by Sarah Zettel
But then, then, she felt Avanasy’s kiss, and she felt her being, flesh and spirit, yearn to respond, but she did not know how.
But the weight was hers, and the will was hers, and she could feel her hand. She would raise her hand, she would touch him. She would hold him. She would.
Avanasy, almost not believing what he saw, watched, filled with hope and fear, as Ingrid’s hand struggled to lift itself.
“Yes.” He kissed her again. “Yes, love. Come back to me.”
Ingrid felt herself sinking into the ground, into the weight of her flesh, into the sluggish flow of her own blood, and into Avanasy’s embrace. She was still so cold, so far away, and yet, too, she felt the warmth of her bones gathering around her. She could raise her hand now, could touch his cheek, and feel its warmth and roughness underneath her palm as her hand traced its way down his back to his shoulder to his arm to his hand where he held her. She kissed him and held him close, for if he let her go now she would fly away again.
“Hold me, hold me,” she said and she knew she spoke with her true voice. Avanasy gathered her close in his arms, kissing her endlessly, taking her breath, breathing again into her. She felt him weary, and in pain, yet she also knew his desire quickened his blood, as her desire quickened hers, growing insistent, pulling her home, and she embraced him, wrapping his hands around her so he might caress her, the warmth and strength of his touch bringing her closer to him still.
She had no other thought — no care for propriety, or fear of abandonment. She wished him close, wished no barrier between them, and he knew her need and he laid her down and covered her and she was able to wrap herself around him so that they could lie close, and closer yet, and she knew nothing but joy, and she opened her eyes and she saw Avanasy and she was whole and alive and for that one moment they were together in life and love, and the morning star shone down from a brightening sky, and Ingrid knew this was all the blessing that they would ever need. This was their true marriage, whatever ceremony might come afterward.
For a while after that she slept. She woke at last to the dawn, and the feel of Avanasy stroking her hair. She turned to look up at him, and found him gazing down at her, and his cheeks were wet with tears.
“You found me,” she rasped, her voice dry in her throat.
Avanasy shook his head. “No, you found your own way. I think it must be ever so with you.”
She took his hand to still it and also to pull herself up. She was covered in sand, and hungry as a bear, but she didn’t care. “Do you know what happened?”
“I think I do. I think that touch of the ghost that troubled your sister loosened your soul from your body.”
Not even reflex made her say that was impossible. She was far beyond doubting any word he spoke of sorceries and spirit. “But … why now? It’s been months.”
“Until now you have not been in a place where magic and spirit dwelt openly, and I brought you here without thought.”
“Can you … undo this?”
“No,” he said simply and bitterly. “Not yet. I do not understand it. It should not be possible. I would have to consult with … others. A way may be found. Until then, though, I think I can bind you together so that the danger is at least lessened.”
“Then we had better do that. I do not want to see that … old witch again anytime soon, thank you very much.” She wondered if she should tell him what Baba Yaga had said, about seeing her future and her past, but she looked in his eyes and saw how much he already blamed himself for what was happening, and how real his pain, physical and spiritual, was. She decided to wait. The witch sought to discomfort her, and him. She thought to frighten Ingrid into doing her bidding.
Ingrid set her jaw. Well, I for one will not play into your hands.
But those thoughts made Ingrid shiver, and a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if somehow they had been overheard.
Chapter Twelve
The house guard captain gave his horse its head, guiding the animal only with his knees while he raised his javelin. As the horse raced by the posts that had been set up on Vaknevos’s great, green lawn, the captain neatly spitted the small brass rings hanging from their threads — one, two, three, four. He missed the fifth, but wheeled the horse tightly around and sent it galloping back to capture the fifth ring. Holding his javelin high for the roar of approval from the assembled nobles and courtiers, he walked his sweating horse up to the dais with the imperial canopy, reverenced from the saddle, and dropped the rings into a heap of similar trinkets at the emperor’s feet.
Kacha acknowledged the gesture with a bow of his head. At his back, the lords master laughed over their various wagers. Ambassador Girilal, for whose benefit this display ostensibly had been arranged, applauded politely before reaching again for the tiny cup of clear, peppery liquor set out on the refreshment tray for him. Girilal was developing quite a taste for the stuff, Kacha noted. It was a taste that perhaps should be nurtured.
Out on the lawn, the servants had hung fresh rings from the waiting posts. The invited guests who did not merit a spot on the dais milled about behind the temporary fences of blue-and-gold ribbons while other servitors dispensed drinks and dainties among them. When all was ready, Nausha, the commander of the Imperial House Guard, raised his hand, sending the next officer charging out.
“These seem a well-trained and disciplined group,” remarked Girilal. “I confess, I am quite impressed.”
“I was myself when I first saw them,” Kacha acknowledged. The officer on the field had tossed aside his pike with its catch of rings and drawn his sword. Riding back down the lawn at full tilt, he clove a spitted apple neatly in twain as he thundered past.
Kacha lifted his cup to the officer as he wheeled the horse again to take aim at another set of apples already stuck into place. “We have taken great care to keep them actively employed so that they will be ready for whatever may come.”
“A wise policy,” said Girilal blandly. “Especially in a land known for its fractious provinces.”
Kacha pursed his lips. On the field, the officer slashed left and right, never once missing his mark. The cheers rose up to shake the day. “Not so fractious as you might believe. This empire offers great advantages in peace and security for those who accept their part in her.”
“And, of course, they nurture great love for their empress.” Girilal nodded toward the empty chair that stood at Kacha’s left side. “And her soon-to-be heir.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Kacha, and his right hand twitched. Girilal was probing, but for what?
The officer on the field finished his run and rode his sweating horse sedately past the imperial dais to make his reverence and receive the nod of approval in return. Behind them, there was more laughter, and more wagers proposed and accepted. They were content, his council lords. Regular meetings in the room fitted out with Yamuna’s carpet kept their minds calm. The ranks of the House Guard swelled, and the newer officers could be safely charged with keeping order among the oblasts and the cities. Eventually, they could be trusted with more extensive duties, should such be necessary. There where whispers, here and there, of potential difficulties that would have to be dealt with, if what was to come could not sufficiently distract the troublemakers.
On the lawn, the setup for the next run was complete. The council lords finished their current round of betting to watch the next officer. Girilal reached again for his liquor cup.
In that moment of relative stillness, a very different cry rang out across the lawn. This was no soldier’s bellow as he charged, no shout of triumph from a betting noble. This was a harsh, rattling cry torn from a worn throat desperate to be heard.
“News! News!”
Hoofbeats thudded across the lawn. Exclamations rose from the assembled crowd. Commander Nausha barked two orders and a rank of mounted officers assembled themselves in front of the dais while the armed guard that flanked the emperor and the council came at once to attention, their hands slapping on
to the pommels of their swords.
A single rider careened across the lawn. Foam flew from the horse’s mouth, and the rider slumped low across its neck as if he lacked the ability to hold himself upright. Yet, he mustered the strength to cry again.
“News! Imperial Majesty! News!”
Commander Nausha rapped out another order and the front rank of horsemen moved forward to intercept the rider, but Kacha got to his feet.
“Hold!” he called. “Let him approach!”
Another order rang out. Smartly, the mounted ranks parted to let the stranger enter the Imperial presence, but none of the soldiers on the dais removed their hands from their swords, nor did Commander Nausha relax at all.
As the rider drew nearer, it could be seen he wore the black coat and green trim of the Sol’uyche oblast, one of the most southern provinces. His boots were caked with mud, and more mud spattered his coat and helmet. He had lost one glove and that hand, where it clenched the reins, had been slashed and battered and fresh blood oozed out between the scabs.
The crowd on the lawn had gone completely still. Only the horses stamped and shifted restlessly, jingling their harnesses and snorting out their disapproval.
The rider halted his trembling, sweating horse and lifted a paper white face to Kacha and the assemblage on the dais. He tried to lift his naked hand to make the reverence, but Kacha waved the gesture away.
“Imperial Majesty,” the man gasped. “I am come from the border. From Miateshcha. My commander sent me across into Hung Tse to see …” He tried to draw a deep breath and it ended in a rattling cough. “Hung Tse is sending its troops on the border. I overheard a band of raiders. They said …” Again, his words were lost in a wracking cough. “They said there would soon be no work for them to do, because the soldiers of the Heart of the World would level all before them.” He managed to take one shaky breath. “I have ridden many days to bring you word, Imperial Majesty …”
The man’s strength gave out at last, and he slumped forward over his horse’s neck. Commander Nausha glanced at Kacha for permission, which Kacha gave with a sharp nod. Nausha ordered forward a clutch of soldiers who gently slipped the rider off his horse and bore him away. Another took charge of the trembling beast and led it after its master. Its head hung so low that its mane all but brushed the ground.
But Kacha had no time to think more on the fallen rider. Behind him, the voices of the council were rising from murmurs to demands for explanation. The crowd on the field sounded like the surging of the ocean.
He lifted his voice to carry across the field. “This is grave news indeed. The empress must be alerted at once. But be sure,” he raised his hands, “no threat to Isavalta will go unanswered!”
“Strike them down!” shouted someone from the crowd.
Kacha suppressed a smile. “All enemies to Isavalta will be struck down and they will never rise!”
A cheer started, softly at first, but it rose and gathered strength and broke upon the summer air. “Strike!” cried a voice. “Strike them down!” shouted another.
“Let them die!”
“Kill them all!”
The cheer turned into an ugly thunder of voices and Kacha made no move to be heard over it. Instead he spoke to Commander Nausha. “Disperse the crowd gently, and call your men back to the barracks. You will be summoned to the council room shortly. My Lords Master.” He turned to the men behind him. “Meet us in the council room within the hour. I must go to the empress.” He looked to Girilal. “Be so good as to walk with me, Ambassador. There are things we must speak of at once.”
He took the ambassador’s elbow. The council lords, their faces ranging from worried to furious stood back and reverenced while Kacha led Girilal down the dais’s steps.
Once they were away from the council and striding across the grass toward Vaknevos with the honor guards a prudent distance away, Girilal drew close to Kacha and whispered low in Kacha’s ear.
“I will ask you plainly, Son of the Throne. What are you doing?” Girilal used the court language of Hastinapura, and the first title Kacha was given at his birth.
“With all reverence, Learned Sir,” replied Kacha, just as softly and in the same tongue, “your meaning is not plain to me.”
“That man came at a time too convenient for it to be a coincidence of nature,” replied Girilal in the same, even whisper. He might have been speaking of some rare and beautiful bird he did not wish to frighten away. “And at a time when you were displaying the military prowess of your new realm. I ask you again, Son of the Throne, by all the names of the Seven Mothers, what are you doing?”
“Ridding Isavalta and Hastinapura of a common enemy.” Kacha had to work to keep his smile from his face. He had not meant to tell Girilal of this so soon, but the man had forced the issue. It was best he hear the bones of it, and that Kacha could see how he would respond, now, before a communiqué indicating unease could be written to the Pearl Throne.
“Think on it,” he went on, folding his hands behind his back. His right hand twitched again. The part of him that was Yamuna did not like this course, but neither did it actively interfere. “If Isavalta goes to war, the resources of Hung Tse will be sorely taxed. They will no longer be able to support the invaders my uncle battles against. He will then be able to harry their southern borders as we take the north. The central lands will be ours to divide, and there will be no bar to the peace and prosperity between us.”
Girilal narrowed his eyes, as if seeking to see beneath Kacha’s skin to find what truth lay there. “And has your uncle approved of this plan?”
Here came the risk. “Not my uncle, no.”
Despite his wish to appear casual, Kacha found himself watching the ambassador intently. Girilal did not know it, but what he said next might determine the length of his life. Sweat prickled Kacha’s scalp. The ambassador would make an excellent and useful ally, but if he could not see … well, one additional death would not be that much more difficult to hide, especially as a war was about to begin.
“No, it is not something of which your uncle would approve.” Girilal fastened his gaze on the approaching walls of Vaknevos. “There are many important things to which he has given no credence.”
Kacha felt himself relax. “Fortunately, we are discussing the affairs of Isavalta, and not of Hastinapura. It is not the Pearl Throne which decides actions here.”
“So, the empress agrees with your plan?”
“The empress has left all in my hands.” Which was the truth, at least in part.
Girilal walked beside him in silence for a time, digesting his thoughts with care. Kacha tried not to watch him too closely, to give him some room in which to think. To frighten him now would be to lose all. If Girilal decided his duty was to the one on the throne, then their alliance was over before it had begun; and he would have to ask Yamuna how best to deal with a man who had seemed to hold so much promise. But, if his alliance was to the throne itself, and the proper order …
“Then, I suppose,” said Girilal at last, “it remains for me to ask the Son of the Throne how my office may assist in this hopeful plan.”
Now Kacha could smile with ease, as he felt the future Yamuna had taught him to dream of come that much closer.
Yamuna arrived in Devang on foot, the only proper way to approach such a place. Although he had been there a hundred times or more, he leaned upon his staff and took a moment to simply stare.
Once, Devang had been the greatest of all temples. Every bit of it had been carved from the living rock of the cliffs that towered high on all sides — the obelisks, the reliefs, the altars under their stone canopies, and the niches where the acolytes had trained and worshiped. All were the same shiny red stone. All were of a single piece growing out of the smooth red stone floor. It had been seven generations in the making, and now none even came here. It was a place of ghosts and demons, a place of old gods and goddesses conquered and cast down by the Seven Mothers before Ajitabh bowed down before the
m and rose up again in their names to lead the founding of the Pearl Throne.
Now the conquered received their sacrifice only when the Mothers were done, and no one came to this temple but tribes of monkeys to house themselves in the niches. And Yamuna.
The red stone reflected all the heat of the sun, turning the ancient temple into an oven. Yamuna walked unhesitatingly into the blazing heat. All around him, the squawks and calls of the monkey tribes filled the air. One sat on the central obelisk, gazing down at him. A family groomed each other on the eastern altar and on its canopy. Another pair squabbled by the lone fountain that still bubbled from the earth to spill across the barren stone. The place smelled strongly of heat and animals.
But for all that, the place had been made for power, and power simmered here, even now. Great things could still be accomplished here by one who knew the proper rites.
Monkeys screamed at each other in alarm as Yamuna strode into their midst. They scattered like leaves in the wind to the mouths of their niches, where they might squeal their insults at him in safety. For a moment, they reminded him very much of Chandra.
“I will not permit this!” Chandra had shouted at him, red-faced and shaking in his anger. “Your place is with me!”
“It is your wedding night,” replied Yamuna coolly. “I cannot see how you would need my help for what must be done.”
“You would send me alone to my exile and a house of spies,” he sulked.
“You have your work to do there.” Yamuna produced an amber bracelet carved with serpents, symbols of wisdom and fidelity twined around each other. “When you arrive, you will give your bride this for her wrist, and you will put this,” he held up a small clay vial stoppered tightly with wax, “in her tea as soon as you are able. Take care that you do not yourself inhale any steam from that tea. When all is done, she will not be able to keep any secret from us.” From me. Chandra grasped the trinkets as greedily as the monkeys around him now grasped their fruit rinds. “The preparations I go to make now will help ensure that while Samudra and his queen may believe they spy on us, their eyes will be clouded while ours see clearly.”
