Throne of Ruins (The Powers of Amur Book 5) Read online

  “And you think that….”

  “I think that Usha may be Ulaur.”

  Bhudman carefully closed the palm leaf. “If there is some reason in the dhorsha writings to accept your speculation, then the likelihood of convincing others grows. If only we were able to read the last section of the thikratta’s book.”

  “Actually,” Daladham said, with a spark of interest. “I’ve made some progress in that direction.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, perhaps. Where did I put the notes—ah, here they are.” He crossed the garden to the niche on the far side of the palms where he had left his slate and picked up the sliver of chalk that lay next to it. Daladham set the slate down next to the teacups, and Bhudman stared down at it curiously.

  “It’s not as incomprehensible as we first assumed, once you’re willing to accommodate its pronunciation,” Daladham said quickly. “You have to think of it as written in a very heavy accent.”

  “An accent,” Bhudman said with a skeptical look.

  “Yes. Sort of how Navran-dar says om instead of am—”

  “I hadn’t noticed—”

  “Well, all of you southerners do it somewhat. Where was he raised?”

  Bhudman raised his eyebrows at Daladham in surprise. “On the upper Amsadhu, I believe, but whatever dialect he had has mostly vanished.”

  “Not entirely,” Daladham said. “At least, not relative to how we speak in Tulakhanda and Majasravi.”

  Bhudman murmured. Daladham worried for a moment that he had offended the man, drawing contrast between the Heir’s way of speech and the dialects of Majasravi. But Bhudman gestured for Daladham to go on.

  “I was able to find several words I could understand on the conjecture that they had been transcribed from a different dialect, which could be correlated with the pronunciation of the common speech.”

  “But the grammar of the whole book is very archaic,” Bhudman said. “Equivalent to the hardest parts of the Law or the oldest hymns of the dhorsha that you’ve mentioned. Hardly the work of a back-country peasant.”

  “I am not suggesting that it’s the dialect of an obscure region,” Daladham said. “I believe that it’s an ancient dialect, the speech of a time before the common dialect took on the shape it now has.”

  “I see,” Bhudman said softly. “And did you understand it?”

  “A few words. More are opening up. Look at this—radyaha it says. Not a word you know.”

  “No.”

  “I believe that the word is actually rauja—see, because the letters dy correlate to what we now write as j—and the archaic genitive -ha is well known.”

  “But what of the vowel?”

  “Ah, yes, the vowel,” Daladham said. He crossed his arms. “Well, the vowels have been troublesome.”

  Bhudman bent over Daladham’s shoulder and looked at the slate. He tapped his finger under the place where Daladham had written radyaha—rauja. “Have you succeeded in reading the text?”

  “There are a few fragments which have yielded their secrets to me in this fashion,” Daladham said. “I’m compiling a list of correlations. It is slow going. Frequently my guesses turn out wrong, because a sentence translated according to some promising rule turns out to be nonsense. And the grammar is quite difficult. The inflections of the verbs surpass even the saghada dialect in their subtlety.”

  “And will you have something concrete in four days?” Bhudman said.

  “I have the name of Kushma.”

  Bhudman drew his breath in sharply. “Really?”

  “Here, look at the bottom of the slate: Kisyama varuru. This formula occurs at least two dozen times in the text. Sometimes either word appears alone, but most frequently together. I believe that Kisyama is Kushma. It’s well supported by the other correlations I’ve found.”

  “Kushma,” Bhudman said softly. “But varuru? I can’t make any sense of that.”

  “Alas, neither can I,” Daladham said with a sigh. “I am guessing that it’s a form of the root var-, but the rest of it makes no sense.”

  “Var is the stem which occurs in name of Virnas.”

  “I observed that,” Daladham said. Alas, he wasn’t sure what this discovery gained them, for Virnas was not a name which carried any meaning that he knew of.

  Bhudman began to pace under the vine-covered trellis, his feet crunching in the dried leaves. He sighed and pulled at his beard. “Yet will the dhorsha accept it,” he said softly.

  “I don’t know,” Daladham said. “I don’t have much which I can offer them clearly….”

  “Oh, I was thinking of something much cleaner,” Bhudman said. “Let us suppose that varuru refers to Virnas in some way. There is, in the Customs of Keshkama, a reference to the amashi who guards Virnas….”

  “Go on,” Daladham said.

  “There is no name given to him in the Customs,” Bhudman said, “nor do the Uluriya mention him much. Yet if we imagine that the amashi of Virnas is Kushma, and that Kushma is the amashi who carried out Ulaur’s destruction of the serpent, then perhaps there is a way to reconcile the traditions.”

  Daladham fell silent. For a long time Bhudman paced slowly beneath the trellis. Daladham felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. “It is the best guess we have. Will the saghada accept it?”

  Bhudman sighed. “They have accepted much already. To accept that Kushma is a corrupted image of one of the amashi… if Navran-dar takes it, then I suppose they have to.”

  “Likewise with the dhorsha,” Daladham said. “I will visit Praji-dhu shortly. I believe I can convince her.”

  “Then the stars upon you,” Bhudman said. His brows remained knotted and pensive.

  Daladham heard a rustle above and looked up to see a servant shaking a cloth out of one of the upper windows of Yavada’s estate. The lower windows were open, and muffled clinking sounded within them.

  Bhudman took up the leaves which he had copied from the Law and put them back into the round case. “Perhaps,” he said. “We must hope. Pursue what you can with the book of the thikratta and let me know if you find anything of importance. I shall speak to the saghada.”

  They took leave of each other, and Bhudman left the garden. Daladham remained seated in the garden, tapping the teacup against the table absentmindedly. Thoughts of ancient dialects and the subtleties of dhorsha doctrine ran circles through his head.

  Time to speak with Yavada. He entered the house and climbed to the second story, then waited outside the door of the dining room above the garden. A moment later he heard Yavada invite him in.

  “You heard the conversation,” he said, bowing.

  “Just as you described it to me,” Yavada said. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to convince the saghada.”

  “He is deeply invested and open to persuasion,” Daladham said. “Now it’s his job to convince the rest of the Uluriya. I am still worried about Praji-dhu, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  “Our interpretation is strained. Praji-dhu could cause us problems yet.”

  Yavada gave him a mild smile. He folded his hands over his belly with a soft, guileless expression on his face. “You ought to know, Daladham-dhu, that the actions of the dhorsha are rarely settled by religious philosophy alone. Especially not where Praji-dhu is concerned.”

  “Did you have some suggestion?”

  Yavada tipped his head slightly. “It’s time I paid another visit to the temple mother myself. My family has had long relations with the Chaludriya.”

  “Those in Ahunas, you mean.”

  “I came frequently to Virnas, even before my daughter became queen.” He gave Daladham an indulgent smile. “But don’t worry about that. You and Bhudman find your path through the doctrines of the dhorsha and the saghada. I’ll concern myself with Praji-dhu.”

  MANDHI

  It had been a long time since Mandhi had descended to the Ruin. When her father was the Heir, every month Veshta would open the door and the Uluriya of their
district would slip down the stairways to the ancient crypt. But Navran performed the sacrifices at the bhilami built in the palace, and the door to the Ruin had remained shut.

  Her lamp lit the catacombs with dancing orange light, making shifting shadows over the bones of the Heirs and the stones of the arch. The smell of dry bones, dust, and lime. Her footsteps echoed down the silent tunnel. She could taste old smoke on her tongue.

  She read the names etched below the ossuaries as she passed them. These were her ancestors, her inheritance. Perhaps, when Navran came down here, the bones of the Heirs past would speak to him. Convince him to give up his folly.

  She didn’t have great hopes, but by the stars she would try.

  The tunnel branched to the right just before they reached the altar stone. Mandhi lifted her lamp to see better. These last were names she knew and remembered. Jhuma, Heir of Manjur. Her grandfather, dead before she was born, namesake of her son Jhumitu. And finally, the one she had come to see: Cauratha, Heir of Manjur.

  “The stars upon your memory, Father,” she whispered.

  She had barely had time to visit his ossuary and mourn when she had last been in Virnas. It had been chaos, then—setting up Navran as king, defending the city from Ruyam, and then she had been whisked away at Sadja’s demand. It was hardly more peaceful now, with dhorsha flooding the city and Navran mustering every able-bodied man to face the Mouth of the Devourer. But she would leave a gift.

  The bundle of ephedra flowers was dry and sickly, but it was the best anyone could get in the drought. She placed the flowers in the niche, just touching the bones. Atop them she set a pentacle of straw. She bowed her head and said the prayer for the dead. The corner of her lamp touched the dried flowers, and with a burst of yellow light flames licked them up.

  “May this burnt offering rise to your memory in the heavens,” she whispered, “even to the highest heavens, where you are kindled as a star among the five-winged amashi.”

  “He is illumined with the light unborn, he burns with the fire of ages,” responded a male voice.

  Mandhi looked with a start to her left. Navran stood there, his hands folded solemnly in front of him. He gave her an embarrassed grin. “Did I say it wrong?”

  “No,” Mandhi said. “I just… wasn’t expecting you.”

  “So Bhudman’s taught me something.”

  Mandhi chuckled. She watched the last of the gift burn, its smoke rising to the roof of the catacomb to mingle with the soot of ages past. Navran stood beside her, saying nothing. When the last of the flame had died she let out a long, soft breath.

  “We should go,” she said. “Back to the altar stone.”

  Navran bowed his head, then kissed his fingertips and touched them to the top of the skull sitting in the ossuary.

  Mandhi was taken aback. “You offer your own gifts to him now?”

  “Shouldn’t the Heir of Manjur respect his forebears?”

  “He wasn’t your father.”

  “No, but he thought he was,” Navran said. “And he gave Manjur’s ring to me. I owe him my honor.”

  She felt a little surge of protectiveness. She’d come here to honor her father, and she didn’t want Navran intruding on her. But she could hardly fault him for trying to be pious.

  She walked back to the main tunnel and up to the altar stone. A few wooden benches were pushed against the walls of the tunnel here, for the old women who were too tired to stand during the sacrifices. Mandhi took a seat on one of them.

  “This isn’t how I’d hoped we’d meet,” Navran said. He remained on his feet, standing right in front of the altar. He touched the face of the stone absentmindedly.

  Get away from there, Mandhi wanted to say. But of course Navran was a saghada now, the Heir of Manjur, and he had every right to touch the altar. “Had you hoped to meet someplace sunny?”

  “I’d hoped to be… friends.”

  Mandhi was quiet for a while. “Then you know what this is about.”

  “I know that Nakhur and the others of his party gain their strength from your support.”

  “Just like Bhudman and the dhorsha gain their support from you.”

  “Yes,” Navran said painfully. “But if I could convince you, Mandhi… not many of the saghada would go against the Heir on a matter like this.”

  “A few would. Maybe you don’t know them.”

  He bent forward and rested both hands on the top of the altar. “But when you’re holding the next Heir—or at least someone who can claim to be Heir—”

  “Jhumitu’s is not just a claim.”

  Navran turned and looked at her sternly. “I said I would name your child as the next Heir. But I have a child of my own on the way. And I’m still the Heir now.”

  Mandhi stiffened. “So? You want me and the other saghada to acquiesce to blasphemy?”

  “Bhudman has explained—”

  “We’ve all heard Bhudman’s justifications,” she snapped. “Especially this nonsense regarding the amashi of Virnas and the blood demon Kushma. I’ve heard more saghada pontificating in the last fourteen days than I had heard in my entire life until this council. That doesn’t make them right.”

  Navran breathed heavily. He stared at the fresco of Manjur and the serpent pierced by the light of Ulaur. “Have you considered that you’re being used by Yavada-kha?”

  “What? I’m being used?” she asked.

  Navran nodded slowly. “I have had spies follow him. He has been playing both sides. A little money, a few favors, some promises. Both to the dhorsha and to the saghada.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought your father-in-law was one of the staunchest proponents of the union.”

  “He is,” Navran said. “And he has extracted certain… promises, both from me and from the Chaludriya.”

  “Promises,” Mandhi said bitterly. “To do what?”

  “Praji-dhu has been our greatest obstacle among the dhorsha. We have had to concede many things to her, but the thing she wants most is the honor of royal sanction of the sun festival. But Yavada-kha promised to go in my stead.” He took a heavy breath. “He and Utalni-dar.”

  “Utalni-dar?” Mandhi made no attempt to hide the disgust in her voice. “You’ll hold yourself aloof as a saghada, but you’ll allow your wife to participate in the rituals of dhaur?”

  Navran stiffened. “Yavada made the promise without consulting me, and he presented it to me only once the agreement had been made. I could not back out without offending Praji-dhu and sending her and the Chaludriya away permanently. I was forced to agree.”

  “And when Utalni-dar gives birth? Do you give your child up to dhaur as well?”

  Navran smiled softly. “Yavada-kha wants Utalni-dar’s child to be my Heir. And if he can drive you and your party into schism, then he’ll get it.”

  “Because you’ll give it to him.”

  “I have to have an heir somewhere, Mandhi.”

  Mandhi’s anger started to rise. She rose to her feet and started to pace to burn off the frustration. “Have you considered that you are being used? Yavada-kha wants his daughter to bear your Heir, so he pushes you into a union with the dhorsha. Something that a true Heir, one raised in the worship of Ulaur, would never countenance.”

  “I was raised in the worship of Ulaur.”

  Mandhi waved him away. “Your family wasn’t the least bit pious.”

  “Still.”

  “And this book,” she said. The speed of her pacing grew. “A dhorsha and two thikratta appear from nowhere, bearing this book which is supposed to overturn our entire religion. Have you considered that it’s a forgery?”

  “That would be a very nice forgery,” Navran said, “since none of the people who brought it to us actually knew how to read it.”

  “Perhaps somebody else arranged it and planted it on them. Sadja-daridarya.”

  “Do you actually think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Mandhi said. “But I’ve heard about this Yavada-kha. I don’t think
either of us should trust him.”

  Navran sighed deeply. He turned around and looked straight at Mandhi. “Yavada-kha cannot be behind the book. It beggars belief that he could plant a book in Ternas in the hopes of seizing the inheritance in Virnas. No, I think he is an opportunist, and this is an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity which you’re giving him.”

  “I am. Because I think that Bhudman and Daladham are right.”

  The words burned. She had almost hoped this was a simple political calculation and not an actual betrayal of Ulaur. She stepped closer to Navran. “But I’m sure they are not. The foundation of the Law of Ghuptashya is the rejection of dhaur and the rejection of the faithless Powers. No amount of pontificating and exegesis of ancient documents can overturn that fact. Nakhur and the rest of the faithful saghada will not have the worship of Ulaur mingled with the worship of the Powers. And if you insist on your path, we will take the Heir of Manjur and leave.”

  For a long moment they stood there, staring at each other in the dim yellow lamplight. The air of the crypt was silent around them. Navran blinked. Mandhi let out a slow breath.

  Navran spoke in a wounded voice. “Do we have to be enemies again?”

  “I don’t see how we can be allies.” She shook her head. “Not this time.”

  She turned away from him and walked back to the bench, pulling up the skirt of her sari to sit.

  Navran looked back at the fresco of Manjur. “What about Kest?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “His Kaleksha clan. What will happen to them?”

  “They were purified by Nakhur, and they are loyal to me,” Mandhi said. “Jhumitu is their patriarch as well as your Heir.”

  Navran murmured. “Will they still fight?”

  “They’ll fight for the Emperor.”

  “Will they return to Virnas as my guard after the Mouth of the Devourer is thrown down?”

  Mandhi ran her hands through the folds of her sari. Half of her wanted to turn away from the Emperor that had dragged her to Davrakhanda and bring her clan back to her old home. But she saw no way she could remain in Virnas in the power of a heretical Heir. Even if Navran somehow promised not to retaliate against them, what would Utalni’s child do to Jhumitu? “No,” she said. “We’ll leave.”