by Astrid Amara
“I think they’re showy,” Jandu said.
“Like you can talk,” Keshan said back.
Jandu laughed. “I don’t know why I have such a reputation for being vain. The only thing I brag about is my archery and I have earned the right to be proud. I am the best archer in the kingdom and I know it. What’s wrong with saying so?”
If the statement had come from anyone else, Keshan would probably have disliked him. But Jandu’s self-assurance seemed charmingly honest and Keshan found it attractive. Jandu wasn’t compensating for some failing or insecurity by bragging. He truly believed he was the best.
They walked in silence for short distance. Jandu fidgeted slightly. His eyes darted to Keshan.
“You realize that Firdaus Trinat is probably going to be with Darvad and your brother,” Jandu said.
“So?”
There was another pause, as if Jandu gathered courage to continue. “Doesn’t it bother you? Your brother is friends with the man who had you exiled?”
“I don’t hate Firdaus. My exile was just and not hard to endure. Firdaus is no threat to me now,” Keshan replied. “And Iyestar is friends with Darvad so meeting Firdaus is unavoidable. I would understand if you don’t want to see him, though. He’s bound to be angry with you.”
Jandu didn’t respond. He stared ahead, and Keshan could tell he debated saying something. After years of living with the Yashvas, who were so hard to read emotionally, it was a pleasant change to spend time with men, with their feelings so clearly displayed.
“Does it bother you that I’m Yudar’s brother?”
Keshan thought of telling Jandu the truth, that it did bother him. Yudar represented everything that Keshan had spent the last ten years of his life fighting against. But this was harmless, Keshan told himself, this innocent flirtation. It wasn’t Jandu’s fault that his brother represented the traditionalists.
“I’m not interested in who your brothers are. I’m interested in you,” Keshan said.
Jandu blushed, and moved forward once more, walking at a faster pace.
“Besides,” Keshan added, “my political interests have nothing to do with who should be king. I am more concerned about the plight of the lower castes, and whomever can support me in improving the equality of this nation deserves my gratitude.”
“Equality? Between the Triya and Suya?” Jandu grimaced in distaste.
“Between all the castes.”
“All of them?”
Keshan sighed. “I know that is not your belief or the belief of your brother, who holds tradition above humanity.” Keshan had the sinking feeling that his flirtation with Jandu might be nearing its unsatisfying end. It was too bad, since he’d been so sure Jandu was attracted to him.
“Why do you care so much about the lower castes?” Jandu asked. Keshan heard no malice in his question, only curiosity, so Keshan answered him truthfully.
“It reflects poorly on the ruling class when the people of this nation struggle under such tyranny. In a society where three-fourths of the people live burdened by religious law that prevents them from equality merely because of who their parents are, everyone suffers. Only in a truly egalitarian society can all of us achieve the greatness that the Shentari faith claims to strive for.”
“But you are Triya,” Jandu said.
“Only because my father was Triya, and his father before him. We need to change, to herald in a new era where a person is judged on his actions, not on his blood. It is what God wants for us.”
Jandu scowled. “How can you be so certain?”
“I have seen it. In a vision.”
Jandu stared at Keshan as though Keshan were slightly mad.
Keshan just smiled, accustomed to this reaction.
“Say that again?” Jandu said.
“I have visions of the future. Prophecies, some may call it, although where they come from or why I will never know. Maybe it’s my Yashva blood. But my entire life, I’ve been able to see glimpses of the future. And the future I see is one where caste no longer dictates righteousness.”
Jandu looked at him oddly. Keshan felt almost intimidated by the intensity of Jandu’s stare. But then the corner of Jandu’s mouth quirked up and he grinned.
“You are one weird guy,” Jandu said. He continued to lead the way down the hallway. “Powers of prophecy? Were you the one who predicted Suraya would marry three warriors?”
Keshan fell in beside him once more. “No, I wish my power was that useful. I wish I could predict the weather or know what will be served at the royal dinner tomorrow.”
“That’s easy. It’s always butter chicken on Wednesdays.”
Keshan laughed.
“What do you see?” Jandu asked.
“Just images, really, and sometimes accompanying sounds or smells. Often faces are blurred, or other details that seem meaningless are crystal clear.
“Sometimes I see an entire scene, and then weeks later, it happens. Or I’ll catch images of something, disjointed and unfocused, and then later on I’ll recognize them from a past vision. There is no pattern, and I have no control over them.”
“Can you change what you see?” Jandu asked. “If something breaks in your vision, can you intercede to stop it from breaking?”
Keshan shook his head. “Half the time I don’t know what I’m seeing.”
“But how can you be sure these visions are telling you that everyone should be equal?” Jandu asked.
Keshan didn’t miss the disapproval in Jandu’s tone. “I’ve had a vision of the future, and of a great battle where the Triya are defeated by peasants. God chooses against us.”
Jandu stayed silent for a long while. Keshan assumed Jandu to be considering this, but then Jandu suddenly asked, “Have you had any visions of me?”
Keshan almost laughed. Here he tried to explain his destiny, a mission he had from God, and Jandu only wanted to know if he had a starring role.
“No. Can’t say that I have, unfortunately. Visions of you sound very appealing.”
Jandu blushed again.
Keshan wanted to explain more, but he realized that his words were probably wasted on Jandu. Jandu’s interest in Keshan’s prophecies extended only as far as they concerned him, so he wouldn’t care to hear the more personal details about why they fuelled Keshan’s mission.
But ever since he could remember, he had a recurring vision of himself, beside a man who declared the end of all castes. The two of them were armed, fighting for a new world. And although the details were hazy, and Keshan could never see the man’s face, he was almost certain that man was Jandu’s half-brother, Prince Darvad Uru.
Darvad Uru had openly befriended a lower caste man. In speeches, he praised the workers of Marhavad, calling them the greatest strength of the nation. He asked that merit be based on deed rather than blood.
Keshan admired Darvad’s will, his disregard of tradition, and his promise to make changes to the old ways of Marhavad once he became king. Iyestar had assured Keshan that Darvad’s ambitious nature was fueled by the desire to see a new world replace the atrophied one that surrounded them.
In all likelihood, Jandu would become one of Keshan’s political enemies. The Paran brothers had been raised in the pious shadow of their father, and their belief in Triya superiority was unlikely to change.
But Jandu was handsome. More than handsome. Gorgeous. It had been many years since Keshan had felt such reciprocal longing from another man. Clearly he trailed this young warrior through the palace not because of his mission to change society, or to propel his own political career forward, but for desire. His body took over, flirting with this brash young warrior, and it wasn’t going to do anyone any good.
“Here we are.” Jandu led him through a gate into the stone garden. The downpour had stopped, and now everything steamed, baking in the hot sun.
Darvad aimed at a target across the garden that had been affixed to a bail of hay. Sweat slicked back Darvad’s hair as he worked in the intense hu
midity of the afternoon. Beside him stood Tarek, Druv, Firdaus, and Keshan’s brother.
Darvad lowered his bow and smiled at Keshan, bringing his palms together in the traditional sign of peace. The other men followed, except for Iyestar, who just came over and hugged Keshan brusquely.
“What took you so long? Did you get lost?” Iyestar frowned slightly at Jandu.
“I was just chatting with Jandu,” Keshan said, raising his hands to return the sign of peace.
Jandu bowed his head politely. “I should go…”
“Stay.” Keshan touched his arm. “I still haven’t found out how you shot the eye of Suraya’s fish.”
The other men seemed uncomfortable with Jandu’s presence, but quickly turned back to their competition. Keshan sat down on an embroidered rug that had been laid out on the hot cobblestones and, with obvious hesitation, Jandu joined him.
“Once I realized that the pool was like a mirror, reversing everything, hitting the eye was just a matter of timing.” Jandu described how he counted the rotations of the fish as it spun. Keshan barely watched the men practicing in front of him, his eyes focused intently on Jandu.
“I already knew I could do it, I just didn’t have a reason until you called me out,” Jandu said.
“I’m sorry I challenged you,” Keshan said. “I couldn’t help myself. I’m a troublemaker.”
The two of them gossiped about other lords and some of the more exotic performances that had apparently caused a scandal during the festival. Talking to Jandu came easily, and Keshan had to admit that he enjoyed the respite from constant political and religious debate.
As they chatted, they watched Darvad and his companions challenge each other. Darvad, Tarek, Druv and Firdaus took turns shooting at the target. After each round, the men would recollect their arrows, using each warrior’s unique markings on the shaft of the arrow to determine the winner. Iyestar’s role seemed to be purely for encouragement, yelling at them while he lounged on the sidelines.
Keshan did not excel at archery. Nevertheless, he knew a good archer when he saw one. Tarek’s movements were swift and seamless. Tarek always hit the bull’s eye. He won every round. And when Darvad complained that it was impossible to beat Tarek at anything, Tarek volunteered to start shooting with his left hand.
“I’m surprised you aren’t jumping up and joining in,” Keshan said to Jandu, keeping his voice low.
Jandu stretched out and propped himself up on his elbows. He watched the competition with a bored expression.
“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to see that Tarek is actually better than me.”
Keshan stared at him, shocked.
Jandu smiled. “Just kidding. But actually, I have a bad feeling it’d be close. And then I’d have to respect him. But it would be disloyal to my brother if I befriended Tarek.”
Keshan started to explain that they too would have a similar problem if they remained friends. But then Jandu said, “Besides, Tarek is a Suya.”
Keshan shut his mouth. What was he doing? Sitting here with a man so full of himself that he considered himself better than Tarek simply by birthright?
Keshan shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, Jandu had grown up surrounded by Triya religious zealots, and the tenet they revered before all others was the Shentari hierarchy.
The Triya are God’s chosen lords .The world is given to them to rule and to defend. They alone will hold the holy secrets of the Shartas.
The Draya are God’s messengers. They will keep the temples and pray for their Triya lords.
The Suya are God’s workers and will create in God’s name.
The Chaya are God’s servants and will serve the people of God and work God’s land.
The Jegora are the outcaste, scourges in God’s eyes and unworthy of God.
The belief that the Suya, Chaya and Jegora were lesser people, less entitled, was so woven in the very fabric of Marhavadi culture that even intelligent, well-meaning people like Jandu found themselves incapable of thinking otherwise.
“I’ve competed against Tarek before, you know, ” Jandu said. “It was during the Mahri Competition. The challenge was open to all Triya, but usually only the sons of the wealthiest lords ever compete. And then Tarek showed up, wearing cotton, looking poor and,” Jandu gave Keshan a sideways look, “—very underdressed.”
“You will never forget that, will you?” Keshan asked.
Jandu smirked. “We all mocked Tarek, of course. But then he started shooting arrows with unparalleled accuracy. When he released the bowstring, he stood still as stone, his gaze unwavering. I had never seen anyone like him.”
Keshan looked up to where Tarek took his turn at the target. Jandu was right; the man became statuesque, it looked as though he did not even breathe. A whirr sounded, and the arrow smashed through the wooden target to strike bull’s eye once more.
“I remember being excited,” Jandu continued. “My whole life, I have always been unrivaled in archery and here stood a man who could truly challenge me.” Jandu looked almost wistful, a smile on his face, his eyes closed.
But then he sighed. “Then Yudar pointed out this old charioteer who had entered the arena, and announced that the man was Tarek’s father. Tarek was Suya and he never intended to tell anyone.”
“What happened then?” Keshan watched Tarek, feeling instantly sorry for what the man had probably gone through that day.
Jandu shrugged. “He was humiliated, of course, and thrown out of the competition. But then Darvad stood up and called him a great warrior.”
Keshan nodded. That action alone fuelled his support of Darvad.
“Darvad gave Tarek the State of Dragewan then and there, swearing lifelong friendship… completely insane.” Jandu sat back up, staring at the two men being discussed. “They’re inseparable now.”
Keshan spoke hesitantly. “Well, it would be within Darvad’s power to raise Tarek to a Triya once he’s king. Only the king can change God’s castes.”
“But he isn’t king yet and he isn’t going to be. Yudar is the rightful heir.” Jandu frowned at Keshan. “I thought we weren’t going to talk politics. I hate politics. I shouldn’t even be here.”
Jandu stood to leave, when suddenly Darvad called out to him. Jandu turned back to his half-brother, showing no dislike, but definitely no affection either.
“Go tell Mazar that I will be late to dinner this evening,” Darvad said.
“Have a servant tell him,” Jandu said.
“Mazar is in his private chambers. I need you to tell him for me.”
Everyone else in the garden stopped what they were doing. A thick tension simmered, Keshan felt waves of animosity radiating off of Jandu. But Jandu was younger than Darvad, and the same traditions that dictated Jandu’s disdain for Tarek also made it impossible for him to refuse a demand from an older relative.
“All right.” Jandu turned and frowned at Keshan. “I’ll see you later.” Jandu bent down to take the dust from Keshan’s feet.
Keshan reached down and stopped him. He held Jandu’s arms.
“Don’t do that,” Keshan said quietly.
“You’re my elder,” Jandu said. He narrowed his eyes at Darvad. “I always respect my elders.”
“I know. But don’t.” Keshan kept hold of Jandu’s arms, feeling the sinewy muscles flexing beneath soft skin. “It doesn’t suit us.”
Jandu stared at Keshan for a moment longer, and then turned away. As he walked away, Keshan shook his head. What was he doing?
“Keshan!” Darvad called, “come shoot with us.”
He took the bow Darvad offered, forcing the excitement of Jandu’s touch from his mind. He had a mission to fulfill. And the person who was going to do that was Darvad, not Jandu.
Chapter 5
Tarek dreamed of the river.
He always dreamed of the river on nights when he had difficulty falling asleep, as if his mind returned to the source of everything.
In his dream, he was a young boy
, crying for help. Other times he thrashed in the water, demanding that it stop. He was never at peace in the river. There was something timeless and unforgiving in its nature, the way it cut through everything indiscriminately, the way it never stopped to reason.
Tarek awoke in terror.
It took him a minute to get his bearings. After having spent thirty years of his life living in his parent’s one-room shack beside the banks of the Yaru, it still surprised him to wake up in a broad bed with silk sheets, without the smell of the river overwhelming him. His eyes adjusted to the early morning light streaming into the room through two open balconies.
The stone sculpture of the prophet Harami in the corner of the room, the woodcarving above his bed, the garish pinks and greens of the furniture, overstuffed pillows, vases with peacock feathers—all of it had been here when he had acquired Dragewan’s townhouse. Tarek suddenly felt disgusted by it all. Now that this ornate manor belonged to him, he would see the gaudy decor stripped.
“Attendant!” Tarek shouted. He was angry at himself for not knowing the man’s name. Truthfully, he’d spent a month or two at most in this house since it was granted to him. Most of his time was occupied in the royal palace.
“Yes, my lord?” A squat, balding man stood with his head bowed, avoiding eye contact.
“Call the house steward. I want all the decorations in this room removed.”
If the servant found the request strange, he said nothing. “Yes, my lord.”
Tarek stretched and stepped out of bed. He realized the servant remained.
“You can go.”
The servant hesitated. “My lord? What would you like the decorations replaced with?”
Tarek frowned. “Nothing. I want bare walls. One chair. That’s it.”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed deeply and fled the room.
Tarek watched him go. He should really be nicer. He wasn’t comfortable with having servants, and so he didn’t know how to treat them.
Tarek wasn’t much more than a servant himself. He was the son of a charioteer, a servant of the wealthy Triya caste. His father now resided in a large manor in Dragewan, but his hands were arthritic claws, useless after years of tightly gripping reins. His health had failed, and even with the care of the best physicians, Tarek knew his father’s death approached.
