by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

— CHAPTER 10 —

  In which there is a great feast, a surprise and a dark plot.

oOo

There was a promise of warmth in the air the next morning. Ana rose early, dressed, and went into the gardens for her devotions. She was watching the dance and ripple of sunlight across the surface of the pond when she realized she was being observed. Not a pompous devotee this time, she thought, and hushed herself mentally. To disdain pomposity in another was, itself, pompous.

She turned her head. Jaya, of course.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, and stepped from the tiled walk into the dewy grass.

“I was finished, really. Just contemplating Ram-ji’s canvas.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

She pointed at the pond with its patterns of wind ripple and fish dart. “Water, wind, fish, and light—the palette of pakriti. He paints with life.”

Jaya remembered his childhood lessons in Divine Metaphysics. “Pakriti? Maya, don’t you mean—illusion? The fish aren’t really made of gold, the water isn’t covered in diamonds, the saroj are not emeralds—just weeds that float. You only imagine you see jewels.”

“How cynical. Is that really all you see here—weeds and fish and water?”

“I see reality.”

“Ah, now that is the illusion. Imagination is our spark of Tara-ji. Through that spark, we see the real. With the eyes of the body we see only the material—that is maya. The reality lies behind and within and around it.”

“Can you see that?” he asked, his tone no longer sarcastic.

Ana turned her eyes back to the pond. “Yes, but not with physical eyes. One must marshall inner sight as well.”

“To see the illusion.”

“To see through the illusion. To see that the spirit is maya to the material and the material is maya to the spirit. If you would see both worlds, use both eyes.”

“Hmm. What sage taught you that?”

“Experience.”

He changed the subject. “Well, if this is Sanat-Ram’s canvas, then you are certainly the center of His portrait this morning. That gown is beautiful on you. You should wear it often.”

Ana responded to the compliment with a strange mixture of pleasure and unease. She smiled, smoothing the flame-hued fabric over her arms.

“Why are you wearing it this morning? Do you have some special plans for today?”

She stared at him, taken completely aback. “I...we’re... Aren’t we going to Asra today? It is Bhaktar, and tonight is the Mesha Festival...”

Jaya scratched his cheek and stared at the pond. The bright reflections hurt his eyes. He blinked at Ana as if the sight of her had the same effect.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, you see, I...It’s been a while since I’ve been to Asra. At the New Year, I think. Jivinta goes, of course. I’m sure she’s expecting to make a party of it.”

“Which will not include you?” she asked bluntly.

“What would be the point? All that social jockeying and political preening is beyond me. I’d be out of my element there.”

“Since when has going to Asra been about social jockeying and politics?”

“Since I can remember. Asra is like the Kiritan. People go there to be seen sitting in the best seats in their best clothes.”

Ana realized she was angry. “No! Asra is a place for seeking Ram-ji, not political affiliations. If that is what Asra has become on your world, then you are wise not to go there.”

His expression shifted from wry to contrite. “I exaggerate. Don’t listen to me. Of course, there are people who go to Asra to-to put in an appearance, but I’m sure there are those who really believe, even in Kasi.” He smiled.

Ana stared through him, rubbing her arms, suddenly chilled. “I want to go home,” she said, and fled into the House.

She was waiting for him in the broad doorway to the solarium when he reached the House, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. I exaggerate too.”

“Peace?” he asked, and gave the respectful greeting.

She returned it. “Peace.”

oOo

Jaya hadn’t seen the inside of an Asra for over a year (his claim to have attended a New Year devotion was an exaggeration), but it was not something one forgot. He still had a vague child’s awe of the soaring lines and amplified dimensions of the overturned silver bowl; was still affected by the glory that cascaded from the central dome through a complex pattern of graceful incisions. It made one want Ram-ji to exist whether He did or not. He wondered what Ana felt as she gazed around her at the ersatz radiance of the Divine.

She was part of the radiance. The flaming silk of her garment came to life in the drifting sunlight; the gem at her forehead covered her face with a spray of crimson. Like luminous droplets of blood, he thought, then shook himself in vague horror.

They were seated just to the left of the curved fan of shimmering stone steps that descended from the altar to the Rama Fire’s glorious pit. They were front row seats in a special, ornamented box reserved for the Taj Houses. A similar box sat to the right of the steps—this one, for the Holy Ones. Behind them were arrayed the Vadin and their families, and behind them sat the politicos of the Sun Crescent.

Only Sarojins and their guests sat in the Taj box now. The Royal House of Kasi had no peers in the Crescent. The Rani Melantha’s noble House of birth made its home in the outlying Lake District, while the one-time warrior clan of Sivarashtra presided over Nawahr. Other minor Lords sat behind the Taj box, while further back, still, were the lesser nobles, the merchants, and the merely wealthy.

The Deva Radha, herself, led the devotions this day. She was incomparable. The sound of her voice and the grace of her movements, like the grandeur of the Asra, could almost make a believer out of a stone.

Jaya still remembered the first devotional she’d presided over at this Asra. Her hair had been jet black then and, in his adolescent mind, she was the most beautiful being ever created—and easily the most terrifying. Her eyes had been like black flames—they still were. Piercing eyes, eyes that saw through things...and people. Was that why he found them terrifying?

While he sat struggling with that question, Ana nudged him.

“Jaya Rai,” she whispered. “It’s time to offer the Mesha prayers. Will you perform the Erai?”

He flushed. “I don’t remember it.”

She didn’t embarrass him by gasping or even indulging in ocular chastisement. As the Deva Radha swung toward their box to greet the Sarojin Chieftain and escort him to the Rama Fire as clan bhakta, Ana stood smoothly and performed the ritual greeting. Her prayer beads were already draped between her fingers.

Jaya felt icy tingles like the tiny feet of chill spiders dancing up and down his spine. A brief glance around the Asra revealed just about what he expected—a sanctum full of scandalized and incredulous faces stared at the Sarojin box. Behind him, their Avasan guests seemed unconcerned and beside him, Jivinta Mina gloated.

The Deva Radha smiled and nodded her approval. She returned Ana’s greeting then turned to Jaya.

“Perhaps it would be appropriate, Nathu Rai, for the Chieftain of the Saroj to join your clan bhakta at the Flame.” She said it in a barely audible whisper with a smile tugging at her lips.

He nodded and followed when she led Ana to the Fire pit. She began the Erai immediately, her eyes closed, the beads still pressed between her fingers.

“There is a Spirit which is Life, Light, and Truth. He contains all works and all desires and all devotions and all perfumes. She enfolds the entire Universe and in silence loves all. This is the Spirit that is in my heart—smaller than the tiniest of particles, smaller than the atom. This is the Spirit that is in my heart—greater than Mitras’ orb, vaster than Heaven itself, greater than all the worlds. This is the Spirit that is in my heart. This is Ram-ji.”

False words, thought Jaya. False. There was no such Spirit. Not in his heart, at any rate. But in Ana’s... He glanced at her rapt face and had no doubt that something was there—the fire of faith...illusion.

He recalled their conversation by the pond. Illusion and reality—which was which? Her reality was his illusion and vice versa. He didn’t like that idea; it made him feel somehow insubstantial. If his reality was an illusion to Ana, then what did that make him?

He shook the gray thought out of his head and brought himself back to Ana’s chanting. The verse was unfamiliar and sung in a homely Avasan dialect instead of the traditional prayer tongue. It quickly caught the attention of the other worshippers. As Ana’s voice rose in the musical chant, all other voices fell away to a murmur. The Flame sizzled and hissed in its great bowl and Jaya held his breath.

“My thoughts praise You, O God, even as Mitras praises You in its rising. May I find continuing joy in being Your lover. Keep us under Your protection, forgive our sins, and never cease to love us. You made the waters to flow ceaselessly without weariness. May my stream of life flow into the river of righteousness. Sever the bonds of sin that bind me, but let not my thread of my song be cut while I sing. Let not my work cease before it is finished.”

She paused, and Jaya wondered if the silence was as loud in her ears as it was in his. She smiled as if receiving some secret communion, then nodded and rose. He rose in unison with her, watching her face in the fire bath burnish. Every eye was on them. Only the most pious continued to pray. As they returned silently to the Sarojin box, the voices grew once again in strength. Minds struggled to reclaim the prayerful attitude. Eyes fluttered closed.

Jaya sat self-consciously in his grand seat, wondering what was really happening behind those fluttering lids, and suspecting he knew. Scandal—a woman serving as bhakta for a Taj House, daring to lead the Erai prayers! Heresy—the prayer beads in the hands of a female who is not even a member of Orders! He could almost hear the whispers, feel the sly looks. He would experience them again at the celebration tonight. The thought made his stomach churn.

Suddenly, the tightness turned on itself and became anger. Stupid! He was thinking like his mother—shrinking from the prejudices of his peers. He realized he had lowered his head. He raised it, eyes sweeping a nearby row of worshippers. Their gazes—curious, arch, scandalized—skittered away to the Flame.

He looked at the Deva Radha, then. Her gaze, with its buried smile, was not so timid. It held his until he was forced to look away.

There were the inevitable whispers as they left the Asra. “Did you see...?” “Did you hear...?” Some bolder friends and acquaintances smiled and said they hoped they’d see the Rani Sadira at the Mesha celebration that evening.

At length, the ordeal was past and they were on their way home. Jaya sank into the padded seat of the long-coach’s ornate cabin and heaved a sigh of relief.

“Remind me,” said Jivinta Mina, “to have Heli lay on more food for tonight. I have no doubt the Palace will be bursting its seams.” She patted Anala’s hand. “You were quite a sensation, my dear. You know, Jaya, I wish your mother would have been there today. She would have had a fit.”

Jaya snorted. “At the very least.”

“And your father,” she continued wistfully. “He would have enjoyed every minute of it. To hear the prayers rendered so movingly...” She let her gaze wander around the interior of the cavernous coach. “It’s been that long since we used this coach, you know. Spring five years ago. Just before he died.”

Hadas, seated beside her, impulsively took the old woman’s hand.

Jaya changed the subject. “The Deva Radha seemed to know you.”

Ana blinked. “The Deva Radha?”

“Chief of the Holy Ones. Deva of the Cloud Order. Head of the Inner Circle and the Vrinda Varma...”

Ana’s expression was entirely blank. “I-I told you I went to Asra. I met her then. I had no idea who she was.”

Jaya was skeptical. “You expect me to believe Avasans don’t know who the Deva Radha is?”

“Of course we know who she is,” Hadas interjected, “but most of us have never seen her. She’s very impressive.”

“She is that,” admitted Jaya. “Well, you’ll get a chance to be impressed all over again tonight. She’ll be at the Mesha Fest.”

“Will I be at the Mesha Fest?” asked Hadas.

“That depends on you. Do you want to be there?”

“I’m not sure. The people from the dalali won’t be there?”

Jivinta laughed. “By all the attributes of God, no! I wouldn’t think of inviting them into the House Sarojin.”

Hadas vacillated a moment, then said, “Well, I really would like to come to the celebration. Do you have the Time of Gifts? That’s my favorite part.”

Jivinta Mina chortled. “Well, we call it that, but it’s more like the ‘Time of Entertainment.’ People here generally hire professional performers to present their gifts. It saves them the trouble of having to develop their own talents.”

“But Mesha gifts are supposed to come from the spirit,” objected Hadas. “How can you hire someone to give from your spirit?”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Mina, and patted Hadas on the knee. “And if you want to give something to the guests tonight, then I encourage you to do so. I daresay Ana will have something to present.”

Jaya was immediately interested. “Really? And what might that be?”

“Scoundrel,” interjected Mina Sarojin, before Anala could answer him. “Only one of questionable upbringing asks what a gift is before he receives it. You will have to wait until tonight to hear Ana’s recitation.”

Wait he did. He was dressed first and, as tradition demanded, stood at the base of the Grand Stair waiting for the rest of the family to descend. Ravi was with him, acting in his usual capacity.

The Rani Melantha was the first one down. Jaya gave her a dutiful kiss on one cheek, after which she excused herself to oversee the last minute preparations. Jivinta Mina was next to appear, on the arm of Hadas. Jaya felt an absurd tickle of jealousy at the way Hadas doted on his grandmother. He fanned it away and smiled up at them.

“You’re all looking quite splendid this evening,” Jaya observed when the trio reached the hallway. “Where is the Rani Sadira? Taking her time, or trying to escape?”

Jivinta Mina reached up and slapped his cheek smartly with her fan. “Do not mock the effort one person takes to please others, Gauri. You have no make-up to apply but a dab or two of kohl. You have no hand-dazzles to cover your palm, no skirts to arrange, and no significant jewelry.” She tapped the glittering cascade of silver lotus blossoms that fell from his left earlobe.

“Now, Jivinta, I did have to plait my hair.” He turned to display how the top layer had been woven into a complex, jeweled braid that ended above the middle of his back in a clasp of Saroj crimson and gold. 

“Hah! You mean Ravi had to plait your hair. You never could braid it correctly. Now! You will appreciate Ana when she descends. I am going to preside over the Entry.” With that, she led her devotee out into the Entry Hall where guests would most certainly be arriving any minute.

Jaya grimaced. Appreciate Ana! He had no trouble doing that. The problem was the form his appreciation insisted on taking. He couldn’t just label her a beautiful work of art and appreciate her from afar. He had yet to find a way to combat the effects of the chemistry or sakti or whatever it was that took hold of him when they shared the same room.

If the circumstances had been different, if he had not been a member of the Vrinda Varma and she had not been the daughter of Rokh Nadim, and Rohin, he wouldn’t have bothered to fight that chemistry. But circumstances were what they were, and he was who he was, and she was who she was, and what either of them would have done under other circumstances was academic.

He pondered this for a moment, then, almost without thinking, embarked on a mental discipline aimed at giving him a measure of detachment. He was engrossed in that and totally oblivious to anything else when a ripple of static coursed up his spine. He nearly swore.

She was descending the staircase behind him; he knew that without looking. He applied the discipline, focusing his mind on a familiar mantra, and felt the calming influence immediately. It was true, he thought, with some satisfaction, you never forgot the lessons of the schoolroom completely.

He turned, smiling, and caught her about six feet above him on the carpeted flight. His self-mastery scattered like a flock of frightened birds—up from the ground of discipline, out the windows of his soul.

She had frozen on the seventh step (to be admired?) and was assaulting him with those eyes. He couldn’t read the expression in them and didn’t try. She was wearing crimson—dazzling as a sunset—with matching jewels and gold twist gleaming from here and there. Her hair was bound loosely in more twist and a large red gem dangled over her forehead from the gold and silver winged diadem atop her head. 

She was all contrasts—creamy skin, crimson gown; blood and gold sparkle, fiery hair. Jaya’s whole being was astonished. He heard nothing but the roaring of his blood in his veins. That, and the laughter of arriving guests in the Entry. He wallowed for a moment in confusion.

At his elbow, Ravi said, “You are the image of the Goddess, Rani Ana.” Then, “Oh, but I’ve embarrassed you. Forgive me.”

Ana, looking down, was flushing like the asok blossom. She seemed, Jaya thought, as stricken as he was.

She took Ravi’s offered hand and descended the last steps to stand facing Jaya. He felt like a man coming out of a stupor.

“Shall I attend?” asked Ravi cautiously.

“Yes, yes, by all means.” Jaya took Ana’s hand from Ravi. “Shall we greet our guests, Lalasa?”

Ravi’s eyebrows ascended in a swift echo of Ana’s. He cleared his throat and moved away before them toward the Entry.

“You mock me, Nathu Rai,” Ana rebuked him as they followed Ravi from the Hall. “I am not your ‘beloved.’”

“I’m not mocking you, and you may stop sounding like my Jivinta, if you please. One Mina Sarojin is quite enough.”

“You forget our circumstances.”

“No, I only attempt to.”

“Don’t.”

He turned to look at her as they stood, arm in arm at the head of the long Entry Gallery, under the archway. “Ana, there’s something to be worked out between us. This is something we both know.”

Her brows arched. “Do you speak of Karma, mahesa?”

“I speak of what I don’t understand. Gloat if you like, but I freely admit my ignorance.” He began to walk again, down the long, cavernous passage toward the bevy of arrivals. “I’ve never thought of myself...as what I’m becoming.”

Ana glanced at him, puzzled. “And what is that?”

“When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”

They dined in the state banquet hall, which consumed half the premier floor’s south wing. The other half was a Salon of epic proportions with six huge fireplaces and three sunken braziers—all lit. For this occasion, Jaya took his place in a throne at the head of the Taj table. Ana sat at his right hand and he wondered who had arranged for her to sit there. It spoke, at least insofar as Mehtaran etiquette had it, of betrothal or other liaisons. Jivinta Mina was the chief suspect.

Dinner was enjoyable. The company was lively, the food delicious. Time flowed in a swift stream to the end of the meal. They moved into the State Salon, then, amid laughter and chatter. Fruit wines from the Sarojin vineyard had flowed freely at the dinner table and most guests were already in high spirits. Musicians played traditional Springtime cantalons from a recess beside the raised stone semi-circle where gifts would be presented later in the evening.

Ana instantly became the object of attention as she entered the Salon at Jaya’s side. She did not seem surprised, but then only a complete ingénue would have missed the flickering glances directed at her from every corner of the banquet hall. She circulated freely among the many guests, repeating the fabricated story of her meeting with Jaya to anyone who asked while Jaya watched her out of the corner of one eye, hoping she would be able to keep her glib fiction straight and wondering how a miner’s daughter came to be so at ease in a crowd of the caste-conscious. It must, he figured, be a function of her own castelessness. Or perhaps it had something to do with being Rohin.

There was that paradox, too. How did a miner’s daughter come to be a candidate for the Upward Path and its rigorous spiritual and mental disciplines? He’d found several books containing references to the Rohin in his library. They were conflicting in tone; one ascribed to the Rohin bhakta absurd austerities, another portrayed the women of the Discipline as little more than ritual whores with witching powers, a third extolled their honesty, devotion and pragmatism.

None of those things rang quite true. Ana had laughed at him for calling her an ascetic. Yet, she seemed to take her chastity quite seriously. She was certainly devoted to something, but Jaya Sarojin subscribed to the opinion that religion was a myth one chose to believe, which was hardly honest and arguably pragmatic.

Accessing the Kasi-Nawahr Library database in search of more information, he had gotten nothing but facts and figures and cryptic references to secret Rohin practices and powers. In the end, he was no closer to understanding what motivated Anala Nadim than he had been before. The Rohin secret was within her, and he suspected it had little to do with facts or figures or mysterious disciplines.

His eyes still half on Ana, Jaya drifted to the perimeter of a lively discussion between some elder statesmen. It centered, not surprisingly, around the situation on Avasa.

“Damn Guilders!” The deprecation, uttered in Vadin Sarad Valli’s precise Durvan accent, surprised Jaya into a chuckle.

“What is for laughter, Sarojin?” Sarad asked, laying his stress on the wrong syllable.

An intentional gaffe, Jaya knew. Valli reputedly called him the “Jinn Rai” when among friends. He only wished he might have done something to warrant being labeled a demon prince.

He smiled. “Sorry, Vadin. Your vehemence was-“

“Amusing, evidently,” concluded the Vadin. “That surprises me, Nathu Rai. I wud think a Lord of the Vrinda Varma wud be also vehement about the Guilders.”

“You know me, Sarad. I inherited my seat on the Vrinda Varma. Vehemence about anything is beyond me.”

“Now, that’s not what I hear.” The Vadin Bel Adivaram joined the conversation from behind.

Jaya moved slightly to take him in and lifted his beverage in salute. “Vadin.”

Adivaram inclined his head respectfully. “Nathu Rai.”

Sarad Valli’s round face was lit by curiosity. “And what do you hear about our eccentric young mahesa? Something wort’ repeating, I hope?”

“I’ve heard no more than what I’ve also observed. Which is that the Mahesa is vehement in his attachment to a certain young lady.” The Vadin’s eyes turned their sly gaze to where Anala held animated conversation with another group of guests.

“Do you blame him?” asked Valli. “She’s an excellent hostess, Nathu Rai. Where did you find her?”

“In Kasi.” Jaya was purposefully vague. He was a little weary of telling the misidentified baggage story.

“Ah, yes!” said Valli. “The Hotel Ramkasha wasn’t it? An uncommon coincidence that. Serendipity, one might say, eh, Sarojin? Already in the family, too.” He flashed a toothy, simian grin. “Very convenient.”

Jaya caught the oblique reference with a tickle of irritation. Sarad Valli was forever reminding him of the onerous excesses of the “old families.” Only in a Taj household was it not considered sinful to simply treat a female cousin or niece as if she were a wife.

“I’d call it a salvation. Ana saved my honor this morning by leading the family devotions. I had completely forgotten the Erai invocation.”

Adivaram’s eyebrows scooted halfway up his broad forehead. “Indeed? Isn’t it unusual for a young Rani to be schooled in such things?”

“Ana is Rohin.”

The Vadin’s eyes protruded. “Her father honored such a ridiculous pursuit? A woman such as that should not be wasted in a monastery.”

“They do things differently on Avasa. Apparently, the Rohin do not lock themselves away in retreat, and the lines of caste are allowed to blur in areas of the spirit.”

“Backward little dirtball, isn’t it?” said Adivaram.

“Ah, that reminds me of a joke my son tol’ me this morning,” began Sarad Valli.

Jaya moved away from the group before the conversation degenerated into racist humor. He had almost reached Ana’s side when a hand fell warmly to his shoulder. He turned, saw who the hand belonged to and smiled.

“Uncle Namun! You came after all.”

Namun Vedda returned the smile wryly. “Well, I got to thinking about a lecture your Jivinta gave me the other day about carrying sound ideas to extremes. I decided that attending the annual Sarojin Mesha Fest hardly constituted a conflict of interest. I’ll be glad when this mess is all over with, Jaya,” he added. “It will be good to get back to normal—not have to worry about infringing on your neutrality. I sometimes wish Vedda Technologies didn’t have to do business with the Consortium at all. In fact, there are times I wish I could return to academic life and leave the business to the businessmen. Had my father and his father not been businessmen, it might have been so.”

“Well, I’m glad you came to your senses about Mesha Fest, at any rate. Have you spoken to Jivinta?”

“Oh, yes, and she was about to introduce me to your—cousin, is it?—when some other gentleman drew her off.” Dark blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Not that I blame him, she’s extraordinary. Did I just hear you tell Adivaram that she’s Rohin?”

Jaya nodded. “I thought his eyes were going to pop out into his drink. He was scandalized.”

“So I noticed. Old prig. I think it’s fascinating. Imagine the challenge. Imagine the will it would take to pursue something so...”

“Socially unacceptable?”

Vedda snorted indelicately. “Well, it shouldn’t be. Why shouldn’t the woman follow whatever path suits her? Your father was right about conformity, Jaya. It lives uncomfortably close to stupidity.”

Jaya laughed. “Let me introduce you to Ana,” he said. “She’ll be happy to have found such a champion.”

He turned to the spot where Ana had been standing only moments before, but she had been swept away into yet another group of guests. He was about to suggest they track her down, when Duran Prakash joined them.

“A joyous Mesha to you, Nathu Rai, Vedda-sama!” He greeted them both respectfully, a wide smile on his face.

Jaya fumed. Prakash was the last person he wanted to socialize with. A glance at Namun Vedda’s face suggested he was having similar thoughts, but he turned the momentary grimace into a bland smile and responded graciously.

“Prakash-sama—a joyous Mesha to you, as well.”

“I thank you,” said Prakash and turned to Jaya, his eyes bright. “Nathu Rai, I couldn’t help but notice that singular young woman you had at your right hand during dinner. A beautiful, bright thing. Is she, er, your betrothed?”

Jaya’s ire began to smolder. “A cousin.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Namun Vedda make an eyerolling, ludicrous face and nearly laughed aloud.

“Ah! A contender, then, eh? I couldn’t help but notice also—well, how could anyone fail to notice against that red gown—her coloring.” He lowered his voice. “Does she have Genda Sita blood, do you think?”

“Good God,” muttered Vedda.

“I hadn’t asked after her racial heritage,” replied Jaya as neutrally as possible. He realized he had never contemplated the idea that Anala Nadim might be of the socalled “dirty white” race. She was light-skinned even for an Avasan, but hardly jarringly so.

Prakash looked sly and cast a significant glance at Vedda. “The Rani tells me she’s from Avasa.”

Jaya nodded. “Yes. From the Sagara.”

“Ah, the Pleasure Zone. Aren’t you concerned that such an, er, intimate relationship with an Avasan might compromise your neutrality?”

“Her father is in the timber business,” said Jaya.

Namun Vedda exhaled explosively. “Prakash,” he murmured, “this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing affairs of state. You are compromising more than neutrality to even bring the matter up. It is hardly an honorable subject for Festival.”

“But, sama, the Nathu Rai’s honor-“

“Should not be questioned by a guest in his home. To do so is an act of outrageous impudence. If you have some sort of accusation to make, you can damn well make it in chambers before the Vrinda Varma.”

“I thought I would give him a chance to explain-“

“He is your Nathu Rai, Prakash. He owes you no explanations. You, on the other hand, owe him an apology.”

Prakash appeared to be floundering in amazement. Was the bookish scientist daring to rebuke an attaché of the KasiNawhar Consortium? Jaya bit the inside of his lip and enjoyed Duran Prakash’s discomfiture.

The lawyer finally recovered himself enough to offer defense. “His relations with these Avasans could very well prejudice him toward AGIM.”

“Perhaps it could. I daresay you may be doing much to prejudice it, yourself.”

Prakash bristled visibly. “Do you refer to my relationship with the Rani?”

“I would never make such an unseemly reference, Prakashsama. I refer to your boorish behavior. I repeat that you owe the Nathu Rai an apology.”

Prakash’s face had screwed itself into an impossible tangle of outrage and embarrassment. “Need I remind you, Doctor Vedda, whose money it is that pays for your patent research?”

Namun Vedda paled visibly.

Anger prompted Jaya to speak. Prakash was the worst kind of idiot. “Prakash-sama, you forget yourself. Please try to recall where you are, and whom you address.”

Prakash glanced at his host’s face and backed down. “I am...sorry, Nathu Rai. Please forgive me. It is only my zeal for justice.”

Namun Vedda grimaced and looked down at his feet.

Jaya allowed none of his emotions to show. “Is that what it was? Well, Prakash-sama, I must ask you to confine it to your business dealings. If I hear that you have exercised your zeal further in this house, I will ask you to leave.”

His face expressionless, Prakash bowed crisply and hurried away, leaving the other men to recover the spirit of the occasion.

Namun Vedda shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if I haven’t sold my soul to demons for the sake of a few patents. By all the embodiments of God, boy, what does your mother see in that man?”

“I’m sure I don’t want to know,” said Jaya.

He searched the room again for Ana, and had just spotted her when the bells pealed to announce the Time of Gifts.

oOo

Jivinta Mina was Rani of the Gift Giving, deciding in what order gifts should be presented by those who had signed the silken Presentation Scroll in the Entry. She had scheduled herself last, with Jaya and Ana just before.

Most of the gifts were not actual presentations, but donations of funds or goods to Kasi charities; some gave artwork for display in gallery or Asra. There were, of course, musicians, several poets and a group of actors who had been hired to perform a traditional playlet about the creation of the Seasons. Whether performed by the gift-giver or professional surrogate, the fare was entertaining and the audience enthusiastic.

Ana was curious about what Jaya Sarojin would present. She had heard Ravi joke about his lack of singing skills; he did not strike her as a poet. When Mina Sarojin announced that her grandson would present a traditional tale “in the way of our ancestors,” Ana imagined he would simply tell a story. She was completely surprised by what he did do.

From the hush of fire-lit expectancy grew a tantalizing drum beat and the drone of obas and faroons. Out of the recesses of the darkened hall came a team of six torch bearers, chanting deeply against the rhythm of the drums. They carried torches on tall poles. These they set in floor braces on the perimeters of the performers’ dais. Their duty complete, they turned in a swirl of bright fabric and bowed to one knee before the audience, fisted hands crossed over their hearts.

“INDRA!”

The roar of a single voice sent the torch bearers leaping into the crowd with a shrill response. As the audience fell back in surprise, there vaulted into the torchlit platform a Being out of legend—Indra, Conqueror of Chaos. Reflected flames licked over the gleaming platelets of his armor and ran like liquid sun down the curving blade of the sword he held in gloved hands. In the radiant, gold and silver face, only the eyes were alive—dark and glittering in the recesses of the helmet’s half-mask. The rest of the face was in shadow as Indra assumed the stance of a Balin warrior, ready for combat.

Drums pounded, obas keened, faroons rumbled, and bell harps sang in shrill, sharp bursts. To their music, Jaya danced the War of Sat and Asat—of Existence and NonExistence—a battle that ended when Indra, Son of the Supreme Spirit, brought light and life to the Universe.

The audience fell into the role of chorus, responding to Indra’s roars with ululating cries, answering his guttural barks with the requisite chatter, joining exuberantly in the chanted passages of the Sacred Text.

Ana was swept into the fantasy. The torchlit platform vanished; Indra danced and leapt and whirled amid suns and planets and snowy galaxies of pin-prick stars. The torch bearers in their black cloaks became the forces of darkness—clouds of human corruption and doubt—seeking to extinguish the torches of divine Light. The formless horde scattered before Indra’s mighty sword. With a final roar of triumph, a final stroke of his great sword, Indra brought the Sun of Divine Truth from behind the clouds of concealment and the Universe blazed with light.

The cosmos erupted in a final shout of rapture, then the fantasy fled before the rush of returning light. The universe became a vaulted room full of inebriated partiers.

Indra unmasked now, and Nathu Rai Jaya Sarojin bowed to his guests and swept sweat-damp hair from his forehead. Ari and Ravi, still in the black cloaks of the Asat forces, helped him from his armor. Many compliments and kudos later, he stood before Ana and bowed.

“What did you think of my gift?” he asked.

“I was surprised,” she said in all honesty. “I would not have thought traditional dance to be...a suitable pastime for a prince.”

“I’m a Sarojin, first of all. My grandmother has always insisted that I have an appreciation of tradition.”

“You danced it beautifully,” Ana told him, and a small demon made her add, “If you ever tire of the indolent life of a mahesa, you might consider dancing as a profession.”

To her surprise, Jaya Sarojin threw back his head and laughed. “No, no,” he said, when laughter had spent itself. “Dance is, to me, a labor of love. You will think it odd, but when I dance, there were moments when I feel there is no stone beneath my feet, only the void. There are moments when...when I felt I am no longer the dancer, but have become the dance. I have yet to feel that about government.”

Ana suspected she was being teased, but said anyway, “That is the goal of all life, isn’t it? Not to do, but to become.” She gave him a courtly bow. “Now, if you will allow me to present my gift...” She slipped away toward the stage from which Jivinta Mina beckoned her.

Jaya heard a soft chuckle at his elbow and glanced aside. Bel Adivaram’s porcine face beamed at him, tinted with the rouge of drink. His mouth wore a suggestive grin.

“You find it difficult to share your cousin’s gifts, do you, Jaya?”

The tone was suggestive as well and Jaya found it irritated him. “Do not make a joke of my cousin’s gifts, Vadin. She is a Sarojin.”

Adivaram raised his brows. “Ah, and the Sarojin honor is unimpeachable, isn’t it? ‘As a lotus, though born in the muddy water, is unsoiled by it.’ Eh, mahesa?”

“Even so. You will excuse me.” Jaya nodded curtly and made his way to the edge of the presenter’s platform.

“I was born and raised on Avasa,” Ana was saying, “and as I grew up there, I came to know that despite its youth, there is a rich culture there, as on this world. There are legends, histories, tall tales, songs, and poetry. My gift to you tonight is one of the chansons of Avasa. It is called ‘The Plains.’”

She began the cant:

“Only where some passionate, level land

Stretches itself in reaches of golden sand,

Only where the sea is joined to the sky, clear,

Beyond the curve or ripple of white foamed crest—

Shall the weary eyes

Distressed by the broken skies—

Broken by Asra, mountain, or towering tree—

Shall the weary eyes be assuaged—and rest.”

When the final tone of the short piece faded, the applause was loud and long and accompanied by requests for an encore. Ana complied with an intimate Rohin tribute to the Kalki Avatar.

“The secret of love’s code is never found

By those who but to reasoning are prone.

What rose could spring from out that brackish ground,

Or what anemone from stone?

O brighter than the bright sun art Thou!

It is Thy light that veils Thee from men’s eyes.

But who has ever glimpsed Thy face, he cries:

The Sun of Truth is dawning on me now!

A thousand gaze upon Thy face and none

Is worthy he should ever look thereon.

How could I ever on Thy beauty dwell?

O, this unease! Thou art not to be sung.”

It didn’t sound like a hymn written to some lofty Divine Authority, Jaya thought. It sounded like a love song for someone of flesh and blood. “The secret of love’s code”...was that what he was struggling to decipher? Bhakti—devotion—would he ever be able to decipher that? Jaya shook his head. Maybe he was a stone, but would a stone feel unease “not to be sung?”

He caught Ana’s eyes on his face and realized he was frowning. He relaxed deliberately, joining in the applause, but she had seen the frown, and would no doubt interpret it as atheistic disapproval or even superiority. There was a vast gulf between wanting and having.

He turned his gaze aside and found Bel Adivaram and Duran Prakash watching him rather too closely from a markedly political grouping nearby. They raised their glasses to him; he inclined his head curtly and moved away.

oOo

“You have the voice of Music, Rani Sadira,” the Esteemed One said. “Very rarely have I heard chanting with such power and conviction. You are a true and sincere bhakta. I encourage you to enter the Orders. With your discipline as a Rohin, your fire of devotion, your obvious knowledge of the Sacred Texts, you would make a most worthy Deva.”

Ana blushed profusely and reflexively gave the respectful greeting. “Your words are more than praise, Deva. It has always been my desire to study for Orders, but life on Avasa has not afforded the opportunity.”

The Deva smiled, her eyes glinting. “I hope you will take the opportunity afforded you here. I would consider it a joy to personally oversee your instruction. You have the spirit of a Deva. All you need attain is the colors.” She brushed the folds of her ceremonial stole and smiled. “And these colors would suit you. Now, Mina,” she turned to the Old Rani, “you’ve been so patient waiting for me to finish my speech. Please continue with the gifts.”

Jivinta Mina presented her gift in three parts. The first part sat in a velvet-draped display case brought to the stage by four of the Sarojin servants. The drape was removed to reveal an array of porcelain cups, bowls, goblets, trays, and vases all decorated with glowing colors and designs both intricate and simple. Guests broke into spontaneous “ohs” and “ahs,” and moved forward, murmuring; jostling to get a good view of the pieces.

Standing by the display case, Mina Sarojin seemed pleased with the response her gift had brought so far. “These exquisite pieces will be here for all of you to admire...and plot to own,” she announced. “Now, the second part of the gift.”

She looked off-stage, holding out a veined hand. A pretty, but frail young woman dressed in a simple gown stepped from the shadows skirting the platform and up onto its polished surface.

“This is Sushela Kapivastu. She is the creator of these extraordinary pieces.” She waited out the applause that followed, then continued: “Sushela has graciously agreed to reside in Kasi and open a shop in the Sun Crescent. I am certain you will all frequent her business.”

Again, there was applause.

“And now,” said Jivinta Mina, smiling from her eyes, “the third and final part of the gift. Heli, if you would...”

There was a cry from the Salon’s main entrance and a small girl darted toward the stage, weaving her way through the guests like a frantic shuttle.

Sushela Kapivastu covered her mouth with her hands and burst into tears. She embraced first her benefactress, then the child who vaulted onto the stage and into her arms. There was a scene of inarticulate joy and reunion through which the old Rani smiled, eyes glistening.

In a moment she turned back to her guests and proceeded to astound them further. “Dana Kapivastu was cruelly torn from her family by one of the most respected dalalis in Kasi. I had the ability and, I felt, the duty to reunite her with them. I petitioned the Deva Radha to review the child’s case and restore her freedom. I am happy to announce that she did exactly that. Dana Kapivastu is no longer a dasa. She is free, by the grace of Tara-Rama and the Inner Circle.”

A murmur rolled and spread through the crowd like backwash from the prow of a boat.

Ana glanced at the faces of those near her and saw everything from pleasure to uncertainty to shock, dismay, and disapproval. She began to applaud, slowly, rhythmically. Next to her Jaya picked up the rhythm. Ravi, always two steps from his side, echoed him. The Deva Radha also joined in and, with her, the other Holy Ones present. Glancing about the great Salon, the Deva moved to mount the stage next to Mina, her hands keeping up the rhythm, her face alive with something like passion. She raised her hands high over her head, calling for the other guests to applaud with her.

Many did, some nodding, smiling, joining in the spirit of Mina Sarojin’s gift. Others slipped quietly away, out of the room, out of the Sarojin Palace, to places where they could talk about the old Rani’s scandalous behavior.

oOo

Melantha Sarojin and Duran Prakash went only as far as the main hall.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that display.” Red-faced, Melantha Sarojin did not look Duran Prakash in the eye—but then, she rarely did that, anyway. 

“Nonsense, my dear,” Duran murmured, laying a consoling hand on the back of her neck. “I’m more concerned that you had to witness it, since it distresses you so.”

“That old woman will forever distress me with her illtimed, misbegotten social blunders. I wonder my husband was able to rise to such respect with that sort of upbringing. By all rights he should have been a royal joke instead of one of the greatest statesmen Mehtar has ever known.”

Ignoring her praise of the deceased Nathu Rai Bhaktasu Sarojin, Prakash made a mew of sympathy. “You mean she has always been like this? I thought perhaps her age...”

The Rani laughed curtly. “No, Duran. The Rani Mina has always flown in the face of rita. She speaks of tradition, heritage, social responsibility—in reality they mean nothing to her. Nor does she care what anyone else must endure as a result of her maudlin effrontery. Bringing that dasa into the party as a participant! Celebrating that-that peasant artisan as if she were from the artistic Orders!”

Duran dared to remonstrate with her. “My dear, it was an act of charity. The woman does have a great natural talent.”

“Don’t take her side against me,” warned Melantha acidly. “You have no idea what life is like with her—with my son. Neither of them will call the das by their proper names. They treat them as if they were peers. And that damned Ravidas! Jaya has insisted on making him his closest confidant since they were small boys. I thought he’d outgrow it. I was certain of it. But no! First my husband and then his mother insist on supporting Jaya in his iconoclastic tendencies.”

“Iconoclasm? Oh, surely it’s not as bad as that,” interjected Prakash.

 “Isn’t it? Now he’s brought that woman here. She may be a Rani, she may be a leaf of the Saroj, but—my God—raised on Avasa...? Well, what did I expect? I should have known when Jaya’s appetites finally conquered him, there would be some ‘kindred spirit’ around for him to plant his staff in.”

Duran mewed again. “Do you think he designs to marry her, or is it just a—well—a dalliance?”

“I’d hope for a dalliance, but the girl claims to be Rohin. Jaya does not believe in such things, but he is tolerant, to a fault, of the beliefs of others.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Prakash, glancing back down the hall toward the Salon, “this is merely another form of rebellion. Most men would get their pre-nuptial...practice at the hands of a cunnidasa or someone from a lower life. In all likelihood, Jaya would consider that taking advantage of his rank. It certainly would provide little challenge. A Rohina or a Rani, on the other hand...” He shrugged. “Perhaps he merely wants a relationship with an equal.”

“He’s fascinated by her—that much is clear.”

“Has he...taken her to his bed, do you think?”

“Perhaps. You know what they say about the Rohin. He placed her in a room adjoining his and I’ve never known that door to be locked. Then again, I know also that both beds are slept in every night. But why should I care if he marries her—or merely beds her? She’s a Rani, at least. I don’t think she’s Genda Sita—even Jaya couldn’t be that foolish. Her skin only wants a little tinting. Perhaps she’ll even acquire some sophistication. She’s not stupid. She couldn’t be and impress the Deva Radha.” She glanced at Prakash and smiled. “It really doesn’t matter to me, Duran. Not at all. My son may feed his appetites as he pleases and I shall feed mine.”

She looked at him in a certain way, then turned her eyes to the Grand Stair just up the hall toward the Entry. “I’m going up to my suite.”

“Should you be alone just now?” Duran asked significantly.

“No. I think perhaps I shouldn’t.”

She brushed his cheek delicately with one scented hand and left him standing in the hall.

He waited a bit—spoke to some fellow guests as they drifted by, telling them the Rani was distressed by the evening’s events and had gone up to her rooms. They were sympathetic. He was on fire, but did not show it.

A quarter of an hour later, when the hall had cleared considerably, and sounds of celebration still wafted from the Salon, Duran Prakash climbed the Grand Stair with due speed and soft step. But at the landing, he turned right instead of left and scurried down the gallery to the most ornate of doors. It was unlocked.

He stepped within and stopped to take in the room. So, these were the private chambers of a mahesa. As grand as might be expected. He imagined the Rani’s quarters must be even more sumptuous than her son’s. Well, tonight he would know—at last.

He moved to what he suspected was the connecting door to the Rani Sadira’s suite and opened it. It was a smaller bedroom than the Lord’s but just as grand. He found the wardrobe and opened it.

A certain type of clothing was what he sought and—ah, there! The silken, shimmering folds of black and crimson and palest moon beams told him a wealth of tales. Women did not have such things in their wardrobes for their own enjoyment. These were for the pleasure of a man, these were proof of compromise. 

Duran Prakash smiled and let his personal excitement grasp him. She was waiting for him—dare he hope—wearing something like these? He brushed a hand through the filmy folds. It collided with something a good deal heavier and coarser to the touch. He pushed aside a flimsy bit of gauze and pulled the odd piece of cloth out where he could see it.

It was an insulsuit—clean, but well worn and even mended. On Avasa one did not survive without one. He wrinkled his nose. What an offense for a woman—any woman—to have to wear such a rag next to her skin. He fingered the initials—“AN”—frowned, and shook his head. Why would she bother to keep such a rag? Her name decal had even been effaced. Ah well, perhaps it had some sentimental value—reminded her of home, or something like that.

He grunted and let go of the offensive piece of cloth, then ran his hands, again, over one of the gauzy camisoles, as if to purify them from the insulsuit’s alien coarseness.

His craving soared and sent him hurrying toward the wing he knew the Rani occupied. He would be the most sympathetic of companions tonight; a listening ear, a willing provider of any pleasures she desired to experience. He prided himself that what she had experienced so far had been pleasurable enough. He was, if not a master, at least highly skilled at the Kunda arts. After all, it wasn’t every man who had the opportunity (or the reason) to study the mysterious sexual disciplines of the Bogar.

Duran Prakash chuckled as he gazed appreciatively at the delicately ornamented doors to the Rani Melantha’s private wing. How crazily did life behave. All the cajolery and sweetness and pleasure he had contrived to shower upon the Sarojin queen had never bought for him what her anger had now given away—passage into her intimate chambers.

Who knew? Perhaps before Mitras rose and killed the night, her anger would grant ultimate access to the most intimate chamber of all.