies of serpents, and yet even they were as beautiful as they were terrible.
“Who are they?” he managed to croak.
“Children of the Mother,” answered Death. “Even as you yourself.”
On and on they walked through the midst of all the unbearable beauty. Fear racked Samudra, but he could neither tremble nor sweat, nor find any physical release. He could only look on the bright, inhuman beauty and fear it as he had never feared an enemy in battle.
They came at last to the summit of the city, and there was another temple. But for all the grandeur around them, this place was strangely simple. Marble pillars supported its peaked marble roof. Nine steps led up to an open place where a sacred fire burned. Behind the fire was a low, wide altar, and on that altar sat a woman. She was robed simply, and was more beautiful than any of the unearthly creatures he had yet seen. Samudra looked into Her eyes and he knew Her at once.
“Mother A-Kuha.” He knelt, kissing the smooth street before him.
“Samudra,” She answered mildly. “You are late.”
He looked down at the white marble between his hands, not understanding.
Mother A-Kuha sighed. “Come here.”
He could not even conceive of disobeying. He stood and mounted the steps. He passed the fire that burned with such sweet scent, but without any heat at all, and stood before Her.
“You have failed me, Samudra. Do you understand that?”
“I …” he began, but he fell silent. “Yes.”
He did understand. She had come to take him by the hand, and he had turned away. He did not wish to see Her aspect or hear the words. Because he did not wish to face the tasks his own life set before him. He wanted to say that he thought he acted out of honor. He wanted to say that he meant to save his brother, but he realized She already knew these things, and not one of them mattered. He had acted from anger and selfish pride, without thought and without control and these things had undone all the others.
“You are fortunate my sister loves a wager. It is she who gave you this second chance. I am allowed to test you once more, my prince. If you fail this time, there is no return for you. Turn around.”
Samudra turned. He looked first at the altar fire, and this time saw there was no wood beneath it, there was only a golden flame. On either side of the fire, in the place where there had a moment before been only open air, waited a door. Both were exactly alike: pure white and unadorned.
“What is this?” he breathed.
“Your choice,” said Mother A-Kuha. “What happens next depends on which door you walk through.”
“How can anything happen to me?” he asked wonderingly. “I am dead.”
He felt warmth at his back and knew that the goddess smiled. “The dance does not cease because you are dead, Samudra. Behind one door is your old life. Your tasks are the same, your duties, your pain. Nothing is changed. Behind the other is your next life. In it, you will have all you have wished for. You will have no burden of imperial duty. Your brother will not fall because of your action or inaction. You will live long and free, and die in peace, and never have to fear failing those you love.”
With Her words, great hope sprang up in him. A new life, the next life. He would no longer be the nexus for treason, no more have to guard himself against those he trusted and loved.
And yet, and yet, was that not the coward’s way? He stared at the doors. They were flat and featureless, arched and white and unmarred. Between them, the fire burned, bright and sweet and utterly silent. What honor was there in tasks half-finished, in abandoning duty?
What do I care now for honor? I am dead and all matters of honor surely are settled.
“You must choose now, Samudra,” said Mother A-Kuha gently.
What choice was he making? To what was he being called? He knew nothing, nothing at all. He did not even have breath or heartbeat to steady himself.
What do I do?
But no answer came to this silent prayer. There were the doors. There was the fire. There was the goddess behind him. Or was She gone? He heard no sound, saw no shadow. He itched to turn, but something deep in his being told him he must not. He must look at the doors. He thought for a rebellious moment to pick one at random and throw it open, but that was not right. He had not been brought to this place just to act like a child in a moment of anger. He must, somehow, someway, make a true choice. To never fail those who loved him, to be able to fulfill all his duty with a full heart. Surely that was better. To move on, to begin again, wiser and stronger. That was what he had wanted all along, and that was what Mother A-Kuha offered him. She knew his heart as She knew his fate.
But what of Natharie? Samudra bowed his head. She would be better off. What had he done except fail her? In thought and deed, he had sworn he revered her, but he had not. When she had broken seclusion, he had been revolted. He had even married her in shame and in weakness, shame for the act of taking her
in love, shame for succumbing to the poison, and for not wanting to leave her alone to tell her family that she was spoiled by a man other than her husband. Widowhood gave her purity. He realized he had been as ashamed of her act as he had been of his own. She came to him willingly when he was in need, and he had believed it lessened her, even more than the acceptance of her gift lessened him.
I have been wrong, wrong, in so many ways. Natharie? Can the living hear the prayers of the dead? Forgive me if you can, my love.
Even as he thought this, he heard the whisper of a voice. It was strong but it was faint, as if coming from a long way away. He knew the pitch and timbre of it at once. It was Natharie, calling out. Calling him.
Come back, my husband. Come back.
Without thought, he ran forward and tore open the right-hand door. For a startled instant, he saw Natharie bending over his own body, and he was pulled forward and the world around him spun and he was raising himself up whole in himself once more, kissing Natharie and she was kissing him back in wonder and delight, using the last of her strength to breathe him back into the world before she fell fainting into his arms.
In the home of the gods, A-Kuha observed all, and she grinned.
“I win, Sister.”
Chapter Twenty-four
When morning came, Samudra carried Natharie down to the river as gently as he could, grateful for the careful signs she had made when they walked this way before. Once he reached Liyoni’s bank, he laid her on a bed of fresh palm fronds and trickled a little water into her parched mouth once more. He washed her with a scrap of sailcloth, wiping away the blood and grime that covered her, cooling the burning of her skin, wetting her lips. He wished desperately that Hamsa were beside him with her greater knowledge of the healing arts.
As he dabbed the cloth on Natharie’s face, her eyes fluttered open. He tensed, fearing to see fever there. But no, she recognized him and lifted a trembling hand toward his face. He caught it, kissing back and palm, pressing it to his heart, letting her feel the beat of life within him. She smiled then, and closed her eyes, sliding into blissful, healing sleep.
He did not want to move her again, but they could not stay here. If she was not ill now, another day in this wilderness would surely make her so. The mosquitoes and river flies were already rising with the warming morning. He needed to get her home to Sindhu and to the care of her own people.
So he uncovered the boat, raised the mast, and laid her on the remaining sailcloth. He pushed off with the long oar, into the middle of the river, and, saying a prayer to Mother Chitrani, Queen of Waters, he hoisted the sail and took hold of the tiller.
They made slow progress. He could not read the river as Natharie could and twice beached them on sandbars. He had to drop the anchor frequently to bathe Natharie’s skin with cool water and make sure she drank again. He had no bread or rice for her. He scanned the banks anxiously, looking for sign of habitation. About midday he saw the carved pillar that marked the border of Sindhu and he breathed his thanks to the Mothers and the Awakened One.
But as they sailed on into the afternoon, Samudra began to grow uneasy. There were no other boats on the river, and there should have been. The Sindishi were great fishers and the river was their highway for all trade and cargo. He thought he glimpsed a few farmsteads through the trees, but since he saw no sign of people or animals he could not be sure.
Natharie, perhaps sensing something amiss, struggled to sit up. Samudra’s first thought was to urge her to lie still, but he did not. This was her country. She would know where they were and where they would find hospitality.
As she stared out at the riverbanks, welcome, gratitude, and deep hunger all flickered across her ravaged face.
“I have seen no people, Natharie,” he told her. “I am not certain what to do.”
“It may be … because of the war they have been moved to the city.” She studied the bank a while longer, looking at the lay of the land, the shape and thickness of the forest. “I think we should reach the monastery before dark. The monks will shelter us.”
Will they? Both of us? Samudra did not voice that thought. They would shelter Natharie, and that was what mattered. He could strike inland, find the army …
And then what?
They sailed on. The riverbanks grew closer, forcing the river current to move faster. Still the thick forest lined their way. Still they traveled with only the sounds of the birds and the animals for company. As the light was finally beginning to fade, Natharie pointed toward the left bank and Samudra saw the long timber pier stretching out into the river.
Breathing a prayer of thanks to the Mothers, and to the Awakened One for good measure, Samudra steered them to the dock. The boat’s bow drove under the pier with a loud crunch and Samudra endured Natharie’s pained look. He leapt out to secure the boat before the river could bear her away. When he helped Natharie from the boat, they both smiled to find she had strength enough to stand. Still, he did not let go of her arm, but supported her as they walked toward the monastery walls, which bore the the leering faces of demon hunters. These figures glowered down on them, as if daring them to enter.
These carved presences seemed to be the only guardians of this place, though. The monastery gates were wide open, but the place was absolutely silent. Not so much as a goat bleated to announce their presence.
“This is not right,” whispered Natharie.
“Could they have abandoned it because of the war? If the farmers would have gone to the city …”
She shook her head. “The monks are all sorcerers. They must live apart. It is the law.”
“Then they will have their own way of protecting themselves, and surely they will not mind if we make use of the shelter they abandoned.” Natharie was beginning to sway on her feet. “Come, we must find someplace for you to rest.”
She nodded and Samudra led her forward. Despite his calm words, every nerve in his body was alert, straining to feel a stray breath of air, or hear the snap of a twig that would warn they were not alone. But there was nothing.
Natharie directed them to a long, low building with green eaves that proved to be living quarters. Neat rolls of sleeping mats lined the walls alongside plain chests for clothing and whatever personal possessions the monks were permitted. Samudra unrolled one of the mats for Natharie, and she lay down on it without protest.
“I’m going to find the kitchens. Perhaps the monks were so good as to leave us some food.”
Natharie nodded, already halfway toward sleep again. Watch over her, Samudra thought to the serene image of the Awakened One in the shrine at the end of the dormitory. As he hurried back out into the gardens again, he had the unsettling feeling that Anidita was smiling indulgently behind him.
The living quarters were one of a set of three buildings that made a U-shape around a green yard. The building directly opposite held the kitchens and the stores. Samudra found quantities of rice, lentils, roots, cabbages, and a variety of fruits. The cool room in the cellar stored pots of powerful pickles, urns of coconut milk, eggs, and loaves of bread gone only slightly stale.
He brought bread and milk back to Natharie and roused her to eat and drink. While she did, he went back to the kitchen several more times, ferrying back a small clay stove, pots, a bag of rice and another of millet and one of tea, a quern, and a satchel full of other supplies.
Natharie smiled at him as he neatly set up the supplies and lit the stove.
“You cannot sail a boat, but you can create a whole kitchen?” she teased. Her voice was no longer so hoarse as it had been, and that alone made him smile.
“You forget, my wife, I am a soldier,” he said, laying tinder on the blossoming flames. “I have made camp under much less luxurious conditions.”
She smiled at him, and even in the dimming light he could see how health and strength were returning to her. He felt his tension ease, and allowed himself the small hope that all would yet be well, if only for this brief space of time.
But even as he thought that, the soldier in him grew restless. He did not like this quiet. He could not fully trust a deserted place where there was no sign of how it came to be deserted. He was already prepared for a sleepless night on watch, but something nagged at him. Something seen or not seen.
Samudra stood. “I am going to walk around the walls once,” he said. “Before the light fades.” His eyes swept the dormitory. The windows were all firmly shuttered. There was only one door. “Can you bolt the door behind me?”
Natharie nodded, and Samudra kissed her swiftly. As he stepped out into the thick evening air, the feeling inside him grew more certain. There was something, someone, else here.
Unsheathing his sword, Samudra moved forward.
A circuit of the walls at first yielded nothing beyond an appreciation for the simple gardens they encompassed. But as he walked up the farthest right wall, he found an open pavilion built right into a gap in the wall. What had once been panels of paper had been laid aside on the grass. On the polished floor lay swirls of colored sands, and something else.
Exactly in the center of the floor, an arrow’s black shaft stuck out of the floorboards.
Samudra’s head jerked up. He turned a full circle, but there was no one, and yet, and yet, there was something. It galled him. He stepped up onto the pavilion floor and walked toward the arrow. It was a strange thing. Both shaft and feathers were solid black, but the shaft was not smooth as on a normal arrow. Instead, it was deeply carved with a repeating pattern that made it look as if the wood had been braided together. A red ribbon had been tied around the shaft. It reminded him of something and in a heartbeat he knew what. It was like the red band that pulled Hamsa’s braids back from her face.
Her braids. He looked again at the pattern in the wood. He reached his hand out and he felt a strange warmth against his palm, as if he held it near the flesh of another living being.
Was it possible? Had she found a way? Samudra laid aside his sword and took out his knife. He dug its tip into the planking around the arrowhead until he was able to lift the arrow free. Holding the shaft in his hand, Samudra knew what it was he felt. It was as familiar as the rhythm of his own breath but far less noticed. It was the bond that tied him to Hamsa, and it was strong and unsevered. He held in his hand a greater magic than he had dreamed possible.
