The rumble of thunder pulled her from half-consciousness. The monsoon had finished months ago, but the lone cloud had grown into a massive thunderhead. It caught the rays of the setting sun in its towering heights. Cool, soft rain began to fall. She closed her eyes and opened her cracked lips. Some being had heard her and sent the cooling rain.
“Thank you.” As soon as she gave the words silent voice, it seemed like the thunder laughed at her. It began to pour with such force it pushed her back onto the spears. The gods were playing with her, sending relief that would only make her suffer longer.
“Damn you to the hell realms!” She ended her cry with a yip of pain. She closed her eyes against the rain and gritted her teeth.
“Angulimala.”
Mala jerked in fright, then groaned in agony as the spears penetrated deeper.
“Angulimala, be still. We won’t hurt you.”
A beautiful woman came into her field of vision. Her long dark hair was plastered to her body by the pouring rain. She wore a necklace of braided hemp, nutshells and seeds and semiprecious stones. A Naga priestess.
“Lila,” Mala whispered.
Lila gave a low whistle. Four dark men appeared, their bodies streaked with wet ash. The priestess took Mala’s head between her hands while each man carefully worked his hands and arms underneath her, avoiding the shafts and tips. Without a word but in perfect unison, they lifted her off the cruel bed.
Thunder rolled, and the rain poured over them all.
Whirlwind
Thunder. Wind. A stab of lightning.
And then nothing.
The next thing Dhara knew, she was sprawled in a heap in long grass.
She shifted and with difficulty pushed herself up with one arm. She knew only one thing: they were no longer in Varanasi. Never had traveling through the ether made her so weak and dizzy. Siddhartha was sprawled next to her, his eyes closed.
“Siddhartha!”
He was hurt. She touched his shoulder. A spark whirled up her arm and dove into her heart.
His eyes opened. Their golden light flooded over and through her and surrounded them both. “You’re here,” he said, then he gave her a rapturous, foolish grin.
“Yes,” she said. His smile made her dizzy again. They had been in such danger, then the whirlwind, and now they were on a low hill, surrounded by forest, with a starlit sky above. She had no idea what this place was, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Siddhartha. They had only met—a day ago? It hardly seemed possible—but all she wanted was to be with him.
“Where are we?” she said.
“By the gods, what happened?” he said at the same moment.
They laughed. Then she stopped, filled with fear and a deep emptiness. She could not sense her guru anywhere. “Where is Mala?”
Siddhartha sat up and reached for her. “It’s all right. We’re safe,” he said, touching her cheek. Then he looked around and frowned. “Where is Chandaka?”
A voice out of the darkness: “Yajna cast a powerful spell.” Nalaka was standing nearby in the shadow of a rough-hewn wooden structure with a peaked roof. “I could only bring the two of you. Chandaka is with Harischandra. Mala has been captured.”
“Captured? We have to rescue her!” Dhara tried to stand but her legs would not obey.
“Don’t move too fast,” Nalaka said, rushing to her side. “We can’t go back. Hard as it was to escape Yajna once, I could not do it twice.”
“You broke a spell?” Siddhartha said. “You brought us through the ether! I’ve never done that.” He looked at Nalaka in admiration.
“But Mala is in danger. Can you speak to her? In your mind?” Dhara asked, trembling.
Nalaka paused, closed his eyes. “Not yet. But Mala will escape. She is powerful,” the Brahmin said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Dhara sensed his uncertainty, but she nodded and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “What is this place?”
“We’re on palace grounds. At my great-grandfather’s temple,” Siddhartha said, looking around. “My father told me he built it close enough to the palace that he only needed to take a brief walk to retreat from his royal duties and court intrigues. Father says I could do the same.”
“This was Jayasena’s?” The long grass swished as Nalaka pushed it aside and walked up to a thick wooden pillar. He put his hand on it. “The bones are good.”
“He built it with his own hands,” Siddhartha said with pride. “I’ve always wanted to repair it… but now is not the time,” he said drily. “I think I should let the king and queen know I’ve returned. The palace is just beyond those trees.” He pointed to a wide break between them. “The path is there.”
Dhara was going to ask about Siddhartha’s grandfather, but forgot everything as she looked toward the path. Over some treetops and across a stretch of water, hundreds of lights shone. Faint music drifted toward them. A structure rambled over the landscape, immense and low, until its white walls disappeared into shadow. It was the world she and Sakhi had dreamed about as they looked down from the ridge on Dhavalagiri. “Oh, sister of my heart, if only you were with me now,” she whispered.
“She will be soon,” Nalaka said.
“Sakhi! Here?” Dhara whirled. “How do you know?”
Nalaka smiled.
“Come,” Siddhartha said. “We must let them know we’re here.”
If he hadn’t been holding her hand, Dhara would have floated away. She was so exhausted and excited that her nerves thrummed. No amount of trying to control her breath calmed her. As they emerged from the forest and passed a wide, round pool lined with stone, the music grew louder. A sweet voice was singing in a tongue that Dhara at first didn’t recognize. Yet she knew it. The strange language conjured an image of waving grass like a vast sea, stretching from horizon to horizon; of horses thundering over that sea of grass and the warriors who rode them, men and women with painted faces, adorned with gold, and armed with fine bows and silver-tipped arrows.
When they drew near the brilliantly lit hall, Siddhartha hurried to an entrance with two guards standing in front of it.
“Ho,” called one of the guards. “Who goes there?”
“Sabal! Don’t you recognize me?” Siddhartha answered.
Sabal reached for a torch and stepped closer. “Your highness,” he whispered. “Where have you been?” Both guards stared for a moment, their mouths agape, then dropped to their knees.
“Will you announce us to their majesties?” Siddhartha smiled.
“Your—your father’s gone to look for you,” Sabal said.
“The queen will be furious,” the other guard added, shaking his head.
“I will deal with that when I see her,” Siddhartha said.
“You’re a brave one,” Sabal muttered.
The guards preceded Siddhartha down a short passageway lined with oil lamps. Dhara, clinging to his hand, looked from side to side. She had never seen anything like the smooth white walls—like a heavenly palace come to earth, compared to the split cedar of her father’s hall. Her father. She stumbled, released Siddhartha’s hand, leaned against the wall.
Their escort stopped. Siddhartha smoothed the hair away from her cheek. “What is it?”
“My father… my village… I deserted them, and now… ”
Nalaka, who had been following, took her elbow. “You had to flee,” he said. “Take heart. All will be well.”
Dhara was not reassured.
The singing became louder as they proceeded. Underneath an exquisite melody there was a murmur like a river. The passageway opened into a great hall. Siddhartha, Nalaka, and Dhara stopped a moment, blinded by the light. As her eyes adjusted, Dhara gazed, awestruck.
She had never seen so many people under one roof. She had never seen so many people at once, save perhaps when the whole clan gathered und
er the stars on the practice field to listen to Mala that night she first arrived. The people here were all seated against the walls, behind low tables covered with platters of food. Dhara was starving, but her hunger receded as she looked around.
These were the Sakyas that her Koli clan casually hated. But they were marvelous, dressed like gods and goddesses. Their clothes—pinks and reds and oranges and greens she had never imagined existed—seemed shot with silver and gold. Jewels flashed in the bright torchlight. Even the robes of the Brahmins and their wives dazzled her with their whiteness. She was acutely conscious of her smudged antariya and put a hand to the flimsy band of linen around her breasts, then noticed that many of the women wore nothing at all above the waist save jewels and nearly transparent shawls and scarves, as they had in Varanasi. She went hot with embarrassment.
“So. My father should be sitting there,” Siddhartha said. Dhara looked at him questioningly. He gestured toward two low thrones on a dais across the hall. He pointed to the throne on the left, which was piled with scrolls. On the other sat a tall woman whose bright blue garments splashed all over with the sun god’s golden svastikas were the gaudiest in the room. She held a scroll on her lap and pored over it, oblivious to the low laughter and music that rose to a roof so high it disappeared in shadow. A tall Brahmin in white stood next to her as if awaiting orders.
Surely Dhara knew this woman. As she stood in puzzled silence, first one then another of those closest to the entrance began to whisper. “The prince has returned!” The words flew through the assembly until the murmuring river of voices became still and the singer abruptly stopped.
The woman on the throne broke the silence. “Siddhartha!”
Siddhartha bowed over joined palms. “Your majesty,” he said, his voice sure and loud, matching hers.
The queen, Dhara thought. It is the queen.
Siddhartha tugged at her hand and drew her through the seated courtiers and across the open space in the middle of the hall. When they reached the dais, he sank to his knees. He pulled Dhara down next to him and bowed again, touching his forehead to the queen’s feet. “Please forgive me, Aunt Prajapati.”
Queen Prajapati. Dhara’s own aunt. She had seen her only once, when she was very small and Prajapati had returned to visit her home clan. Dhara’s clan. The clan of Siddhartha’s mother.
The queen stared sternly at the prince, but tears glistened in her eyes. “You left without a word.” Prajapati frowned. “Your father went to Dhavalagiri to find you.”
“Dhavalagiri?” Siddhartha raised his head. “But I thought… ”
“But,” Dhara sputtered, “was he with the Kosalas on the attack?”
“Aunt, this is your niece Dhara.”
“I know, nephew.” Prajapati studied Dhara. “You are the image of your mother. But listen, child, the Sakyas saved the Kolis.”
Involuntarily, Dhara bowed, touching Prajapati’s feet as Siddhartha had. “Your majesty,” she said, then raised her head and straightened her shoulders to meet the queen’s dark, probing eyes. Her mother Atimaya’s eyes. “It was terrible. Did the Sakyas come in time? I don’t know what happened to my mother! Can you send a messenger?”
Prajapati looked at her, and Dhara wanted to flee from a profound connection to this woman, a connection that frightened her. Old Yasodhara’s blood ran in both their veins, in her mother’s veins.
The queen made a gesture toward a nearby guard, who bowed and hurried off.
“I do not know my sister’s fate,” she said. “I am sorry about your father’s death. The eagles have brought word of the battle. The village is safe now, but there were many casualties.”
Dhara swayed on her feet. “Sakhi, Tilo… ”
“I told you. Sakhi lives,” Nalaka said. He did not mention Tilo. Dhara’s throat was constricted with tears and she couldn’t speak.
Prajapati turned to him. “Old friend. How good to see you. I welcome you to Kapilavastu.”
Nalaka bowed low. “With Maya dead and Atimaya’s fate unkown, I am glad to see you, the last of Yasodhara’s daughters, in good health and wearing a crown that you are well worthy of.”
“You know each other?” Siddhartha asked in surprise.
“Nalaka is the son of the Koli clan’s Brahmin Bhrigu,” Prajapati said. “We grew up together. Though I was a girl, his father was willing to teach me a few hymns.”
Nalaka bowed again and smiled. “Much more than that. You were the better pupil.”
The queen’s lips curved up slightly. “I was sorry to learn of Bhrigu’s death last spring.” Her face softened. “I’m glad that your sister survived the battle.”
“My vision revealed this, but not much more. I was occupied with these young people.”
“I thank you for bringing Siddhartha back to us.”
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, but the room was spinning.
“Your majesty,” he said. “I do not like to end this audience, but I fear we must find Dhara a bed.”
As Dhara swam up from sleep, the sun streamed through the doorway. Her whole body ached, the aftereffects of yesterday’s struggle to escape Yajna’s spell.
Or was it yesterday? Dhara was as hungry as if she had slept for a whole week. She rolled to her side, rubbed her eyes. This low bed was wide enough for a half dozen people and covered with silky fabric that felt wonderful against her skin. Under a soft woolen blanket she was naked and dirty. Where was her antariya?
She was in the palace. Siddhartha must be nearby, but she had no idea how to find him. She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest with one hand, and gazed at the room. The walls were hung with blue and gold patterned silk drapes that billowed gently in a stray breeze that wafted in, bringing an unfamiliar, sweet scent. Outside a bird shrieked. A pretty young maid pulled aside the heavy curtain of another doorway.
“Good morning.” She was perhaps Dhara’s age. She was carrying a large wooden tray with a silver pitcher and cup, a bowl filled with rice, and slices of yellow and orange fruit on a large flat leaf. “Namaste, Dhara.” She bowed her head, kept her eyes low. “I am Kirsa.”
“Namaste.” Dhara couldn’t stop staring at the bowl.
As soon as the maid placed the tray on a nearby low table and sat down on the bed, Dhara reached for the food, then stopped. Her nails were filthy. She watched the girl pour water from the silver pitcher into a cup; the hand holding the cup was missing two fingers. It was like they’d been deliberately chopped off right at the knuckle, but the puckered scars said that it had happened long ago.
The girl—young woman—looked up into Dhara’s eyes.
Dhara breathed out. Gautama eyes. “What did you say your name was? Are you his sister?”
“I’m Kirsa. Siddhartha and I are cousins.” Kirsa’s lips smiled, but those golden eyes did not. She was sizing up Dhara for all the world as if they were readying for a bout on the practice field. “You must be hungry and thirsty.” She held out the cup.
Kirsa. Harischandra had asked Mala if she’d found Kirsa. Dhara drank, studying Kirsa from behind the rim of the cup. This was Mala’s daughter. An antariya of shiny yellow cloth with a dark blue border was wrapped modestly around her slender figure, the end thrown over her shoulder. She wore heavy gold loops in her ears and an enormous yellow flower in her wavy dark hair that was drawn back at the nape.
Their eyes met. Their hands touched as Dhara handed the cup back. It gave her a little shock—not the spark she got when she touched Siddhartha that awoke every nerve, but a sharp needle of jealousy that went right to her heart. They were rivals.
She would think about that later. She turned to the food and held the blanket to her chest with one hand as she scooped rice with the other, hardly bothering to chew before she reached for a piece of the yellow fruit. Its soft flesh was sweet and delicious, unlike anything she’d ever tasted. She consumed everything on
the tray.
Now her hand was sticky. In fact, her whole body was sticky with dried sweat. “My clothes,” Dhara began. With a touch of dismay, she thought of how her sturdy cotton clothing compared to Kirsa’s smooth yellow antariya, how her tangled locks compared to Kirsa’s brushed and dressed hair, how Kirsa smelled fresh, like rain-washed air.
Kirsa nodded toward a low table, where several lengths of bright, patterned cloth were folded. “For you. I’ll send in the maids. They will help you bathe and dress. Then they will bring you to the queen’s rooms.”
She stood up and walked to the doorway, turned back and bowed, then disappeared behind the curtain.
Dhara stared after her. Kirsa loved Siddhartha.
But Siddhartha loved Dhara. Dhara knew this with exultant certainty. She wanted to shout after Kirsa: You don’t have a chance! You’re no warrior, no yogi. What powers do you have? He loves me!
But doubt crept in. She could see what Siddhartha was to Kirsa, but she didn’t know what Kirsa was to him.
Before she could pursue this thought, two pretty maids appeared. Much prettier than Kirsa. “Namaste, mistress. I am Emba, and this is my sister Embalika. We have come to prepare you for your audience.” The pretty Emba and equally lovely Embalika smiled and bowed.
For a moment, Dhara’s heart sank. How many other beautiful women inhabited the palace?
It didn’t matter. She gave them a haughty stare. “Well, where is my bath?”
Jayasena’s temple
Dhara had a sliver in her thigh from the old wood floor. She’d be more careful sitting down next time. This temple was to be their ashram, just the two of them, her and Siddhartha. Nalaka was their guru.
“It’s time to establish a full schedule. You’ve had time to get your bearings, Dhara, but your education will require more than yoga and dharma talks,” Nalaka said. “Every day you’ll meditate from the beginning of the third watch until dawn.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 27
