Sword of the Deceiver (37 page)

Their song settled about them, holding back the swirl of chaos all around and solidifying the road beneath them. All the sorcerers of Sindhu walked into the lands between life and death on that road of song, which carried them forward to the work they had chosen.

Then, the great miracle happened across Sindhu.

It happened in each town, in each farming village, beside each fishing boat that floated on the sacred river. In the rice paddies and the workshops and the prisons. In each place, a monk and a nun appeared, always a pair together. They came from nowhere. They came with folded hands and serene faces, and the people who saw them fell to their knees in wonder.

“Come with us,” they sang. “Come with us, for the war is come to the land and we will take you to safety. Come with us.”

Women and children came, driving the smallest of the livestock with them, men came with the cows and bulls, the oldest and the youngest came, and the sorcerers went before them, singing the words of praise, of making and of binding, and as they sang the people saw the silver road from beneath their feet and they stepped onto it, their faces slack with wonder. The world opened before them and closed behind them, and it was the song that kept them from fear, and from thinking to look behind.

They came to the palace and gathered up all those who were not soldiers there, walking the weeping queen and her wide-eyed children onto the silver road, singing to soothe the heart, singing to pause the life of form and of fear so all that was seen and all that was felt was as a distant dream to those who now ran onto the silver road to escape the nightmare of war. Singing so that the road would hold and safely harbor all the lives they took into their charge. Sindhu’s sorcerers walked singing from the world, and they took Sindhu’s people with them. Behind them, the ethereal gateways closed and left no trace of their being.

“Natharie.” Samudra’s voice was so gentle, her waking mind heard it only as a playful whisper. She opened her eyes and saw the world around them grey with evening. Their fire was only a few smoldering ashes. Samudra propped up on his elbow, leaning over her, but not looking at her. He stared at the altar. She turned to follow his gaze with her own, and saw the snake.

It was huge, rearing back to expose its death-pale belly. Its hood was spread wide and its tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air, tasting the fear that welled up in Natharie as she saw its shining black eyes.

Samudra’s gaze flicked down, and Natharie’s did the same. The snake was not alone. Its mate lay full-length on the temple floor, twined in intimate communion with its fellow, who towered protectively over it, even as Samudra had risen over Natharie.

Move, and I strike
, the serpent seemed to say
. Do not move, and I stride
.

“My sword,” breathed Samudra. “Your cap.”

Natharie understood. She did not lift herself. On her belly, as if she were a snake herself, she slowly eased backward, moving less than an inch at a time. The serpents watched unblinking. The risen one swayed as if uncertain what this meant. Its mate also watched, tongue flicking impatiently. Did it taste the quality of the fear? Natharie stretched her hand out, slowly, slowly, slowly to reclaim the length of linen she had cast aside carelessly.

You kin of the
nagas,
you children of earth, we meant no disrespect. We wished only shelter. We will depart if you will but permit
. Her fingers clutched the cloth and pulled it toward her, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Samudra stayed where he was, still as stone, matching his gaze with the serpent’s. The cobra swayed and opened its mouth, displaying its great fangs. Samudra drew back, just a little. This seemed to satisfy the snake, and it shut its mouth, but it did not close its great hood or drop down beside its mate.

Where is the sword?
Sweat stung Natharie’s eyes. Her hair fell across her face, a black curtain tickling cheek, nose, and chin. She was terrified she would sneeze, and bit her lips so hard she tasted blood.

She spotted the sword hilt not far away to her right. Still flat on her belly, she inched her hand toward it. She wore her tunic, but her legs were naked and the sharp edges of the palm fronds cut into her skin. The serpent’s mate hissed loud and sudden, and jerked back. Samudra started, and the serpent lunged faster than sight, and sank its fangs into his arm.

Samudra screamed in pain and horror and Natharie’s cry echoed his. She snatched up the sword, but it was too late. The serpents were already gone, and on Samudra’s forearm, two beads of scarlet blood formed.

Natharie raised the blade at once, ready to bring it down, to sever his arm and cut the poison off, but Samudra lifted his hand, which was already shaking.

“No. Not with the bite of these snakes,” he said quietly. “We have no way to bind or burn the wound before this poison reaches my breath. I would just die from the loss of blood.”

The sword fell clattering to the broken stones and Natharie’s arms dropped useless to her sides.

“What can we do?”

“Sit with me,” said Samudra. “Be … be here.”

She knelt. She felt … she felt too many things. She wanted to scream, to cry, to snatch Samudra up in her arms and love him with all the fervor that filled her pounding heart. Instead, her trembling hands took up the length of linen and wiped his blood away.

Samudra also knelt. He had gone as pale as the serpent’s belly. Sweat beaded his brow, but that would not last. Soon, he would be cold. Then, his breath would leave him, dried away by the poison that now coursed through his blood.

“This is what you must do,” he said quietly. “You must gather what food you can and take to the river. You must not come ashore again until you reach safety …”

“Stop.” Natharie choked out the word.
Compose yourself. You cannot let his last sight be of you suffering
. “Save your breath. If you must speak, you should pray.”

Samudra smiled weakly. “From the Awakened woman I get this advice?”

She swallowed hard. She would be strong. Although her whole soul screamed because the last resting place for heart and hope was being torn from her, she would not break. Not yet.

“We are neither of us fit for this death,” she answered him, wondering at the steadiness in her own voice. “Think on Heaven, my prince. Let what powers will come know you died in what holiness you could find.”

He closed his eyes and nodded his head. The first of the spasms shook him, and he coughed. “Then, let me ask this one thing of you.”

“What is it, Samudra?”

“Marry me.”

Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble out. “Samudra, don’t …” But his face was strained, the paleness already giving way to deathly grey. The sweat dripped from his brow to his bare chest. She could see his ribs laboring to rise and fall.

“How can we marry?” she asked, trying to stay calm. “We have no one to officiate.”

His smile was pained, but real. “As first prince, I can make any marriage my brother does not contradict.”

She swallowed again. This was ludicrous. Samudra’s life could be measured in heartbeats. There was no time for such a sham.

But would it be a sham? She had given herself to him. She had felt love as well as passion. She felt it now, in her sickened heart, and in the way the tears pressed behind her eyes as he coughed again. She wanted him to live. She wanted to talk with him and walk and fight beside him. She wanted to see him on the Pearl Throne where he belonged, and she wanted to stand with him in front of her parents and show them that all was right, for Sindhu, for her.

She was wasting time. “Yes, Samudra. I will marry you.”

He closed his eyes, and she saw his mouth shape words of thanks. Then he coughed, hard, and his eyes opened, startled and in pain.

“We …” He drew in a ragged breath. “We need a circle around the fire.”

Natharie fed the coals until the flames rose once more. Then, using a charred stick, she scraped the black circle as Samudra directed, adding clumsy symbols of blessing and fertility at the cardinal points. By the time she had finished, the sweat had dried on Samudra’s brow. His skin drew tight across his cheeks and his fingers were thin and sharp.

“Kneel beside me,” he whispered, and Natharie did. His skin gave off no warmth. She picked up her wrap and laid it across his shoulders. He clutched it to his chest, and his hand shook, and it shook again as he raised his palm over the dying fire.

“By the blessing of the Mothers, I Samudra
tya
Achin Ireshpad do beg Mother Harsha who is the Queen of Increase and Mother Jalaja who is the Queen of Heaven, to witness and bless what I do now say.” His voice quavered and his words were lost in a fit of coughing that sapped his strength for a moment and left him leaning against her, gasping for air. Then, with apology in his eyes, he straightened himself up and went on. “That I, Son of the Moon and First Prince of Hastinapura, do give Samudra
tya
Achin Ireshpad to the great princess, Natharie Somchai of Sindhu. I’m sorry,” he added in a whisper. “I … have forgotten any words of the Awakened One.”

“All is right, Samudra,” she whispered in answer, cradling his head against her shoulder. “It is enough.”

Samudra kissed her. Natharie returned the kiss, willing the heat of her blood and body into him, willing the pain and poison to pass into her own, stronger flesh. When at last they could each bear it, they separated. Samudra met her eyes. He was trembling. His breath wheezed in his throat, but his face was calm.

“Now I can pray.”

Natharie helped him turn toward the altar. She lifted his hands and helped him press them together. He was so cold. He trembled like a plucked string. He bowed his head, in reverence or because he no longer had the strength to hold it upright, Natharie couldn’t tell.

“Forgive me, Mother Vimala,” he whispered. “These are your creatures, I know … I … I was too weak. Forgive me.”

Tears in her eyes, Natharie sat cross-legged beside him, cupping one hand inside the other. She strove to calm her mind. This was now her husband beside her. She loved him. She did love him. Whether she should or she should not, the wheel had turned and this was her place. It was her last duty to help bring him as close to Heaven as she could. She could not do that filled with rage and tormented disdain at this injustice, or carrying the fear that this was just punishment for her all her sins and failings.

Where water, earth
,
heat, air
no footing find
. She heard the words of the benediction clearly in her heart.

Her fingers moved, telling the beads that had been gone so long. In her heart she heard them, clicking back and forth, counting heartbeats, counting breaths, sending the world slipping away.

Over and over she repeated the words in the silence of her mind. All other awareness fell away. Her breath grew deep and easy. Warmth rose from the center of her being, cradling her heart and mind, relaxing her, driving out fear and anger, leaving only peace and strength.

Distantly, she heard a cough, and the shuffling thump as Samudra fell. She was not startled. She opened her eyes, and rose to come by his head, which she lifted and cradled in her lap. He shook. His lips were blue. It was a miracle he had not fallen before. He looked up at her in fear.

“Peace, peace, my husband,” she whispered. “Think on Heaven. It is here. I am here.”

“I do not want to leave you.” She could barely hear the words for the wheezing and straining. His breath was cold and foul. Her heart, so calm, so poised in its meditations, quietly and surely broke in two.

“It’s all right,” she told him softly, covering his cold hands with her warm ones. “Just rest a little. I’ll be right here.”

Hope dawned in his pain-racked eyes. “Just rest a little.”

“Yes, husband. Close your eyes.” She laid her palm over his eyes, shutting out the cruel beams of the setting sun, the sight of the whining, stinging insects gathering like vultures at the scent of death. “It’s all right.”

She felt the gentle brush of Samudra’s lashes against her palm as his eyelids, trembling, closed.

“I …” His breath was coming hard now, his whole frame straining. Natharie held him hard and tight, trying to ease the shudders. “I love …” But the words were lost in retching and whooping gasps that did no good. His chest no longer moved, his mouth gaped, his eyes stared in horror at death and his throat choked for air that it could not draw. Natharie held him close and hard. His shudders racked her, and his flailing hand clawed her face, and she felt the blood run free but she did not let go.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Samudra relaxed so completely that Natharie was pulled forward by the sudden weight and fell gracelessly across him. When she scrambled back, she saw his eyes were closed. As she watched, they opened again, slowly, smoothly. Samudra’s eyes stared out at Heaven, and Natharie knew she was alone.

Natharie screamed. She beat the rotting floor with her fists. All the strength, all the peace she had been able to call upon fled with Samudra’s life. There was only the weakness and rage of an animal that has lost its mate. Tears mixed with blood on her face as she pounded her own breast, babbling her inconsolate grief to Heaven.

In her rage she leapt up and grabbed a branch and hammered on the altar. “Come out! Come out!” she screamed to the hidden serpents. “Come take me! I’ll crush your skulls with my bare feet before I join him! Come out!”

But her strength had already been sorely taxed, and her stinging hands had to drop the branch and her weakened knees had to collapse and she could do nothing but weep. At last, even her tears ran dry, and she crouched there in the shadow of the altar, dry and hollow. Gently, the peace that death had stolen came back to her.

She stood. She bowed toward the altar. She walked calmly back to the river and carried water in a bowl to wash Samudra’s body. She closed his eyes and laid him out straight and neat. She lacked the strength to dress him properly, so she drew his loose trouser-wrappings over him like a blanket so that he was decently covered.

The soul of those who have just died was a heavy thing, the sages taught. It carried its weight of earthly concerns and hatreds. It would cling to the world of form for three days, while such things drained away into the earth from which they came. Only then could the soul become light enough for death to carry to the other world to be joined with itself in the Land of Death and Spirit. Until then, the dead one could not be left alone, lest the soul, terrified and heavy, sink back into the body and try to live again, creating a foul ghoul.

To prevent this, someone, ideally a monk, had to sit with body and soul, and soothe them by singing of peace and Heaven. There was no monk here, there was only herself. She crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knees, and she began to sing.

Be at peace, my husband. Be free. Be free
.

Twilight closed over on the living and the dead, and Natharie began the hymn again.

Ponderously, the great army of Hastinapura marched across Sindhu’s plain.

It was a grand and glittering sight, moving to the sound of horns and drums and the endless tramping of thousands of feet on the clear, dry roads. The elephants were painted red with symbols of death and fortune. Their gilded tusks shone in the fierce sunlight. Banners fluttered in the humid breeze, showing themselves red, blue, saffron, and green, all proclaiming that the emperor came as warrior, that the Mothers looked down from Heaven and the earth should tremble. Before all, the priests carried the image of Queen Indu, Mother of War, riding on her tiger’s back, brandishing her sword and shield, her head thrown back so that she might howl out triumph over all enemies.