“All right.”
In sullen silence she settled in the litter and the journey began.
The mass of soldiers, beasts, and chariots kicked up such dust that Dhara couldn’t even keep the curtains open. The shouted orders and hoofbeats grew quieter and she dozed off. When she awoke and pulled the curtain aside, they were alone on the road.
“Satya,” she called to the warrior riding just ahead of her. He reined in his horse. “Where is the army?”
“Far along, Princess. It’s slow going, with you being carried like that.”
“But,” she spluttered, “what if we’re attacked? There may be Kosalas nearby.”
“Some of Angulimala’s outlaws have fanned out into the forest. We’ll be safe.”
Angulimala’s men. But not Angulimala. The sword twisted in Dhara’s belly.
By the time they reached the Sakyan border, the army was a good league ahead. A day later, Kapilavastu came into view.
Siddhartha didn’t greet her at the city’s southern entrance, though he had to know she’d arrived. The watch would have sent word when her escort came in sight. Perhaps he was planning a special greeting at the palace gates.
Even in her wounded misery, just imagining Vishramvan Palace made her heart beat with anticipation, but when its vast wooden gates slid aside, not a single member of the royal family was there to greet her. Only Emba and Embalika were there, with smirks on their faces. Dhara, crushed at this snub, did her best to look calm and dignified.
“My lord Siddhartha sends his greetings and says he will come as soon as you are settled,” Emba said.
“Draw my bath,” Dhara snapped, barely keeping back the tears.
Once in her own chambers, she submitted with ill grace as they bathed her without removing the muslin that supported her broken arm. “Jivaka’s orders,” Emba said. “The physician will come as soon as you’ve bathed to see to your injury.”
After a long, luxurious soak in warm water scented with rose essence, Dhara let Emba wrap her in a thick towel. At least she felt presentable. The maids had just finished dressing her in a simple blue silk antariya and combing out her long dark hair when Jivaka arrived. A servant carrying a basket with the physician’s salves and fresh white bandages followed.
Jivaka smiled and joked with the maids but said hardly a word to Dhara. They had never really taken to each other in spite of his great friendship with Siddhartha. It still made her feel like crying that he could be so easy with the servant girls and so cold to her. She had been wounded defending the kingdom! She deserved some gratitude, some acknowledgment. A simple thanks.
“Ouch,” she said, though his gentle touch didn’t hurt her at all.
“Forgive me, Princess,” he said, tying the last strip of linen. Shadows had begun to gather in the corners as he stood to leave.
“Shall I tell the prince that the princess can see him now?” Embalika asked Jivaka.
“I’ll tell him. Stay and attend your mistress.”
Dhara would have preferred to be alone. The maids fussed over her, propping pillows for her to lean on. She hated their cheerful patter and glowered like a child.
Long before she saw them, Siddhartha’s and Chandaka’s voices rang out. They stumbled past the wooden nymphs at her chamber’s entrance, laughing at some joke.
When they entered, it took her breath away. It was the same feeling she’d had seeing them for the first time in Varanasi: that they were two young gods. Tall, dark Chandaka’s face was lit by his flashing white smile, and he had an arm around golden-skinned Siddhartha’s shoulder.
“Dhara! Beloved.” With one giant stride Siddhartha was at her side. He knelt and grabbed her left hand and pressed the palm to his lips. She couldn’t hide her hurt. Her eyes filled with tears. He looked at her for a moment. “Beloved,” he whispered again, taking her face in both his hands and fastening his mouth on hers. She began to melt, then Siddhartha broke away.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Chandaka is going to stay with us a while.” He sounded like a boy who had just been given a present. In a flash, she understood. This insolent charioteer had stolen the attention she once commanded.
Emba had begun to bow to Siddhartha, but when she saw Chandaka she gaped stupidly. He was looking her up and down just as he’d appraised Dhara long ago in Varanasi, the day they first met. The smile he bestowed on the pretty little maid had none of the amused contempt that after six years still stung Dhara. Emba took a step and stumbled over her own feet, falling flat.
“Emba, no need for prostrations,” Siddhartha said, laughing.
Chandaka stepped toward the maid and held out his hand to help her up. She had recovered enough to give him a coy smile, lowering her long lashes and blushing. Dhara tensed all over when they touched. A startling image of the two of them in bed together flashed through her mind. She blinked.
“You’d best run to the kitchen,” Siddhartha continued, “and ask Punna about our friend Chandaka. She’ll tell you he’s nothing but trouble.”
Emba disappeared into the passageway, giggling. Foolish girl. Anyone could see the sort of man the charioteer was. A whipping might remind her that she should keep her mind on her duties.
Secrets
Three moons since the battle at Kalamas, and Dhara’s arm was not quite mended. She could not practice archery or swordplay or even ride very comfortably, so it was no use going to the practice field. Siddhartha, however, had returned to the martial arts with an intense enjoyment she’d never seen before. It was useless to seek him out at drills. She would only sit on the sidelines under the royal white parasol, watching Chandaka driving the chariot while Siddhartha took aim at the spinning weathervane.
Nalaka had given her exercises in visualizing the bone, muscle, and nadis. “Align every atom toward one goal: to heal yourself. You use the same principles in being in two places at once or turning yourself into an eagle.” This instruction only worsened her mood. She hadn’t traveled through the ether or changed form in so long that she feared wouldn’t be able to achieve either. She doubted she could focus solely on healing.
He also taught her several new breathing sequences designed to improve her concentration and further her journey into samadhi, the merging of mind and body. “It will speed your recovery, too,” he said.
She would begin her exercises, and the image of Siddhartha and Chandaka laughing and slapping each other’s backs after a particularly good turn around the dusty track would rise behind her lids and leave her in a pout.
Chandaka. The whole court was mad for him. Among the young warriors, only Satya and Dhaumya had not forgotten her. Their visits soon became tiresome, though, as they always ended up talking about some mischief Chandaka was up to, and how it was just like the scrapes he used to get into in the old days. Not just Emba, but serving maids of all ages blushed and smirked in his presence, and it was rumored that he was bedding this married noblewoman and had deflowered that aristocratic virgin. His tales of his adventures at Bimbisara’s court made the king roar with laughter at royal dinners, although Dhara observed that Queen Prajapati was not amused.
Worst of all, avoiding him meant Dhara hardly saw Siddhartha; the reunited friends were inseparable during the day. At night, when Siddhartha at last came to her bed, she feigned sleep, but then regretted it in the morning when she awoke alone.
One hot summer afternoon, she went to Nalaka for a dharma lesson at Jayasena’s temple. She sat with her legs crossed, expectant, but Nalaka had not even begun his instruction when she burst into tears and wailed like a child.
“Everyone has forgotten me. Even Siddhartha. It’s that charioteer.” She brushed her good arm across her eyes to wipe away angry tears. “Send me away. I can’t bear to be in the same room with him, and he and Siddhartha are always together.”
Nalaka’s eyes lit up. “You should go to Dhavalagiri. Take Sakhi. It would do he
r good, and it would be an adventure for her boys.”
“No. The twins are far too young for such a journey. She’s still recovering. Besides, she told me years ago she never wanted to see the place again.”
“Why not?”
“How can you ask? Hasn’t Sakhi told you about hiding in the ravine during the battle and seeing the carnage afterward? She won’t ever return, because she was there. I won’t go back because I wasn’t.” Dhara picked at the end of her antariya. “Either way, the village we knew is gone.”
“You are still punishing yourself for that. Mala did what she thought was best, and I don’t think you could have opposed her will at that time.”
“I know. If I’d stayed, I would most likely have died with my father.” Perhaps that would have been dharma, the right thing for a warrior’s daughter. If she had followed that dharma, she would never have known the fierce terror and joy that filled her when she transformed into the eagle. She would never have had the time in the cave, the stories, the teachings Mala shared with her. She couldn’t help loving Mala more than she loved Nalaka and his teaching, though she needed what he taught.
To Nalaka, the transformative power of yoga was discovered in turning hate into love, violence into peace, suffering into joy. Siddhartha strove to accomplish these feats, but Dhara struggled. She wanted to soar like an eagle again.
To soar again. A strange thought stirred in her. There was one way to do it. “Nalaka. I want to see Angulimala.”
Surprise, disapproval, and anger flickered across his face. “Why? She and I learned from the same master. There’s nothing she can teach you that I can’t.”
“But that’s wrong. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“Angulimala needs me. To help her remember who she was. To turn her back into Mala.”
“Dhara, how can you?” Nalaka shook his head. “This is madness.”
“You’re jealous,” Dhara said, twisting her antariya’s end tight. “She was a better teacher than you’ll ever be!” This shocked Nalaka into silence, but his eyes blazed with an intensity she had never seen in him before, the same intensity she saw in Mala’s eyes.
“Forgive me, guru-ji. It’s not true,” she whispered. “I humbly ask that you continue to give me teachings.”
“For some masters, what you just said would be enough to break the guru-pupil bond.” His intensity, Dhara realized, was not the same as Mala’s. There was not the pain, but there was the burning light. “She was a great yogi and your first teacher,” he said. “I sometimes felt the same about Valmiki when I was studying with Asita. Though I would never have dared say so to Asita.” He smiled and looked out over the trees. “And in my younger days, I was as fiery as you are. My own mother once told me I was born angry.”
“You?” He never taunted or criticized her as Mala did. Never gave in to frightening bursts of anger or sullen moods. “What sorts of things did you do?”
“Ah. At Valmiki’s ashram, I was inclined to use my fists more than my brains. He threw me out because of it, but somewhat regretfully. Someday I may tell you more. For now, we’ll talk about you. You want to see Mala. But you’re not ready to face Angulimala, who is fully embodied as someone who can do great evil.”
A long silence ensued. Nalaka’s words circled in Dhara’s brain. Fully embodied as someone bloodthirsty, ruthless, without restraint.
After a time, Nalaka spoke. “You were saying that Siddhartha spends all his time with Chandaka. Are you jealous?”
“Yes.” Jealous. Perhaps. “No. It’s just I don’t trust him. Do you know what I just learned? Chandaka and his troops—they were going to just leave the Sakyas fighting the Kosalas! I think he’s a coward.” A sudden torrent of flaws she’d observed in Chandaka or heard from others swept away Dhara’s thoughts of Angulimala. “He’s—he’s just no good. Not the sort of person I would have imagined being best friends with Siddhartha. A troublemaker. Everyone loves him, but I see right through him. So does the queen.”
“From what I understand, Chandaka and Prajapati had a difficult relationship,” Nalaka said. “It’s something you and he have in common.”
“What do you mean? I have nothing in common with him. He’s insolent and selfish and rude. He doesn’t take anything seriously. And the way he hops from bed to bed.”
“In that last thing, you are not similar. You know quite a lot about him.”
Dhara was insulted. Nalaka was goading her. She must keep her calm. “Not any more than anyone at court does,” she retorted.
Nalaka shrugged.
Dhara started to fume. “You’re trying to change the subject. We were talking about Mala. Before I went into battle, I thought about how I wanted to do great deeds. I wanted to make Mala proud of me. She inspired me in our time at the cave! Maybe… maybe if she saw me, maybe I could awaken that good side of her. Save her.”
“What kind of fool are you? You can’t save other people. They can only save themselves.”
His contempt silenced Dhara. In spite of the heat, she felt cold. In her heart, she felt he was right. To go to Angulimala meant going to the outlaws’ forest encampment, to all the wickedness that was said to take place there. That frightened her, and she knew she was wise to be frightened.
Yet she still wanted to go.
A few weeks passed. Her arm healed but her pride did not. Once, the dharma had been her rival. Now it was Chandaka. Reflecting, she realized that at the very beginning she had so easily and completely conquered Siddhartha’s heart that she’d never really thought about how to keep his love. She understood how to apply the rules of tactics and strategy in war well enough, but not how to use them in love’s skirmishes.
One day, an idea struck her. The element of surprise was a time-honored battle tactic. Her habit was to dress in simple clothes for the royal family’s intimate meals. She would disarm them by dressing for dinner as Uttara did for one of her notorious parties. That evening she spent hours arranging the folds of her most elegant silks in a seductive drape, loading her arms with bangles and her fingers with rings, arranging her black hair in elaborate love knots pinned with jeweled combs, lining her eyes with kohl, all the while snapping at her maids.
When she arrived at the king’s private dining chamber, everyone went silent. For a moment, she was exultant. She had disarmed them all. Siddhartha looked at her in surprise. The queen raised her eyebrows and Princess Sundari gave her a cool appraisal.
Then with a mocking smirk, Sundari turned to Chandaka, who was these days a frequent guest at family meals. He tossed back the shock of thick hair that always fell over his brow, gave Dhara’s slender form a dismissive glance that jolted her to the root chakra, then turned back to admire Sundari’s voluptuous figure with an insolent grin.
The king stared at Dhara as she made her way to her cushion. “My dear girl, you look exceptionally lovely,” he said. His look was one he might give a new concubine, his tone like an indulgent father to a spoiled child. She was mortified. In one move, she had turned from spirited warrior to frivolous courtier. She had only herself to blame.
She went to Siddhartha’s side. She settled herself on her cushion gracelessly, avoiding her husband’s eyes. The rest of the meal was a long, slow torture. She picked at her favorite delicacies while everyone else talked about Nanda’s battalion joining the Pancalas to fight their Kuru overlords and the Kosalas. They’d routed Prince Virudha’s forces. Dhara would usually have had much to say about the strategies used, the details of the battle, and the political consequences, but she was mute with humiliation.
She excused herself with a murmur when the musicians arrived, and hurried back to her chamber. Emba and Embalika were dozing in the corner by the little altar. Embalika roused and stood, rubbing her eyes. “Shall I help you undress, your highness?”
“Get out.” Dhara kicked sleeping Emba with a bare toe. The maid ro
lled over, ready to complain. Embalika pulled her up. They backed away.
Dhara sat before her mirror, flung off her bangles, and yanked out the jeweled combs. Her fingers tore at the draped folds until the silk lay in a pile on the floor. Naked, she rose to find something simple in her mahogany chest.
She gave a start. Siddhartha was standing in the doorway.
“Beloved.” He looked her up and down with tender eyes and a mischievous smile. “I like you much better this way.”
Dhara burst into tears and rushed to him.
“What’s wrong?” He murmured in her ear as he ran his hands along her body and nuzzled her neck. He tightened his arms around her and sought her mouth, but she put a hand over his lips.
“Why have you deserted me?”
He looked at her in surprise. “You needed to heal.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said. “I’m completely recovered, but you never go riding with me or come with me to Nalaka.”
“But you didn’t ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask my husband to spend time with me.” She sniffed and brushed tears from her eyes. “You’ve had eyes for no one but Chandaka until this minute.”
Siddhartha looked at her in shock. “You don’t think… ”
“No!” They stared at each other with wide eyes. At the same moment, they laughed. She could feel he was aroused and pressed her hips against his loins. “But I could never believe that,” she whispered.
He leaned toward her lips. This time she let him kiss her.
Later, she woke. Siddhartha was sleeping on his stomach, one arm flung over her breasts. Moonlight poured through the doorway to the garden. She shifted closer to him, stroked his back. As she dropped off toward sleep, Chandaka’s face rose in her mind’s eye. He tossed his hank of hair back and gave her a sly grin.
She jolted awake. That charioteer. Arrogant. Insolent. She would find a way to humiliate him as he’d humiliated her. She would make him bow at her feet. Make him worship her. Make him fall in love with her.
The Mountain Goddess Page 38
