Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Had she been younger and less conscious of her dignity, she would have fled from the room. It had been going so well, and now she was on the verge of panic. In the names of all the gods, what was it about this man that affected her so? She looked away in confusion.

  “If all this—the beautiful lights, the deep shadows, the scent of sandalwood—is to tempt me, I’m flattered, but it is not necessary.” He rose quickly, fluidly. “Believe this.”

  She knew that if she were truly frightened, she had only to call out and Bhatin would come to her aid. She was in no danger whatsoever. Her breath quickened as Saint-Germain crossed the room toward her. “You are too…” Her voice stopped.

  “You may tell me to go and I will,” he said softly. He was close enough that she could reach out and touch him, but she was still. The shadows from the filigree screen masked his expression.

  She hesitated and he took a step backward, “I don’t know,” she murmured.

  “I have misunderstood you, I fear.” He was polite, and she felt this made it worse. “Will you forget my importunity?”

  “No,” she said, a bit more loudly than she had spoken before. “I have not been importuned.”

  Saint-Germain did not move. “Well, Padmiri?”

  She looked up at him. “My mother died with eight other wives on my father’s funeral pyre, and I thought it was a terrible waste. She was a sensible woman. She studied the Vedas and made regular sacrifices to the gods. She lived as my father wanted her to and died as he wished. I promised myself that I would not put myself in a similar position. My uncles were horrified, but my brother made no argument. Dantinusha once admitted that it helped to have an unmarried sister when he bargained with neighboring Princes. After a while, when I still had no husband, I left the court, for I was becoming an embarrassment. I had taken one lover while I lived with my brother and he was most distraught. He threatened to banish the man, or have him castrated. When my brothers and cousins rebelled, they tried to convince me to take their part, and I refused.” This came out quietly, as much of her anguish had faded to a remote ache which she could bear. “I have my studies and my music, which are more than I had hoped to have.”

  “Ah, Padmiri,” Saint-Germain said as he reached out his hand to touch her hair.

  “My mother schooled me well, and my uncles often asked how I came to be so undutiful a daughter. I don’t know.” She turned her face up to him. “I don’t know.”

  He went down on his knee beside her. “What benefit would there be in doing as your mother had done?” With swift, easy motions he smoothed her hair back from her face. “Long, long ago in Egypt it was the custom for men to be buried with their slaves so that there would be servants for them in the afterworld. Ages later many of these tombs were rifled and looted, the skeletons and mummies of the slaves thrown away or taken and ground up as medicine. What did that do to the men they were supposed to serve? How did the death of your mother lessen that of your father?”

  “I have spoken with many great teachers and they have told me that though I have achieved some competence as a scholar, I have betrayed myself for refusing to live as virtuously as women of my caste ought.” She liked the way he touched her. It had been a long time since a man had brought her such a feeling of newness. Surely, she thought, he feels the lines of my face, and yet he is as patient and gentle as a wise man is with a bride.

  Saint-Germain leaned back against her cushions. “An easy thing for them to say. They did not have to face a burning pyre.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Come. Lie beside me. If I offend or disappoint you, tell me.”

  “Why?” A vestige of reluctance held her back.

  “So that I may give you pleasure,” he answered.

  “No—why should you do this?”

  He met her eyes. “You ask, when your own holy books have complicated instruction in gratification?” He saw her make a slight movement that was almost indiscernible. “You have done such worship, haven’t you?”

  “Not for some time,” she said in an oddly muffled voice. “I am unmarried and there are certain matters…” She dropped back against the cushions. “I am being an old woman. I am afraid of what you offer.”

  “You don’t know what I offer.” His voice was less beautiful, and the sorrow was back in his face.

  “You are a man.” She sighed as the illusion of newness left her.

  “Not quite as other men. You wished to know why I wish to give you pleasure. Very well. My pleasure, my only pleasure is in your pleasure.” He waited while she considered what she had heard. “If you do not wish to have that pleasure, then send me away.”

  “And you? Is pleasure all you require of me?” She looked at the shadows on the ceiling, which wavered as a finger of wind passed over the oil lamps.

  “Not quite all,” he admitted. He rose, bending over her as he took her face in his hands. “Padmiri, yes, I will take something from you. But only when you are fulfilled.”

  She did not entirely believe that this was happening to her. It was too much like a dream or a memory. Neither of her last two lovers had been so persuasive, so determined. She had thought at the time that they had been mature in their dealings, free of pretense. Now she thought that she had forgotten too much. “It’s been some time since I’ve experienced that. I don’t know if it is possible in someone my age. But, Saint-Germain, I would like so much to know that satisfaction again.”

  He smiled, his dark eyes warm. “Then let me try, Padmiri.”

  She had learned from her other lovers that this was the moment to put her hands behind his neck and draw him down to her. She had almost made a ritual of this over the years. She hesitated, and then lowered her arms.

  “Padmiri?” Saint-Germain said without alarm.

  “I’ve done that too many times before. I do it without thinking, or feeling; it’s a habit.” She closed her eyes, her mind unwilling to stop making comparisons. When was the last time she had made love in this room? Which of her lovers had preferred this place, or any place but her bed? She felt rather than saw Saint-Germain’s small hand smooth the frown from her forehead.

  “You haven’t let go,” he said, sinking onto the cushions beside her and propping himself on his elbow.

  “I … I know that.” She rubbed her temples.

  “Don’t be concerned, Padmiri. Despite what your erotic scriptures say, there is no prescribed course this must take. For the time being, we can talk, you and I, and when you would like, there will be more we can do.” He put his arm across her, just below her breasts.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and do as you must?” Her resignation was a disappointment. She had hoped to sustain that new feeling for a little longer, or to be able to recapture it.

  “I’ve told you, that’s not possible, or practical.” He rolled a little nearer, and his hand slid down to the rise of her hip, there was no urgency in his movements; when he was comfortable he lay still.

  “Have you been disappointed with women before?” she asked some while later.

  “Often. And they in me.” He cast his mind back to the concubine he had had in Lo-Yang, so lovely and so passive. He would have preferred outright refusal and rejection from her in place of that gelid acquiescence.

  “You have had many lovers?” She was fairly certain that he had. If what he had told her of himself was true, there would have been many women in his life.

  “Yes.” There was neither guilt nor boast in the word.

  “Men as well as women?” There had been a time when she had had a Bengali slave who had claimed to love her and had performed a number of unexpected acts on Padmiri’s body, but that was some time ago, and no other woman she had met had awakened similar longings in her.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” It was a question she had always wanted to ask and had never dared to.

  “These things happen, Padmiri.” He bent unhurriedly and kissed the tail of her eye. Then, very slowly, he opened the fastenings of her silken robe.
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  Her eyes were almost closed, and she shivered as his hand brushed her shoulders. Let it go, let it go, she told herself, and discovered that this time it was easier. She wished that her body were firmer and more opulent, but Saint-Germain made no complaint. His hands came down to her breasts. Skillfully, fondly, he caressed her, never rushing, never demanding. “Not, not there. Not yet.” She was startled to hear how husky her voice was. He began to kiss her, now on the mouth, now on the eyes, on the shoulder, the breast, the thigh, the throat.

  Padmiri had not been shaken by passion in several years and had thought that she had lost the capacity for such excitement. Yet when Saint-Germain had parted her thighs to touch her in glorious, subtle ways, she felt the first joyous tremor pass through her, and it seemed to her that there was a greater intensity than she had ever known. Her arms were around him and she tangled one hand in his loose curls so that when he pressed his lips to her neck as the wonderful, shattering spasms shook her, she felt her own fulfillment echoed in him.

  It was so good to know that she was not beyond this sensual triumph! Padmiri released him at last, giving his ear an affectionate tweak as she began to laugh.

  A letter from Jalal-im-al Zakatim to the Sultan’s adviser in Delhi.

  To Musfa Qiral from Jalal-im-al Zakatim. May Allah smile on you, give you his protection and blessings.

  I have not long to write this, and so must use unseemly haste. First, I wish to report that the fears for Ab-she-lam Eidan are groundless. He has not in any way that I can discern compromised our position here in Natha Suryarathas. He has carried out his duties and instructions with care and tact and has won a degree of confidence from the Rajah Kare Dantinusha that is quite remarkable, given the circumstances here.

  Second, I wish to say that it is not likely that Rajah Dantinusha will take arms to oppose us. There are those in his principality who are speaking in favor of such action, but he has resisted all such efforts and doubtless will continue to do so, for which Allah be thanked.

  Third, it is quite true that the Rajah is completely serious about making his daughter, Tamasrajasi, his heir. He has presented her to his subjects and they have hailed her with great enthusiasm and pleasure, and as the Rajah has no living sons, his edict that her firstborn son will inherit from her has been acclaimed as wise and honorable. There has been no public mention of who it is who is to father this son on Tamasrajasi, but that, I suppose, will be taken care of before too much time has gone by. With so much support from the people, Dantinusha has much to offer any Prince who would wish to marry the girl, though I will add that it seems a poor accomplishment for the one who gets her. That woman is filled with poison or I have learned nothing in my life.

  My superior Ab-she-lam Eidan, whom Allah reward, has given me instructions to become acquainted with the sister of the Rajah, the woman who lives apart from the court and is said to be a scholar. While I will do as I am ordered, I am not pleased with this. I have met Padmiri once and found her an admirable woman, of self-contained and reserved mien. To use her against her brother is contrary to everything I have believed is virtuous conduct. It is one thing to enlist her sympathies, but quite another to attempt to suborn her. The Prophet warned us of the deceit and wiles and untrustworthiness of women, but he has also lauded the honor of women. If women are given to vice by the nature of their sex, then when one is found without that vice, it is doubly reprehensible in any man who attempts to awaken it in a chaste woman’s soul. Understand that I will do as I have been told, but my heart is against it and I wish it had not been asked of me.

  You have already received the report on the periyanadu, so I will not belabor the event. What was and was not accomplished has been described to you.

  There have been reports that the Thuggi are active here again. I have seen no direct evidence of this, but I have spoken with a few of Rajah Dantinusha’s guards and they say that garroted bodies have been turning up on the more remote stretches of road. Those devils with their silken scarves and their wires are claiming victims for their demon again. I have no reason to doubt what the guards have told me, but I intend to ask of merchants what they know of this, for they will be even more reliable than the soldiers. If it should happen that the Thuggi are at work, I will send you word of it at once, and have the messenger travel under guard. I have already informed my superior of this rumor and he has others of the mission investigating the claims.

  May Allah bless you and your seed and your endeavors. And may he guide my judgment here.

  Jalal-im-al Zakatim

  4

  One of the musicians had lent Saint-Germain his bicitrabin and ivory plectrum, and though he had never played this odd zitherlike instrument, he had retired to a window embrasure to experiment. He had forgotten how much he missed music until he touched the unfamiliar strings and heard their slightly buzzy sound magnified by the large resonating gourds at either end of the fingerboard. Luckily the bicitrabin was fretless so that he could play in Western modes and scales as well as their Indian counterparts. Most of the other guests ignored him.

  “That is a Western melody, isn’t it?” asked one of the Islamic delegation.

  “Yes,” Saint-Germain said. “It comes from Rome.” He did not add that it was the Rome of the Caesars he remembered and the melody was a hymn to Jupiter.

  “A disquieting sound,” the young Muslim persisted.

  “If you’re not used to it, I suppose so.” He did not want to set the instrument aside, but he knew that he should not be unkind to the man beside him.

  “You are the foreigner, are you not?” the man went on.

  “I thought that much was obvious,” Saint-Germain said sardonically. He was wearing a long Frankish houppelande over chausses of embroidered cotton. As always, the garments were black. His wide-linked silver chain was around his neck, and his black eclipse pectoral depended from it.

  “Oh, certainly,” the other man agreed. “But you will agree that it is more polite to ask than to announce such things.” He gathered his robes about him and sank onto the floor. “I was wishing to speak with you. I am Jalal-im-al Zakatim.”

  “I am Saint-Germain,” he said, reluctantly setting the bicitrabin aside.

  “I have been informed that you are an alchemist,” Jalal-im-al said with great cordiality.

  “This is correct: who told you?”

  Jalal-im-al chuckled. “The poet, Jaminya. He has been most informative. Not to the point of treason or dishonor, but he is an observant and talkative man.”

  Privately, Saint-Germain thought that much the same thing could be said of Jalal-im-al Zakatim. “And he told you that I practice the Great Art.”

  “Yes. I have also learned from the merchant Chol that some of your supplies come from the Sultanate. This is most interesting to me.” He touched his beautifully groomed beard, knowing that its lustrous chestnut brown was rarely seen and often attracted attention.

  “And did Chol tell you what these supplies are? I fear that I should explain that I will not allow you or anyone to compromise me and will not be anyone’s spy.” His expression was one of goodwill and his voice was pleasantly modulated, but his resolution was steely.

  “Oh, no, no, no, you misunderstand me completely. Let me assure you at once that I have no such intentions. If I wished a spy, I should be wiser to find one of the slaves to work for me. You, being foreign, would not be in a position to have the information I wanted. You see, I wish you to know that my curiosity does not include subverting you on behalf of the Sultanate.” He had a wide, brilliant smile which he turned on Saint-Germain.

  “If you don’t want to make a spy of me, what do you want?” He had long ago learned to be wary of that too-open charm that Jalal-im-al displayed.

  “Two things. First, I want to meet Padmiri. She is very hard to see casually, living as she does. I know that you have been given a wing of her house for your own use, and I hope that you will be my introduction to her.” He looked through the anteroom to the hall w
here a banquet was in progress.

  “There are two things,” Saint-Germain reminded him, his voice quite emotionless.

  “The second, yes. This is more difficult.” The young Muslim bent forward. “In my family it is considered tradition for all of us to put ourselves in the service of our rulers. Sadly, this is not where my true interests lie. Would you, being a foreigner, be willing to teach me the Great Art? I studied for a time in Aleppo, but my father was not willing to allow me to continue my studies.” There had been a change in him. His former practiced elegance had been replaced with unmistakable sincerity. “It would not be easy for me to have time away from Ab-she-lam Eidan, but I think he would give me some time for the work.”

  “And of course, the fact that you would have to be at the house of Padmiri, whom you admit you wish to meet, is only coincidence,” Saint-Germain suggested.

  “Not entirely, no,” Jalal-im-al said at once. “It would be helpful for me to know this woman. It would be better to learn alchemy. If I can do both, then my way is much easier.”

  “And you will have greater access to the Rajah, perhaps.” He put his hands on the narrow fingerboard of the bicitrabin, feeling the almost imperceptible thrill of the strings as he touched them.

  “It may occur,” Jalal-im-al said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “She is not the one who is of great interest to Delhi, after all. It is Tamasrajasi who intrigues them.”

  “Because she is the heir,” Saint-Germain said, and picked up the bicitrabin once more. Very softly he began to pick out a curious tune he had learned in Britain nearly seven hundred years before.

  “You wish to be left alone,” Jalal-im-al declared, no hint of offense in his voice. “I perceive that you do not attend the banquet.”

  “No.” He played the melody a little more loudly.

  “There are restrictions on your people? I admit that I find it very strange to be dining with women, even royal women. It seems that Rajah Dantinusha has brought all his wives with him and they are seated around him on the dais. A most lax custom. It leads to most lascivious conduct, I am told.” His words were scandalized but his tone was richly appreciative. “The fruit juice they serve is fermented. These people are truly debauched.”