The Usurper's Crown (56 page)

“In the fire,” Hamsa said again, bending forward from her waist, still balanced on only one leg, breathing the scented smoke deeply, weaving her spell of breath, smoke, sacrifice and words. “Fire, flame, ash, smoke, message to the mighty, message in the fire, in the flame, in the ash, in the smoke, in the fire, in the fire, in the fire …”

Hamsa lowered the hand she had held cupped over her head for three days and reached it unhesitating into the bright flames. When she drew it out again, she held a piece of sealed paper in her fingers.

“There,” she whispered, and let it fall to the floor. Immediately, she herself sank down to sit on the flagstones, arms and legs folded, eyes closed, and lungs laboring to keep breathing. This too was the way of things. Samudra motioned to the waiting servants. They knew what to do. Water, bread and fruit would be placed beside her so that she could regain her strength as soon as she was ready to rejoin the human world, but first, there was the message, which Makul had already retrieved from the floor.

What he had taken for paper was in fact white silk, tied with a saffron ribbon and sealed with saffron wax, the sort that was only used by one source: the emperor of Hung Tse.

Samudra slit the ribbon with his knife and unrolled the silk. The characters had been painted in red and black ink with a minute brush, and the whole of it was finished with the yellow dragon seal of the Heart of Heaven and Earth. Samudra allowed himself to sit and spread the letter out before him. He could read the language of Hung Tse, but not as quickly as he would have liked. For such a letter, however, no translator could properly be called, not yet. However it came to him, this message was from ruler to ruler and must be treated with respect.

So, slowly, he read:

To the Emperor Samudra
tya
Achin Ireshpad, Revered and Respected, Father of the Pearl Throne and Beloved of the Seven Mothers, we send greeting
.

It is not our wish to speak to you with anger, but for the care we hold our sacred lands, our borders allotted to us by the will of Heaven and of men, we must protest the injustices that have their origin in the blood of the Pearl Throne
.

The northern border of Hung Tse is assaulted, the leader of the assault is the nephew of the Pearl Throne, Kacha
tya
Achin Ejulinjapad. He moves to attack without provocation, without warning and without lawful reason. We would appeal to the lawful Empress of Isavalta and bring forth our suit to her, but it has come to our ears that she has been driven from her own court
.

We ask you to appeal to the filial responsibility of your nephew to stop this unwarranted and unjust attack on our lands and peoples. Whatever are the lawful quarrels of our empires one to one, to break and reform the power of the North must lead to a war so complete that powers will fall and be broken under its wheel. As a man of prudence and martial wisdom, you surely see this and will not desire such an outcome
.

Samudra felt the blood draining drop by drop from his cheeks.

“What is this?” he whispered. “What is this!” he shouted, staring at the letter as if it had burst back into flames. “War, war with Hung Tse, and Isavalta and Kacha at its head! What
is
this!”

“The truth,” said Hamsa before Makul could even open his mouth. The sorceress lifted her head. Even across the room, Samudra could hear her breath wheezing in her lungs. “The Mothers forefend, Majesty, but it is the truth.”

“How did we not know? Why did Kacha’s bound-sorcerer not write to me or to the queen?”

Hamsa had to take several rattling breaths before she was able to answer. “I don’t know. The
Agnidh
Harshul may have been corrupted.”

“Or he may have been killed,” said Makul grimly.

“And the letters forged?” demanded Samudra. “How? By who? I know Harshul, and Kacha does not have the mind for this, let alone the skill.”
At least I believed he did not, I believed he was safe to send as pledge and prize. Oh, Mothers, what have I done?

“Those are questions that should be put to Prince Chandra,” said Makul. “I cannot believe that the son acts without his father’s blessing.”

“Yamuna,” breathed Hamsa. She coughed, and reached a trembling hand toward the water bowl that had been placed out for her. She dipped her fingertips in the water and sucked them dry. “I saw … as I saw the history of the missive, I saw … Ah, forgive me, Majesty.” Coughs wracked her, shuddering her bony frame. A servant knelt beside her, lifting the bowl to her lips that she might drink. Samudra waited. He had seldom seen Hamsa so drained. The effort it was costing her to speak was as great as if she had been wounded to the heart in battle. As much as his blood wanted immediate answers, he held himself in check.

“The missive came from the Heart of the World to the Pearl Throne,” rasped Hamsa. Her head drooped. The wheezing in her chest did not lessen. “The First of All Queens saw the seal and sent it on, unopened, with a courier. But Yamuna’s spies … Yamuna saw …” She shuddered again, and again the servant held up the bowl, and Hamsa drank deeply. “Yamuna laid a curse on the pass, and his servants hurried to the spot to find the courier dead and they burned the missive. They should not have.” She smiled weakly. “They should have left it whole. If it had remained separate from the element of fire, I would not have been able to call it forth.”

Yamuna’s spies? Yamuna saw? Samudra stared at the sorceress. Not Chandra? Yamuna was but a servant in this matter, and a foolishly loyal one at that. He detested his service, and yet would not take freedom when it was offered in a sanctioned bargain. Samudra had to admit himself completely unable to understand why the sorcerer’s answer had been no.

Yamuna’s spies. Yamuna saw.

An almost unthinkable, and certainly unwelcome idea stole slowly into Samudra’s mind. Could it be that Yamuna already had such freedom as he desired?

Could it be that Chandra had come to allow himself to be ruled by the one who was bound to serve him? Could this plot be Yamuna’s rather than Chandra’s?

It went wholly against the order of the world. It was worse than treason, it was sacrilege, a defiance of the patterns laid down by the Seven Mothers. Jalaja herself declared it was only by observance of the sacred dance of life that Hastinapura would remain safe. Such reversal, such removal …

And yet there were those who said that Samudra himself had done exactly the same thing. He was the younger brother. It was not his place to rule, not while Chandra lived. Had he not removed himself from his proper place in the dance in search of a higher position?

No. Hastinapura would have been nibbled away by the Huni under Chandra. The Mothers meant this for me. All the signs portend …

This was Samudra’s private agony. He feared that in badgering Chandra into relinquishing the Pearl Throne he had truly saved Hastinapura for the Mothers, but that he himself had truly violated the order of the world. What could this be but another consequence of his transgression?

“Rest now,
Agnidh
Hamsa. Surely you have earned it,” said Samudra aloud.

“Thank you, Majesty.” Hamsa’s head sunk onto her breast as she fell into her meditations again, or perhaps it was only that she fell into simple exhaustion.

“Make up a pallet for the
Agnidh
that she does not have to be moved,” Samudra ordered the servants. “And stay by her in case she wakes and has need.” Beside him, Makul opened his mouth. Samudra held up his hand to keep the general silent. “Have your scribe craft a message to the Huni asking for a parley. Choose us a reliable courier, a reliable scout and the most reliable shepherd you can buy. If you have need of me, I will be out walking in the night for a while.”

“Majesty.” Makul bowed with his palms pressed over his eyes, and then hurried away to carry out his orders, shouting for his scribe Ikshu as he went.

Samudra did not stay long after Makul had gone. He left the servants scuttling to take care of Hamsa, left the soldiers standing at attention waiting for any orders he or Makul might give, left the maps and the copper counters, and emerged into the dry, chilly air of the mountain evening. The sky blazed orange and copper, and the land falling away from the cliff where the temple city perched was nothing but a carpet of shadows.

This was one of the luxuries when he was campaigning. There were times he could be alone, as he never could when he was only the emperor. Samudra stood for a moment on the steps of his borrowed house and breathed in the thin mountain air and the smoke from both profane and holy fires. He listened to the shouts and clatter that were as much a part of a soldier’s camp as the patrols and the tents. Then, he strode up the narrow way to the temple of the Seven Mothers.

The temple stood at the highest point of the city. Seven narrow, tiered domes surmounted the building, stretching like searching fingers toward heaven. Seven broad, shallow steps led up to arched doors carved all over with scenes from the great epics, scenes of gods and heroes and the Mothers’ intervention in their deeds. As this was not the hour for any rite or observance, the doors were closed. Samudra pushed them open and entered the temple.

The way to the sanctuary was not straight. The progressively larger chambers and the narrow corridors that connected them were precisely measured and laid out according to the ancient formulas. As the paths in the Palace of the Pearl Throne caused all to constantly reweave the patterns of protection and prosperity, here the pilgrims and the priests alike walked the patterns of generation that were the mortal representation of the Mother’s eternal dance.

The sanctuary opened before him. Its chamber stood under the largest dome, creating a ceiling that rose tier upon tier over the circular chamber. Dominating all the carvings, and all the altars to lesser gods and their many aspects, were the statues of the Seven. Carved four times a man’s size, they danced eternally around a central fire that smelled of the heady herbs that might set a man to dreaming if he stayed too long in his meditations. Summer blossoms in many colors draped and crowned the Mothers, and petals lay scattered around their feet.

Samudra dropped to his knees, prostrating himself before the images.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I truly believed I was only doing what you desired
.

Chandra had played at ruling as if it was a garden sport. He had ordered lavish palaces built. He had filled the women’s quarters with skilled and exotic beauties and opened them freely to his favorites. He had feasted himself and them liberally, and had ordered the ministers and administrators about like a petulant child giving orders to slaves. Through it all, Samudra had stood by and watched. It was not his place, he told those who came to him to speak of taking the throne. His place was to be a soldier, to defend Hastinapura. That was his role.

He had held to that, until the day the Huni moved. They marched unimpeded down from their holds in the northern mountains, occupying first a few valleys, then a few cities, then three whole provinces, and Chandra refused to let Samudra take his armies north to meet them. They would not be able to hold such vast tracts, Chandra said with a wave of his scented hand. They would soon withdraw.

But they did not, and at last Chandra was forced to act. But he still did not send Samudra, who had trained all his life for this fight, and who was adept in the arts of war. No, he himself would be carried to the fight, an umbrella over his head and a naked sword at his side.

He was captured three days after the ridiculous, limping battle was joined, and immediately sent word back to the Pearl Throne that he should be ransomed, whatever the cost.

Samudra could not stand it anymore. He consulted the best astrologers; he spent long hours with Hamsa, making her draw him out fortune after fortune. All said the same thing; if Chandra were allowed to rule, Hastinapura would collapse. The thought of the Pearl Throne falling to ruin inflamed him. It could not be permitted.

Samudra traveled in secret to Chandra’s camp. He dressed himself in women’s clothes and went to the Huni commander, begging to be allowed to see Chandra, “my dear husband.” His plea was granted, and Samudra killed the Huni duke with a hidden dagger and escaped, slinging Chandra over his saddle bow when Chandra would not move quickly enough.

When he had Chandra safely back in the camp, and had made sure the story of the rescue was spreading fast, he presented Chandra with his demands. Chandra would leave the camp, Samudra would pursue the war. When Samudra returned to the Pearl Throne, Chandra would turn over the rule over to Samudra. In return, Samudra would not rise up against him, and he would grant Chandra his life.

Chandra snarled, Chandra barked, Chandra threatened. Samudra stood silently before him while the shouts of praise bearing his name, not Chandra’s, rang through the camp, more than loud enough to be heard in the imperial pavilion. In the end, Chandra tried to bribe, and then he begged, and Yamuna stood to one side in the pavilion and watched it all. Chandra finally agreed and Samudra marched away to his own quarters. Hamsa did not sleep that night, nor for many nights afterwards, waiting, wary, for whatever attack Chandra might order Yamuna to launch.

But from that quarter, no attack came.

Or so he had thought then.

After a time, Samudra sat back on his heels, gazing up at the Mothers whose images had been before him all his life. Jalaja, Queen of Heaven; Daya, Queen of Earth; Ela, Queen of Mercy; Harsha, Fertility; Indu, War; Chitrani, the Rains and Waters; Vimala, Destruction.

“Yamuna,” he whispered to them. “I did not look for him. I looked long and hard at my brother, but Yamuna is a servant. He vowed to serve you, and us. How could I believe he had come to rule? Even Chandra could not permit himself to be so ruled. It never even crossed my mind.” He bowed his head. “And I believed myself to be such a fine soldier, a great planner, and I failed to take the true measure of the traitor in my own house, and now his son has begun a war I do not know if I can stop.” He lifted his eyes. “We cannot have chaos in the north. We cannot have Hung Tse uncontained. My brother is days away with his master, I am committed here, and his son is out of reach in the north. So many pieces so far away. Mothers, how do I guide the patterns on this board where all the players are out of my reach?”