by John Shors
“Why not want it?”
“Because the lives of queens are boring. Why would I want to sit on a throne and do nothing but look pretty? I might as well be a fern.”
Voisanne remembered running through the jungle with Asal, then making love with him on the riverside. Nothing she’d done with him had been boring. “I wish he would catch up with us. It’s been too long.”
“He’s probably out gathering flowers for you, or doing something else gallant.”
“I hope so.”
“Last night, when we were waiting by the water, I saw how he touched the necklace you made him. You cast a spell on him, that’s for sure. You charmed a Cham.”
“He’s a man, Chaya. Just a man.”
“A man who calls you ‘my lady.’ And if he does that, he must be your king. He’s hardly just a man.”
Voisanne saw the scorched shell of a dead turtle and wondered how many creatures the fire had killed. Winded, she slowed their pace, letting their guide pull ahead of them. “Do you know who I want him to be, Chaya?”
“No.”
“The father of my children.”
Chaya stopped, dust settling around her feet. “Then we shouldn’t have gone. We shouldn’t have left him all alone.”
I know, Voisanne thought. I left him because of you, but I should have sent you ahead. I should have stayed.
“What?” Chaya asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just…each step I take, I feel as if I’m drawing farther away from him. I rush to the north, but what I want to do is run to the south.”
“Then let’s run to the south.”
Voisanne shook her head. “If I could, I’d pick up a sword. I’d fight my way to him. I’m not afraid. But…but since I can’t do that, what I can do is what he asked me to do. I can pray, I can go north, and when I finally see him, I can use my strength and love to fill him with whatever he needs.”
Chaya pointed toward the guide, who was now far ahead. “He wants us to hurry.”
“You go. I shall be right behind.”
“But why?”
“Because I want to leave him a message. Here in this blackened dirt.”
Chaya nodded, then scampered ahead. Voisanne dropped to her knees. She placed her forefinger on the ground. Pushing down, creating a trail within the soot, she wrote: I have only one request of you, my love. Wherever I have gone, you must go. May the Gods give you wings. May they fill my eyes with the sight of you.
Voisanne’s tears left dimples in the ash. She stood up. Though her body trembled, her mind propelled her forward, ahead into the bleakness where she must travel.
Statues loomed over him—Gods who had been created from stone and covered in gold. They seemed to whisper in the darkness in a language too divine for him to understand. The Gods leaned toward him. Though their faces showed pity, they made no move to release him. His bonds weren’t severed. His pain lingered. He remained tied to a wooden column with his hands behind his back, upright only because of the ropes that encircled his legs, midsection, arms, and chest.
With one of his eyes swollen shut and a hundred aches assailing him, Asal wished the Gods would set him free, from his bonds or from his pain—preferably both, though even one would be glorious. He silently begged the grinning figures to do as much, but they made no such effort. Closing his good eye, he tried to fall back into the darkness. Voices rang out from somewhere. Footsteps echoed in his mind.
“Voisanne?” he asked, or at least he thought he asked.
Water splashed against his face. He gagged on it, turning away. A hand slapped his cheek. As more water poured over him a voice emerged—the voice of his king. He tried to turn from the voice, to pretend he didn’t hear it, but the water pulled him into the present. The Gods seemed to drift away from him. He saw them more clearly now—statues that had been stolen from temples and brought here, statues that were too beautiful and precious to be gathering dust in a dimly lit room.
Through Asal’s good eye Indravarman also materialized. The king seemed larger than usual, even as he stood next to one of the Gods. Behind him were Po Rame and two guards dressed in war gear. Po Rame was smiling.
Asal tugged at his bonds but could barely stir. The movement produced waves of pain that swept through his head, shoulders, belly, and groin. Only his hands and feet seemed uninjured, though they tingled from the constriction of the ropes that held him.
“You must be wondering why we are here,” Indravarman said, stepping forward, his face impassive.
Again Asal struggled to free himself, straining until the room began to spin around him.
“We are here because many of my men admire you. And I don’t want them to hear your screams. Down here, in the bowels of the Royal Palace, you’ll be mute, as you should be. No one knows that you’re imprisoned, so no one will think to save you—not your men, not the Gods, and certainly not me. If you wish, you may pray. But the Gods shall not listen. They do not listen to insects at their feet, and you’re nothing but an insect.”
“My men—”
“Be silent!” Indravarman roared, his open hand slamming into Asal’s cheek. “I’ll tell you when to speak! You who tried to steal my woman from me, who tried to dupe me. She told me all about your plans, told me as she begged and wept. I gave you everything a man could want and in return you betrayed me!” Again the king slapped Asal, this time on both sides of his face. “Now I command you to speak. Why did you seek to flee in the night? Why did you try to take what was not yours?”
Asal spat blood. “Lord King…I—”
“I’m no king of yours! I’m a conqueror, a leader of armies! I don’t reign over insects. I step on them.”
Though Asal tried to focus his good eye, the room continued to spin. His right ear rang from Indravarman’s last blow. “I always…fought well for you,” he managed to say.
“Yes, you did fight well. Why then did you betray me? Why did you try to flee?”
“Because…”
“Tell me!”
“Because you…threatened Voisanne. When you did that…you lost me.”
Indravarman started to swing his hand again but stopped, a smile eclipsing his scowl. “A whore caused you to break your vows to me?”
“She’s no whore.”
“But she soon will be, Asal. Because right now my best men are tracking her. She left a half day ahead of them, but how far do you think she will get? And when they catch her she’ll become my whore. You’ll watch as I ravish her, again and again. I wonder what will happen then. Will you still care for her? Because how will you be able to tolerate, much less care for, one of my whores?”
“Leave her be!” Asal shouted, thrashing against his bonds.
Indravarman laughed, then motioned the guards and Po Rame forward. He said something to them, but Asal could not hear him. He was gripped by such despair that only one desire seemed to make sense—his frantic need to protect Voisanne.
The guards moved behind him. Smiling, Po Rame reached into his hip cloth and produced a sliver of bamboo the size and length of a feather’s shaft. “I’d take your eyes, Khmer lover,” he said, “but the king of kings wants you to see. And so I’ll be pleased in other ways.”
Reaching out, Indravarman placed his hand on the side of Asal’s sweaty face. “Po Rame believes he can break you in a very short time. I told him that you’d be stronger. So humor me, Asal. Last longer than he expects.”
A thin hand held the sliver of bamboo in front of Asal’s good eye. “It doesn’t look like much, does it?” Po Rame asked. “But how it can hurt.” He stepped behind Asal, out of his sight.
When Asal felt the guards grip his left arm and thumb, he struggled against them. He twisted and cursed and heaved against the ropes, but he was held immobile. Po Rame laughed as he took the piece of bamboo and placed it behind Asal’s thumbnail, thrusting it deeper and deeper into his flesh until it moved past the bottom of the nail and lodged agai
nst the knuckle. Pain was instantaneous, horrific, and all-consuming. Asal surged against the ropes, fighting as he never had, thrashing and biting and producing more than one cry of hurt from his oppressors.
His forefinger was gripped. Again the pain came, enveloping him in an overwhelmingly acute sensation of agony that exploded within him. He screamed. He fought. He raged.
In the end, he tried to think of Voisanne, to imagine her running into his open arms with joy and love etched on her face. He called to her, pleaded with her. And she appeared for a glorious instant, filling him with light.
Then she was gone.
He screamed until the pain simply became too much, shutting down his mind and his body, plunging him into a place where not even dreams existed.
“It’s not much of a fever,” Soriya said quietly, placing a piece of honeycomb between her son’s lips, “but I want you to rest all the same.”
Vibol looked up at her, thankful for the sweetness of the honey. He lay within their sleeping quarters, a three-sided bamboo and thatch structure. The four of them had built it not long after arriving at the Khmer base and finding an open space near the narrow river. They felt relieved to be near water once again, and faced with the decision of where to build, the choice had been easy. The interior of the structure was nondescript save for a small bouquet of flowers that Soriya had set in each corner.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she added. “How in the world did you get so many bruises?”
“We practice with wooden swords.”
Soriya shook her head, all too aware that real blades would do more than darken flesh. “But there are so many. Why are there so—”
“I left more on others than I received. A lot more.”
“But these on your belly. Why aren’t you protecting your belly?”
He glanced away and then returned her stare. “Those are from wooden spears. It’s hard to block them with a shield.”
She started to speak but instead rubbed a paste with healing properties on his injured flesh. “When the fight comes…please stay away from the spearmen.”
“I’ll fight whomever I have to, Mother.”
“Then get a bigger shield. Do something.”
“Fine.”
Nodding, she continued to apply the paste. “I’m glad that this fever is a gentle one, and yet it’s slowed you down.”
“Only for a day. Then I must return.”
“A day for me to heal you. I can do that.”
A group of Siamese warriors passed in front of their shelter, each as colorfully dressed as the next. They laughed, arms around one another, and walked along the river.
“They’re strange soldiers,” Vibol said as he lay with his head supported on a rolled-up deerskin.
“How so?”
“Sometimes they sing when they fight. And their singing makes them strong.”
“Maybe you should sing.”
“Khmers are already strong. We don’t need to sing.”
She saw that his elbow had been bloodied at some point and began to coat it in her paste. “Tell me about last night. You were all gone for so long.”
“Father didn’t tell you?”
“He did, but maybe he forgot to mention something.”
Vibol wiped sweat from his brow. “We had a war council. The king and queen were there. So were a score of Khmer and Siamese officers.”
“And you?”
“And us. Thanks to Prak’s plan. At the beginning of the council, the king asked Prak to explain his plan about the fire and then for us to describe the area. And the queen, she asked nearly as many questions.”
Soriya smiled at the thought of her loved ones talking with such people. “What is she like?”
“Smart…no…more like wise. She seems very wise.”
“Why do you say that?”
Vibol scratched at a scab on his shin. “She has a way of speaking that…that makes you think she’s as old as the mountains.”
“And the king?”
“I’ve seen him practice with his sword. He’s fast…though he seems to tire.”
Soriya nodded, then stood up and stepped outside their shelter to where a small pot was perched above a fire. She removed the pot, poured some steaming liquid into a bamboo cup, and returned inside. “What about his mind?” she asked, then blew into the cup.
“He understands war. He took Prak’s plan, which was simple, and talked about ways to make it better.”
“And they treated you well?”
“Yes, Mother. They treated us well. Very well.”
She smiled again and handed him the cup. “Sip on this. It will help with the fever.”
He did as she asked, then grimaced. “It tastes like dirt.”
“I know. But it will help. My mother gave me the same drink when I was young and ill.”
After finishing the tea made from roots and leaves, he handed her the cup and closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll sleep.”
“Let me put out the fire. It’s too hot.”
“No, it feels good. I’m cold.”
She leaned forward and rubbed his brow. “I know, Vibol, that you’re a man. But for today I can treat you like a boy. And that makes me happy.”
He started to protest but relaxed as she gave him another piece of honeycomb and then massaged his pains away. “Tell me a story…of when I was a boy.”
Continuing to rub his forehead, she thought back through the years. A long and thick millipede crawled across the floor of their shelter, and, knowing it was poisonous, she used a stick to flick it into the fire. “Do you remember Prak’s pet turtle?” she asked.
“A little.”
“When he was eight, your father brought him a turtle. We made a pen for it at the edge of the river. You and Prak would go down every day and play with that turtle. And though you liked it, Prak loved it. He talked with that turtle. He fed it. He even slept with it once.” Soriya paused, then used a damp cloth to wipe sweat from Vibol’s face. “But one night, something got into that pen. An old tiger, maybe. For it was a big, hungry beast, and it gnawed at the turtle until only its scarred shell was left.”
“I remember.”
“Prak wouldn’t stop crying. Father and I were comforting him and you just slipped away. One moment you were there and the next you weren’t. Father went looking for you while I stayed with Prak. It wasn’t long before you came back. You’d caught another turtle, and when you gave it to your brother I don’t think I’d ever seen you smile so wide.”
The corners of Vibol’s lips rose. “I used one of Father’s nets to make a trap. There were some turtles sunning themselves and I chased them right into it.”
“Well, whatever you did worked, because Prak was so happy. And he had that turtle for a long, long time. As you can imagine, he built a perfect, safe pen for him.”
Vibol nodded and opened his eyes. Soriya continued to wipe his face, still smiling at the story. “I’ll stay away from the spearmen,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I promise, Mother.”
She nodded, bending down to hug him.
He reached for her, and suddenly it was as if the years had gone backward. He was simply a boy who needed the comfort of his mother, of the person who had brought him into the world and who understood the beauty of turtles and memories and togetherness.
Trembling, Thida shuffled through a dimly lit corridor of the Royal Palace. She carried a tray that held the simplest of meals—a bowl of rice and a cup of water. Walking was difficult, and she had to pause often, leaning against a wall as she tried to gather her strength. Something inside her was broken, she knew, shattered that morning when, in a fit of rage, Indravarman had beaten her unconscious. Ever since she’d awoken from that horror, breathing had been a tortured affair. Blood had seeped upward, into her mouth, nauseating her.
She came to a stairway, almost fell, but collected herself and proceeded down the wooden steps. It was even darker belowground. Through her swollen nose she detected the pres
ence of dampness and decay. She coughed, producing a searing pain in her lungs. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to cry. But tears came anyway, spurred by the thought of the previous night, of how she had failed Voisanne. Now that same friend was being tracked and would soon be captured. Equally horrible, the man who had tried to free them both, a good man by all accounts, had been tortured in the chamber below. Indravarman had told her as much just before he beat her. He had called her unspeakable names, enraged by her betrayal. In the end, she had simply collapsed.
The lower level of the Royal Palace was used for storage. The corridor through which Thida passed was lined with rooms containing weapons, foodstuffs, fabrics, carts, timber, rugs, deerskins, cooking supplies, and bound scrolls. Thida hadn’t been here before but knew that Asal was locked in the very last room, protected by a single guard. Indravarman had said so and more. He had bragged about Asal’s screams, about how remarkable it was that a bamboo splinter could produce such pain.
Thida set her tray down on a small table, then wiped her face free of tears. Raising her hand to her face made her wince in pain. She coughed again, spat blood, and closed her eyes. Still shaking, she picked up the tray and shuffled forward, worried that she might fall at any moment. She wanted to fall, to let darkness come to her, but she wouldn’t allow herself such a release—not yet. First she had to undo the misery she had caused, if such a thing was possible.
Thida felt that she’d failed so many times in her life. She still lived only because of her beauty, because of what her mother once said was a gift but Thida saw as a curse. Without her beauty, she might have been killed when the Chams first arrived. If so, by now she’d have been reborn, hopefully full of strength instead of beauty, with hope instead of fear.
Because her whole life had been defined by weakness, Thida was determined to die doing something noble; at the very last moment, she would redeem her many years of feebleness. She prayed for fortitude as she approached the room that held Asal. She prayed that the knife she held beneath the tray was as deadly as she believed.
Thida knocked on a thick, wooden door and said that she was commanded to bring food for the prisoner. A rough voice answered, and she was tempted to turn away. Then the door swung open. Ten paces in front of her sagged Asal, tied to a column. He was bloody and beaten, and she almost called out to him. Instead she muttered hello to the guard and stepped inside. He shut the door behind her, and as soon as he had locked it, she turned to him. She was trembling, and he asked her what was wrong. The tray tilted in her hands, falling to the floor, the bowl of rice shattering. The guard looked down, and with all the strength that she could summon, Thida lunged upward with the knife, plunging it beneath his chin and into his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, and she shrieked as he fell backward, clutching at the knife. He toppled to the floor, pulled the blade from his throat, and thrashed about, his feet striking the wall. Gasping, he clutched at the wound, but soon his eyes glazed over and he was gone.
