This was something she particularly wanted Raven to see, but she had chosen the location with care. She did not dare to offend him by leading him to another shrine of Varuna, and she could not be sure which side Agni might have taken if there was conflict between the gods. So the temple had to be dedicated to Indra. It was a smaller temple of more ancient design but exquisitely crafted, with curves and turrets flowing upward in sculpted tiers to a crowning lotus of stone. It was situated on a platform overlooking the river and the wedding pavilion had been erected in bright red and gold silks on the greensward beside it.
Maryam had timed their arrival to coincide with the moment of betrothal for she did not want Raven to arrive too soon and become bored before the crucial rites were performed. It would ruin all her plans if he chose to leave before the full implications of the ceremony became clear.
The sacred fires were lit upon the altar and censers of burning incense added their curls of fragrant smoke to the scented air. Garlands of golden marigolds vied with the rich and colourful finery of the guests, and a profusion of gemstones flashed and sparkled in pendants, rings and necklaces. On a white lace tablecloth, gold and silver bowls and salvers were piled high with fruit and sweetmeats and savoury food, waiting for the feast to begin. A white-robed priest sang the sacred mantras and the bride, almost invisible beneath her splendid bridal gown, golden shawl and veil and more draped flower garlands, was led forward by her father to the altar.
Maryam held tight to Raven’s arm, holding him back so they could observe without becoming the focus of attention. She did not know the bride—the girl was a daughter of one of the lesser houses of Karakhor— but a wedding day belonged to the bride and groom and to them alone. Maryam did not want to spoil it by stealing any of their limelight.
The groom was already there, a slender, nervous youth in spotless white shirt, turban and trousers. While the priest read blessings over them, the proud, bewhiskered father carefully placed the hand of his daughter into the hand of the groom, at the same time promising that she would be unto death his faithful wife. The young man spoke his own vows and the girl gravely nodded her assent. The priest threw a handful of powder onto the flames which flashed upward. The father withdrew. Hand-in-hand, the bride and groom followed the chanting priest to walk three times around the sacred fire. With each circuit, the priest threw more powder into the burning brazier and the bright essence of Agni flew skyward to announce that two were now blessed as one.
Congratulations and a profusion of flower petals showered down on the happy couple. Their hands were firmly clasped now. The groom was smiling broadly and the bride’s eyes shone brightly above her masking veil. An orchestra began to play at the back of the pavilion, the music fluting and tinkling lightly and sweetly above the excited babble of the guests.
Maryam had seen enough. The revels would go on late into the night but the ritual was over. They had not been invited and it would be impolite to stay, but she hoped that Raven had understood the meaning of what they had witnessed. She led him away and they walked through a short avenue of red and purple bougainvillea to the edge of the river.
They were alone and she put her arms around his neck and passionately kissed his mouth. Then, by means of signs and a play-acting charade of themselves going through the same motions as the young couple they had just watched, she made plain her hopes and desires. She had feared that he would be angry, but instead he was amused and, mistaking his smile for joy and acceptance, she hugged him to her and kissed him again and again.
Raven enjoyed her attentions. He could and would take her as and when he wanted, but a warm and loving woman always gave more satisfaction than one that was cold, hostile or frightened. Also, he had no doubts about what she wanted, although a Gheddan marriage would have been a much more robust affair. On the home continent of his world a man simply called his stronghold together, placed his left hand firmly upon the shoulder of his chosen woman, drew his sword with his right hand and proclaimed that she was his wife. If the woman’s father and brothers approved, they cheered and offered him beer and wine. If they did not, they drew swords and challenged. The suitor calculated his acceptability or his sword prowess in advance and took his chances.
To go through this hand-in-hand nonsense of free giving, chanting priest, burning powders and cascades of flower petals, would be for Raven both meaningless and non-binding. But he was shrewd enough to see the political value of going along with her wishes. This pompous and insipid ritual would clearly have profound meaning for Maryam and for the city’s rulers and its people. Political alliance marriages were not unknown in Gheddan history and he could see how such a gesture could help to stabilize the situation here while his ship returned to Ghedda.
And so, to Maryam’s overpowering delight, her awesome hopes were fully realized. The blue-skinned god enfolded her in his strong arms, purposefully returned her enraptured kisses and nodded his glorious blue-curled head to signify his agreement.
She almost swooned on the spot, except that this was a moment to be forever cherished, an emotional excitement too wonderful to be missed by the departure of her senses. She held fast to her god and wished that he would consume her with all the fires of his passion.
Some time later, when her senses calmed, she realized that she still had to obtain the consent of her father.
She found Kara-Rashna and Jahan in private conference, two worried grey heads talking close together in low voices. One bearded face was pale and pain-filled, the other grim and thwarted by the consistent absence of any hard intelligence on the problems that confronted them. They were in one of her father’s private apartments and she, in her excitement and impetuosity, barely paused to brush away the startled protests of the armed guards at the door. The king and his general both looked up, astonished, as she burst in. Their private talks were normally sacrosanct.
“Daughter—“The king’s voice faltered.
“Maryam!” Jahan rose swiftly to his feet. His hand moved automatically to the hilt of his sword. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Maryam cried happily. She gave him a fleeting kiss and a hug and then the same to her father. “Uncle! Father. I have marvelous news!”
The king brightened. “Kananda has returned?” he asked hopefully.
“Not yet.” Maryam paused for breath, suddenly uncertain of how to tell them. She loved them both and she knew they loved her, but now she could not guess how they might react. They waited, baffled and expectant.
“The God,” she blurted at last. “The High One—Raven—He has chosen me. He has shown his desire to make me his bride!”
It was their turn to be speechless. The king’s jaw dropped open helplessly. Jahan’s eyes opened wide and for several seconds he could not even blink. They stared at her, then at each other. Then they looked at her again, shocked and unbelieving.
“How do you know?” Jahan finally recovered his voice and part of his wits. “Has he spoken to you in our language?”
“No, but this afternoon we watched a marriage ceremony taking place at the temple by the river. Raven—the God—then made signs to indicate that he wished for the two of us to go through the same ceremony.”
“Raven? That is his name?”
“He has made me understand his name and he knows mine. Beyond that our different languages still make things difficult.”
“Our priests know of no god named Raven,” Jahan said doubtfully.
“Indra uses many names.” Maryam was impatient. “And the priests do not know everything.”
“Even so, it is strange that this god cannot communicate in our language.”
“He communicates with signs and by means of his power. Is this not the way with all gods?”
“You took him to the temple by the river?” Kara-Rashna asked the question searchingly. He knew the willful ways of his daughter and he was aware of her growing confidence in her subtle woman’s skills.
“We saw a marriage ceremony.” Maryam was
not going to confess herself so easily. “Raven made it clear that he wishes for us to be joined as man and wife—as God and Bride.”
“If this is so, then where is he now?” Jahan pressed the question. “He should know that it is the business of a man, or even a god, to come in person to proclaim his intent to the father of his proposed bride.”
“This is truly so.” The old king was even more concerned with the total lack of protocol in these bewildering events. “It is not done for young women to speak of arranging their own marriages.”
This was delicate ground, which was why Maryam had chosen to tread it alone. She was not sure whether Raven would even have troubled to seek the permission of her father. She desperately did not want either of them to be offended by the other in any discussion or argument. And even more desperately, she did not want her parents to know that he had already loved her and become the despoiler of her sacred virginity. In her own mind, and in the eyes of the gods, she knew that now she could never belong fully to any other man. For her secret to be protected, for her own love to be fulfilled, for the security of the city and for the honour of all Karakhor, she knew that whatever their objections, this marriage had to take place.
She hesitated, and then argued forcefully. “But, father, the ways of the gods are not the ways of mortal men. We cannot expect them to arrange things in an ordinary way. Could a god ask for a bride? And perhaps be refused? It is unthinkable. But Raven has made his wishes known. We cannot refuse him.”
“We have refused Sardar and Maghalla,” Jahan reminded her, his glare suddenly ferocious. “Even though it may mean war between Karakhor and the rest of the known mortal world. If it needs to be, then we will defy the gods as well.”
“But, Uncle, if I wed with Raven, it will protect Karakhor from Sardar and Maghalla and from any other threat of war. This marriage will fulfil my duty to all our people. Karakhor will be allied with the gods. We shall become the greatest empire the world has ever known.”
The appeal failed. For Jahan was not a power-builder, but just a brilliant old soldier with undaunted devotion and pride. “You do not have to marry anyone,” he told her. “Neither king nor god. Unless it is your heart’s desire, Karakhor will not permit it. Your father and I will not permit it. The virtue of our royal princess is beyond any price on Earth or in heaven.
It was a splendid speech, and inside her breast Maryam felt her soul burn with shame, for her virtue had already flown. But he had given her the key to his consent and she knew she had won. She said bravely, “But, Uncle! Father! This is my heart’s desire. I want this marriage for myself as much as for Karakhor. This is my life, my destiny. It is ordained by the gods themselves. I am filled with joy and happiness. I only want that you should share my joy and be happy with me.”
Her plea was anguished and her hopes were radiant in her eyes. Jahan believed her and he knew when his own argument had been turned back against him. He had no words left to challenge her and he looked defensively to the king.
Kara-Rashna was not having a good day. His body pained him, his head ached and his mind was a struggling battlefield of awesome questions that were beyond his powers of comprehension. He did not know what he wanted to say or what decision he should make. He needed more advice on these portentous matters and he clearly saw that Jahan was also well out of his depth.
He said slowly, “If this marriage is to take place, then only one man is sufficiently holy to perform the rites. Of all our Brahmins, our High Priest Kaseem will be the only one acceptable to the gods. And as we must await his return in any case, then perhaps we should await his advice.”
Maryam showed her disappointment. She wanted an immediate wedding, not an excuse for a postponed decision.
However, Jahan was a master tactician and quick to see an opportunity for delay. He put a fond hand on her shoulder and said cheerfully, “When Kaseem returns, then Kananda will return also. Surely you would not want such a magnificent event as your wedding to take place without your favourite brother being present?”
It was Maryam’s turn to have her mind and emotions abruptly divided. In her excitement, she had temporarily forgotten Kananda, but suddenly she knew that Jahan was right. She could barely wait for her union with Raven to be made sacred and complete. Yet if Kananda were absent, her cup of happiness would be less than overflowing. He had always been more than a brother. He had been her friend, confidant and ally. Her love for him was almost as overpowering as her love for Raven, although it was adoration on a different plane. She did want him to be at her wedding. She wanted Kananda to see her joined to Raven and she wanted him to approve. She desperately wanted her faultless brother and her god-lover to be friends.
Kara-Rashna saw that Jahan had scored a winning point and he made the effort to restore some apparent mastery in his own household. “We will await the return of Kaseem,” he said firmly, “And of our son, Kananda. We cannot celebrate such an important alliance without the presence of our High Priest and First Prince.”
The king’s belief that his non-public conversations were private was mistaken. The young princes had always been free to roam and play in the palace maze of rooms and corridors, and long ago Rajar had found the perfect place for eavesdropping. He had been playing hide and seek with Nirad and Namita and had concealed himself in a cupboard in one of the smaller rooms above the king’s apartments. There, by pure chance, he had discovered that by pressing one ear to a gap between the floor tiles, he could clearly hear all that was said in the room below. It was a secret that he had kept to himself and a knowledge that he used more and more frequently as he became older and more ambitious.
Now he hurried with what he had learned, first to collect Nirad, and then to call upon their sister. “Maryam plans to marry the one called Raven,” he told them bluntly. He was angry and barely constrained. “We know that when our father dies, Kananda will be king and with his sister’s alliance to support him, there will be no sharing of power at all with our mother’s bloodline. We shall all be mere vassals. If we hope to adjust this balance of power back toward our own favour, then we need to act now!”
“How do you know all this?” Nirad wanted to know.
“That does not matter. Just believe me. It is true.”
“But what can we do? How can we act?”
“Our sister must act for us—as Maryam acts for Kananda.” Rajar looked to Namita. “We have seen how the one called Thorn looks upon you. He desires you. If Raven will marry Maryam, then perhaps Thorn will join with you. Our bloodline will have its own alliance with the power of the strangers. Then Kananda and Maryam will have to accept our due voice in all the matters of state.”
Namita recoiled, her face drained of colour. “But the one called Thorn is cold. He looks cruel.”
“Marriage is about politics.” Rajar shrugged as he spoke. “If you wait for Kara-Rashna to arrange your marriage, it will probably be to some ugly old king, just as Maryam was almost married to Sardar of Maghalla. At least this way you can serve us all.”
“But how—?”
“All you have to do is smile at him. Show a woman’s willingness. He will do the rest.”
“But I do not like him. I do not want to be joined to this man.”
“Bahdra has a king who is seventy years old. He dribbles constantly and smells like an incontinent goat, but he is always ready to accept another young bride. With Kanju alligned to Maghalla, Karakhor may seek an alliance with Bahdra. Kara-Rashna might well choose to marry you to this old king.”
“Our father would not do this to me. He reprieved Maryam from Sardar.”
“Kara-Rashna does not love you as much as he loves Maryam. He does not love Nirad and myself as much as he loves Kananda.” Rajar gripped her shoulders fiercely, barely holding back the urge to shake her. “Do this for us, Namita,” he implored her. “Just smile at the one called Thorn. I have plans that will work if only you encourage him a little.”
“What sort of plans?”
&nbs
p; “You will see, all in good time. But surely anything would be better than to wait to be married to an old goat like the king of Bahdra. Smile at Thorn, little sister. Just be pleasant.”
Chapter Eleven
After Blair and Gujar had left on their rescue mission, Kaseem had prayed almost hourly for their safe return with Kananda and all of those who rode with them. His spirit flight had left him exhausted with all his beliefs badly shaken, but just as he had always believed that there were gods above this world, he now believed that it was still possible that those gods could exist somewhere above the astral plane. Also, his priestly ministrations were still expected of him and in this physical world, he had no other role.
It was only the attempt to break his physical bonds and seek his far- sight that had called for a live sacrifice and privacy. For his normal daily routines, he had lovingly built a small altar in a lush glade close beside the main camp where he kept the sacrificial fire continually burning bright. At sunset and at dawn, he had ritually faced the setting or rising sun as he solemnly offered the gifts of small cuts of animal meat that the hunters brought to him as the gods’ due portion of their endeavours. He had barely eaten or slept over the past four days and again all his consciousness was directed to the vital task of enlisting the aid of Indra, Varuna and Agni to support and protect his absent companions. The return to his ritual routine was his only comfort.
Laurya had discreetly retired into the background after convincing Blair that she was able to pinpoint the location of the faint and distorted message that had come through from Zela during their absence. Blair had been dubious but desperate, and since the tall Alphan’s departure with Gujar and the chariots, Kaseem had remained on his knees before his altar, reciting endless mantras of supplication. When the chariots at last returned, he was on the point of collapse and unable to rise. His stiffened legs were crossed beneath him and temporarily useless. Two warriors came to lift him gently and reverently and carried him to face Kananda.
The Sword Lord Page 16
