Temple of a Thousand Faces (21 page)

He swam to Vibol, wrapping his arms around him. To his profound relief, Vibol moaned. Without pause or thought, Boran dived underwater, feeling along the pole, finding the rope around Vibol’s feet and cutting it with care. He freed his son’s hands next, then eased him away from the pole. Prak reached into the
water and helped pull his brother into the bow of their boat. Vibol’s feet thumped against the wood bottom and a Cham called out. A moment passed. A lantern moved atop a distant boat. Boran froze, but Prak pretended to be his brother, moaning loudly.

The night stilled once again. Boran shuddered at the sight of Vibol’s battered face. He held him tight, stroking his cheek, sharing him with Soriya, who cried and kissed him.

Prak paddled them forward, away from the fires and toward a darkness that was welcomed by all.

he bronze tower atop Bapoun Temple glistened in the early-morning light. Though the massive, five-tiered temple was more than a hundred years old, it remained in pristine condition, prompting Indravarman to wonder why the Khmers were better builders than his countrymen. The courtyard in which he sat was guarded by eight bronze elephants, each life-size and showing remarkable attention to detail. Some high-ranking Cham had ordered that his kingdom’s colors be draped over the beasts. Indravarman thought the bright swaths of silk looked ridiculous on such works of art, emphasizing the Chams’ inferiorities.

On another day, Indravarman would have ensured that the fabric was removed, but thoughts of Jayavar’s capture dominated his mind, as they often did. Each morning brought new rumors of the prince’s whereabouts and activities, goading Indravarman with their very existence.

A huge slab of cut sandstone lay in front of Indravarman. A detailed map of the entire region had been drawn on the slab,
and silver coins marked the locations of Indravarman’s scouting parties. Cubes of jade indicated the presence of piles of stones that had been found in the jungle, and it was the gatherings of jade that kept Indravarman’s interest. Based on multiple interrogations, Indravarman knew that Jayavar had a habit of creating these piles, and he studied the map hard, looking for patterns. His scouts were finding new piles each day, and he was getting a better sense for what parts of the land his enemy tended to frequent. Jayavar seemed to prefer the north to the south, and lakes to plains.

“His tendencies are obvious,” Indravarman said. “But does he know as much and intend to do the opposite?”

Po Rame stepped forward, moving with grace and silence. Though he appeared to carry no weapon, a blade and a garrote were concealed in his hip cloth. As usual, he kept his back to the sun. “I don’t think the coward is in the south, King of Kings.”

“Why not?”

“Because our numbers there are too great. He’d be discovered.”

Indravarman’s gaze traveled westward on the map. “Has he gone to the Siamese?”

“My spies would have told me as much, Lord King. No, I believe he cowers in the jungle, likely to the north.”

“You believe or you know?”

“It’s unclear—”

“Enough!” Indravarman slammed his thick fist atop the sandstone. He was tired of speculation. The future would be determined by knowledge, not conjecture. “He knows where we are,” Indravarman said. “That gives him an advantage, despite his weaker numbers.”

Po Rame eyed the officers who stood in a distant circle around them. Tired of their excuses, Indravarman had sent them out of
earshot. “A pity,” Po Rame replied, “that all his sons are dead. If a whelp still lived, we’d have leverage.”

“Better to have them all dead.”

“But what, King of Kings, if we spread a rumor that one yet lives? Would the coward come to save him? Could a trap be sprung?”

Indravarman stood up from his crouched position. “The youngest son? Who would inspire less confidence in the Khmers?”

“A boy, Lord King. He was just a worthless boy.”

Nodding, Indravarman wondered if it had been a mistake to kill all of Jayavar’s family. Perhaps the boy should have been spared for such a day. “Walk with me.”

The two Chams, followed at a distance by a score of officers and several of Indravarman’s favorite philosophers, made their way to the vast temple, then proceeded up its steps until they were able to touch the bronze tower. From such a height, the city of Angkor spread out like a gray and green blanket before them, trails of smoke diffusing into the sky. Indravarman studied the distant formations of his men and their war elephants. He imagined himself as Jayavar, hiding in the jungle, raising an army, bent on revenge.

“What of his woman?” Indravarman asked. “What of her line?”

Po Rame answered, “They’re also all dead, Lord King. Gutted like fish the day after our victory.”

“Then it will have to be the boy. Spread your rumor. Say that he’s ill and kept for my entertainment in a cage right here, atop this temple. Say that in order to live, he must pray out loud every day for his father’s death.”

Po Rame nodded. “We’ll have to find a whelp and put him here.”

“Do it. And hide a score of our best men within these walls.”

“Consider it—”

“Jayavar is too wise to come himself. But he will send someone. And that someone may lead us to him.”

“Yes, Lord King.”

Po Rame turned to leave, but Indravarman reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And Po Rame, keep an eye on your old adversary, Asal. I value his services considerably, but he seems to have a softness for the Khmers. He should have executed ten of their most popular priests, not ten invalids. His fate isn’t to choose, but to do as he is told, and I question the reason behind his sense of sovereignty.”

“He’s weak—the stock of peasants.”

“No, Po Rame. He’s strong. Too strong. And that’s why there will come a time when you will have my blessing to kill him. Once we claim Jayavar’s head and the threat of attack is gone, you may do with Asal as you wish.”

Po Rame bowed. “That day can’t arrive soon enough for me.”

“Don’t test my patience with the tediousness of your own desires.”

“Yes, King of Kings.”

Indravarman turned away from his assassin and walked toward the center of the temple. He rubbed the iron beneath his skin for luck, wanting the future to unfold quickly, knowing that he would never be the unquestioned ruler of Angkor until Jayavar was dead.

T
hough he had done so reluctantly, in the end Asal had agreed that Voisanne could walk past her old home and look for her sister. Voisanne had promised him that she would move quickly and, for the time being, keep her identity secret.

Her heart pounding with increasing vigor, Voisanne followed
the familiar streets and alleys leading to her former home. She yearned to run but held her pace in check. She longed to shout for joy but only hummed. The knowledge that her sister lived had kept her up all night, tossing in the darkness, brushing away insects that clung to the outside of her mosquito net. Thida had asked about her strange behavior and Voisanne replied that she wasn’t feeling well, a claim belied by her newfound energy.

She saw her father’s statue, felt a momentary pause in her gait, looked for Chaya, and then spied her beneath their home as she chopped peppers with a small knife. Voisanne unconsciously muttered her name, then covered her mouth with her hands and stepped behind the large statue. Tears dropped to the dusty ground. She closed her eyes as she offered her repeated thanks to the Gods. Somehow Chaya had been spared; she looked well.

Though Voisanne wanted nothing more than to run to Chaya and hold her tight, she remembered her promise to Asal. She also knew that any rash action would only endanger her little sister. It would be far better to contain her joy, to thrive on it, and to plan for their escape. Once that blissful day arrived their reunion would be without end.

Voisanne wasn’t sure if Asal would help them but she believed that he wouldn’t betray them. She felt his decency every time they were together, and after peeking around the statue once more to watch her sister, she needed to rush back to him, to tell him of her profound gratitude.

“I’ll come for you, Chaya,” Voisanne whispered, and then turned, keeping the statue between her sister and herself. She walked quickly, wondering how she could rescue Chaya, how they might flee Angkor and never return.

As Voisanne approached the Royal Palace, the streets became crowded with pedestrians. She brushed past them, moving unusually fast for a woman but uncaring of what others thought.
Again and again, she envisioned Chaya cutting the vegetables, and each memory lifted her spirits higher.

Only at the last moment, as she entered the bustling Royal Palace, did Voisanne slow her pace. She lowered her head, deadened the joy on her face, and walked on. The palace’s wide corridors were filled with concubines, slaves, warriors, officials, and servants. Both Chams and Khmers were present, though only the occupiers carried weapons of any sort.

Voisanne neared the living quarters of the Cham officers. The area was quiet, and she passed door after door until finally she arrived at Asal’s room. Her knock was unanswered and she respectfully called out his name. When no reply was uttered, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The room had been left tidy and clean, as if no one had lived in it for many years. Voisanne eyed Asal’s few possessions. To her surprise, his shield rested against the far wall. Though still buoyed by the thought of being reunited with her sister, she realized that she should soon return to her quarters. She’d told the guards that she was going to bathe and if she took too long they would grow suspicious.

But as she reached for the door, Voisanne considered Asal’s position and the risk he was taking by helping her. It had been his idea to search for her sister, and it was he who’d rekindled the flame of life in her. Every feeling of hope and promise that she now experienced had started with him. And she had given him nothing in return, had made no effort to repay his generosity of spirit and action.

Suddenly Voisanne felt an urge to leave him something—a token of her appreciation. But a token, whether a flower or a letter, could be discovered and used against him. Her gaze traveled again to his shield. On several occasions, she had seen him adjust its straps and test its strength and she knew that it was almost a
part of him. A note could be hidden within the crevices of the shield, in a place where only he would find it.

His dais held white chalk and various squares of deerskin. She picked up a small piece of hide, glad that her father had let her watch him write and encouraged her to try her hand. Though there was much she wanted to say to Asal, space was finite and precious. The chalk stirred against the hide.

I pray that this shield never fails you, and that one day, in what is to become the best of your days, you set it down and you know the same peace and joy that you have given me.

Voisanne folded up the hide and positioned it on the underside of the shield, in a narrow gap between the iron rim and the teak interior. She then propped the shield up against the wall, so that it stood more proudly than it had before.

She smiled, pleased with her words. As thoughts of her sister flooded into her once again, she stepped from the room and walked ahead, unaware of the throngs of her enemies, gripped only by the promise of an imminent reunion.

V
ibol lay silent near the fire. His head rested on Soriya’s lap, and she gently stroked his brow, avoiding the cuts and swollen flesh around his eyes. As she tended to him, she hummed a song that she’d sung to him as a child. Occasionally, she placed a small piece of honeycomb on his tongue. Twenty paces away, near the edge of the Great Lake, Boran and Prak were on the lookout for Chams, the soft notes of Prak’s flute seemingly a part of the land.

Boran had paddled until dawn, trying to create space between the Cham encampment and his family. In an effort to raise Vibol’s spirits, they had taken turns telling him stories about his childhood. Boran spoke about Vibol’s first attempts at fishing. Soriya recalled how, when he was a baby, his gums would ache
and he liked to gnaw on her knuckles. Prak relived many of their adventures together, smiling when he recollected how a wild boar they were hunting had chased them into the river.