Throne of Ruins (The Powers of Amur Book 5)

by J. S. Bangs

  THRONE OF RUINS

  THE POWERS OF AMUR, BOOK 5

  J.S. BANGS

  Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International

  THRONE OF RUINS

  Copyright and Thanks Free book!

  Map

  Prologue: Mandhi

  Vapathi

  Mandhi

  Daladham

  Vapathi

  Mandhi

  Vapathi

  Mandhi

  Sadja

  Daladham

  Vapathi

  Daladham

  Sadja

  Mandhi

  Daladham

  Sadja

  Vapathi

  Mandhi

  Daladham

  Navran

  Vapathi

  Daladham

  Mandhi

  Navran

  Vapathi

  Daladham

  Sadja

  Mandhi

  Navran

  Vapathi

  Fire of Ages: Chapter 1 Storm Bride

  Free book!

  About Me

  Cover

  Table of contents

  COPYRIGHT AND THANKS

  Throne of Ruins

  Copyright © 2016 by J.S. Bangs.

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  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  Map by Robert Altbauer

  Editing by Stephanie Lorée

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License. You may find a summary of the license and a link to the full license here: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/

  FREE BOOK!

  It was an uneventful trade voyage until they ran into the woman walking across the surface of the waves. Then came the pirates, the sharks, and the imperial guard. Will Patara risk his cargo and his livelihood to save the last member of a magical lineage?

  The Wave Speaker is a novella that takes place in the world of The Powers of Amur, two hundred years before the events of this novel.

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  MAP

  PROLOGUE: MANDHI

  Mandhi and Kancha crouched in the shadows between the two houses and watched the sun’s procession parade past them. They peeked between the feet of the adults at the garish, brilliant dancers; young men in yellow-died dhoti, their faces striped with orange and black, danced down the center of the street chanting akha garu, akha garu, raising their fingers into little hook shapes and making fierce faces at the crowd gathered on both sides of the street.

  “Why are they doing that?” Mandhi asked, mimicking the hook-shape with her fingers.

  “Those are claws,” Kancha said importantly. “They’re supposed to be tigers.”

  Kancha was five, a year older than Mandhi, and he had the wisdom and experience that this implied. He was the one who had gotten Mandhi out of the house. They were not supposed to leave the House of the Ruin, but Mandhi was tired of being in the house. Everyone in the house was sad because Mandhi’s mother was sick. She was tired of being sad.

  Following the tiger dancers came a group of women, one pounding a drum, another blowing long blasts on a ram’s horn, and the last two ululating a wild, fiery song that made Mandhi’s heart beat fast and furious. She stood up on her toes but saw nothing that way, then she dropped to her knees and pressed forward between the feet of the crowd.

  The people twitched and muttered for a moment. Mandhi thought that it was because of her elbowing her way past their knees, but then she saw one of the women in the parade throwing something. Little golden flakes like coins sparkled in the air. She pushed herself to her feet and tried to catch one, but the jostling of the crowd pushed her back, and she wound up next to Kancha again in the back rows.

  Another girl, not an Uluriya, broke away from the crowd and approached Mandhi. She was a little taller than them, so probably older, wearing a clean yellow sari with smudges of ash and paint on her cheeks. She smiled at Mandhi and held out her hand.

  “Do you want one of these? I caught four of them.”

  She opened her fist to reveal four hard, translucent candies the color of honey. Mandhi reached for one, but Kancha pulled her hand back.

  “You can’t eat that,” he said.

  “Why not?” Mandhi demanded.

  “Because,” he said, “it’s unclean.”

  “No it’s not,” the other girl said angrily. “None of them hit the ground, and I cleaned them anyway.”

  Kancha rolled his eyes. “No, they’re unclean because you’re not Uluriya.”

  The girl looked from Kancha to Mandhi with her eyes wide. She pursed her lips. “What do you mean by that?”

  Mandhi dropped her hand and grabbed at the edge of her sari. “I’m not supposed to eat things that weren’t made in my house.”

  The girl closed her fist and looked at Mandhi strangely. “Well, will you come dance with us?”

  Mandhi hesitated.

  “No,” Kancha broke in. With a sudden severity he said, “We should go home.”

  “Why do you have to go home?”

  Mandhi looked down. “I’m not supposed to be out.” She was not supposed to say more, but she couldn’t help the sudden burst of words that poured from her tongue. “My mother is sick, and everyone says that I should stay home.”

  The girl looked at Mandhi with pity. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is she very sick?”

  Mandhi nodded. Kancha grabbed her arm and started pulling her back toward the Uluriya district.

  Mandhi shook herself free of him. “Leave me alone. You’re the one who wanted to sneak out.”

  “But I’m not going dancing in the sun festival or eating unclean treats,” Kancha said. He stamped his foot. “You come with, or I’ll go back myself.”

  “Go back yourself,” Mandhi said. She knew the way through the streets back to her own house, and she didn’t need Kancha to come with her.

  “I’ll tell them what you did,” Kancha said, and he scampered away.

  The other girl watched the exchange with a strange expression. “Are you going to be in trouble?”

  “No,” Mandhi said, though she thought she might be. “Kancha thinks that he’s special because he’s five, even though he’s the youngest boy in the house.”

  “Well I’m seven,” the girl said. “Can you come dance with us now?”

  Mandhi looked back toward the Uluriya district. “Maybe I should go….” She paused. “Can I have one of your candies?”

  The girl smiled and gave a candy to Mandhi. “I hope your mother gets better.”

  Mandhi put the candy into her mouth. The taste of cane sugar and caramel dissolved on her tongue. She sucked slowly, then took it out of her mouth to make it last longer.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Chaludra’s fire,” the girl said. It took Mandhi a moment to realize that it was a blessing for the sun festival. She nodded, and the other girl disappeared back into the crowd.

  Mandhi ran to her house. Kancha would probably get there first and try to get her in trouble. She was a fast runner, though. Maybe she would catch him.

  Mandhi turned the corner of the Uluriya estate district and caught a glimpse of Kancha going through the front door. He would get there before her. She started thinking of excuses she could use when she got into the house.

  She zipped from the antechamber into the women’s ablution room. She was about to splash her hands into the water, but she stopped. She still had the candy clutched in her fist, making her fingers sticky. She stuck it
into her mouth, rinsed her hands rapidly mumbling half the prayer that she could remember, then rushed out into the courtyard—

  —And ran into her aunt Uparthi.

  She backed away. Uparthi’s hands, like brown withered claws, clutched Mandhi’s shoulders, and the shadow of her face fell over Mandhi. Mandhi braced herself to be scolded. But when Mandhi looked up at Uparthi, she saw that her aunt’s face was wet with tears.

  “Mandhi,” she said. “Where were you?”

  “With Kancha,” she said, avoiding details.

  “Ah,” Uparthi said, distracted. “Come upstairs.”

  Mandhi looked around. On the bench at the edge of the courtyard sat the older boys, Veshta and Adjan, looking at her with glum expressions on their faces. Kancha had disappeared. Uparthi kept a hand on Mandhi’s shoulder and marched her up the stairs to the second floor of the estate, along the colonnade overlooking the courtyard, and through the curtain into her mother’s room.

  Mandhi did not want to go through the curtain. She hated that room. It smelled of illness and death, masked by sandalwood and incense and sacred milk. She had run away with Kancha so she wouldn’t have to spend any more time in that room. She considered twisting out of her aunt’s grasp and running away, but that would just get her into worse trouble later.

  She went through.

  Sathiman, her mother, was stretched out on a low bed. Her father Cauratha sat beside the bed holding her hand. His graying beard shook like a branch in the wind. Against the wall were the adults of the household: Uncle Pashman, Habdana, and his wife Amashi. They all had serious, grave faces and looked at Mandhi with an awful mixture of pity and anger.

  “Mandhi,” her father said. His face was wet. He clutched Sathiman’s hand, stroking the back of it slowly. “You’re a few minutes too late.”

  Mandhi put her hands behind her back and twisted her fingers. She was suddenly aware of the hard candy still in her mouth. She hid it under her tongue. Her mother’s fever-wracked face was paler than it had been. The rasping and coughing that had filled the room was silent.

  “Come here,” her father said.

  “I don’t want to,” Mandhi said. She felt cold and angry, and many other things that she didn’t have a name for.

  “Come here,” he repeated, more sternly.

  She came a few steps closer.

  “Give your mother a kiss goodbye,” Cauratha said. He bent and kissed Sathiman’s face and stroked her cool cheek.

  “I don’t want to,” Mandhi said, shaking her head. Her limbs burned. She wanted nothing more than to run out of the room. Her tongue moved strangely because of the candy underneath it.

  “What do you have in your mouth?” Aunt Uparthi said, coming forward and pinching Mandhi’s cheek. Mandhi twisted away, but too late: Uparthi jabbed a long narrow finger into Mandhi’s mouth and fished out the candy. Everyone in the room seemed to draw their breath.

  “What is this?” Uparthi asked.

  Mandhi muttered something and tried to get away, but Uparthi’s grip on her shoulder didn’t let up.

  “Where did you get it from?” her aunt repeated.

  “A girl gave it to me,” Mandhi said, defeated.

  “A girl where?”

  “At the sun festival.”

  Everyone stared at her. Mandhi started to cry.

  “You and Kancha sneaked away to the sun festival? While your mother lay here dying?”

  Mandhi cried harder. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be stuck in the house, didn’t want to be with everyone who was sad and angry at her all the time.

  “Mandhi!” Amashi hissed. “You know that’s unclean. You can’t bring it in here—”

  “Leave me alone!” Mandhi said, and she dropped to the ground. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hid her head behind them. She sobbed and sobbed, soaking her sari with her tears.

  “Leave her alone,” she heard her father say distantly. “She’s only four.”

  “She’s defiled the house—” Amashi began.

  “The house is already defiled by the presence of the dead,” Cauratha said. “Leave her alone.”

  She heard Uparthi step back to the corner of the room. Amashi left muttering, whispering Kancha’s name in a tone that bubbled with anger. Mandhi peeked out through her fingers and saw the older boys, Veshta and Adjan, speaking quietly with their father Pashman. Then she heard her father’s soft steps and felt his hands on her head.

  “Mandhi, my ruby child,” he said quietly. He grabbed her by her shoulders, lifted her up, and pressed her against his chest. She let him. He smelled like sickness and incense, the same as the room, the same as her mother. “Stay with me here,” he said. “You’re the only one I have left….”

  She started to cry into his soft white saghada gown. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He knelt and pressed his cheek against hers. Their tears mingled on their cheeks.

  “Just you and me, Mandhi,” he said. His hands pressed her wet cheeks, and he kissed her below the ear. “We are the last two.”

  Her shoulders shook. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Sorry I brought the candy in here. I’ll never do it again. Sorry I—” The rest of her statement was lost in her weeping.

  “Hush, my ruby,” Cauratha said. He pressed her tightly into his chest and held her firmly in his arms as they wept.

  VAPATHI

  Vapathi and the Devoured marched the woman through the doors above the Rice Gate and into the halls of the Ushpanditya. They stepped over the sprawled forms of the Devoured sleeping in the entrance hall of the imperial palace, past a group of four that played a game of sacchu. They took a glance at the woman’s bhildu and began to jeer.

  Sweet dhorsha, bring us a ram! Take that bhildu off, and we’ll see what else you’re good for.

  Their captive looked around in revulsion and horror. Vapathi suppressed a smile.

  They marched past piles of ruined silks and discarded silver chains, half-empty pots of rice wine, and the spittle of chewed betel nut leaves on the marble floors. The chains that held the lights in the alcoves were broken, the lamps cracked and leaking oil onto the floor. The images of Am and Ashti were defaced, their heads and hands knocked off, the hammered silver on their bodies scraped off and obscenities scrawled into the alcoves behind them. The halls stank of too many bodies, spilled beer, and smoke.

  “Does the mess bother you?” Vapathi asked.

  The woman’s gaze snapped straight ahead, and she shook her head. She lowered her eyes to avoid Vapathi’s gaze.

  “How often did you clean anything when you were a dhorsha in Majasravi?” Vapathi taunted.

  The woman was silent.

  “Perhaps you’d like the Emperor’s Tower better,” Vapathi said. She had taken a room there with Kirshta, Apurta, and the Empress Basadi, and by force of habit she kept their rooms clean. She was used to living in the homes of khadir and emperors, keeping house immaculately. Most of the Devoured, though, were peasantry accustomed to living in filth, and eager to spite the halls of the Emperor. She felt a little disgust at their behavior—but not enough to try to stop them.

  “Are we going to the Emperor’s Tower?” the woman asked.

  “No,” Vapathi said. “You are not so lucky.”

  She brought the woman to the Green Hall. No one was allowed to sleep in the Green Hall, so the place was clean of the worst mess, though some furniture from elsewhere in the Ushpanditya had been stacked there indiscriminately. The captains of Kirshta’s Red Men lounged on cushioned chairs and thick carpets.

  There was no ceremony for entering the throne room now. The Red Men relaxing alongside the central aisle mocked the woman as she crossed the room. At the foot of the Seven-Stepped throne, the Devoured escorts threw her to the ground. The woman looked up at the figure on the throne, shuddered, and prostrated herself.

  Kirshta lay languidly across the gold-inlaid seat, one hand drooping over the chair and his head falling against his chin. An uncounta
ble mass of snakes curled around the legs of the throne, dripping sinuously down the steps, slithering across the imperial emblems and heavy carpets on the dais. Kirshta barely lifted his head to take in the woman.

  His skin had taken on a grayish cast, and black circles sagged beneath his eyes. Every expression of his seemed to be a grimace, and his movements seemed straitened by pain. Worry bubbled in Vapathi’s stomach every time she saw him.

  “Is this the woman?” Kirshta rasped.

  “She was found by a group of Devoured outside Majasravi,” Vapathi said. “Someone recognized her as an important dhorsha.”

  Kirshta stirred atop the throne. He looked down on the woman with a mixture of contempt and greed. She wore a simple white sari stained with gray and brown from hasty travel and her capture by the Devoured, with the red bhildu over it showing her status as a dhorsha. She trembled as she lay prostrate.

  “Get up,” Kirshta said wearily. “The Mouth of the Devourer has no need for your obeisance.”

  The woman rose. She was old, perhaps sixty years of age, with a serene face and a confident, noble posture marred by her fear. She looked at Kirshta without blinking or speaking.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Teguri,” the woman said.

  “Is that all of it?”

  The woman hesitated a moment. “Aksham Teguri-dhu of Majasravi.”

  “So you admit you’re a dhorsha,” Kirshta said. “Which lineage?”

  “The Amya dhorsha.”

  “Of course. And you were someone important, if one of these Devoured remembers you.” Kirshta stretched out his legs and leaned forward. An asp crawled over his foot.

  The woman hesitated. Vapathi put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “Tell him the truth. It’s best that way.”

  The woman glanced at Vapathi, and for a moment she seemed reassured. Vapathi suppressed a smile. People found her comforting by contrast with Kirshta, a fact which they exploited to their advantage.

  “I was the temple mother of the Majavaru Lurchatiya,” the woman said. “My son was chief of the priests there.”