Throne of Ruins (The Powers of Amur Book 5) Page 12

  Nakhur read out the names of many more Powers, most of them familiar to Daladham, though some of the names were archaic and there was one which he had never heard before. Nakhur turned the page and read out the last three.

  “… Kushma, Ulaur, and—”

  He stopped. His finger hovered an inch above the page.

  “Keep going,” Bhudman said. “Is something wrong?”

  “The text is damaged,” Nakhur said.

  “Damaged?” Amabhu crowded next to Nakhur and looked at the place his finger pointed. “We kept it—oh.”

  Daladham and Bhudman rose from their places to look at the page. The place which Nakhur pointed to was obvious, though Daladham couldn’t understand a single stroke of the writing. A line of words in careful script, and then something had been written, then blotted out. Heavy black blots of ink covered the words. Only the tips of the letters showed above the blemish.

  “A mistake,” Amabhu said. His voice was angry. “Some fool thikratta spilled ink and was too lazy to re-copy the page.”

  “Not a mistake,” Caupana said. He hadn’t stirred from his place, but he spoke with his habitual certainty.

  Daladham felt a black chill and a moment of nauseating dread. He whispered. “Caupana is right. The thikratta did this deliberately.” He pointed to the page. “Whatever name is beneath that word is not to be spoken. The copyist wrote it once, then covered it up. It’s a warning.”

  “She Who Devours,” Nakhur said softly.

  “And both Kushma and Ulaur are named right before her,” Bhudman said.

  “Kushma whom the Emperor serves, whom the Mouth of the Devourer fears.” Daladham put his hand on his lips and ran his hand lightly through his beard. “If this book is as old as we believe it is, it may predate the disappearance of the Kushmaya dhorsha. And maybe it will tell us how to find them.”

  “Explain,” Nakhur said, eyeing Daladham with distrust. “The only thing I know about Kushma is the blood on his feet and the skulls around his neck. He seems more like an avatar of She Who Devours than our deliverance.”

  Daladham shook his head. “Kushma is not an enemy. He brings death to that which must die. He has a harvester’s knife in his hand and blood on his feet because he reaps the lives of men the way the farmer reaps the rice when it is ripe. But he sows new life in the wake of what he has ruined. And what does She Who Devours do? She gives the Devoured endless life… of a sort.”

  He shuddered. Bhudman and Nakhur gave him a curious stare. None of them had seen the Mouth of the Devourer or his hordes. “My nephew,” he began to explain, then shook his head. His voice began to crack. “Maybe later. Kushma, though… He destroyed the serpent once before, bringing ruin to the old world and planting the current age in its place. He is honored in all our temples.”

  He took a deep breath and bowed his head. “But no sacrifice is ever offered to Kushma. The dhorsha dedicated to him have vanished. If the book tells us how to find them…”

  “What makes you think they still exist?” Amabhu asked. He sat with his arms folded. “It’s been centuries, at least, since the Kushmaya dhorsha existed. And even if that book remembers them, how does it help us?”

  “What makes you think they ever existed?” Nakhur said, rising from his stool. He began to pace beside the pool, his palms folded together and his thumbs tapping each other rapidly. “Let me give you another interpretation, Daladham-dhu. The destruction of the serpent is ascribed both to Ulaur and to Kushma, but the name of Kushma is a corruption. When the dhorsha forsook the worship of Ulaur and began to serve the faithless Powers, they purged the memory of Ulaur, and erected the false Kushma in his place as the one who destroyed the serpent, making his appearance terrifying to frighten those who would inquire into him. The Kushmaya dhorsha do not exist today because they never existed: there was never anyone dedicated to Kushma, because Kushma is only the facade the dhorsha erected to blaspheme the worship of Ulaur.”

  Daladham bowed his head. As a historian, he had to admit to the plausibility of Nakhur’s story. “Perhaps.”

  “And yet,” Bhudman said, “both Kushma and Ulaur are named in the book of the Powers.”

  Nakhur grunted. “My elder saghada,” he said, “what are you saying?”

  “Nothing,” Bhudman said plainly. “I make no assertions yet, because we have only just begun to read. There are many pages left in the book.”

  “She comes,” Caupana said, and he rose from his stool.

  They turned to face the stairs which descended from the second floor. Srithi was coming, the baby still slung against her hip, supported gently by her mother’s hand. She moved into the sun-lit courtyard, raising a hand to shade the child’s eyes from the white sun.

  She looked down, embarrassment showing on her face at the sudden surplus of attention.

  “Should we leave you to speak to Caupana?” Bhudman asked. He stepped a pace back.

  “No,” Srithi said. She took a heavy breath and circled the pool to stand directly in front of Caupana. “I will study with you.”

  Caupana nodded without any apparent emotion. “I’m glad.”

  Daladham could make out Amabhu muttering under his breath. But there was a war, and the Empire was upside down. Amabhu would have to accept it.

  “But,” Srithi said, raising a finger, “only for a while. Until the Mouth of the Devourer is put down, and things return to normal. I will try to listen to the amashi and develop my—” she swallowed, as if unwilling to say the next word “—my farsight. But Veshta wants more sons. We both want more children. I’m not taking any vows of abstinence.”

  “No vows,” Caupana said, nodding slowly. “That’s fine.”

  “No vows,” Amabhu said mockingly. “Is that how you were trained as a thikratta? As a trick we dabbled in, after which to return to childbearing and commerce?”

  “Quiet, Amabhu. A thikratta may take an apprentice under any conditions he finds acceptable.”

  “And who raised you to the rank of master to begin taking apprentices?”

  Caupana gave Amabhu an amused look. “I am the greatest living thikratta in Amur. Who’s going to stop me?”

  Amabhu opened his mouth to object, then closed it. His brows bunched together in consternation. “There might be another we don’t know about.”

  “Then let him find me and stop me,” Caupana said.

  Srithi sniffed and stood up as straight as she could. At her tallest she came up to Caupana’s shoulder. “Now what should I do?”

  “Take off the pansha.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She reached up and untied the gauzy scarf tied beneath her bun, pulled it to the side, and let it fall to the ground. For a moment she stiffened, her eyes drawn half-shut in fear. She let out a long breath.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t taken it off for… I don’t even remember. I was afraid the amashi would take me the moment I let it down.”

  “Now stand here,” Caupana said. He pointed to a place adjacent to the pool. “And give me the baby.”

  “Why?” Srithi asked.

  “If you are my apprentice, you’ll do as I say.”

  She bowed her head. She loosened the sling a little, plucked out the sleeping child, and placed him into Caupana’s hands. The baby began to stir and fuss. Caupana turned and dropped the child into Daladham’s arms.

  “Oh!” said Daladham with surprise and pleasure. “What are you doing?” The baby whined softly, and Daladham tried to rock him. He hadn’t had a child in his arms since his Jairatu was a babe. But he smelled like smoke, sandalwood, and sweat, not at all like a mother, and the baby seemed to know it. He squirmed, but eventually quieted with Daladham’s rocking.

  “Don’t drop him,” Amabhu said.

  “I won’t,” Daladham said testily. “I had a wife and children of my own, you know.”

  “Did you?” Srithi said brightly. “Where are they?”

  “They died. A decade since my wife passed.”

  “Oh,” Srithi m
urmured. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.” He was glad that she didn’t ask for details.

  “Now.” Caupana turned to Nakhur. “Read us the next line from the book.”

  Nakhur’s finger hovered a handspan above the page. “Will it harm her?”

  “We have to find out, no?” Caupana said.

  Srithi looked at Nakhur, her eyes wide with fear. Nakhur began to read.

  “Am, who is called Gaudakhatta and Lurchati, who holds the rice stalk, the spear, and ram’s horn, who is likened to the male goat, whose horn—”

  Srithi giggled.

  Nakhur looked up at her. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine. I was just—I don’t know—it seems so odd to be sitting here with the four of you. I never thought I’d be here as a, whatever I am, a thikratta’s apprentice.” She smiled and put her mouth over her hand.

  Daladham suppressed his own smile. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen: two thikratta, two saghada, and a dhorsha reading an ancient book together with a mother and child.

  “See,” Amabhu muttered softly, giving Daladham an irritated glance. “This is why you don’t invite women to be thikratta.”

  Caupana lay a calming hand on Amabhu’s knee. “Quiet, little brother.” Then, loud enough for all to hear, he added, “The words of the book do her no harm in this place. Take your child when you are ready, Srithi. Nakhur may continue to read.”

  Srithi came to Daladham, and he reluctantly gave the baby back to his mother. “Thank you,” he whispered to her.

  She gave him a surprised, pleased look. “What on earth for?”

  “For letting me hold the child. I’ve missed being with children.”

  She smiled at him. “Well, come and visit to see mine, then. We’ll be seeing each other a lot while we work through the book.”

  Delightful woman. He gave her a polite nod that didn’t express half of his pleasure. Then he shifted his weight on the stool and listened to Nakhur read.

  SADJA

  An urgent noise sounded in the hall. Voices speaking in impatient whispers. The clatter of a lamp against a table. The curtain over Sadja’s bedchamber parted, and a spear of dim yellow light pierced the darkness.

  “My Emperor,” said someone with a trembling voice. “You are requested at the gate.”

  “I’m awake,” Sadja said. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Who requests me?”

  “Bhargasa, my Emperor.”

  Something important then. They would never have awoken him for anything minor, but if his military commander were involved it could only be one thing.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Call my valet.” He rose. The curtain fell, and the room returned to darkness, lit by the thin, waning sliver of the moon.

  He wore only his bed-clothes: a thin cotton shirt that let the breeze through and a pair of pants. He knew his way around the bedchamber well enough in the dark, better than he had ever known the Emperor’s dwellings in Majasravi. In the darkness he found the ewer of cool water, washed his face and hands, and stepped out into the antechamber.

  His valet was already there, holding a green-and-gold kurta and matching dhoti.

  “Quickly,” Sadja said. A few moments later he was dressed and storming through the halls of the palace toward the courtyard, a servant bearing a lamp before him. He heard the noise of the courtyard before he emerged through the stone archway. Soldiers everywhere, chaos and shouting, torches and lamps casting confused shadows. Sadja hesitated just outside the doorway.

  “Bhargasa!” he shouted.

  The movement in the courtyard stilled. Eyes looked his way, and those who saw him dropped to their knees. A wave of obeisance spread through the courtyard, giving Sadja a clear view of Bhargasa standing near the open courtyard gate. He pointed to the commander and waved him near. The others cautiously stood.

  Bhargasa approached him and bowed. “My lord and king, my Emperor, the situation is urgent. The north gate and the west gate are taken.”

  “Taken by whom?”

  Bhargasa grimaced. “The Devoured.”

  Sadja strode forward, a stormy anger growing in his chest. “How is this possible? What happened?”

  “Reports from witnesses said that they rushed the gates from inside the city. The doors were closed but lightly guarded. I got no reports from the gate guards themselves, only from the watchmen on the walls nearby. I must assume that everyone in the gatehouses is dead.”

  “Inside?” Sadja asked. “How?”

  “They must have entered the city under the guise of ordinary refugees.” A look of pain and chagrin crossed his face. “There is no way to tell them apart. At least not without cutting them open.”

  Sadja grunted. “Your plan?”

  “I’m forming up two parties to sally from the palace and attempt to retake the gates. I assume the rest of their force will be here soon. Any delay and we’ll be fighting the whole army, a proper army. The Mouth of the Devourer himself, perhaps.”

  Sadja cursed. “Go. Take the gates. And prepare…”

  A chill of dread stirred in his stomach. Bhargasa’s spies had seen the Devoured coming out of Majasravi for the past several weeks, though not in any group as organized as an army. They came out in drips and drabs and dissolved into the countryside, hiding in villages and forests. Nothing that he could go out and fight. If a few had infiltrated the city, then he must assume the rest would be at his door by daylight.

  Would he flee again? Running always from an enemy who didn’t die, each time leaving behind others to die, or to preserve their lives by entering the Mouth of the Devourer’s service. How far? How long before there was nowhere else to run?

  He shook his head. For now, if he could not save Davrakhanda, he would move on again, even as he had moved on from Majasravi. There was still strength in Amur to fight, and he needed to live in order to rally it.

  “Send word to the docks to prepare ships to sail,” he said. “Emperor’s orders. As many as can carry souls away from here.”

  “Yes, my Emperor,” Bhargasa said. “I thought as much. I already have a boy ready to carry the message.”

  “I’ll dress in the armory, and I’ll find you again as soon as I’ve dressed.”

  He hadn’t crossed half of the courtyard before he saw the towering, broad-shouldered figure with its copper-colored hair step into his path. Kest raised his hand and dropped to a knee.

  “My Emperor,” he said in accented Amuran. “I am ready to fight.”

  “Kest,” Sadja said with a nod. He glanced over the man’s girth. “Where are your kinsmen?”

  “There are eight of us currently in the barracks with your guard.” He pointed to the wall of the courtyard, where a line of Kaleksha crouched in the shadows. “Those not on duty this week are in the Uluriya district.”

  “Send a message to them. Tell them to get ready. If battle spills into the city, we may need men fighting every place we can.”

  “I’ll send word,” Kest said. “Can I send a messenger?”

  Sadja clapped and waved a page over. “Do you know where the Uluriya quarter is?” he asked the boy. The boy nodded. “Go and wake the saghada there, Sudran, and have him rouse the Kaleksha in that district. If they can make it to the palace, they’ll be given arms to fight.”

  The boy nodded and a moment later disappeared through the gate.

  “Take your men and follow me,” Sadja said to Kest with a nod. “I’ll dress, and you’ll accompany me.”

  His valet went with him into the armory on the south side of the courtyard, where the Emperor’s armor was stored. The valet and page quickly dressed him with a polished bronze cuirass on a base of heavily quilted armor, greaves of jointed bronze, and a helmet with an emerald-green plume. The imperial emblems on a cotton jersey were pulled over the cuirass. In the dim torchlight the gold stitching in the jersey glittered like captured stars.

  The imperial armor had been disused for generations, kept in sto
rerooms as display pieces while the Emperors wore silk in the Ushpanditya. Sadja had ordered Bhargasa to prepare them shortly after he had taken the palace, to show that he would not be one of the indolent court emperors that the Kupshira had become. He hadn’t worn it to the first battle with the Mouth of the Devourer, thinking it unnecessary for dealing with a peasant revolt. It was not a mistake he would make again.

  He flexed his arms and bent his knees, turned his head side to side to feel the weight of the helmet. Heavy, but not too heavy to move. A sword was belted at his waist, and he received a spear from the page in his right hand. The bronze tip of the spear glinted in the lamplight.

  “Not bad,” Sadja said quietly. “It should encourage the soldiers.”

  He stepped out of the armory and found Kest waiting with a knot of Kaleksha behind him. As promised, Kest held a spear, with the longest shaft that Sadja had ever seen, and the armorer had somehow found cuirasses of thick quilted cotton for them. Kest bowed his head to Sadja, and Sadja noticed that the armor was tied in the back with rags—the original straps were too small to close.

  “Well, it’s… something,” Sadja said. “Are Mandhi and Aryaji safe?”

  Kest pointed into the heart of the palace, and a look of longing or wistfulness crossed his face. “Awake, but in there. As safe as anything else in the palace.”

  “Then we go.”

  They entered the courtyard. Bhargasa had organized the guard of Davrakhanda into two companies, and upon seeing Sadja he raised a hand and hailed him. “The Emperor of Amur and the King of Davrakhanda!”

  The guards turned toward Sadja. For a moment they took in the sight of the Emperor in his gleaming armor and imperial insignia, followed by a guard of towering Kaleksha, and a breath of silence hung over the courtyard. The men knelt as one. Kest bowed, leaving only Sadja in mirrored armor, the green plume rising above his head, the threads of the armor and polished bronze shining in the lamplight.

  “You will accompany us, my lord and king, my Emperor?” asked Bhargasa.

  “I come,” Sadja said. He raised his voice. “Men of Davrakhanda, our hour has come. The Devoured have taken our gates, but we will retake them. They may hide in the fields outside our walls, but we will drive them back. This is our city, and we fight for it—no, not as the Red Men fought in Majasravi, who were the conscripts of the Emperor and the servants of the Empire, but as men who fight for their own homes and families.”