As she was in love with him.
Her eyes didn’t close for the rest of the night. The moonlight inched across the floor while she tossed and turned, until just before dawn, dreamless sleep overtook her.
After the disastrous dinner, Siddhartha became more attentive, just as Dhara had thought she wanted. What she had really wanted, she didn’t want to admit to herself, but it was no use. She couldn’t help it.
The thing was to keep it from everyone. Siddhartha would guess, if she were ever with him and Chandaka at the same time. He would see the look on her face. He might well guess if they were alone. She began to avoid him. She refused his invitations to ride with him through the immense park, declaring that she needed solitude for meditative practices and pretending she didn’t see his hurt surprise. She spent hours in her garden, staring at the waterfall and brooding.
One day Siddhartha came up behind her as she sat on the rock, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed the back of her neck. “Beloved, you’ve been avoiding me.”
She forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly.” It sounded flat and wrong.
He put a finger on her chin and tilted her face so he could see it. He was frowning. She gazed back up at him with all the innocence she could muster. “Well, I haven’t seen enough of you lately, with all your meditating. But I thought we could maybe meditate together. Take our own private retreat where no one can find us.”
“Where?”
“At the tree house.” He leaned down, kissed her cheek. “My old refuge.”
She went rigid. To see this place, a thing she’d wanted since she arrived in Kapilavastu, sent her into a panic. “I—I—not today,” she blurted. “Nalaka gave me a new practice.”
His nostrils widened. The look on his face was the closest she had ever seen to anger.
“As you wish.” He straightened, bowed over his hands, and turned on his heel.
She buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t go there with him, she just couldn’t. There was too much of his childhood there, too much of Kirsa.
Most of all, too much of Chandaka, whose face haunted her dreams, whose lips she wanted to feel whenever Siddhartha kissed her, who hadn’t tossed even a contemptuous look her way since that night.
He would be there, in her mind. Siddhartha might sense it.
If only she could talk to someone. She was ashamed to tell Nalaka about the crush that consumed her waking thoughts. She could never trust Uttara with such a secret. Briefly, she considered telling Tissa. The girl had been a gift to Suddhodana from the Kalamas clan’s petty monarch as thanks for Sakyan aid against the Kosalas. After Suddhodana deflowered her, he never gave her a second glance. She was so young, so stupid, and so useless to any palace faction that Dhara had taken pity on her and allowed her into her own entourage.
No, not Tissa, not any of the noblewomen who considered themselves her companions in the palace. The thought of their whispers and smirks made her shudder.
Satya? Dhaumya? Of course not. They were friends, yes, but men. She couldn’t share such a thing with them.
Sakhi was the only person who might have understood, if only she hadn’t become so distant. After Dhara was injured at Kalamas, Sakhi had sent prayers and good wishes, but she had not once come to the palace to see her, to keep her company during her convalescence. Insufferable, pious Kirsa came instead, bearing her healer’s basket and Sakhi’s messages, which were full of news of her five boys, as well as the tale of the twins’ harrowing birth. Jivaka had cut the babies from Sakhi’s stomach. Dhara was grateful for the vow she and Siddhartha had taken not to have children.
Tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t her fault. They should have become closer over these past years, shared memories of their Himalayan home and grief over its loss, the decimation of their clan and the deaths of those they held dear.
Dhara shook herself. It was absurd to think that they could go back to those days when they whispered secrets under the blankets, while the stars shone in the cold mountain night. There was no one to talk to.
The waterfall’s splashing reminded her of the song of the spring rivulet that raced down Dhavalagiri’s peak near the cave. Its voice had lulled Dhara to sleep when she was Mala’s pupil. She stared unseeing into the rippling water, letting her mind drift back to Mala. Their time together had been too brief.
It was true that at the cave, Mala had moments of terrifying rage, but they were always followed by surprisingly tender compassion. She taught Dhara that everyone struggled with inner demons. Dhara remembered looking into those haunted eyes and wondering if the path to moksha was too cruel, and if union with the light that was atman was too bright. Maybe the price had been too much for Mala, and she had lost the battle with her own dark side.
If only Dhara could see her again. Despite what Nalaka said, it might be good for them both.
Angulimala
Dhara climbed up the rough-hewn steps and plunged back into the bathing pool’s cool depths, over and over. It was filled with Himalaya’s melted snows, clear and cold. It had been several days since Mala’s voice had called her. She’d not heard it since. She’d begun to doubt she’d heard it at all.
She surfaced to see a little page in blue and gold scurrying away.
“Dhara, come quick.” Uttara, who had been lounging in the garden with Tissa, was running toward her. “She’s coming. We’re all going to see her.”
“Who?” Dhara swam to the steps.
“The bitch-goddess,” Tissa cried. “The avatar of Black Kali!”
“Shut up, Tissa. This is momentous, my dear,” Uttara said, turning to Dhara with a smirk. “Never before has the infamous outlaw entered the city! She is approaching the palace now.”
Dhara swam slowly to the edge. Angulimala. Mala. She didn’t know what to think.
“Curious that she’s come here,” Uttara said. “No one knows a thing about why. She always meets the king in neutral territory.”
Curious, indeed. Dhara hadn’t felt her approach at all.
Under a hot spring sun, the courtiers had gathered to observe the outlaws’ advance.
“This way,” Dhara hissed at Uttara. They slipped away from Tissa and mounted the stairway up to the north tower, where the guards saluted her. “Princess,” they murmured and stepped aside. In the courtyard below, a hundred of the king’s warriors stood at tense attention.
It was not long before twenty-five outlaws, mostly men but a few women, all heavily muscled and scarred, rode through the palace gates with weapons clanking. Some were plain, in simple clothes and leather breastplates; others were strutting peacocks clad in shining metal armor chased with silver and gold, wearing colorful silks and carrying jeweled weapons. They looked straight ahead with hooded, unreadable eyes.
Angulimala dismounted. Even in bright sunlight, a dark aura surrounded the outlaw queen. Silence descended.
She was as tall and magnificent as ever; her oiled limbs even more heavily muscled. The same waist-length tangled hair, the three white horizontal stripes across her forehead, and the thin gold hoop in her nostril. The heavy gold cuffs around her arms glowed against her sun-blackened skin. Instead of the infamous garland of fingers, she wore a rope of woven gold studded with glinting rubies the color of blood.
Dhara slid behind Uttara like a frightened child, but there was no hiding from her guru’s probing mind. Dhara’s whole body tingled as it touched her. It was Mala, yet it was not.
Suddhodana appeared at the entrance, flanked by the priest Bhela and Siddhartha. Dhara was intensely aware of her former guru, whose aura seemed to cast a shadow over everything. The king and prince exuded the sun god Surya’s fire, the mark of their solar lineage. In the air between them, the king’s warm aura and Angulimala’s cold one touched in a vortex of light and shadow. Dhara had heard of this effect, but never seen it. It sent quivers through her.
With
equal parts desire and aversion, she stepped away from Uttara. Her former guru looked up and their eyes locked.
“Welcome, Protectress of the Poor,” Suddhodana called. “You honor us.”
“My lord.” Angulimala put her palms together and gave an exaggerated bow. When she raised her eyes, the king gave her an amused smile.
“What brings you to Kapilavastu?” he asked, as if she were some friendly prince from another clan, stopping after a successful hunt in a nearby forest to pay his respects and boast of his kill.
“I missed the victory feast at Kalamas.”
“You were invited,” Suddhodana replied with a sardonic smile. “But you wanted to pursue the fleeing Kosalas.”
“That I did, and it was well worth my time. We slew many and took rich booty. But is it too late to celebrate our triumph together?”
“Ah, of course not.” Suddhodana’s smile froze. “Well, then, there are fine places to camp by Rohini’s river, and when you are rested—”
“By the river? I had hoped to enjoy your queen’s famous gardens.”
The king shot a glance at the captain of the guard. “Ah. Yes. We will be honored. The guards will show you where to set up your tents.” He clapped his hands and a page ran up. “Send to the queen and tell her we have guests tonight,” he growled.
Angulimala signaled to her warriors and they all dismounted. Stable hands came for the horses while the outlaws followed the king’s men. The courtiers began to disperse. The king whispered something to Siddhartha and disappeared into the palace.
“What fine-looking men,” Uttara said as they climbed down from the tower. “I’ve a mind to see them up close. Come, Dhara, don’t you want to greet your guru?”
Before Dhara could answer, Siddhartha strode to her. “Come,” he said softly. “We must talk.”
“What do you think she really wants?” Siddhartha said.
Nalaka, Siddhartha, Chandaka, and Dhara sat in the shade in the prince’s private garden, sipping cool water from heavy silver bowls. Dhara tried to project stillness while her insides churned.
“Nalaka?” Siddhartha asked.
Nalaka shook his head. “I don’t know how to touch her anymore. It’s been too long. I had no sense of her arrival. Did you, Dhara?”
Siddhartha and Chandaka turned to Dhara. It was the first time Chandaka had taken notice of her presence since that dreadful family dinner, and perhaps the first time he’d looked at her without a faint sneer. She struggled to keep her face expressionless. “Perhaps it is simple. General Sukesa told me we could not have won Kalamas without her,” she said, poking at a slice of lime floating in her water. “She deserves our thanks.”
Chandaka broke off a long blade of grass and chewed it. “Oh, no. She’s not here for a simple feast. I say send her away.”
“Not so easy to do,” Nalaka said, shaking his head.
“Why? Just because she’s mastered a few yogi’s tricks?”
Nalaka ignored the jibe. “That’s one reason.”
Siddhartha frowned. “We must show our gratitude. She could choose other allies.”
“That’s another,” Nalaka said.
Chandaka snorted. “She could choose other allies like my dear half-brother. I tell you, she’s a wicked woman. Give her a feast and get rid of her.”
“You are all forgetting that she saved our lives in Varanasi,” Dhara said. “That was noble and good.”
“Nalaka, Harischandra, and I had something to do with that,” Chandaka retorted. “Then you were whisked away in a whirlwind, Princess, while Harischandra and I were left to fend for ourselves.” Chandaka glared at her. She could hardly breathe, but she didn’t look away.
“We all owe her our lives,” Nalaka interjected.
“Point taken, but that doesn’t mean we should trust her. What do you think she’s after, Nalaka?” Chandaka asked, dropping his gaze and chewing on the blade of grass. Dhara concentrated on slowing her breath.
Nalaka had been watching Dhara. She kept very still and lowered her eyes. He furrowed his brow. “She has closed her mind to me.”
Siddhartha looked troubled. “I don’t like having them within the palace walls,” he repeated. “But it seemed Father couldn’t resist her.”
“That is really frightening,” Chandaka said.
A page appeared at the arched door. The boy bowed. “One of your maids is here, Princess, asking if you will come to be dressed for the banquet.”
Dhara rocked to her knees, leaned over to plant a light kiss on Siddhartha’s lips, and rose to bow first to Nalaka then to Chandaka. “Until this evening,” she said. As she walked away, she felt Chandaka’s eyes on her back.
In her chamber, Emba and Embalika had laid out silks and placed an arm’s length of gold bangles, her favorite heavy gold earrings, and the matching gold torque inlaid with lapis from Gandhara on her dressing table. They were preparing to dress her hair with a rope woven of gold thread inset with tiny sapphires when all of a sudden she laughed. “Mala and I ate sitting on animal skins on a dirt floor,” she said. “She won’t care what I wear.”
The maids raised their eyebrows, then bowed out of the chamber. Alone before her mirror, she donned a fine cotton antariya. She did not wrap it in the fussy, elaborate court style but wound it smooth and secure, as if she were headed to the practice field, and bound her breasts with another strip of the creamy unbleached cotton as she would for a long session of difficult asanas. She ran her ivory comb through her blue-black hair and headed to the feast feeling more like herself than she had for many months.
All through the evening Dhara’s nerves thrummed. Angulimala sat in the place of honor on Suddhodana’s right, Siddhartha next to the outlaw queen, and Dhara beside him on blue silk cushions.
Palpable energy flowed between the two monarchs. Apparently, the king had decided to make the best of this unexpected visit. He was magnificent; his broad, tanned chest bare, a brilliant blue antariya wrapped carelessly around his limbs. Angulimala had gathered her matted tresses in a topknot tied with a red silk sash. She wore a soft deerskin that fell in elegant folds around her legs.
Dhara hadn’t realized how much she wanted to talk to Angulimala, to know everything that had happened to her and tell her everything she had done and felt. But it was impossible. The vulgar banter that flowed between Suddhodana and Angulimala did not allow any interruption. The din in the hall was enormous. With the outlaws drinking kadamba liquor like it was water and the courtiers trying in vain to keep up, raucous laughter and shouts kept rising up. Even if she could have made herself heard, Dhara was not sure what she would say. The burning energy between the Sakyan king and the outlaw queen made her feel like a child.
And she was acutely aware of how Angulimala’s aura made her flush and throb—just as she did when Chandaka was near.
Chandaka. She’d almost forgotten him. Dhara glanced around. He was not anywhere in the hall, but it didn’t matter. He was nothing compared to Angulimala.
Siddhartha’s brow furrowed as he caught her eye. He would see the confused passions whirling within her. She shut her heart and mind to him.
At that moment, Angulimala leaned across Siddhartha. She lowered her voice but above the din Dhara heard her perfectly.
“I’ve new things to show you, things you’ve never seen before, my girl.” Angulimala’s eyes glittered. “You should join me, Dhara.”
Those eyes. Dhara was mesmerized. The first time she looked deeply into them, she was just a girl. She had seen such pain in them, but there was love, too. There was no love or pain now. Only hate.
Dhara jumped up. “Siddhartha! Take me away!”
He took her hand. Angulimala’s laughter followed them as he led her away.
You should join me, Dhara.
The voice echoed in her head.
Kirsa
“Shandaka
! Why arenshou atta banquet?”
Chandaka gave an inward groan. He stopped and looked back down the neat path that ran along the huge lotus pond. The muted noise of the festivities drifted from the palace on a cool night breeze. The full moon’s reflected light broke into a thousand little waves.
A familiar figure staggered toward Chandaka clutching a long-necked clay vessel. There was only one man who would wear an antariya that garish. Even under a night sky, its splashy red flowers and bright blue peacocks stood out. It was Dhaumya, more drunk than usual from matching Angulimala’s outlaws cup for cup.
“Shandaka, ole fren,” the warrior called again, waving the vessel. He stumbled over his dress sword’s jeweled scabbard, caught himself, uttered an expletive and a laugh as drink spilled over his chest. Drops glinted on his bare skin.
Chandaka sighed. He had nearly made it away unseen from the whole lot of scheming courtiers and evil-looking bandits, nearly made it to the hidden path through the park’s wild edges to the courtesans’ quarter, to a quiet evening of soul-healing conversation and sex with Ratna.
“Well, Dhaumya.”
The warrior took a swig. “Les’ toast Agnul-anlig-angma—toast that good ole outlaw queen.”
Chandaka had no interest in toasts to Angulimala. Siddhartha would go, because his father wished it and even more because the prince wanted to be with his wife. Siddhartha feared Dhara had fallen under Angulimala’s spell. Chandaka didn’t doubt it. The more he saw of the princess, the weaker and more vain she seemed.
“One of these days you’ll have to sober up, Dhaumya.”
“Whafunisthat.” The warrior giggled. “Here.” He extended the vessel. “Have some.”
Not so many years back Chandaka would have taken the jug, but he had better things to do tonight than get sloppy drunk with Dhaumya. Ratna was waiting to listen to his woes and give him sound advice. Granted, he would ignore most of it, but she understood that, and understood that what he really needed was for her to darken the lamps and pretend she was someone else. “Most men dream of me when they make love to their wives,” Ratna had said once, laughing as she ran a hand from her full breast to the shaved triangle between her thighs. “You dream of mousy little Kirsa when you make love to me. No matter. All cats are grey in the dark, we courtesans know.”
The Mountain Goddess Page 39
