by J. S. Bangs
The man removed a bound sheaf of palm leaves and read: The Emperor of all Amur hears the petition of Navran-dar of Virnas and approves of every part of his endeavor. Gather together the dhorsha and the saghada. The hour is ripe for the Powers of Amur to be united, for only in our union may the wickedness of the Mouth of the Devourer be overcome.
The man bowed and stepped back. The dhorsha woman bowed, though her face was blackened by a frown, and she sat down.
Navran looked at Bhudman, flustered. He had apparently forgotten where he’d left off. Bhudman whispered something in the king’s ear. Navran nodded.
“I shall allow the elder saghada Bhudman to speak,” Navran said, unable to hide the relief in his voice. He stepped back and sat down on the cushion placed for him on the palace steps.
Bhudman stood at the front of the dais. His gaze roved through the gathered saghada, and he bowed his head for a moment with his hands crossed over his breast. He began to pray in a low voice that nonetheless carried through the courtyard.
“I bow my head to Ulaur, the light unborn, the word unspoken, the fire of ages, who overthrew the serpent, who drives off the unclean powers, who keeps Manjur and his children in purity and the good.”
The courtyard grew quiet. He turned toward the hundred saghada gathered on the right. “I am an old man. I have been a saghada serving Ulaur in purity and the good for nearly fifty years. You who are from Virnas know me well. I do not pretend that I am here to ask you something light.”
“What, exactly, are you asking us?” one of the younger saghada asked. He sat with his arms folded across his chest.
Bhudman leaned forward onto his cane. “I ask that you consider what is for the glory of Ulaur, the well-being of the Uluriya, and the desires of the Heir. Recently we came into possession of a book, an ancient book, written in the script which only we saghada know. Many of you have already heard the words of the book, and in the days to come all of you will be permitted to read it and examine its pages. But you will learn what I have already learned. The Powers of Amur were once the servants of Ulaur, who strove against him in ancient rebellion. For this rebellion we Uluriya call them the faithless Powers, and we abhor the practice of dhaur which is offered to them.”
A smattering of hisses and boos spread through the crowd at these words, from the Uluriya to the dhorsha and back. Bhudman raised his hands and spoke loudly.
“But what has rebelled may be reconciled. And this is what we offer: that the Powers and the dhorsha may submit again to Ulaur, as the rightful Lord of the Powers, and that dhaur might again be offered rightfully, not to the faithless Powers, but to the Powers who are once again faithful.”
The jeering grew louder at this point. There was angry movement among the saghada and the dhorsha, and a few yellow-clad Chaludriya in the back walked out. The same woman of the Amya dhorsha stood up.
“And who is the traitor of dhaur among the dhorsha who accepts this insult? Who—”
Daladham stood. “I am,” he said loudly.
“And who are you?”
The woman stood with her fists on her hips and her eyes dark with anger.
“I am Daladham-dhu of the Amya dhorsha,” he began, but the woman shook her head.
“What is your claim to speak for us? Do you have the blessing of the temple mother here in Virnas? In any other city? Do you have notable ancestors or any name of renown among the Amya?”
“I served my whole life at a temple in Tulakhanda—”
“Tulakhanda!” the woman mocked. “As far from here as one can get in Amur. I heard that the Mouth of the Devourer overwhelmed it—”
“He did—”
“And did you have the blessing of its mother to flee here?”
“No!” Daladham barked. “And do you want to know my pedigree, why I may speak for the Amya dhorsha? Because I stood at the altar to Am in the sanctum of Tulakhanda, and I watched as the Mouth of the Devourer turned the flesh of my nephew to tar because he would not blaspheme the sacred Powers.”
A quiet mutter of surprise. Daladham lowered his voice to a growl.
“That is my right to speak. I have seen whom we fight, and more than any of you I yearn to defeat him. And I was there when the power of Am was broken.”
“The power of Lord Am is not broken!” the woman shouted.
“Quiet,” Daladham snapped. “Were you there in the Majavaru Lurchatiya when the dhorsha offered rams to Lord Am in the highest rite of the temple? I was. I stood before the black Amajati and felt the presence of the Lord, as piercing and hot as a spear-head drawn from the forge. And I saw She Who Devours turn the blood of the Lord’s sacrifice into black putrescence, and I felt the power of Am scatter like dust in the wind. I entered Am’s shrine in Davrakhanda, in the great Ashtyavarunda where the Lord and Lady were joined in marriage, and I saw the image of the Lord split down the middle. I have the right to speak, because I bring you this fearful word based on what I have seen with my own eyes: the power of Am is broken. If there is any champion among the Powers of Amur who will stand against She Who Devours, it will not be Am.”
The courtyard drowned in silence.
The Amya woman uncrossed her arms. “I hope you do not expect to carry this council merely on the back of your stories and your sorrow.”
“We have many proofs,” Daladham said, “both from the ancient book which the thikratta brought out of Ternas and the hymns of the Powers themselves. You are here so we may understand them together.”
One of the saghada rose to his feet. With a lurch of dismay, Daladham saw that it was Nakhur.
“Do you imagine that only the dhorsha have to be convinced?” Nakhur said.
“You sat by me while we combed the Law and the Customs,” Bhudman said to Nakhur.
“Yes,” Nakhur said. His hand was clenched in a fist, and his jaw was tense. “And you know I do not find your proofs to be sufficient. Listen,” he said, turning away from Bhudman and Daladham on the stairs and addressing the saghada seated around him. “When I purified the os Dramab in Kalignas, the blood-kin of the Heir of Manjur, I didn’t allow them to persist in the worship of their clan idols. The Law of Ghuptashya is exacting, and the worship of Ulaur is absolute. We do not compromise with the faithless Powers.”
“Nakhur,” Bhudman said. “Let them hear our arguments first. Don’t drive them out.”
“They’ll hear them,” Nakhur said. “But not only your arguments. I will not drive them out of the council, but keep them here to listen to my words as well as yours.”
A rumble of agreement and assent from most of the saghada. Bhudman raised his hand. “Let us examine the book of the thikratta saved from the fires of Ternas,” he said. “Most of you have already heard the story of how it came to us. It is written in the script of the saghada, which the dhorsha do not know, and which the saghada do not teach. But we have already begun to transcribe it into the common script, so that all may examine its words and weigh them for themselves.”
“But we must take the word of the saghada,” one of the dhorsha cried out, standing.
“No,” Bhudman said. “Take the word also of Daladham-dhu, who alone has been permitted to learn our secret script. Tomorrow morning two hours after sunrise we will be here at the palace, and Daladham-dhu will begin the public reading. In the meanwhile, the book itself will be available for perusal for any who wish to examine it, whether they understand the script or not.”
The dhorsha nodded in assent and sat down. For a moment the yard was silent.
Daladham whispered to Navran, “My lord and king, perhaps we should recess for a short while. Regroup after noon.”
Navran nodded in relief. He rose and addressed the crowd briefly to release them, an announcement that seemed to fill the crowd with relief. From where Daladham sat it looked like most of the faces wore scowls. Maybe lunch would calm some nerves.
Navran returned to the interior of the palace, and Bhudman and the others began to rise. A servant came out from the door which
Navran had entered and announced, “You are all invited to dine with the Heir.”
Bhudman began to answer, but Daladham’s attention was diverted by a voice calling, “Daladham-dhu, if you will.”
He turned. A young woman wearing a yellow bhildu and a rose-colored scarf stood a few feet behind him, looking at him expectantly.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Praji-dhu asked me to call for you,” the woman said. “She invites you to dine with her today at noon.”
“Oh,” Daladham said absently. He couldn’t eat at the same table as the Heir in any case—the purity laws of the dhorsha and the saghada were too incompatible—so he would be banished to a side room with some of the other khadir. “Tell the mother that I’ll be delighted to dine with her.”
“I’ll bring her the news,” the attendant said. She bowed and walked away.
Daladham tried not to look too pleased. There was plenty of persuasion yet to do. But if Praji was inviting him to her table, then at least she was willing to listen.
NAVRAN
“My lord and king,” Utalni’s maid said with a bow as Navran finished dressing. “The queen would like to speak with you.”
Navran’s valet straightened the kurta one last time. Navran was due to meet with Yavada and Bidhra the king of Patakshar in the garden for breakfast, so he had been up early. At the maid’s words he glanced up with surprise. “Utalni-dar?”
“Yes, my lord and king. She asked me to come and tell you.”
It had been an excruciating several weeks for Navran, full of obligations and responsibilities which had kept him up late and had him waking early—meetings with the dhorsha and the saghada, discussion with the khadir, calming the fears and the anxieties of Veshta and his household, keeping the council running, mustering the troops for Sadja, and attempting to stave off famine with desperate shipments of rice. Utalni had returned to sleeping in her own bed, not due to any animosity between her and Navran, but simply because Navran came to bed so late that she couldn’t sleep.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a moment,” he said.
The valet brushed the last of the lint from Navran’s kurta, then sent him on his way.
Utalni’s chamber smelled of rose-water. The queen stood by the window, bathed in golden morning light, looking over the crenellations of the wall and the roofs of the city toward the river. At hearing Navran’s feet at the entrance she turned and smiled.
“Navran-dar, my lord and king,” she said softly. Navran felt a pleasant pulse of warmth in his chest. In most mouths my lord and king was a piece of obligatory flattery and little more. But Utalni’s happiness made the words into a poem.
“Utalni-dar, my queen,” Navran said. He crossed the room, and she met him halfway. She folded her hands in his, kissed him on his lips, and pressed her head against his chest. His arms crossed over her back and pressed her into an embrace.
“I haven’t seen you enough,” she said.
“Very busy.”
“I know. But I have to tell you something.”
She pressed away from him and looked down, as if suddenly embarrassed to meet his gaze. He put his thumb on her chin and attempted to lift her eyes to his, but she turned her face away.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “I’m just… I’ve been waiting. I wanted to be sure.”
His heartbeat stumbled. He felt a bubble rising in his gut, but he couldn’t yet tell whether it held dread or hope. “Sure about what?”
She closed her eyes, then pressed her face into his chest again and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Navran-dar,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric of his kurta. “I’m pregnant.”
The bubble popped. “Really?” He started breathing heavily. “Are you sure?”
“I said I would wait to be sure.” There was a soft edge of teasing in her voice. “It’s been three months.”
“Then you’re sure,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her into an embrace so strong that she let out a little squeak of pain. “Have you told anyone else?”
“No. Not even my maid, though she can count, so she must know.”
Navran’s pulse was beating faster and faster. “I have to tell them. Unless you don’t want—”
“No, tell them, tell everyone,” Utalni said excitedly. “You’re seeing my father after this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, exactly, I should—”
“And I should tell the maid, then all the servants will know within an hour.”
“… and Bidhra-dar—”
“You’re meeting with him?”
“Him and your father, I have to tell both.”
“Of course, of course!”
Navran let out a heavy breath and loosened his grip on Utalni. She rose up on her tip-toes and kissed him on the mouth. They kissed two more times, mouths open, Navran feeling her warm and wet lips. Her body pressed into him.
With a groan he pushed her away. “I have to go,” he said. Another moment and he would never be able to tear himself off of her. “I have to….”
He turned away, flustered. He couldn’t keep the king of Patakshar waiting. Nor Utalni’s father.
“No, I understand,” Utalni said. She clutched his hand and pressed it against her chest. “But will you make time to come to me tonight?”
“Yes,” Navran said. “I’ll try. No, I won’t just try. I’ll come.”
Utalni smiled. She kissed the back of Navran’s hand, then gently pushed him away. “Tell my father and Bidhra-dar. I’ll see you tonight.”
Dastha escorted Navran to the pavilion that stood in the garden. A trio of mats were set in the shade on the dry grass to protect them from the burning sun, which was hot even at this hour of the morning. Two of the mats were already occupied by Navran’s guests: Yavada of Ahunas and Bidhra of Patakshar. Dastha placed himself behind the third mat where Navran would sit.
Yavada rose to his feet and bowed deeply when Navran approached. “Navran-dar, my lord and king,” he said.
Bidhra also rose, greeting Navran with a bow of the head and said, “Navran-dar.”
“Yavada-kha, Bidhra-dar,” Navran said, a shallow bow to each in turn. “A fine morning to see both of you.”
Bidhra smiled. “You seem to be in a bright mood.”
“Yes. I have received great news.” He paused, thinking he should make the announcement in some grand form, but the words spilled before he could contain them. “The queen is with child.”
“The queen?” Yavada stammered. “Utalni-dar?”
“Yes,” Navran said.
Yavada’s lips spread into a shining smile. He came forward and closed his hands over Navran’s, shaking with delight. “Truly! The stars upon her—and upon you, my lord and king—upon the child. Really? Yes, wonderful. I can’t believe it. Been so long—but not really, in fact, you’ve been married over a year—delightful—”
“Congratulations,” Bidhra said. He stepped forward and gently pushed Yavada back, taking Navran’s hand. “Your first child, is it not?”
“Yes,” Navran said. He realized belatedly that Yavada had committed a breach of protocol by not letting Bidhra offer his congratulations first—but who could blame the new grandfather?
“Wonderful.” Bidhra smiled. “Let us pray for a son. The most important thing for a king to have is an heir.”
“But I have an heir,” Navran said. “Mandhi’s son Jhumitu.” As he said it he saw the crestfallen look on Yavada’s face, and he felt his mistake.
Bidhra looked nonplussed. “Oh. Yes. A son nonetheless.”
“Nonetheless,” Yavada said. A shade of cold calculation passed over Yavada’s face. Then his equanimity returned. His eyes brightened, he breathed heavily, and he kneaded his pudgy hands together. “A child. Utalni-dar with child.”
“Peshali’s hand upon her.” Bidhra paused. “You’ll accept Peshali’s blessings?”
“We would say the stars upon her,” Navran sai
d. He watched Yavada. The majakhadir hid something. A drip of fear began to poison his happiness.
“Ah, but if your council comes out the way you hope, then perhaps you’ll start accepting Peshali’s blessings after all.”
“Yes,” Yavada said, “I accept the blessings of any and all.”
“Shall we sit?” Bidhra asked. Without waiting for an answer he gathered the folds of his dhoti together and sat himself on the cushion. Navran and Yavada followed. At seeing the three nobles sitting, servants began bringing out the trays with their breakfast.
“Having spoken of this council,” Bidhra said with a casual wave of his hand, “perhaps you can give me some idea of how that’s going.”
Navran had been meeting with Bhudman and Daladham every night to discuss the day’s proceedings, to say nothing of the endless arguments with Mandhi, Veshta, and Nakhur. But he was reluctant to say too much. “Hard to say. They’ve been arguing for six days, and it seems like they could go on for another sixty.”
“Sixty days?” Bidhra looked amused. “That does sound like the scholars I know. But we don’t have that much time. Sadja-daridarya, whose name we say with fear and trembling, wants us to arrive in Jaitha with our armies by the next new moon.”
“I know,” Navran said. “I’ll make them finish by then.”
“Do you know what the difficulties are?”
Yavada cleared his throat. “I believe the dhorsha are mostly disposed to accept Navran-dar’s proposal. For them, it is not much different whether Chaludra is the vassal of Lord Am or of Ulaur.”
Navran’s trickle of concern grew stronger. He hadn’t been aware that Yavada was speaking to the dhorsha. “For most of them,” he corrected. “There is opposition. Daladham has told me.”
“There is always opposition,” Bidhra said.
