by Sarah Zettel
Her father looked at her, and blinked, as if not quite certain who stood before him. “You have grown bold, Natharie.”
She smiled. “I have grown desperate, Great Father. I too want to end this thing we have created between us.” And may the Awakened One forgive me, but just perhaps I want to be sure you do not change your mind about aiding Samudra once this deception is begun.
If her father saw this thought in her, he gave no sign. “Very well. We will do this, and may Anidita bless it for the right thing.”
Natharie embraced her father, and Samudra bowed to him. King Kiet looked from one of them to the other. “But first you will have proper baths.”
Finding the women’s clothes was easier than Natharie had supposed. Being unfamiliar with the ways of armies, she had not immediately thought of the little force that followed the soldiers, which included many women who made their living in various ways from the soldiers and their needs. These supplied some bright linens and cheap bangles that might pass for gold in the darkness, and an opaque, fuchsia veil trimmed with gold that would hide Samudra’s face and hair. For her own disguise, she found a clean serving woman’s dress, a comb, and a piece of red ribbon. While Samudra drew on a skirt over his trousers and a tight, padded breastband over his bare chest, Natharie divided her hair into neat sections, binding them up into a passing imitation of a Hastinapuran sorcerer’s hundred braids. With each detail that strengthened the flimsy disguise, Natharie blessed Master Gauda and swore to herself that she would see him able to practice his art and his worship openly.
While they readied themselves, the king spoke a few words to his guards and sent them out into the camp. Gossip spread fast among soldiers. By the time Samudra pulled the gaudy veil around his bowed head, the camp was buzzing with the rumor. Queen Bandhura was here, brought by magic because she could not bear the thought of her husband languishing in captivity.
“I’ll take your hand,” said Natharie to Samudra. “Remember to keep your head down.” She looked to her father, seeking courage, and confirmation of all that they had planned. His face was twisted tightly. He wanted to make her stay. He wanted her to be safe in that other world with the monks and her brothers and sisters. But all he did was stand aside and let her lead Samudra out into the camp.
The soldiers stood as they passed, showing her at once that the rumors had indeed done their work. Flickering firelight lit a hundred staring eyes. Men’s whispers filled the night air like smoke. Remembering her part, Natharie threw her arm around Samudra’s shoulders, as if sheltering a delicate lady from the harsh attention of so many men. This action also helped disguise her height as they hurried forward. It was so absurd, part of her wanted to laugh, but they crossed quickly into the Huni section of the camp, and those long-eyed men watched their passage silently, and the light of their fires fell on knives and black-tipped spears, and the laughter died cold in Natharie’s breast.
It was not hard to find Tapan Gol’s pavilion. It was a plain canvas thing, but half a dozen colored pennants fluttered from the tops of its poles. Probably they all meant something, but Natharie had no time to wonder what, because four guards stepped up to her. Samudra made himself tremble and shrink back in her arms, turning his face into her shoulder.
“I am Agnidh Hamsa,” said Natharie, barely remembering to speak Hastinapuran. “I bring the first of all queens to her husband the emperor Chandra, unlawfully held by the thief and murderer Tapan Gol!”
As she hoped, her little outpouring raised a shout of spiteful laughter from one of the guards. He translated quickly for his compatriots, who joined in his mirth.
“Please,” whispered Samudra tremulously, peeping over the edge of his veil. “Please, let me see my husband. I beg of you.”
This earned a snort of derision. Then, the pavilion’s flaps parted, and a lean man in a plain, black coat emerged. He folded his hands and walked calmly up to Natharie. Samudra shrank back again, hiding beneath his veil again.
“I am the voice of the great Tapan Gol,” said the man. “Who is here to negotiate for the release of the hostage?”
Natharie contorted her face into a mask of outrage, and then let it slip, little by little. Master Gauda, you should see how well I learned your lessons. “This is Queen Bandhura, First of All Queens of Hastinapura, wife of the emperor Chandra.”
The lean man looked down his nose at Natharie. “And you are the sorceress.”
“I am.”
His mouth twitched. “Be aware, sorceress, that if you begin any working, I will know, and your master will be killed at once.” Then the lean man turned his back, as if to show he did not fear to do so, and returned to the tent.
Natharie bit her tongue. Still supporting the sagging Samudra in the circle of her arms, she walked into the tent. One guard followed them. The remainder stationed themselves outside.
The only concessions to luxury here were the piles of beautiful carpets that softened the ground, and a carved wooden chair where sat Tapan Gol, solid as a mountain and with eyes that reminded her of the serpents in the forest. Beside him on one of the carpets sat the emperor Chandra, his hands bound together, and hunching in on himself as if he hoped not to be seen.
Chandra straightened when they came in, his jaw hanging slack. Samudra did not give him any chance to speak, but threw himself at his brother’s feet, weeping hysterically.
“So, this is the queen?” mused Tapan Gol. “Your woman is very fond of you, Emperor Chandra.”
“You can do as you will to me, Tapan Gol, but do not insult my wife,” said Chandra, his voice dangerous despite his helpless appearance. He leaned forward, lowering his face to his “wife’s.” He froze, but just for an instant, and clumsily raised his bound hands as if to stroke a beloved face. Samudra looked up at him, letting his brother clearly see his face, but at the same time, keeping his veil between himself and Tapan Gol. The lean man beside him shifted his weight.
He suspects. Samudra, be quick, that one suspects.
Out loud, Natharie said, “This is dishonorable, Tapan Gol. How dare you hold one of imperial blood in these conditions?”
Tapan Gol glanced sideways at her. “It took five of my men to bring him to me alive. I prefer not to let him out of my sight.”
“But I fear you must, Tapan Gol,” said Samudra softly.
The Huni chief froze for just long enough for Samudra to turn on his knees and cast off his veil. Tapan Gol’s hand was on his knife in an instant, but Samudra’s knife was already out, and as the Huni chief leapt down on him, he brought the blade up swift and sure. Natharie did not even see what happened. She just saw the Huni chief slump forward and fall, Samudra’s knife in his throat. The guard behind them gaped, giving Natharie the moment she needed. She snatched the pole arm from the man’s hand. With one sweeping blow she knocked his feet out from under him and brought the butt crashing down on the base of his skull. He grunted once, and lay still.
By the time she looked up, Samudra had already retrieved his knife, and he crouched before the black-coated man. Outside, a voice called, “Mighty Chief, is all well?”
Samudra nodded to the man, the question plain in his eyes. The man could answer with the truth, and die, or he could choose to live. The man looked down at Tapan Gol, his heart’s black blood still oozing from his throat, a raw, grisly sight.
“Tapan Gol is dead!” he cried out. “Tapan Gol is dead!”
In one swift motion, Samudra slit the man’s throat and he toppled down beside his master, their blood running together, but it was too late. Outside a mighty howl rose, and immediately a crowd of Huni rushed into the tent, but they were not ready for Natharie and her pole arm. She tripped them as they ran in, dodging them as they fell, leaving them to Samudra and his knife, the sight of so much blood making her own run cold.
This is what I am become. This is what I am become.
This is what I must become. Her father was a soldier. Captain Anun had died in violence. She could not hold back and undo all thei
r sacrifices. Her only real fear now was that someone would think to cut the tent ropes and trap them all beneath the fallen canvas.
But a new cry went up outside, accompanied by the sound of running feet and the clash of steel. Sindishi shouts mixed with the Huni. Samudra pushed back the tent flap and they saw that Natharie’s father had not been idle. In the sporadic light of trampled fires they saw the Sindishi with staffs and swords beating back the startled Huni, driving their former allies down toward Liyoni’s banks. And all was noise and confusion, and the only thing Natharie knew clearly was that Samudra shoved her behind him and faced the tent flap, his bloody knife in his fist, waiting for anyone who might to run in and renew the attack, but none did.
Gradually, the noise outside fell away, and it once more became possible to make out individual voices. One of them was Father’s. “Prince Samudra? Is all secure?”
“All is secure, Great King,” Samudra answered, wiping his brow. “I require a moment, and then I will join you.”
“Very well.”
Samudra reached out with bloody hand toward Natharie, and she nodded, letting him know she was well, although she could not seem to catch her breath or put down the pole arm. Still, Samudra accepted her silent assurance, and turned to his brother.
The emperor Chandra had rolled off his pile of carpets at some point during the fight, and now crouched behind it, his hands up, ready to defend himself as best he could. Natharie looked at the ruler of the empire that threatened to bring her home to ruin, the one who had almost taken her life from her, and thought he looked like nothing in that moment so much as a cornered rat.
“Natharie,” said Samudra softly. “I must speak with my brother.”
“How dare you bring her here?” spat Chandra. “She killed our mother!”
Still clutching the pole arm, Natharie stalked forward. Fear widened Chandra’s eyes and he scooted backward from her approach. “No, Great Emperor,” she said. “Queen Prishi’s death is far more yours than mine.” She had so much more she wanted to say to this man, curses and taunts and accusations, and all of them merely spiteful now. “She poisoned herself to bring on illness and senility so that your wife would not kill her to keep her from influencing you.”
All blood drained from Chandra’s face. “You lie!” he cried out.
Natharie did not bother to answer. She turned her back to the former emperor. “I will await your word, my husband,” she said. Then, she walked out into the night, and there with the aftermath of the fight boiling around her, she stationed herself outside the pavilion like a guard, leaned on her stolen weapon, and tried with all her might to stop shaking.
“Husband?”
Samudra turned to face his brother. The trappings of empire had been stripped away from Chandra, and he had been left only a plain vest and trousers, his hands lying useless in his lap.
You are a wrestler and a fighter, and we’re in a tent full of stray blades, and all you could do at this time was sit there, thought Samudra wearily. It seemed to him that even with all that had happened, he did not know the depths of his brother’s weakness until this moment, because now he understood that Chandra had been waiting to see if he, Samudra, would conquer or be killed.
Chandra lifted his bound hands and Samudra gave an impatient grunt, and knelt to cut the cords.
“Will you kill me now, Brother?” asked Chandra casually as the thongs parted.
Samudra felt the knife in his hand. It was slick and warm. The odor of blood filled his nose and the taste of it was harsh in his mouth. He looked at his brother sitting before him, who had been the cause of this slaughter, who had driven him from his path and place where he had been happy and safe. Samudra looked at Chandra sitting there, calm and defeated and splattered with the blood of the enemy Samudra had killed.
Samudra stood up. “No.”
Chandra lifted his head, and Samudra swore he saw contempt in the other man’s eyes. “Squeamish?”
Samudra just stared at him. How can you do this? Here and now after all you have done and I have done, how can you? “Brother, I swear, even now, I would give you back all that has been taken if you would just acknowledge that you have done wrong.”
“You know nothing,” said Chandra contemptuously. He picked himself up off the carpet and stepped over the body of Tapan Gol. To Samudra’s utter surprise, Chandra threw himself into the Huni chief’s great chair, sprawling on the carved seat as if he had all the right in the world to be there, and rubbing his wrists to bring the feeling back to them. “You know nothing of the burdens of the Mothers or what it is to be betrayed by those who should uphold you.” He looked up at Samudra with jaded eyes. “Kill me, Brother. Rid yourself of me and seal your guilt.”
All at once, Samudra knew what his brother was doing. Chandra was trying to shame him. Chandra believed if he heaped enough of the blame on Samudra, Samudra would accept it, would believe that it was his own weakness that had borne his brother down into defeat and with his heart breaking he would embrace Chandra and swear never to doubt him again.
Oh, my brother, I am not the only son of Mother Deception in this place.
“I will not kill you, Chandra,” he said. “You will stand before the men outside and give me the Throne, and then you will retire to the small domain.”
Their gazes locked, and Chandra slowly straightened up in the bloody seat where he had dropped himself. This time, Samudra saw fear, and this time it might just have been real. He also thought somewhere in there he saw sorrow, for their mother’s death, and perhaps even guilt for his part in it.
“Brother, please, do not do this thing,” said Chandra softly. “Have mercy. Do not leave me humiliated like this.”
Samudra turned the knife over in his fingers. His brother ducked, cringing. Kill him. It made sense. Don’t leave him alive to challenge what had been done. Don’t leave him alive to betray.
Kill my brother. Let the fear win. Let destruction win over creation. Let death win over life.
But if he chooses death over this dishonor, can I deny it to him? He is still my brother. He is still of royal blood.
“Brother, I’m going outside and give my orders. If you truly wish to die, that is between you and the Mothers.” Samudra laid down the knife and walked out of the tent.
Outside, in the heavy air of the false dawn, he took a deep breath. Natharie stood there, the only still figure in a milling ring of soldiers, all being directed by her father. Of course she was. She would never leave him alone at such a time. Wordlessly, he took her into his arms and held her close, savoring her warmth and her strength. He needed that strength so much now. His legs were about to give out under him. So many had died so needlessly already, and one more might die yet. He did not look back. His ears strained. He wanted to run back inside and strike the blow himself. He wanted to run back inside and snatch the knife away and embrace his brother and swear never to doubt him again. He wanted … Mothers All, he wanted to lie down and go to sleep.
Cloth rustled. Samudra loosened his hold on Natharie just enough to turn and see Chandra walking from the tent, his hands empty and loose at his side. Their eyes met, and Samudra knew, without any joy at all, that he had been right. His brother did not have the strength to take his own life with his own hand.
“Well.” Chandra smiled a ghastly, ghoulish smile. “It appears you win, my brother.” He raised his voice and all around them voices went still. “I Chandra tya Achin Harihamapad, who was the Beloved of the Mother and Protector of the Pearl Throne, do hereby renounce that throne in favor of my brother who was the first prince Samudra.” Smoothly he made the salute of trust, but he peered over the tips of his fingers. “You have what you want, Brother. I hope you enjoy it more than I.”
Samudra reached forward, but Chandra backed away, retreating beyond his reach. With his old, slow, lazy smile, Chandra knelt to his brother, pressing his brow against the muddy ground. Then he stood and turned, and walked into a fold of uncertain Sindishi soldiers, who c
losed around him, protecting him and preventing the escape Samdura knew he had no intention of making, yet.
Samudra made to step forward, but all at once, Natharie was beside him. “Let him go,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Let him also breathe for a space.”
But even as he spoke those words, a new shout went up. A dozen different arms were pointing toward the river where the darkness roiled and then opened like a flower. Light spilled out, solidifying into the form of a silver road shining so brightly that the firelight dimmed. Shadows moved on that road, accompanied by a great singing that lifted his heart even as it drew tears from his eyes.
Then the shadows poured off the silver road, spreading out to the sound of cheering and crying. Samudra’s heart swelled with relief and he wiped the fresh sweat from his face. A final small cluster of shadows stepped from that road onto the earthly soil. Samudra’s first thought was to kneel, for surely these were celestial beings come to set seal on this time of miracles. But even as the silver road faded away, taking the beautiful droning song with it, that sound was replaced by human voices. Human voices crying aloud in praise and wonder, in fear and dismay. Samudra realized that these were the Sindishi being returned to their home. The last few shadows stepped onto the riverbank and beside him Natharie stiffened.
Then she ran.
She ran with her skirts hiked up around her knees. Pushing past soldiers, cursing and pounding on them when they did not get out of her way fast enough, she ran toward the shadows. Someone else ran beside her. It took Samudra’s dazzled eyes a long moment to see this other was King Kiet.
A man nearby lifted a torch. Samudra snatched it from him and raised it high. He felt the pavilion’s door move at his back, and Hamsa came to stand beside him and witness the unfolding joy and chaos. The newcomers ran into the crowd of soldiers, shouting out names, receiving embraces of brothers, husbands, and sons. King Kiet held a woman in his arms, kissing her as if he never meant to stop and Natharie … Natharie was engulfed by a crowd of children as she tried to embrace them all at once. While he watched, she looked over the top of their heads at the woman, her mother, who had stepped a little away from the king.
