by J. S. Bangs
“The script of the saghada. One of you will teach it to me.”
“Naturally,” Daladham said. “Bhudman has already begun to instruct me, and we may extend that offer to all of the dhorsha who wish to enrich their knowledge.”
“We must examine the book,” the temple mother repeated. “Since you and the saghada suggest such radical changes to our worship—”
“We haven’t suggested anything yet.”
“You shall.”
Daladham fell silent. He dared another sip of the tea. It burned a little less the second time, though it could just be he had lost the feeling in his mouth.
“I have my doubts that the Chaludriya will attend your king’s council,” Praji said. “We served the heavenly fire for generations before our lord and king Navran-dar took the throne.” She managed to make the words our lord and king sound like a curse.
“Has he injured you in some way?”
“He does not participate in the sun festival. It is the king’s duty and honor to light the sacred fire before the image of Chaludra at the festival. But Navran-dar does not do it.”
“I see,” Daladham said.
“I have invited him. It is the main thing that the Chaludriya receive from king. But of course… the king worships Ulaur and no other.”
“I see,” Daladham repeated. If he understood anything about the Uluriya, he doubted that Navran would be able to meet the temple mother’s request. But there must be something else.
Praji did not wait for him to collect his thoughts. She relaxed her posture and said, “Now tell me about Kushma.”
A curious change of subject. He cleared his throat. “Can you be more specific, venerable mother?”
“You know that the Emperor claims special devotion to the destroyer. What does the book say about him?”
“Ah, well,” Daladham said. “There is a portion of the book—near the end, we didn’t realize it until almost the end—”
“Be concise, Daladham-dhu.”
He touched his fingers to his forehead and sighed. “We don’t know.”
“Don’t know?”
“The book says nothing, unless it’s in the last portion, which we have not been able to decipher.”
Praji murmured in displeasure. “Kushma is the Emperor’s patron. I can’t imagine that Sadja-daridarya will want him neglected.”
Daladham grimaced. “We hope it won’t be an issue.”
“I’ll make it an issue.” She set her teacup down and arranged her legs into the lotus posture, and she began to chant a familiar song.
I shall strike the one who blights the earth, The serpent, the devourer, who knows neither death nor birth, For mine is the blood-taking, mine is the power of death, Mine is the wail of mourning, mine is the pain of birth. Ashti shall be moved from her place, Am shall tremble. Chaludra shall be clothed in ashes, Jakhur shall be stained with blood. For who seeks to be strong, I shall destroy him, who seeks to remain, I shall cast him down, who seeks to endure, I shall hasten him to his end. For many shall perish, that the few shall be reborn.
“And Usha bade Kushma go,” Daladham continued from memory, “and he strove with the serpent, and slew her by hurling down the iron from the highest heavens, and he buried her beneath the earth. And in the violence of their battle Kushma slew nine-tenths of mankind with a great earthquake, and of those that remained he slew nine-tenths with fire and choking smoke, and of those that remained he slew nine-tenths with famine and pestilence. And when the blood reached from his feet to his neck his thirst was satisfied, and he grew still, and the last of mankind was spared.”
The mother of the Chaludriya smiled at him. “So you know it as well.”
“All the dhorsha of Amur know the chants of Kushma and the serpent.”
“Then you see why I cannot simply let the matter of Kushma pass. Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, wishes to have the Powers united against the Mouth of the Devourer. And the blood-spattered Kushma is the one whose aid we most desire. But the Uluriya claim that act for their Ulaur, and they detest Kushma above all others.”
“The Emperor hopes….” Daladham said weakly. The conversation was going badly, and he didn’t know how to save it.
“You can’t make the question of Kushma into a matter of no importance.” Praji gestured to the image of Chaludra painted on the wall to her right. “Even if the Chaludriya dhorsha submit to Ulaur—a matter which is by no means certain—there are no Kushmaya dhorsha who could submit on Kushma’s behalf.”
“Yet Am was raised to be Lord of the Powers—”
“By the Emperor Aidasa,” Praji said darkly. “We know. And we remember how the submission of Chaludra was achieved.”
“You do?” said Daladham, suddenly curious. He’d never heard any detailed story regarding the role of Chaludra in Aidasa’s unification.
“Perhaps it’s not written in the histories which the Emperor recorded. The Red Men filled the temple, and my ancestors were forced at spearpoint to say the rites bringing Chaludra under submission to Am, with the first Emperor watching.”
“Oh.” Daladham’s red bhildu felt suddenly hot on his skin. He could feel the temple mother’s eyes lingering on the gold fringe, her own fingers touching the hem of her yellow garment. Daladham took a cautious sip, letting the spice and milk mingle on his tongue. Now that the cup was half empty, the sensation was almost bearable.
Praji watched him, her fingers pressed tightly together. “You say the power of Am is broken. Let us say that I believe you. Chaludra the heavenly fire is not eager to submit again.”
“Navran-dar will give you your dignity,” Daladham said feebly. “I doubt he wants to observe any of your rites in the temple.”
“We want more than that,” Praji said. Her tone was like cold copper. “Unless you are prepared to give me access to the thikratta’s book, I will not attend your council. And even if I do attend, I want the king’s blessing on the sun festival again, and I will make an issue of Kushma. While we fight the Mouth of the Devourer, the Emperor’s patron must not be maligned or ignored.”
“I will bring your concerns to the Heir.” Daladham said. He felt weak and slightly ill. “If there’s anything he can do to allay your worries….”
Praji gave him a weak smile. “I’ve told you what I want. But we’ll see.” She drained her cup to the bottom and set it firmly on the tray. “Give my greetings to the king.”
* * *
“We still have some secrets, Daladham-dhu,” Bhudman said. His hands folded together and disappeared into the sleeves of his white gown, and his feet shuffled over the sandy path winding through Navran’s garden.
Daladham stopped in the shade of a sal tree, its stunted leaves giving him a brief respite from the afternoon sun. “Do you mean to say you won’t?”
“I told you once before. I have risked my honor to teach you our sacred script. To give it to Praji-dhu and the rest of the Chaludriya….”
Daladham gaped at Bhudman with angry incredulity. He expected this recalcitrance from Nakhur, but he thought that Bhudman was his ally. “I must say, my elder, I didn’t expect this from you.”
A glint of anger in Bhudman’s eyes. “Did you think I was infinitely supple?”
“I don’t wish to presume—”
“Then don’t.” The old man let out a sigh. “I am doing everything I can to make our council a success. But the saghada are very reluctant. I have spent every ounce of energy and influence I have to bring them to the council and make them open to our proposal. I cannot add this. Not now, not three days before the council begins.”
“Then we risk convening without Praji-dhu and the Chaludriya.”
Bhudman grumbled in frustration. Daladham followed him a little farther down the path winding through the bottom part of the garden, around a bank of dying shrubs toward the empty lotus pool.
“If only—oh, my queen.”
The tiny figure had been hidden somewhere behind the shrub
s, and Bhudman had nearly run into her. Utalni’s face was flushed, and she averted her gaze as soon as Daladham saw her. Daladham and Bhudman bowed. The queen took a step back, glanced over her shoulder at the dried pool of lotuses, and dipped her head at them in turn.
“I apologize—” Bhudman began, but Utalni cut him off.
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I’m going.” And she picked up the hem of her sari and scampered away, down the same path that Daladham and Bhudman had just walked.
“Curious,” Bhudman whispered.
“She was spying.” Daladham felt a dread certainty.
“For Navran-dar?”
“For her father, obviously.”
Bhudman grumbled. “I don’t know that Yavada-kha needs to spy on us. He has the king’s ear already.”
“I suspect he wants to know our plans ahead of the king. To put the king into his debt.”
“Is he disloyal?”
“I don’t know. The politicking of the khadir has never been my interest… but I have observed a few things living in Yavada-kha’s house.”
“Perhaps I should warn the Heir.”
“Don’t.” Daladham raised a finger. “For now, Yavada-kha wants the same thing that we do. He wants the council to proceed to success.”
They moved quietly past the lotus pool. Drained of water, the shriveled remains of lotus flowers stuck to the sandy bottom. Daladham’s sandals kicked a pinch of dust into the bottom of the pool.
“Of course none of us will get what we want if we don’t find a way to placate Praji-dhu,” he said.
Bhudman’s expression darkened. He spoke cautiously. “What if I offered to transcribe the book into the common script? Then all could read it, but the privacy of the saghada’s writing would be preserved.”
“I don’t know if Praji-dhu will accept that.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“She will still be depending on my honesty and yours to vouch for the accuracy of the transliteration.”
“If she is that recalcitrant, I wonder whether there is anything that will placate her.”
Daladham turned and looked back toward the green-tinted stone of the palace. “There may not be anything. This may just be a bargaining chip for what she actually wants.”
“You refer to the king’s participation in the sun festival.” Bhudman’s expression grew darker. “That is even less possible than teaching her the saghada script.”
“Then perhaps we are at an impasse.”
Bhudman’s old, hoarse voice cracked. “We have three days until the convocation. If there isn’t anything we can do to bring the Chaludriya in, then we might as well call the thing off. There’s no way we can convince the dhorsha to submit to Ulaur if the largest of the lineages in Virnas won’t even participate.”
Daladham began to stroll slowly back toward the palace. The heat of the sun made him sweat beneath his bhildu. The shade of the trees covered him again, diamonds of bitter summer sunshine glittering off of his eyes.
“I’ll talk to Praji-dhu,” he said finally. “Offer to transcribe the book. Perhaps it’ll be enough.”
Bhudman was silent. The stone face of the palace rose before them, and the darkened entrance with its heavy curtains opened like a mouth. Daladham expected him to say something, a word of encouragement, an expression of hope. Nothing.
“Perhaps the king will have something to say.”
Daladham stopped on the lowest of the stairs that rose to the palace. This wing was purified for the Heir, and he was not supposed to enter it. Bhudman gave Daladham a simple nod of farewell.
“We shall answer the question of Kushma another day,” he said. “I’ll speak to the Heir. You will be at Yavada-kha’s?”
“I am visiting the mother of the Amya dhorsha in the city later today, but this evening I’ll be at the majakhadir’s.”
“Good. I’ll send you a message if anything comes up.”
Bhudman slipped through the curtain and into the palace. Daladham pulled at his beard in irritation, then turned away.
Three days. He would tell Praji about their offer of transcribing the text, but if she rejected it, he would have nothing left for her.
He passed by the home of Praji on his way to the mother of the Amya. Praji herself was gone, but Daladham left behind a palm leaf with his offer scratched onto it. Tomorrow he might recieve her answer.
It was evening before he reached Yavada’s estate. The majakhadir had a gate which opened directly into his garden, a small thing only ten paces wide that abutted the majakhadir’s three-story residence, and there he found Yavada sitting in a rattan chair eating nuts and throwing the shells on the ground.
“Daladham-dhu,” the majakhadir said with a pleasant echo as soon as Daladham entered. “I have been waiting for you.”
“You have, my lord?” Daladham asked. He felt a moment of alarm.
“Yes, indeed.” He rose from his chair and smiled greedily, folding his fat fingers together. “I spoke to Praji-dhu today.”
A mixture of dread and anticipation stirred in him. Utalni must have spoken to him already. “Yes?”
“I believe she’ll be attending the convocation with the rest of the Chaludriya.”
“Really?” he managed to cough out.
“Yes,” Yavada said, smiling gently. He cracked a nut and let the shell fall to the ground. “She received your message, and I put a few words in on your behalf. You should speak to her tomorrow.”
“I shall greet her, my lord,” he said. His heart thundered. What had Yavada given her?
“And when you return to the palace to meet with Bhudman, give my greetings to Navran-dar. I haven’t seen him for a few days. I may be too busy to find him again until after the convocation.”
Yavada gave him a smile which was meant to be disarming, but which made Daladham’s insides lurch. He slipped inside and prepared for bed, but when he laid down he found he couldn’t sleep.
* * *
Daladham sat on the lowest stair in the courtyard of Virnas and watched the rest of the saghada and the dhorsha take their seats in front of him. “I wish we could get them to sit in less adversarial positions,” he whispered to Bhudman.
Bhudman merely nodded.
The saghada had all taken up positions on the north side of the courtyard. There were about a hundred men, a striking collection in white garments and black beards, muttering together and crossing their hands, sending icy glares to the platform where Daladham and Bhudman sat.
The dhorsha, meanwhile, filled the south side of the courtyard. There were five times as many of them, men and women of every lineage in their colored bhildu: the Amya dhorsha in red and gold, the Ashtya in sea-green striped with silver, the orange and blue stripes of Dhashi’s consorts, and a handful of Jakhriya scholars wearing black with Jakhur’s moon stitched to their chests. Many of the women in the crowd wore rose-colored scarves over their lineage’s colors, marking them as priestesses of Peshali. He even spotted a handful of young men in undyed, cream-colored cotton, the men without a lineage who served the lesser Powers.
And in the center, the Chaludriya dhorsha, shining in buttery yellow. At their heart sat Praji, flanked by a pair of young female attendants, commanding the yellow-clad Chaludriya with whispered commands.
Yavada had succeeded. Praji had accepted the first pages of Bhudman’s transcribed manuscript. Daladham still didn’t know what price she had extracted. And her presence still did not promise her cooperation with their proposal.
“We are fighting against centuries of tradition,” Daladham murmured to himself.
He didn’t expect Bhudman to answer, but he heard the old saghada’s response. “I know how old the tradition is. I feel it heavy on my shoulders.”
“I suppose you would,” Daladham said.
The blast of a ram’s horn disturbed Daladham’s thoughts. He rose, along with everyone else in the courtyard, and bowed from his waist as Navran the King of Virnas emerged from the palace doors. He a
nd Bhudman knelt as Navran stood between them.
Navran was dressed in white to emphasize his role as the Heir of Manjur, a saghada, and the chief of the Uluriya. A silver pentacle hung on a chain around his neck and a dark blue cotton scarf draped over his shoulders, moving slowly in the gentle wind. This close, Daladham could make out the warped white-and-red burn scars on the king’s face and his expression of discomfort. He glanced for a moment at Bhudman, who nodded and whispered a word of encouragement.
Navran took a deep breath and began the long, customary greetings to the saghada and the lineages of the dhorsha, recognizing the khadir and majakhadir gathered at the edges of the courtyard. He officially blessed their gathering as the king of Virnas. Then he launched into his presentation of their cause.
Daladham and Bhudman had labored over the wording for hours. Navran had memorized it to the word.
“Holy saghada and venerable dhorsha, I have called you together as the Heir of Manjur, the chosen of Ulaur, and as king of the most ancient of the cities of Amur, Virnas on the Maudhu. For long ages the practice of dhaur has been divorced from the worship of Ulaur, by explicit law and dear custom. But these are black days, when the Empire is shaken to its foundation and wicked rebels trample the sacred places, when the Emperor of Amur is driven from the Ushpanditya and the great cities of the north are overrun. In these days an ancient word is revealed to us which may heal our old division. But—”
Navran was interrupted by one of the Amya dhorsha standing to her feet. A woman, one of the relatives of the temple mother in Virnas. She spoke in a clear, piercing voice.
“And where is the Emperor of all Amur? You call us together in your own name, but we would hear the word of Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling.”
Navran groped for a moment, having lost his place in his speech. Bhudman rose to his feet, and after a moment of consultation another man stepped forward.
The man wore around his neck a scarf with the spear emblem on one side and the crossed rice stalks on the other. He spoke in a simple, direct tone, just loud enough to be heard in the whole courtyard. “I am the emissary of the Emperor, and I have with me the message of Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, sealed with the seals of Majasravi and Davrakhanda. I will not read you all of it, but anyone who doubts my word may come to me afterward and examine the seals and the text.”
