Children of the Dragon

by Frank Robinson

  But perhaps it was the times, not the men. For centuries, Bergharra’s territory and influence had expanded; now, though, the great Empire was barely struggling to preserve itself. Perhaps Bergharra had overreached and grown too big to manage. Was the Empire like a bubble that grows and grows until the forces holding it together are unbalanced, and it bursts?

  The latest Grand Chamberlain was Faihdon Royanis. His appointment had met with widespread disapproval, since he was a man of mean birth who had worked his way up slowly through a succession of lesser posts. Yet Sarbat knew this man was not weak and not stupid. Faihdon Royanis was in fact an able man who could ordinarily be expected to acquit himself well in high office.

  But 1182 was a troubled year.

  “It is my suggestion, Your Majesty,” said Faihdon Royanis, “that for the time being, we make no further invasion of Taroloweh.”

  Sarbat scowled darkly. Taroloweh. How he had grown to hate the name of that vile place! Never before had such a humiliation been suffered by the mighty Empire of Bergharra. The Grand Chamberlain’s proposal, to accept the status quo, certainly seemed unpalatable. But Sarbat held his tongue and kept fondling his concubine; he would give Royanis a chance to support his views.

  “Jehan seems entrenched at Arbadakhar,” the man explained. “As you know, it is a well-fortified, walled city. Jehan himself was able to take it only because he had the support of the civilian population inside. Their continued support would make it practically impossible for us to retake the city.”

  “Don’t those Urhemmedhin fools know the monster is only exploiting them for his own ends?”

  “I imagine that, in fact, they do. But regardless of Jehan’s own ambitions, the people see him as offering a better deal than we.”

  The Emperor tugged on his beard. “Why must we consider only Arbadakhar? All right, let him have it, but can’t we take back the rest of the province?”

  “It’s hardly worth the effort. Taroloweh is in sad shape. Why fight over land like that? Besides, it would be a sign of weakness to invade the countryside while avoiding Arbadakhar.”

  “Isn’t it an even worse sign of weakness to do nothing at all?”

  “Perhaps the blunt answer is that we are weak, Your Majesty. The Taroloweh war has been very costly. Even so, if that were our only problem, it would be an easy one. But the trouble is that we’re fighting the damned Akfakh too. It’s as though they’re wild beasts that can smell our faltering, and they’re rising to take advantage of it. The time is not far off when we will have to deal seriously with them; perhaps even surrender a province or two to buy peace.”

  Sarbat stood up, leaving his courtesan alone on the couch. Ignoring her now, he paced in a circle, stroking his beard.

  “No, Royanis, that’s self-defeating. I won’t give up an inch of territory, not to the Akfakh and not to Jehan. Somehow, we must scrape together enough soldiers to handle both of them.”

  Royanis shook his head. “I must be truthful, Your Majesty: It can’t be done. It’s getting tougher and tougher to recruit men and keep them in the army. Casualty rates are high and the pay is poor. The treasury is strained, and our desertion rate is becoming fantastic.”

  “Then debase the coinage and raise the pay. Or increase taxes again. The Empire must tighten its belt.”

  “We’ve discussed this before, Your Majesty.” Royanis sighed, and spoke almost condescendingly. “Taxes are already far too high. You can’t keep raising them without destroying the very economic activity that produces wealth in the first place. As for the coinage, it’s already rather shoddy, and the people are noticing. That’s part of the reason we’re having such inflation of prices. They’re leery of the new coins and hoarding the old. The troops want to be paid with good silver. And desertion’s not our only problem. Our forces are being spread thinner and thinner. We’ve had to increase the garrison strengths throughout the South, to check the rising level of unrest. It’s not only in Taroloweh that Jehan is causing trouble. The rising could easily spread to other provinces.”

  “Then isn’t it obvious,” said Sarbat, “that if we crush Jehan, we will kill the problem at its root?”

  “But we must take care not to make a martyr of him. It’s not Jehan’s death we want, not his destruction, but his failure. The Urhemmedhins must become disillusioned with him and his land reform scheme. Only then will the unrest subside.”

  “You may be right,” Sarbat said thoughtfully. “The problem is how to make sure Jehan fails.”

  “And we can’t do it by invading. We must let him stew in his own juices. I wonder if Jehan himself understands the forces he’s unleashed. Power may be going to his head; for example, taking a Tnemghadi woman was not very bright. More important, I doubt this ignorant ruffian will cure the miserable conditions in Taroloweh. Far from being a panacea, his land distribution program should even worsen things.

  “And of course, we will wage economic warfare against this ‘Kingdom of Taroloweh.’ There’ll be no food imports for them, not by land or sea, not from any province or any country. We’ll see if Jehan can keep his people fed! When the people are starving, they’ll turn against him fast enough. Then we’ll move in. We will save them—save them from Jehan Henghmani!”

  Tnem Sarbat Satanichadh turned suddenly and looked at this latest Grand Chamberlain with glittering eyes. Perhaps old Irajdhan had been replaced after all.

  8

  NO LONGER A crude bandit of the hills, Jehan Henghmani was, to all intents, a king. And it was fitting for a king to have a queen.

  Yet it was not just to gain a queen that Jehan was marrying Golana Mutsukh. Nor was it just to have her to bed. His desire was far greater. He wanted to penetrate her soul as well as her body. He would even mortify the flesh to exalt the soul. Bizarre visions of a union in celibacy would haunt him, a celibacy of witness to his consuming desire. But such peculiar fantasies he’d expel from his mind; he wanted her completely.

  Jehan recognized how Golana paralleled his own life. By force of will and intellect and character, she had broken free of the bounds imposed on women; by similar force, he had sprung from the dungeon, and then gone on to smash the chains binding the people of Taroloweh. A liberator, like Golana he had made men give him power.

  It seemed ironic that these two people, both of whom had seized freedom and power, each sought now to possess the other.

  Jehan thought it significant that it was Golana who, six years before, had caused his being sent to Ksiritsa. It was as though some unseen hand was weaving together the threads of their lives into a single cord. Or perhaps there only was the single cord—and only in their pasts did it ravel into separate threads.

  “There is a lot of opposition to the marriage,” said Golana one morning in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “It’s to be expected,” Jehan answered. “Ignore it.”

  “No. We must be sensitive to the feelings of your people. They mustn’t be allowed to think we’re thumbing our noses at them. So I’ve decided we had best not flaunt the wedding, and I’ve nipped in the bud most of the preparations. I want a small and private ceremony, no fanfare, everything downplayed.”

  Reluctantly, Jehan concurred.

  “Even so,” she continued, “the wedding will have to be neutralized. You can’t afford to be dubbed a Tnemghadi- lover, even if you are marrying one. It must be made to seem that I have no influence over your policies.

  “I have two ideas along this line—one for the short term, the other for the long term. The latter will be important beyond the immediate issue, but I haven’t yet fully thought it through, so we’ll defer its discussion. Meanwhile, for the short term, I think news of the wedding should be accompanied by some tough new anti- Tnemghadi decree. Perhaps a schedule of heavy new taxes ... we can work out the details.”

  “Yes, or maybe a forfeiture of personal property, jewelry, and the like. To assure the people
that my Golana is not making me go soft. And it will be the truth! Who would believe it was the Tnemghadi bride herself who counseled harshness against her own people?”

  Golana shook her head forcefully. “No, Jehan, they are not ‘my own people.’ What does it mean for me to be a Tnemghadi? Does it all depend upon this eyebrow? Because of that accident of birth, am I to love all Tnemghadi and hate all Urhemmedhins? Should I kowtow before their emperor? No! I will not be constricted by my . . . my biology. Just as I refuse to limit my horizons because I am a woman, neither Will I let my life be shaped by my Tnemghadi birth. If I did, I wouldn’t be here now.

  “I cannot deny that I am a Tnemghadi by virtue of this eyebrow, and my parentage—but that is all! That is but the smallest part of me. Far more important, I am a human being; and more important still, I am a self, a consciousness, an individual. That far transcends my being part of any group, and even my membership in humanity as a whole. More important to me than all other humanity is my own self.

  “So I am no Tnemghadi, not a Tnemghadi of the heart. I will not peg my loyalties on the basis of what kind of eyebrows people have. My loyalties flow from my self, from what is in my own heart and mind.

  “You see, I have no people, but I do have persons. One of them is me. The other is you.

  “I am not a Tnemghadi. I am a Jehandi.”

  Jehan took her hand. “And I am a Golanadhin,” he said.

  Maiya served her father dutifully and with ostensible humility.

  She cooked his meals, washed and mended his clothes, tidied his quarters, and held her tongue. She acted to the hilt the role of the perfect conventional wife who knew her work and, above all, knew her place. And a woman’s place was definitely not in political affairs.

  She was, of course, illiterate and ignorant of such matters, so that her quiet role was fitting by circumstance as well as temperament. Not so Golana—and keenly did Maiya feel herself outclassed and outshone by this strange woman who refused to abide by all the feminine conventions. Bitterly she saw Golana as unfair, underhanded, using her political know-how to steal Maiya’s father away from her.

  It hurt all the more because Maiya blamed herself for it. The girl still castigated herself that in the dungeon, when she’d had Grebzreh at knife-point, she had unforgivably squandered that chance to free her father. Not only did this guilt continue to gnaw at Maiya; but she was now reaping its punishment. If only she had given her father freedom! Then surely Golana couldn’t steal him away from her now!

  Of course, Maiya was not being shorn of her chosen role—Golana showed no interest in cooking and cleaning for Jehan. No, the Tnemghadi aristocrat would hold such work beneath her dignity—in effect, reducing Maiya to the humiliating status of a maidservant.

  The girl was not surprised when Jehan revealed the betrothal. It was just one more insult heaped upon the others. She looked at him with hostile eyes, and when he spoke softly, begging her to accept Golana, she refused to answer him at all. With her silence, Maiya would punish her father.

  He was still pleading with her when Maiya turned her back and walked away. He even came after her, but still she ignored his entreaties, and at her private rooms, she closed the door in his face.

  She went to her little boy, picked him up and hugged him against her breast, and rocked him back and forth. To Jehandai she escaped from the insult of her father and Golana; the child was Maiya’s great consolation. It was Jehandai who gave her the will to persist. It was Jehandai who would give her triumph in the end. It was still Jehandai who would be the heir.

  Maiya would no longer speak to her father. But nor would she abandon him. They would make me just a maidservant, she resolved to herself, so a maidservant I shall be. And so she doggedly continued at her domestic chores, silent and sullen, behind a barrier that Jehan could not pierce. Gently he would speak to her, lavish presents on her, all to no avail. She would ignore the fine gowns that he bestowed on her, and in her meanest peasant smock, she would go about her chores. And not a single word would she vouchsafe to him.

  Even Golana made a gallant attempt to penetrate Maiya’s thickening shell.

  “Look what I have brought you, Maiya dear,” Golana said sweetly, holding out a birdcage delicately spun of silver thread. Inside was a bright yellow canary, capering on the perches, chirping.

  “Isn’t he pretty, Maiya? Just listen to him sing! I picked him out specially, as a present for you.”

  For the first time, the girl looked at Golana, a look of measured disdain. “I don’t want any presents from you.”

  Undaunted, Golana sat down beside Maiya and tried to take her hand. But Maiya vehemently pulled away, turning her shoulder to Golana and walking to the far corner of her room.

  “Why won’t you accept my gift, Maiya dear? Why do you seem to hate me so? Do you feel that I’m taking your father away from you, is that it? But that’s so silly! I love your father, just as you do, don’t you understand that? I want to help him succeed, just like you do. I want to be his wife, and your mother too. I want us to be one family: your father and me and you and Jehandai.”

  “How dare you speak his name!” Maiya shrieked instantly. “Jehandai is mine, you’ll never have him!”

  “But of course he’s yours, Maiya, I understand. He’s your son.”

  “And the son of Jehan Henghmani, too!’

  “Nobody’s going to take him away from you.”

  Maiya turned suddenly to the birdcage, which Golana had placed on a table. She ran her fingers silkily over the iridescent silver strands that made its bars. Inside, the bird was merrily chirping.

  “No, nobody will ever take him away from me,” she said, more to herself than to Golana.

  “Do you like the little canary I’ve brought you? Isn’t he cute and pretty? Please tell me you like him, I want so much to make you happy. Can’t we all be happy together? Being angry doesn’t do any good; it only makes things ugly. Let me be your friend and your mother.”

  “My mother is dead!” Maiya’s face twisted unrecognizably for a brief instant as she wrenched open the door of the cage, thrust her hand inside, and grabbed the canary. It gave a loud squeal of distress.

  “Don’t hurt it, Maiya!”

  “Hurt him? No, he’s a prisoner, and I’m going to set him free.”

  The girl took the screaming bird to the open window, and flung it out into the sky.

  “Go away, poor bird,” she said. “And you go away too, you Tnemghadi witch!”

  9

  JEHAN HENGHMANI LOOKED with glittering eyes upon his bride, standing naked before him.

  It was their wedding night.

  Not until this night did they take each other. It had been an unspoken compact between them, that they would Wait, like children being married shyly to each other. Their marriage was too solemn a thing to despoil with impatience.

  Yet the wedding was as pretensionless as possible. An old Urhemmedhin holy man was summoned to the temple to officiate. He was a limping relic who had spent a lifetime preaching underground, one step ahead of the Tnem- ghadi. It was Golana who personally selected this man to perform the ceremony. And so, upon his precious tattered copy of the Book of Urhem, Golana and Jehan swore their marriage vows; and the old priest blessed them, that they might attain the perfect state of love King Urhem bore for his Queen Osatsana, and thereby fully gain the glory of their lives.

  The ceremony was followed by a wedding feast, but fewer than a dozen had the privilege of attending. Golana herself invited but a single guest: the holy man. As for the meal, it was hardly more elaborate than the usual dinner fare, and there was no dancing, no singing, no drunken revelry. The only concession to joyful spirit was the music of a zindala provided by a young soldier. Everything was modesty and decorum; the wedding was marred only by Maiya’s willful absence.

  When the last course had been eaten, the last toast pronou
nced, Jehan rose from his chair and took his bride, Golana, by the arm. The others at the table all stood too in respectful silence as he slowly led her away through the huge temple halls.

  It was a stately walk; they did not break its cadence with speech. As they passed, each soldier on guard saluted briskly.

  At Jehan’s chamber he lit a lamp and closed the door. And then they looked at each other.

  She stood straight upright, her head thrown back a little to look him in the eye. It was a proud posture of self-satisfaction. Without a word, her hands rose to her throat and began untying the stays of her white wedding gown. She never took her eyes off Jehan. In a moment, the gown had fallen into a bundle at her feet.

  Out of that white bundle she stood naked, as though freshly born out of it, like a goddess born whole from a cloth egg.

  She reached up and undid the ties of her hairdo, letting her shimmering black hair cascade to her shoulders, and clasped her hands serenely behind her head.

  Jehan closed his eyes and opened them again. The yellow candle light on her pale flesh made it look preter-naturally soft and delicate, as inviting as her posture and her eyes. Her body did not evidence her nearly forty years: her calves and thighs and arms were smooth and lithe, her belly taut, her breasts thrust up like a young girl’s.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, and he came to her, to touch his hands hesitantly at her sides. She swayed forward and his hands slid around to her back, to her shoulder blades, to feel her cool smoothness and to draw her against his own body. She received him. Her hands pulled him into a kiss, gently at first; but they did not end it, and the kiss, and their embrace, tightened.