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

  “Where?”

  “Davrakhanda, probably,” Mandhi said. She and Nakhur had spent hours discussing this very question. “Nakhur and Aryaji are from there, and it’s the main port for sailing to Kalignas. It’s the best place for us and for the os Dramab.”

  “You’re assuming that it will be possible to return to Davrakhanda.”

  “You said we would defeat the Mouth of the Devourer.”

  “I said we would try,” Navran corrected.

  “But isn’t that the motive for your union? To unite Ulaur and the Powers against She Who Devours?”

  Navran winced a little. He wet his lips with his tongue and said nothing.

  “So even you have doubts about whether this is a good idea.”

  “I have doubts about the battle,” Navran said.

  Mandhi took a long time to answer. She looked into the lamp. The oil was growing low.

  “We’ll stay and fight,” she said. “If the Mouth of the Devourer is not defeated, then we won’t have anywhere to go anyway.”

  “Good,” Navran said. He gave her a little smile of relief. “I’ll tell the Horn of Virnas. We’ll take every man we can get.”

  * * *

  The courtyard of the palace was fuller than it had been when the council started. All of the dhorsha who had participated were there, plus a great many others, three quarters of the courtyard filled with them, all in their formal bhildu, the colors and sigils of the Powers mingling together in a riotous jumble.

  The saghada were a staid island of white in the midst of the colors of the dhorsha. Mandhi stood at the edge of their number with Nakhur and Aryaji next to her.

  “Are you ready?” she asked Nakhur.

  Nakhur bore an expression of dolorous determination. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  “It’ll be fine, uncle,” Aryaji said. She squeezed his shoulder.

  Nakhur gave her a little smile, then bent and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”

  Mandhi took comfort in the fact that Aryaji had never spoken a word in favor of Navran’s union. Surely the amashi knew the mind of Ulaur, but Aryaji hadn’t suffered a single attack since coming to Virnas. Neither had Srithi, not since the moment when she and Aryaji first saw each other.

  The horns announced the arrival of the king. Navran stepped out onto the raised platform at the front of the courtyard in the white and silver that unified the garments of a saghada and the symbols of Virnas. He looked through the crowd with a serious, pensive expression. His gaze alit on Mandhi. For a moment he stared, then closed his eyes and looked out into the crowd.

  His speech was short, and Mandhi didn’t listen to it. The important part was what followed.

  Daladham and Bhudman stood on the platform with Navran. Daladham bowed to a large cluster of red-clad dhorsha to the right of the stage, and then called out in a loud voice, “What do the Amya dhorsha say to the word of the King of Virnas?”

  A woman in a shimmering red bhildu rose to her feet. She bowed her face to the ground, straightened, and responded in a voice that echoed off the walls of the courtyard.

  “Ulaur is Lord of the Powers of Amur, and Am is his servant, valiant with the spear, champion of the harvest. The Amya dhorsha submit.”

  The woman bowed again. Bhudman rose and announced, “You shall continue your rites, offering dhaur to Am in according to your ancient custom. The blessing of Ulaur and the presence of Am be with you.”

  Mandhi’s blood burned. The heart of the blasphemy, said in the open for all to hear. Her heart broke for what she must do, but she had never been more sure that it was right.

  Daladham turned to the next group, the green-clad devotees of Ashti. Daladham gave them the same question, and the woman answered. “Ulaur is the Lord of the Powers of Amur, and Ashti is his servant, queen of the waters, protectress of the shores. The Ashtya dhorsha submit.”

  Bhudman gave them the same blessing.

  So they continued throughout the ranks of the dhorsha, until they reached the small, black-clad cluster decorated with sigils of the moon and the palm tree. Daladham presented them the question, and a thin, nervous-looking man with a white beard answered.

  “The Jakhriya dhorsha do not submit. Jakhur is not the scribe of Ulaur. We will continue our rites in our own fashion.”

  He sat down. Bhudman looked disappointed but not surprised. He cleared his throat and said, “Jakhur shall be numbered among the faithless Powers. Be gone from among us.”

  The captain of the Jakhriya bowed and turned his back to Bhudman. In silence the black-clad Jakhriya left the courtyard.

  So there are dhorsha with some backbone as well, Mandhi thought. She should find the captain of the Jakhriya dhorsha and congratulate him.

  Then Bhudman moved to the center of the platform. He addressed the white island of saghada on his right. “Most holy saghada, servants of Ulaur the Lord of the Powers. Will Ulaur accept the obeisance of the Powers, number them among his servants, and bless the dhaur of those who serve the Powers under the name of Ulaur?”

  Most of the saghada rumbled with the arranged response. “Ulaur is Lord of the Powers of Amur. Let the dhaur of the servants of Ulaur be pleasing to him, who is the light unborn, the word unspoken, the fire of ages, but let the dhaur of the faithless powers perish.”

  Nakhur gave Mandhi a heavy glance. She nodded. He stepped forward.

  “Not all of the saghada assent,” he said.

  “They don’t,” Bhudman said. He sounded as unsurprised as he had when the Jakhriya walked out, but his voice was heavier with sorrow.

  Nakhur bowed. “We have received the traditions from Ghuptashya, from Keshkama, and from the Heirs of old. The worship of Ulaur is not to be mingled with the dhaur of the Powers. We will not accept their obeisance. Let those who wish to serve Ulaur be purified and submit to the pure worship, but we will not call our brothers those who continue in the dhaur of the faithless Powers.”

  Bhudman bowed his head. “Do you not hear the word of the Heir of Manjur, the chosen of Ulaur?”

  Nakhur shook his head. “Not even the Heir of Manjur may alter the worship of Ulaur. But if the Heir of Manjur persists in this madness, we have no choice but to separate from those who are polluted by dhaur.”

  He bowed deeply to the stage. Bhudman didn’t answer. With a sharp turn, Nakhur turned away and marched out of the courtyard.

  Mandhi and Aryaji followed him. Mandhi glanced behind them and saw about a third of the saghada joining them. Her eyes met Navran’s glare once. He shook his head. She looked away.

  They went to Veshta’s house. Habdana, Veshta’s page, knew they were coming, and he held the door open for them as they filed through the ablution chambers in solemn silence. Mandhi and Aryaji washed together and joined the saghada around the pool in the center of Veshta’s courtyard.

  Nakhur was there, seated on the rim of the pool and watching the saghada with a serious expression. He nodded to Mandhi as she approached.

  “It’s done,” she said.

  “It is.” He pointed to the saghada gathered around him. “We’ve been discussing the next steps. We have men from Virnas, Ahunas, and many villages throughout the south. Should all of us withdraw to Davrakhanda?”

  “Those who want to stay should stay,” Mandhi said. “The Heir and I will return to Jaitha to aid Sadja-daridarya—”

  “Let us come with you,” one of the saghada broke in. “Many of us don’t want to stay here in Virnas.”

  “Then come to the battle in Jaitha,” Mandhi said, “but be prepared to fight. When the Mouth of the Devourer is vanquished we’ll all go to Davrakhanda.”

  Murmurs of assent sounded through the gathered saghada. “But what if Navran-dar makes things difficult for us who stay?” one of them asked.

  “You should prepare—” Nakhur began.

  “Mandhi,” a little voice broke in. Habdana pulled at Mandhi’s hand. “Someone is asking for you in the antechamber.”

  “Anyone I know?” Mandhi asked,
surprised.

  “I don’t think so,” the boy said. “But he said you’d want to speak to him.”

  She passed back into the antechamber to find a man in merchant’s dress, a patterned gray kurta over a neatly folded white dhoti, with his beard trimmed in the Uluriya style. He held a silken pouch in his hands, with a bulky square object within it. He bowed to Mandhi when she arrived.

  “Are you the mother of the Heir?” he asked.

  “The Heir-to-be,” she said. “Who are you?”

  He looked down nervously. His fingers played with the fabric “My name is Gaudam. Veshta would know me. So would Navran-dar, for that matter. You see…”

  His courage seemed to fail him. He looked down. Then with a sudden, nervous gesture he thrust the pouch into Mandhi’s hands.

  Mandhi took it, alarmed. “What is this?”

  “Understand me, Mandhi. I don’t agree with the actions of Navran-dar. I am loathe to break a contract, but some things are more important than money. Forgive me. Open it, please.”

  She pulled open the mouth of the pouch. An ebony box slid out into her hands. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The rings.

  “You’re the one—” she began.

  The man nodded. “Navran-dar passed them into my safekeeping. He has been making payments on them. But now….”

  Mandhi thrust the box back into the pouch. “Come into the house with me. The saghada will want to see this.”

  She passed back through the women’s chamber and entered the courtyard. Gaudam followed a moment later, glancing around the courtyard nervously. The place was packed with the saghada of Nakhur’s party, murmuring quietly among themselves. Mandhi spotted the maid Kidri waiting behind one of the pillars of the colonnade, and she hurried over.

  “Bring Jhumitu,” she said. “He’s with Srithi and Pashman.”

  Then she pushed her way into the center of the crowd of saghada, until she found Nakhur and planted herself next to him. She waved for Gaudam to approach.

  “I have something. You will want to see this.”

  She withdrew the ebony box for the second time. A shiver of nervousness passed through her. There was a chance this would go wrong. She did not doubt her choices yet… but still there was a chance.

  “What is this?” Nakhur asked.

  Mandhi pried the lid open. The brilliant noontime daylight glinted on the polished iron rings inside. Nakhur drew in his breath sharply, then leaned forward to peer at the black rings.

  “Is that…?”

  “It is,” Mandhi said. She pointed to Gaudam. “He brought them to me. He understands the Heir’s error.”

  And now the moment which would redeem them. She brought the box close to her face and picked out the ring etched with the pentacle on the inside. Manjur’s ring, the original, the true property of the Heir. She fished it out of the bottom of the box and raised it to the sky.

  It was as cold as a stone in a river. She let out a long, heavy breath. The gathered saghada pressed close to her.

  “Once I tried to take this ring unjustly,” she said quietly. Her hand began to tremble. “Once it burned me and glowed with the light of Ulaur, because I had betrayed the true Heir. But watch it now, most holy saghada. Does it glow? Does it burn?”

  A murmur passed through the crowd.

  “Where is Jhumitu?” Mandhi asked. She spotted Srithi at the edge of the crowd, holding Jhumitu’s hand with her own boy Pashman resting on her hip. “Come here,” Mandhi demanded.

  Srithi led the boy forward. He let go of Srithi’s hand and toddled a few steps forward to catch his mother’s arm. Mandhi knelt and pressed Manjur’s ring into the boy’s hand.

  His fingers closed over it. He squeezed it tightly, then put it into his mouth. A titter of laughter and wonder passed through the gathered saghada.

  “The Heir of Manjur holds Manjur’s ring,” Mandhi said proudly. “No one is burned. Gaudam, you’ve done well by bringing the ring to us.”

  Nakhur stepped up to Gaudam and clasped his hand. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “If we needed a sign, we’ve received it.”

  The courtyard rumbled with assent. The saghada began to crowd forward, looking with awe and wonder at the little Heir and the ancient treasure in his fingers, offering congratulations to Mandhi and thanks to Gaudam. The merchant seemed abashed at first, but quickly grew proud and pious, bowing to each of the saghada and whispering the blessings of Ulaur.

  Mandhi fished the ring out of Jhumitu’s mouth, wiped it dry on the hem of her sari, and put it back into the box. Jhumitu was the Heir, but it wouldn’t do to have him swallow the ring. She held Jhumitu’s hand and looked for Srithi.

  Srithi stood at the edge of the courtyard, holding little Pashman on her hips. Even from this distance the discomfort on her face was visible. Mandhi excused herself from the saghada pressing around and led Jhumitu out of the crowd.

  “Thank you for bringing Jhumitu,” Mandhi said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Srithi said glumly. A pause. “Mandhi, come upstairs with me.”

  Srithi’s tone suggested something serious. Mandhi nodded. She climbed the stairs to the second story with a feeling of dread, clutching Jhumitu tightly against her chest. Srithi led them into her bedchamber, then closed the curtain. Mandhi let Jhumitu walk over to Srithi’s bed, where he began playing with the beads sewn into her bed-covering.

  Srithi started pacing with the baby Pashman on her hip. Twice she started to speak, but closed her mouth before a word could come out.

  “I’ve been trying to decide how to say this,” she finally managed, “but there’s no good way. So… we’re staying.”

  “Staying? What do you mean?”

  “Me and Veshta, I mean. And Adjan and Dhanmi. We are….” She covered her eyes. “We’re staying in Virnas. With Navran-dar.”

  A dagger pierced Mandhi’s throat. She took a step back. “Are you serious? But—”

  “Veshta and I have been talking about this for weeks. I am training with the thikratta, and I’m touched by the amashi. Our place is with the Heir.”

  “You mean Navran-dar. Not my Heir.”

  Tears glittered in the corners of Srithi’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mandhi. We’ve chosen.”

  “But Srithi!” Her words failed her. “But… you saw. The ring. Jhumitu has the ring.”

  “I suppose I won’t warn Navran-dar that you’ve taken it.”

  “It’s our ring,” Mandhi half-shouted. “You can’t say that Jhumitu doesn’t deserve to wear it. Ulaur kept me from taking it, but Jhumitu put it into his mouth!”

  “I know,” Srithi said. Tears began to trickle down her face, her eyes red and bleary. She squeezed Pashman closer to her. “I know, Mandhi, but… this is the right thing. I need to stay with Navran-dar.”

  “Because of the amashi?” Mandhi began to pace furiously. “Aryaji is also touched by the amashi. And she is staying with us.”

  “That’s her choice,” Srithi said firmly. “Her and her uncle. But Caupana and Amabhu are staying here with Navran-dar. Caupana wants to keep training me, and I want to stay with him.”

  “And so you’re willing to put up with Navran-dar’s corruption!”

  “No!” Srithi stamped a foot and looked at Mandhi with a fierce, tear-wracked expression. “It’s not corruption. I support his choice.”

  Mandhi stopped. Her thoughts turned like leaves in water. She couldn’t believe it. She was sure every faithful Uluriya would be with her. But Srithi and Veshta? They had the Ruin. They should know better. They should—

  Srithi put a hand on Mandhi’s cheek. “My sweet friend,” she said.

  “Srithi,” Mandhi said. And she, too, began to sob.

  They collapsed into each others’ arms. Mandhi soaked Srithi’s choli with her tears, and Srithi wet Mandhi in turn. Mandhi kissed Srithi’s cheek and tasted the salt of her tears. Srithi quivered with sobs.

  “I wish it weren’t this way,” Srithi said. “Are you sure? Are you s
ure you can’t remain with Navran-dar?”

  “Are you sure you won’t leave with us?”

  Srithi squeezed Mandhi’s neck. “Oh, Mandhi. I’m sure. I wish I weren’t. But Veshta and I—”

  Mandhi withdrew from Srithi’s embrace and held her friend at arm’s length. Her friend, her oldest friend.

  But some things were stronger than friendship.

  “Adjan and Dhanmi and their children will be staying with us,” Srithi added hesitantly. “But Josi and Peshdana said they won’t accept Navran-dar’s reform. They’ll go with you to Davrakhanda. And we’re all going to Jaitha with Navran-dar for the battle.”

  “To Jaitha?” Mandhi said. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Me and Caupana and Amabhu. We need to see the third prophet.”

  “Sadja-daridarya?”

  Srithi nodded. “At least once, before the end.”

  “The end of what?”

  Srithi laughed bitterly. “I don’t really know. But I have to go.” She took a deep breath, then leaned in close and kissed Mandhi on the cheek again. “You know that you, too, are fulfilling the prophecy.”

  Mandhi laughed, though her heart felt like cold clay. “Which one?”

  “Mend what is broken, break what is whole. The dhorsha are mended, but the Uluriya are broken.”

  Mandhi put a hand to her eyes to hold back another gush of tears. Break what is whole. Including her heart. After the death of Taleg, after her father’s passing, after Jhumitu’s kidnapping, she would not have imagined her heart was whole enough to break. Yet still it broke.

  “I’ll miss you, Srithi,” she said.

  Srithi crushed her in an embrace, and they cried together.

  NAVRAN

  From a distance it looked as if Jaitha was preparing for a festival. Miles before they came in sight of the city itself, Navran and his men marched through encampments swarming with banners, stitched with the emblems of the khadir and majakhadir from every kingdom of the south, tens of thousands crowded together in ranks of tents as large as the city itself.