Path of the Eclipse (66 page)

Where there had been confusion before there was now chaos. Bodies, linked together in a variety of ways, now struggled to break free in order to run.

The water now struck with all its fury, its speed and weight. The stones cracked, sounding like bones breaking, and the Kudri, dammed for three months, smashed through.

Saint-Germain was flung upward as the wall began to collapse. He dropped back into the water before he could ready himself for it, and he feared that he would be broken against the temple stones.

There were many bodies in the water around him, and he could hear the thrashings and shouting over the gigantic voice of the river. The last of the torches was extinguished and the temple was completely dark. Water dragged at the walls, at the people, impartially. The flood had been moving rapidly when it hit. Forced into the confines of the temple, it exploded, sending the pillars outward and casting bodies about as leaves were tossed on a swollen stream.

A falling piece of masonry caught Saint-Germain’s side and abraded it badly. He fought free of this trap and let the current carry him away from the ruin of Kali’s temple. His mind was dazed, and there was a rushing in his ears that did not come from the water. Suddenly a man’s arm wrapped around him, clinging, squeezing, the body dangling from what had appeared as the only safety. Determined, and reluctant, Saint-Germain roused himself enough to fight free of the drowning man holding him. The current caught him again and thrust him farther away from the temple, toward the gorge where tall cascades brought the Kudri to the Chenab.

At last his alarm woke him to action. To fall with the water, to be broken by it, this frightened him, but more terrifying still was the prospect of taking such a fall and being only injured. He had an instant’s vision of himself on the bottom of the river, mangled but alive, alive and
conscious
until the water itself wore his flesh away. He struck out with his arms and was amazed when he broke the surface of the flood in two or three strokes.

His first attempt to catch himself was a failure. The rock he had reached for was left quickly behind, and there were long abrasions on his arms and hands. The others caught in the flood were around him, a few of them making feeble attempts to resist the water, but most of them still now. Saint-Germain pushed a corpse away from him and as he did realized that it was one of the men who had died on the altar, not one caught in the flood.

A rock outcropping loomed ahead, and this time Saint-Germain used the last of his quickly ebbing strength to grab it. His arms caught the stone, slamming him into it with such force as would have broken bones in many men. He willed himself to hang on though the impact jarred him to faintness. His face was against the rock and the water battered him. There was one bright thread of thought, of memory alive in his mind: the rest was as dark as the river raging, unfettered, toward the cataracts that were less than ten steps from the rock where Saint-Germain clung.

About the time the night faded into dawn the waters receded, leaving behind a devastation that was appalling. The flood had scoured away much of the vegetation, but where it had taken plants, corpses had been left behind. From the ruin of the temple to the cataracts there were shattered, bloated bodies.

The sun woke Saint-Germain, searing him, unprotected as he was. Light burned like acid on his back, but his arms refused to release the rock. Finally, when a dim realization that he was dry, whole, and naked broke through the blackness, he gathered himself for one last effort. He had no strength left. His arms were ragged with scrapes and cuts, his back was torn, and the sun basted him with pain. It took him half of the morning to crawl twelve paces to the shelter of the forest, where he gratefully let himself sink into temporary oblivion.

When he wakened at nightfall, he was no longer in the forest, but lying on cushions in a spacious, old-fashioned room he had never seen before. He was too exhausted to be surprised. Gingerly he tried to move his arms and was oddly pleased that although there was pain, he encountered no stiffness. His wounds had been dressed but not bandaged: two of the cuts were fairly severe but Saint-Germain knew from long experience that in a few days they would heal completely, leaving no scars. Since he had risen from his first death, nothing had left a lasting mark on his skin. He started to roll to the side and realized then that he had been wrapped in a long, loose robe of very fine silk. He touched it wonderingly. Where was he? How had he come here?

A slave seated near the door looked up as he moved and gave a little shriek before bolting from the room.

Saint-Germain looked around the room more carefully. It could be no accident that he was here, not if he had been dressed in silk and his hurts treated. A feeling, too leaden to be euphoria, yet still light-headed, stole over him. He was in that dangerous lassitude which hid genuine enervation. The cushions on which he lay offered him no comfort, for none of them contained his native earth. Did any of the bags of it remain now? he wondered with curious detachment. How absurd, how ironic to survive that debauched rite and devastating flood only to succumb for lack of earth or blood. It would not be long before he would lie quiescent, hoarding what small spark of strength was left to him. His unknown benefactor, he thought, might assume he was dead and build a funeral pyre for him. The fire would be the end of him. He tried to chuckle but stopped as he heard the echo of his own voice.

A deep blue gown brushed against his shoulder and Saint-Germain opened his eyes with a start. Had he been dozing? As he looked up, his vision swam. Before he realized he had spoken at all, he said, “Padmiri?” not expecting an answer, convinced that this was an illusion of her.

“Saint-Germain,” she said, and sank down beside him. There was a faint smile on her lips that had nothing of joy in it.

“You?” He touched her face fleetingly with his bruised hands. “I was afraid they had taken you prisoner.”

“I was afraid they had killed you.” She caught one of his hands in hers and held it. She did not quite sigh—she was too private for that.

“They nearly did.” He could see the strain in her face. Dark patches underscored her haunted eyes and the lines of her face had deepened. She was majestic in her mourning; Saint-Germain could not share her sorrow, and would not add to it by telling her what he had seen in Kali’s temple before the water came through.

She was content to sit beside him in silence for a time, and then she said, as if resuming a conversation, “The river was not as kind to Tamasrajasi as it was to you. We found her only this afternoon, washed up on one of the sand spits in the Chenab. I have ordered that her pyre be built there and the ashes be allowed to wash away.” She got up and crossed the room. It was night but the room was well-lit by torches and lamps. She stopped beside a cluster of crudely made candles with sizzling wicks. “I didn’t think they’d find you. I believed you were dead. When they told me … I did ask them to look for you, so that you could be given proper rites.” There was a nightingale singing over the garden; its plaintive notes brought tears to Padmiri’s eyes.

“Is that why you had your men search for me—so that I would not be left for the carrion eaters?” He had not intended to speak so harshly, but before he could modify his words, Padmiri answered him.

“That was part of it, yes. I gave orders that all the bodies that could be found should be collected into one place for the proper rituals. Tamasrajasi … that was another matter.” She brought her hands up almost to her face as if wishing to hide behind them.

Saint-Germain braced himself on his elbow so that he could look at Padmiri, but after a moment his arm began to tremble and he sank back on the cushions. “Padmiri, I didn’t intend to say that to you. I’m not thinking very well. The sun, the water, they rob me of … life.” He turned his head and regarded her evenly. “I am grateful, Padmiri.”

She drew her hands into fists. “There are more than one hundred dead on the Kudri and the Chenab. And I wanted them dead.” When he did not speak to her, she lashed out at him. “But you survived. You.”

“Does that disappoint you?” Nothing in his tone accused her or offered her apology. He was not inclined to argue with her and did not know how to comfort her.

“No, it angers me.” She took a few steps toward him. The nightingale sang on, unheeded. “You are badly hurt. I should not be speaking of this now.”

“Because of my hurt?” He was growing weary again and that infuriated him. His will could not sustain him now.

“I’m too … confused,” she said and Saint-Germain wondered what it was that she had wanted to say instead. “Tamasrajasi is dead. She left no one behind her. There is no heir. So for a little time, Natha Suryarathas is mine. The palace guard, what is left of it, has brought me word that they will defend me.”

“Then you are Rani.” Saint-Germain closed his eyes briefly, and in that little time he accepted the loss of her. “You are Rani and I am a foreigner. And I am … what I am.” So there it was. The candles sputtered, then grew brighter, touching the side of her face with golden light.

“I may not ask you to stay.” She came the rest of the distance to his side but did not kneel at once.

Why did this hurt him so much when the horrors of the night before had numbed him? He could not speak of this to her, so he asked another question that had been waiting at the back of his mind. “And Rogerio?”

“He crossed the border shortly after dawn. I … I sent a messenger after him at sunset.” She touched his hand, and it seemed to her that she reached across an enormous gulf.

“I thank you for that,” he said after a moment. “He and I are … old friends.” If only he were not so listless! He tried to speak more animatedly. “Where are we?”

“Where? Do you mean this house?” She saw the irritation he had stifled cross his features. She went on quickly, soothingly. “This is the house of one of my uncles. He was executed in the time of the rebellion. My brother gave orders that his slaves were to be installed here and the building kept in readiness for his use. He never came here, but the slaves remained. No one said that they should be moved, and so this house was never closed. I’d forgotten about it. One of the guardsmen reminded me of it.”

“And what of your house?”

“I have not yet returned to it. My slaves will take care of it until I do.” She moved closer to him and pushed his tangled, matted dark hair back from his face. “Your things, all your things, are there.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” He would be able to rest on his native earth. His weakness no longer seemed as dangerous to him but he resisted its pull on him. “May I go there before morning?”

Padmiri drew back from him. “Before morning?”

Gently he touched her arm. “Padmiri, I told you once that I did not want to use you. It was not lightly said.” He was tempted to pull her down beside him, to use every sort of persuasion he knew to coerce her into loving him again. It would be an honorless, reprehensible act, and he loathed himself for the need growing in him. With an effort he was able to continue. “Without your help, I might have died the true death more than once in the last two days. I will not abuse so fine a gift, Padmiri,” he said with vehemence. “I wish to leave so that I can have a day to rest on my native earth. It is necessary for me. It will restore me.”

She understood him. “Blood would be better.”

He flinched at the acuity of her perceptions and his own inward hunger. “Blood alone, no, it would not. You know what is needed. But you have Natha Suryarathas, Padmiri, and it would not be wise for you to lie with any foreigner, particularly anyone as foreign as I am.” He had hoped that this would amuse her and saw instead that she was weeping. He reached up, taking her face in his hands. His penetrating eyes met hers and he made no attempt to deny his passion. “Padmiri, Padmiri, what now?”

“I want you to love me, man of Shiva. You will use me, and I will use you, openly, without hypocrisy. Let me be only myself this once. And then, man of Shiva, you must go.”

“Very well,” he said, drawing her down to him. His caresses, his kisses, were lingering, lonely for her even as he shared the culmination of her desire. As Padmiri answered his increasing ardor with renewed passion, she wished for one wild instant that he would use her utterly, that he would take all the life in her rather than give her such great pleasure, such unquenchable love as a gesture of farewell. Nothing he had done before had roused her as he did now. Every touch of his hands, his body, his mouth, brought their special fruition until there was no nuance of her sensuality he had not explored, save one.

She did not weep when he left, for tears, she had learned, were an indulgence, and one that a Rani could not afford. From the terrace she watched him ride away, four guardsmen for escort, until the morning sun dazzled her eyes.

A letter from Saint-Germain to Jalal-im-al Zakatim.

May Allah reward you with sons and prosperity in this life, and with all the delights of Paradise after it, Jala-im-al.

I am sending with this note a small gift to acknowledge my gratitude for the hospitality you have shown my servant Rogerio in the sixteen days he has been with you. It was most cordial of you to be his host so short a time after your own return to the Sultanate.

Your slave brought the various supplies I requested some time ago. I am most particularly pleased with the various European earths which you have supplied. Be sure that I will put them to excellent use. As you know, my own supply was seriously depleted, so these are a welcome addition.

After all the kindness you have done me, I am sorry to have to refuse your inquiries regarding the death of the Rani Tamasrajasi. It is most important to you, I realize, but I do not feel it is wise to discuss what occurred. There are a great many rumors, as we are both aware, and it is well not to fuel those particular flames.

I have just spoken with the young woman who accompanied Rogerio here. You wished me to tell you what I could learn of her, and that I am more than willing to do. This young woman comes from China. Her two traveling companions, one of whom was her brother, are no longer with her. The brother died and the other deserted her. In Puna she tried to find an appropriate companion for her continued travels and fell victim to a rogue. She was offered passage on a ship bound for the west, and when she persisted in refusing to give her body to the captain’s use, he put her into restraints and sold her as a slave at his next port. That is where your uncle bought her, and what you have said and what she tells me now are very much the same.