ASHTHERA: But he wasn’t running away! The lancer came at him from behind. Everybody knows that.
TASSALIL: You were all running away. Retreating. Defeated.
ASHTHERA: (beginning on a defensive note) And the men who defeated us, the men we ran away from — where are they now? (A pause) Just before I left Aremgar there was some news from King Kammin’s court. When he got home there after five years with what was left of his army, he found his nephew sitting on his throne. A fellow called Morromin. So now they’re fighting over it. Poor Kammin! First he lost my kingdom, now he’s losing his. — Yes, we were defeated, that winter. But now we are... undefeated, you could say.
TASSALIL: My brother and I, we’re northerners, we’re not… not flexible people, here. We can’t turn and turn again. If we break, we stay broken.
ASHTHERA: The winters of the famine... in the fort.
He indicates the mountains. No response from Tassalil: an iron profile.
ASHTHERA: Yet you came through. And brought them all through. Hantammad’s as healthy as an ox. Shiros is beautiful, and not as shy as she was, either. You brought them through the bad time. It’s over. You don’t have to turn and turn, time does it for you. (Gently, teasing, lovingly.) There’s peace, Tassalil; there’s plenty; the sun does shine… Will you come to Aremgar next spring?
TASSALIL: I don’t want to go South again.
ASHTHERA: The gardens....We replanted all that was burnt.
TASSALIL: Hantammad will be Prince of the North. I want to stay with him while he takes on his responsibilities. He’s obstinate and thoughtless. He needs a great deal of guidance.
ASHTHERA: And Shiros?
TASSALIL: She must go South to learn her duties there as heir apparent.
ASHTHERA: A queen should teach a queen.
TASSALIL: I am not a queen. I am a woman who was married to a king. I never belonged there, in that comfort, that beautiful garden — this is where I belong. I don’t look for anything more from life, Ashthera.
ASHTHERA: I didn’t ask you to take, but to give.
TASSALIL: (inflexible) I have nothing left to give.
ASHTHERA: Then it’s you who’ll escape, and before I do, if I ever do — you who go free after all, and I—
He breaks off his passionate outburst. She looks at him, very startled, not comprehending. He gets up and walks off down the grassy slope through sunlight and tree shadows, the lop-eared hound following. Harish Ashed’s hunched, heavy, grieving figure is motionless on the curve of the slope.
In the GreatTemple in Aremgar.
Altar fires burning in bowls illuminate the large Altar Room and, fitfully, the figure of the dancing god/dess: a statue, more than life-size, sophisticated work, much gold, bejewelled, vigorous, androgynous. There is a loud rhythmic music of bells, woodblocks, bowed metal. Many worshippers stand or kneel, not clearly seen in the flickering light. A priestess dances, and a high, sexless voice sings:
I have eaten death:
The god is in my mouth,
The god is between my teeth.
Death is sweet,
I have swallowed death.
O my lord husband,
I have eaten you,
You are in my belly,
You are in my womb,
O my sweet son.
The Courtyard of the Temple in Aremgar.
It is early morning, before sunrise, a red sky above the eastern wall of the great paved court. Ashthera enters it from the street; two soldiers who have come with him from the Palace stand out in the street, one of them holding the lop-eared hound on leash. Ashthera, at the foot of the steps of the temple, takes off his cloak, shirt, and shoes, dropping them on the stones. Barefoot and wearing only breeches he approaches the door, mounting the steps, until suddenly a person in white appears in the doorway, barring the way, a tall, imposing, heavy figure with a high headdress. Neither face nor figure nor voice make it certain that this priest is a man, or a woman, or a eunuch.
PRIEST/ESS: What do you want here?
ASHTHERA: (almost voicelessly) A way.
PRIEST/ESS: If you enter here you leave outside this door your name and all you own and are.
ASHTHERA: I have no name. I leave all willingly.
The priest/ess turns and leads him up the steps into the dark entrance of the temple.
A Small Inner Room of the Temple.
It is reminiscent of the Inner Room of the Palace — bare, whitewashed, a single high horizontal window letting in a sunny light; but there is no tapestry, no furniture at all. On a mat sits a woman with white hair and dark eyes in very simple white clothing; she has a strange, lined face.
Ashthera comes to the doorway. He goes down on his knees, and kneeling bows his forehead to the floor. He speaks kneeling, without raising his eyes, huskily.
ASHTHERA: I seek a way, Mother.
The voice of the Priestess is both high and husky, expressionless, birdlike. She is calm, faintly smiling like the images of the dancing god/dess, utterly unemotional, seemingly mild.
PRIESTESS: Come in and rest, poor man. Sit there. Have some wine. Where did you lose your way?
Ashthera sits formally, crosslegged, on a mat like the one she sits on. She pours him and herself one small cupful of wine from a thin, battered, gold pitcher into a thin gold cup. He drinks from it, one swallow, then she drinks from it and sets it down.
ASHTHERA: When I was born, Mother.
PRIESTESS: Oh, then you’ll find it soon enough. When you die.
ASHTHERA: Meanwhile I have the life you gave me.
PRIESTESS: A king’s life. A very good life, as lives go. A good king’s life.
ASHTHERA: A dog’s life, Mother.
PRIESTESS: But a good dog.
ASHTHERA: Yes. I have obeyed. I have served, I have ruled. I have begotten, I have killed. I have built up and unbuilt, made and destroyed. I have danced that dance through. I have served the god. Now let me serve you! Let me dance without moving, let me speak silence. Let me lay down my kingdom and go alone.
PRIESTESS: Alone? Oh, you ask for a great deal.
Ashthera bows his head as if in assent or receiving sentence.
PRIESTESS: You wish to renounce. You wish to give up all power, pleasure, wealth, will, and world.
ASHTHERA: Yes.
PRIESTESS: In order to renounce, you must renounce renunciation.
Ashthera glances up at her despairingly.
PRIESTESS: You want to give too much to me. All that power and gold, all that justice and truthfulness, all those laws, a crown, a kingdom, what can I do with them? How can I hold them? My hands are full: they hold the Sun and the Moon. Give me nothing, king. Give me emptiness. That I can hold easily.
ASHTHERA: I beg your mercy. I can bear no more.
He bows his head to the floor once more. After a time the Priestess speaks, a little more formally, though in the same mild tone.
PRIESTESS: Man born a king, as all men are born; man called king, as few men are called: give me light things, give me empty things. Give me your anger, your judgment, and your fidelity. Then you’ll walk out of here as free as any bird. Give me your anger, your indignation against untruth, your hatred of the lie. Can you give me that, righteous king?
ASHTHERA: (in a stronger voice, with hope) I give up anger.
PRIESTESS: Give up your judgment on men, your knowledge of injustice and justice, give me that, righteous judge.
ASHTHERA: I give up judgment.
PRIESTESS: (almost singing, almost mocking) Give up your trust in men. Give up your duty to them. Give up your fidelity, man of good faith!
Ashthera does not reply.
PRIESTESS: Give up fidelity.
He struggles, but cannot answer.
PRIESTESS: Trust is an empty thing. Can’t you give it up to me?
No answer. At last she speaks again with the same emotionless tone, perhaps amused, without anger, judgment, or human warmth.
PRIESTESS: Get up, King Dog. Get up, and take
your crown, your throne, your sword, your wealth, your power, your collar and your leash. Be answerable, and a king. There’s no freedom for you on this shore of the River.
Ashthera stands up slowly, bows deeply standing, and leaves the room. He goes out through the corridors of the Temple, past the great Altar Room, where the dancing and singing go on always, day and night. As he comes to the front doors of the Temple we see him from the courtyard, as we saw him entering the Temple, but alone this time, barefoot, in white breeches. He comes down the steps and crosses the empty courtyard, comes out onto the wide street and walks west to the open place in front of the gates of the Palace compound. There are a few people in the street, but they hurry about their business, and he is not noticed. He comes to the Palace gates, and greets the lounging guards by name:
ASHTHERA: Demyo — Adla —
One guard and then another do a double take, recognize him, draw their swords hurriedly in salute, shout flustered orders, and a young officer bellows out —
OFFICER: Open for King Ashthera! Way for the King!
Part Five: Eight Years Later
The Palace Compound in Aremgar: the House of the Traveller.
In the summer afternoon, the gardens of the Palace Compound look pretty much as they did before the war, except for the rebuilt gate and buildings. Romond, on a sturdy pony, with travel gear, saddlebags, and so on, rides under the trees, over the little bridge, to the House of the Traveller. He dismounts in front of it. Fatheyo comes out on the porch. She is an old woman now. She looks at Romond without recognition — he has on a hat that covers his hair, and wears foreign-style clothing. He comes up the steps smiling to greet her.
ROMOND: Well, Fatheyo! How are you? Who’s living here now?
FATHEYO: Oh, it’s you, my lord Romond! Welcome home.
ROMOND: Home — yes. I like that. He said it was my house, but to keep it empty for me for eight years — ! Your king is both kind and constant, do you know that, Fatheyo?
FATHEYO: Come on in, my lord, do you want a bath? But King Ashthera isn’t king, you know. Queen Shiros is the queen now. Hey! Jaga! Come and take the horse! The old fool can’t hear anything anymore. The king went across the river about a year ago now. What do you want to eat after your bath?
ROMOND: Went across which river?
FATHEYO: (in a matter of fact tone) The one nobody can cross. You don’t look a day older.
This is literally true: Romond has not changed at all.
FATHEYO: Hey! Jagaaa! — He fell sick, poor soul, and then he gave the crown to his daughter and made her queen, and then he went away into the forest. I’ve got your clean shirts in the chest. Where’s your silver clothes now?
ROMOND: In my pack, Fatheyo.- — Hullo, Jaga. How’s your stiff arm?
The old man has come hobbling around the corner of the house to take the pony to the stable.
JAGA: Stiffer.
Romond follows Fatheyo into the shady, peaceful house, and looks around with evident pleasure in being there.
ROMOND: Who’s in the High Council now?
FATHEYO: Well, there’s that Prince Zeham, that the queen married, he’s from some other country. And there’s her uncle Lord Bolhan. And the old general. I’ll heat water for your bath.
ROMOND: (calling after her) Don’t heat the water, Fatheyo, I’ll take a cold bath. I want to go see Lord Kida before evening.
Fatheyo grumbles off indistinguishably.
The Porch of Kida’s House.
In the sunny evening of the same day, Romond is walking towards Kida’s house, in another part of the compound. The walls of the palace are visible in the background. Kida is on the deep, screened porch of his house, and he eyes the approaching visitor.
KIDA: Well, Traveller! Back from your visit to King Kammin, are you? Much good I hope you got of it.
Romond comes up the steps, and makes a slight, formal bow.
ROMOND: Lord Kida. — I got some good. Some knowledge, anyhow. Not the kind of good I met with here.
Kida watches him shrewdly.
ROMOND: Kida, is the king dead?
KIDA: What king?
ROMOND: Your king. My king. Ashthera! Dead and forgotten?
KIDA: Neither. Both.
ROMOND: He gave up the crown to Shiros. He went — into the forest?
KIDA: Yes.
ROMOND: Well?
Kida understands, reluctantly, that Romond’s ignorance is genuine.
KIDA: A man without a crown is not king. A man in the forest has no name.
ROMOND: But — you don’t know where he went, where he is?
KIDA: He went away, Romond. By now he’s probably dead. He was ill when he left.
ROMOND: What kind of illness?
KIDA: Stones on the liver, the physicians said. No doubt you could have cured him.
ROMOND: I didn’t know he was ill!
KIDA: Would you have come?
ROMOND: Yes.
KIDA: He always trusted you. Sometimes I did. I always liked your stories, anyway.
ROMOND: If I’d known —
KIDA: If you’d stayed here you would have known.
ROMOND: Did he go north, to Queen Tassalil?
KIDA: She died five years ago.
Romond winces, is silent, turns away. Kida at last takes pity on him.
KIDA: Come and sit down, Traveller. You must be tired. Though you look as young as ever. But age isn’t the only unkindness of Time. More’s the pity. Yes, Tassalil died, and so young Hantammad is Prince of the North. Thinks of calling himself king there, like his grandfather, so I hear.
ROMOND: Has he quarreled with Shiros?
KIDA: He doesn’t get on with Prince Zeham. Her husband. She chose him at a bride-choice. The old way, you know, where the young fellows all come and the girl takes her pick of ’em. We had thirty-six princes here, the youngest was seven and the oldest was sixty-two. She didn’t pick either of them. She picked for looks....Wonderful hats Prince Zeham wears. Plumes. They call him Prince Asparagus, in town here.
ROMOND: And Harish Ashed?
KIDA: Commands the army. Fat and full of aches and pains. Drinks with Bolhan — the way they did in Jogen. Bolhan is thin and full of poison. But he gets along with Prince Asparagus.
ROMOND: And Batash?
KIDA: Ough. The old fool is in disgrace. Worse and worse. He thinks, because he loved her father, that he can scold the queen.
ROMOND: She must have some loyalty to him.
KIDA: He steps on her husband’s toes. He has long toes. We all take short steps, these days. — By the way, I don’t suppose you have a cure for gout among your miracles?
ROMOND: (rather absently) Yes; a diet. You won’t like it.
KIDA: I can always kick the cook if I don’t.
ROMOND: I’ll tell it to the cook. But, Kida, about the king — Ashthera — no one even knows if he’s alive or dead?
KIDA: You always asked questions, and you never understood the answers. Alive or dead, there’s no Ashthera. What does a body’s life or dying amount to, in the forest? The falling of a leaf, man! The falling of a leaf.
Romond sits dissatisfied, resisting, grieving, but unable to say anything.
The Throne Room of the Palace in Aremgar.
The room is now fully restored, and more elaborately decorated with tapestries, furniture, and wall-paintings than it was before the war. The throne, which has had jewels set along the back and arms, stands empty. Queen Shiros, now about twenty-three, a pretty woman becomingly dressed, stands in the group of her courtiers, laughing and chatting. Except for Kida and a couple of other familiar, much aged faces, the courtiers are young, and splendidly clad. Beside Shiros is the Prince Consort Zeham, tall dark and handsome, with black eyes and hair and a pencil-line mustache like a Moghul prince or a matinee idol. Romond enters with Kida. Prince Zeham is speaking to one of the courtiers; he has a foreign accent and a drawl.
ZEHAM: He would be put to death, but the queen wishes to be merciful to the stupid
old man.
Shiros sees Kida and Romond, and comes forward to welcome Romond, formally but very graciously. Bolhan comes forward. He has gone grey, and his face is full of red broken veins; he looks bitter, shaky, almost a grotesque.
BOLHAN: Welcome back, Traveller. How’s your friend King Kammin?
ROMOND: (bows) Lord Bolhan. Well, when I left, King Kammin was still a prisoner of his nephew Morromin, who’s now disputing the throne with another pretender. But I imagine you’ve heard all that. It was a difficult government to stay in favor with.
BOLHAN: Not for one so supple as my lord Romond.
SHIROS: (with regal automatic tact) I hope you found your house in order, Lord Romond? And if you need anything you have only to ask. It’s a great pleasure to me to renew our old friendship.
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