Path of the Eclipse

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  It will be most satisfactory if this constitutes the entire communication between the Rani and the Sultan. There is little to be gained in messages of any nature. If the Sultan is desirous of war, let him send his heralds with proper challenges and addresses, otherwise the Rani will not look for any word from Shams-ud-din Iletmish or his representatives.

  As the Sultan does not admit to the sanctity of the Rani’s gods, she will not trouble to address them upon his behalf. And yet, the Black Goddess may find the Sultan worthy of her attention, and should that come to pass, the Rani will make sacrifice for his acceptability.

  Tamasrajasi

  daughter of the Rajah Kare Dantinusha

  Rani of Natha Suryarathas

  in the first year of her reign

  10

  Not far from where the trail branched away from the road there were guards. They waited at the rough timber bridge that spanned the narrow, swift river that coursed through the defile and fell in three spectacular cascades to join the Chenab.

  “Who comes?” one of the guards demanded. He was a large man in a light-colored garment armed with a wickedly curved knife.

  “It is Sudra Guristar, Commander of the palace guard,” was the answer he gave with a nervous glance at Saint-Germain.

  “Who is with you?” The guard did not approach the two mounted men, but neither did he give ground.

  “The creature of Shiva. The foreigner.” He had been warned not to let these men know that he was, in fact, Saint-Germain’s captive, and now he was pleased he had given his word.

  “The Rani is at the temple,” the guard said, and motioned to his fellows to stand aside so that the two horses could pick their way over the flimsy bridge.

  The trail wound back into the water-carved defile. The trees crowded in, occasionally so densely that it was not possible to see the moon-brightened sky overhead. Guristar led the way, conscious always of the long katana that still hung from Saint-Germain’s belt. The blood on his face had caked and dried, but his head was hammered with pain. Every step his horse took, each beat of his heart made Guristar grind his teeth. As the path grew steeper, Guristar began to exult. In very little time he would give this creature over to his mistress, and her gratitude would bestow power upon him, and all the satisfactions of her young flesh. For the first time that night, the wounds he had suffered seemed to be worthwhile.

  “What river is this?” Saint-Germain asked as the trail led along the riverbank for a short way.

  “It is the Kudri,” Guristar said, resenting this intrusion on his thoughts. The temple was not much farther and he wanted to spend the last of the ride contemplating the rewards that awaited him.

  “The Kudri,” Saint-Germain repeated, wondering why he should know the name. Then he drew in his horse as another guard approached and the river ceased to hold his attention.

  This guard recognized Guristar as soon as the Commander spoke, and instructed the two riders to take their horses to a narrow meadow to the side of the trail, and to walk the rest of the way.

  As Saint-Germain pulled at the reins, he called out to Guristar, “You will speak only when I can hear you, guard Commander, and you will make no gestures or signals of any kind. If you attempt it, I will spit you on this blade.”

  Guristar was tempted to dispute this, but held his peace. It would not be too long now, and the full pleasure of revenge would be his. “I will not make gestures or signals,” he said as he drew in his horse.

  “Dismount,” Saint-Germain ordered him, bringing his horse close to Guristar’s.

  “As you say,” Guristar muttered, getting out of the saddle quickly. He secured the reins to one of a number of posts. Not far away, other horses were similarly tied; one of the horses whinnied and was answered by Saint-Germain’s mount.

  “Stand clear of the horses,” Saint-Germain said, and got out of the saddle. He twisted the reins around the post once, not liking to take the time to tie them. “The temple is through those shrubs, isn’t it?” With his vampiric eyes he could see the squat, serrated pillars that fronted the building, and could almost make out its color.

  “Yes,” Guristar said, and started toward it.

  “Slowly, guard Commander. I do not need you to announce me. We will enter together.” He kept his place slightly behind Guristar, and one hand was on the katana’s hilt.

  “We won’t be challenged again,” Guristar said as he parted the lush vegetation and stepped onto the rough stones in the space before the temple.

  “You will forgive me if I do not entirely believe you,” Saint-Germain responded. They trod up the low steps and passed between two of the columns. There the murmured sound of chanting reached them, and an overpowering incense of rank and flowery odor hung on the air. “Which way?”

  Guristar pointed through one set of pillars to the side of massive doors. “Through there. She is waiting.”

  Saint-Germain indicated that Guristar should go before him. “I think that your mistress will want to see you first.” He fell into step behind Guristar, moving so quietly that his heeled boots made the faintest gentle tappings on the stone floor. Where in this place, he asked himself as he looked around, where was Rogerio being held? Was Padmiri somewhere within these walls, or had she truly escaped? In the narrow corridor beyond the pillars there were a number of lamps hung, casting flickering pools of light over the statues and low-relief carvings that lined the walls. They were not good to see.

  At the end of the corridor a door stood ajar, and Guristar hesitated on the threshold. He gave Saint-Germain a swift, infuriated look, then called out, “Tamasrajasi? Rani? Great Mistress?”

  “My Commander,” came the Rani’s voice. “You’ve returned to me. What have you brought?”

  “The thing you sought, Great Mistress.” It was demeaning to have to address Tamasrajasi in this way while Saint-Germain watched him, but Guristar did not want to antagonize the Rani, not now when his own power was so tantalizingly close.

  “Enter at once, my Commander, and bring the thing I want with you.” She laughed as she gave her permission.

  The room was made of dark stone and the profusion of lamps that hung from the ceiling were shaded with red cloth. There was an altar, quite small, at the far end of the chamber, and on it the torn bodies of dogs lay at the feet of the black stone representation of Kali.

  “Ah. My creature of Shiva.” Tamasrajasi stepped into the light. Except for two massive necklaces of ivory balls carved into the likeness of skulls, she was naked. Her body had been stained with the juice of certain berries and appeared almost as black as the stone goddess she so clearly had chosen to represent. There was a glistering shine to her eyes. “Saint-Germain, my father’s sister’s lover.” She walked toward him, her hips swaying and the necklaces sliding on her breasts.

  “Tamasrajasi,” he said without emotion. He had recognized at once that any show of weakness on his part now would please the Rani.

  “You slept beside Padmiri, so my spies tell me, and you sucked her veins.” She smiled widely, horrible and splendid.

  “I would not describe it that way,” Saint-Germain demurred.

  “That is the way of Shiva’s creatures.” She came up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Guristar brought you to me.”

  “Not precisely,” Saint-Germain said, taking her hand from him. “I forced him to lead me here.”

  She laughed again, this time with incredulous delight. “What would bring you here?”

  “My servant. Padmiri.” The coldness of his eyes struck her, and she became petulant.

  “Your servant was brought here at my order. Padmiri is another matter. It will not be long until I see her again.” There was such quiet malice in this promise that Guristar felt he must hasten to explain himself to the Rani.

  “Padmiri was not at her house, Tamasrajasi. You know that our search was most thorough, and we did not find her. There are guardsmen who seek her even now, and doubtless they will bring her to you before the night
is over. For the moment, you have this creature of—”

  “He said that he forced you to lead him here,” Tamasrajasi cut in sharply. “Is that the truth?”

  Guristar faltered. “In part. There was a battle—”

  “As I see from your face,” she interrupted again. “Do you tell me he did that to you?”

  “The glass on the floor did part of it,” Guristar said, not looking into the Rani’s face. “I slipped on the glass, you see. He attacked me while my hands were bleeding and I could not hold a shimtare.”

  “And you let it happen? You did not throw yourself on his blade?” She waited for him to answer, then walked toward him, hands on her hips. “Good Commander, I have asked you a thing. I want to hear your answer. Do not delay.”

  The reddened light touched her shoulders, her breasts, the rise of her flank. Guristar devoured her with his eyes, thinking of the times he had plundered her body. His groin was hot, tight, and he felt enormous. To take her now, with the trappings of the goddess on her …

  “Sudra Guristar!” she snapped. “Tell me if what this Saint-Germain has said is true.”

  “True?” he repeated, dazed by the intensity of his lust. “It is partly true. He would not let me die. He cut me with the sword he carries, but he would not let me die.” Impulsively he reached out and touched her breasts.

  Tamasrajasi gave him an appraising, lascivious look. “You wish to possess me, my Commander? For the Black Goddess?”

  Without stopping to consider the implications of her taunts, Guristar deepened his hold on her. “Yes, my Rani, my Great Mistress.”

  “Then you shall. Soon, my commander.” She stepped back from him; then, without looking at him, she asked Saint-Germain, “What do you think you will gain by coming to me?”

  “The life of my servant and Padmiri,” he answered her, very composed. “I assumed, from what Guristar has said to me, that you would rather have me than either of them.”

  “Better all of you,” she said at once. “You are here, and your servant.”

  “I also have my sword, Tamasrajasi.” He put his hand on the hilt of the katana. “If you betray me, I will—”

  “Kill me?” She did not quite smile, but there was a cruel mirth in her averted face.

  “No, Tamasrajasi: myself.” It would be an easy thing to do, he realized. The katana was more finely sharp than any blade he had ever handled. One quick upward swipe and his head would be cut from his body. He had had more than three thousand years: he could not convince himself that they were enough.

  Her eyes opened a little wider at his pronouncement. “You would deprive me of my sacrifice, should you do that.”

  “My servant goes free, and Padmiri. Otherwise it will take every worshiper in this place to get this weapon from me. And you still will not have a sacrifice.” He folded his arms and watched Tamasrajasi as she walked the length of the black stone room to stand before the statue of Kali. He kept his negligent stance, but all his senses were keenly stretched, for he knew, from the unique perceptions of his kind, that they were not alone in this dark room.

  Tamasrajasi stared at the statue on the altar. It was old, much older than the temple, and crudely done. The features were a mocking grimace on a head far too large for the clumsily dancing body. Her weapons and her necklaces of skulls were shapeless with wear and time, but there was force in the statue yet. The stonecutter had brought a power to his creation, the power of complete belief. Tamasrajasi put her fingers into the coagulating blood of the dogs, and touched her fingers to the flat stone tongue of the goddess. She breathed deeply and began a swift, high chant in a disturbingly sweet voice.

  Watching her, Guristar reveled and suffered in his hunger for her. She had promised him her body, but he did not wish to wait for it. Had they been alone, he would have embraced her now. He looked about, and saw Saint-Germain regarding him sardonically. “Unclean thing!” he whispered, but would not look at the Rani again, hating what the foreigner would say to him.

  Finally Tamasrajasi ceased her chanting and came away from the altar. “Very well, creature of Shiva. You have come to me. I have a use for you, which you must accept. If you will, then your servant will be released. If you do not accept, then we will kill him in our own ways, our own time, and be sure that you watch. Padmiri is another matter. If she is brought here during the time of the rites, she will be given the chance to die on the altar. If she refuses, and you are still alive, then she will participate in your death, but at the end of it, she will be free. That is most solemnly promised to you.”

  “I will see my servant depart, and you will have no word with Padmiri alone,” Saint-Germain said quickly.

  Tamasrajasi took umbrage at this. “I will not demean a sacrifice with lies and deceit.” Her eyes narrowed. “Your servant will have proper escort so that he may not disturb the ritual once it has begun. When he leaves, he will not be allowed to return.”

  “Very well.” Now that the actuality of his own death was near, Saint-Germain had one anguished moment of absolute recusancy, of soul-wrought denial. What lunacy had brought him here? Why had he thought he had to protect Rogerio and Padmiri at so dire a cost? Then the abnegation passed from him as quickly and as inexplicably as it had come to him.

  “He will be expected to leave my kingdom at once, and take nothing with him.” She was enjoying making conditions and watching this creature of Shiva bow to her will.

  “And Padmiri will be left alone, if she chooses not to come to your altar?” His strength was back now; he faced Tamasrajasi coolly.

  “For as long as she lives,” Tamasrajasi vowed with a wicked grin.

  “Will you make an oath before your goddess that no one, not you, not your agents, not their servants, no one will attempt to harm her in any way?” He stood in silence, his hand on the hilt of the katana. His penetrating gaze was on her face, and when she could no longer bear it, she made a gesture of acquiescence.

  “Yes. Yes, before Kali, and in her name, I give full protection to Padmiri, sister to my father. No one of mine will harm her.” For the first time that night, Tamasrajasi was nervous, and venomously she determined to punish Saint-Germain for his temerity. “Now, will you listen while I tell you how you will die?”

  “I will listen.” He heard Guristar give a sigh of satisfaction, but gave no sign of noticing.

  Tamasrajasi paced along the room, and as she talked, her qualms faded. “Shiva is the consort of Kali. Therefore it is appropriate that you, a creature of Shiva, should do the act upon the altar with me.…”

  “That is not possible,” Saint-Germain told her in a voice that was almost kind.

  “How do you mean?” She turned on him, her face rigid with anger.

  “It isn’t possible. When I became … a creature of Shiva, there were a number of capabilities I ceased to have. I cannot weep. I do not eat or drink, as you know it. And although I am whole, so far as possessing testicles and penis go, still I do not function as men do. I cannot do the act, upon the altar or anywhere else.” He had long ago ceased to be distressed with this lack in himself, but rarely did he feel relief because of it. Now he had a rare sense of jest, and justice.

  “You must!” Tamasrajasi came toward him, one of her hands raised and clenched. Then she stopped. “It is said that Shiva’s creatures, when glutted on blood, are insatiable.”

  Saint-Germain was still—there was too much coldness in him.

  “Tell me! If there were enough blood…”

  “I do not know, Tamasrajasi,” he said clearly, quietly.

  “Yes: enough blood, and yours would be the lusts of ten men. When Shiva joined with Parvati, all the world shook from their passion and the land became fertile in imitation of them. There will be those who will be honored to offer their veins to you so that the work may be done. They will extinguish themselves in your excitation. “Yes.” Her expression changed. “Yes, that will be best. You will take lives into yourself, many lives, so that you will be a man for me, for as
long as it is necessary. As the blood fills you, so you will fill me, and we will couple in praise of the fecundity of Kali and Shiva, and when you release your seed into me, then will be the time to sever your head.” She gave him a coquettish glance. “Does it trouble you, to hear me tell you how you will die? Your death as you spurt your semen forth will be like Shiva’s death, and I will dance, I will exalt your dying.”

  Vainly Saint-Germain tried to convince himself that death was death and one way was no worse than another. He had been close to death many times, had known its touch once. But he was repelled by the Rani’s terrible glee. It would be a simple matter to draw the katana, and as he drew it, to slice upward, cutting his spine and ending this dreadful night.

  “If you would rather have it otherwise, let me tell you what I shall have done to your servant.” Her step became bouncy, girlish, and she tangled the fingers of one hand in the skull-shaped beads of her necklace. “Your servant will be brought to the altar. That much you must allow us if you will not give yourself for sacrifice. We will have to bind him, because otherwise too many would have to hold him.”

  “No,” Saint-Germain said softly.

  “We will burn off his skin, bit by bit, and each little section will be offered to the Black Goddess. We will start with the fingers and toes.” She turned at the end of the room and came back toward him. She seemed unaware of Guristar now. “You would have to watch. That would be required. And then Padmiri. If you deprive us of you, we must use her. That, also, you will have to watch.” She stopped before Saint-Germain. “After seeing what we do, creature of Shiva, you may wish to be sacrificed. It might be more pleasant, the death I offer you, than living. Don’t you think?”