Keshan sat down on the forest floor and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a small silver case. He glanced up at Jandu, a mischievous expression on his face.
Jandu eyed Keshan suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
“Showing off,” Keshan said. “Or getting ready to, anyway. This is my flute. You want to hear me play something? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Of course!” Jandu sat beside Keshan, so close their legs almost touched. “You play the flute?” Jandu asked.
Keshan raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I thought everyone knew that.”
“Oh wait,” Jandu held up a finger. “Actually, I remember hearing some story about how you lured women to you through music.”
Keshan laughed as he pieced the parts of his flute together.
Jandu observed the instrument. “So is it an enchanted flute?”
“What?” Keshan looked at him.
“Are you going to lure me somewhere?”
Keshan’s eyelids lowered slightly. “Only if you want me to.”
Jandu blushed. He leaned against the tree and watched as Keshan began a soft, lilting song, and Jandu closed his eyes. He wrapped himself in the sounds, letting the music take him away from the tension of the afternoon. The song flirted along the scale; it tilted and lifted and trilled. It started sweet and slow and then sped to a furious pitch and pace, energizing him.
Keshan blew one long, final note, and then stopped, closing his eyes and leaning against the tree as well. He held his flute gently in his hands.
Jandu was too moved to say anything at first. And then, nervously, he reached over and squeezed Keshan’s hand.
“That was beautiful,” Jandu said, his voice thick with emotion.
Keshan opened his eyes slightly. “I came up with that song after we fought together at the temple. I’ve been working on it all week. I wanted to get it perfect before I saw you again.” He laid his flute aside. “I call it Jandu’s song. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Jandu smiled crookedly. “I’m flattered.”
“Good.” Keshan stared deeply into Jandu’s eyes.
Jandu frowned. “What?”
“Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“I think you look beautiful right now,” Keshan remarked.
Jandu’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
Keshan shrugged. “I mean the way your hair is mussed from the wind, and the way the forest light plays across your eyes. Your cheekbones are so strong and your nose is slender and graceful. And your body—”
Jandu pulled back. “Stop it.”
Keshan cocked his head. “What?”
“Stop talking like that.”
Keshan leaned towards him again. “Like what? I’m just paying you a compliment, that’s all.”
“I know. Thank you. I mean…” Jandu looked away, hating the way he knew his cheeks burned with Keshan’s words. What the hell was going on? He knew that Keshan had lascivious powers over women. The whole Prasta court retold tales of Keshan’s exploits with servant girls in Tiwari. But Jandu had never heard of him using his magical powers on a man before.
What burned him more was that Keshan was succeeding. Jandu noted with horror that his body reacted to Keshan’s nearness, growing more aroused than he had been his first night with a woman.
“You look worried.” Keshan’s low voice sent a shiver down Jandu’s spine.
“I’m fine.” Jandu tried to control his mounting panic.
“Are you?” Keshan moved closer. His heavy eyelids veiled his expression. He reached out and touched Jandu’s chest with aching softness. “I’m not. There is something about you, Jandu Paran, that I cannot resist.”
Jandu nearly admitted that something about Keshan seemed irresistible as well. But Keshan’s proximity unnerved him. Keshan’s eyes lidded, heavy with emotion.
Jandu filled with alarm. “What are you doing?”
Keshan leaned in and kissed Jandu. Shivers trembled down Jandu’s spine at the sweet warmth of Keshan’s lips. Keshan started the kiss chastely enough, it could have just been a kiss between friends. But then he gently pushed his tongue into Jandu’s mouth.
Keshan’s mouth tasted like coconut, sweet and earthy. All reason fled Jandu’s mind, he closed his eyes, and leaned forward to feel more of the soft heat of Keshan’s lips.
Keshan‘s hand dropped to Jandu’s thigh, and Jandu felt fire ignite within him at the touch.
Jandu’s eyes shot open. What the hell was he doing?
Jandu jerked away from Keshan’s kiss, suddenly horrified by whatever magic spell Keshan’s flute had worked on him. Was this some joke Keshan would share with Darvad and Tarek? Or a bet?
Keshan opened his eyes.
“Jandu…”
Jandu backhanded Keshan across the face. All the passion he had just felt drained away to be replaced with fury.
“Fuck you!” Jandu scrambled to his feet, backing away from Keshan. “How dare you kiss me!”
Keshan’s hand rose to the spot where Jandu had slapped him. He glared at Jandu, shocked.
“I thought you liked it.”
Jandu spat. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand to erase the memory. “You’ve enchanted me somehow!”
Jandu breathed deeply to control his anger. A Triya warrior never lost control. At least, that was what Mazar had once taught him.
He glowered at Keshan. “I don’t know what kind of powers you have, but they won’t work on me. Go back to screwing your servants and leave me alone, you fucking pervert!”
Jandu ran half the distance back to the river before he dared turn around. He saw Keshan staring at him, stock still in the gap between the trees, the side of his face red from where Jandu struck him. Jandu felt a momentary pang of guilt. But he realized that, too, was probably part of Keshan’s spell, and turned back to the palace alone.
◆◆◆
That evening, Yudar summoned Jandu into the dice room.
Jandu disliked gambling, and he especially disliked the way the dice mesmerized his brother. Yudar, always so clear of mind and focused, lost his edge in the dice room as he obsessed over his next win.
Lords and courtiers filled the chamber, laughing and drinking and eating fruit as several games played out simultaneously. Jandu found his brother at the far end of the large room, throwing his dice and cheering at the results. But Yudar’s smile disappeared as soon as Jandu appeared.
“What did you say to Keshan Adaru?” he demanded suddenly.
The guests around the dice board looked up at Jandu.
The question startled Jandu. “Nothing.”
Yudar crossed his arms. “He is our cousin, and even though our views often differ, he is an honored guest in this palace. And now he has told Mazar that he will be leaving the palace grounds and will not return until invited back, saying it has something to do with you. So what happened?”
Jandu shrugged, hoping his face did no give away the sudden terror of being found out. “I have no idea.”
Yudar stared at him coldly. But Jandu didn’t give him any answers. Finally Yudar just waved him away, turning back to his dice game with a grimace. Jandu excused himself, feeling sick to his stomach.
That night, Jandu replayed the day over in his mind. He couldn’t believe the audacity of a man like Keshan, who would dare march into a Triya’s private wooded retreat and just go ahead and kiss him. Men kissing men! What kind of world did the Tiwari people live in? They were immoral, obviously.
But what bothered Jandu more than the disgust he had towards the wanton ways of the Tiwari tribe was his own immoral lust for it. That night, he couldn’t sleep, haunted by the sweetness of that kiss. Everything about touching Keshan had felt right, especially when compared to the perfunctory nights he had spent with women.
Jandu swore to himself that the next day he would pray to all the prophets of the heavens to cure him of the terrible ailment that the infamous trickster Keshan Adaru had afflicted him with.
Jandu hoped he never saw his cousin again.
Chapter 8
Lord Sahdin of Jezza openly supported Yudar for the throne. If almost any of Darvad’s friends had invited the staunch traditionalist to their house for a birthday celebration, the old lord would have refused on principle.
But the birthday invitation came from Druv Majeo, lord of Pagdesh, and so even the religiously devout Lord Sahdin had no choice but to accept. Outside of the palace itself, Druv’s townhouse was the center of Prasta’s political circle. It was the place to be seen, the place to stay informed, and the most popular destination in town for the up-and-coming Triya courtiers. Rejecting Druv’s invitation was the equivalent of social suicide.
Darvad and Druv had schemed for weeks to prepare for Sahdin’s fiftieth birthday party, inviting important Triya from both the traditionalist and modernist sides to witness the festivities. As Druv oiled his diplomatic machinery, Darvad and Firdaus drilled Tarek, preparing him to duel the old Triya lord.
On the night of the party, Tarek walked into the expansive guest hall of Druv’s townhouse warily, half-expecting to be accosted for daring to enter. But his gold armor, his magnificent diadem, and his rich silk clothing allowed him to blend in with the impressive crowd of Triya warriors and their wives. He promptly helped himself to wine, desperate to steady his nerves. Social functions had discomforted him when he was a poor Suya in his home village. Now that he was masquerading as a lord and attending royal benefits of this scale, it was unbearable.
Druv’s townhouse resembled a beehive, with alcoves and small sitting rooms forming intimate conversation nooks, connected by marble-laid walkways. It provided the illusion of privacy without any of the benefits. Clusters of people clumped together in comfortable heaps upon mountains of pillows, drinking excessively, eating too many pre-dinner pastries, watching each other hawkishly for news worthy of passing on to allies. As Tarek walked, heads turned, whispers buzzed from lips, and glances were exchanged. He felt self-conscious until he saw the same performance repeated for every guest who entered, each new person eliciting an instant wave of observation.
Just as he began to regret his decision to come, Tarek felt a squeeze on his shoulder. He turned to see Darvad’s welcoming smile.
“How are you doing?” Darvad steered Tarek to an empty alcove and reclined upon the bank of pillows.
Tarek sat beside him and downed his wine. “I don’t want to do this, Darvad.”
“I know.” Darvad touched Tarek’s arm. “I know, and I appreciate that you will nevertheless.”
“It’s for your sake,” Tarek reminded him.
“No, it’s for
our
sake,” Darvad corrected. “Once I am king, I will elevate you to Triya, and you will have as much say in the future of this country as any lord.”
Darvad’s kind words worked faster than the wine in easing Tarek’s tension.
“Are you ready?” Darvad asked.
Tarek nodded.
“Then you better prepare. Use the Ajadusharta.”
Tarek left the room. Almost all of the private spaces of the townhouse were currently occupied with chatting couples or trios. On the second level, however, Tarek discovered a vacant sitting room. He shut the door and breathed out deeply, working to focus his mind on the spell.
It had taken weeks for Tarek to command the Ajadusharta. Having never used shartas before, he had needed to learn in days what took most Triya boys years of training. Firdaus, who started as a gracious teacher, quickly became disenchanted with his pupil, threatening to give up entirely until Darvad soothed him into continuing.
It was embarrassing, but it was the truth. Tarek was no good at magic. Night after night, Tarek drilled the necessary words into his mind, speaking them over and over. The Ajadusharta leant the wielder a burst of superhuman strength, mighty enough to temporarily defend against the effects of other shartas. When Firdaus demonstrated the sharta in use, Tarek could feel power radiating off of his teacher.
But no matter how many times Tarek said the words, the subsequent rush of strength never followed. Tarek began to believe it was indeed a gift from God for only Triya warriors. What else could explain why he failed at this so miserably?
Again, it had been Darvad who encouraged him. Darvad, who abandoned parties with dancers, who left official dinners early, who gave up commitments in order to spend his evenings helping Tarek. Darvad’s dedication made matters worse, because now Tarek could not fail.
And then, only a few nights before Lord Sahdin’s birthday, Tarek had managed to clear his mind of all extraneous thoughts and worries, and actually
feel
the words. When he uttered the
“Chedu!”
ending the sharta, he gasped as a cold shudder ran through his body. The cold was immediately replaced with a growing heat, burning slowly and steadily through his veins, vibrating through his flesh. He had held out his arms, amazed that the tremendous force trembling through him was invisible to the eye.
At Druv’s house, Tarek attempted the sharta several times, failing over and over again. The noise of the celebration downstairs, anxiety over the scheme, and fears of his own failings plagued his thoughts, now when it mattered most.
Tarek downed the last of his wine, put the glass down, and then stood, shaking the tension from his limbs. He closed his eyes and meditated, drawing his thoughts into himself. He whispered the Ajadusharta’s complicated string of words once more, feeling them tumble over his tongue. When he finished, he was rewarded with a sudden, hot pulse through his body that made it hard to stand still.
The sharta burned in his bloodstream. He felt as though light shone from his eyes. He reached down for the empty wine glass and it shattered in his fingers.
Tarek watched blood leak from a cut below his thumb, stunned. He didn’t even feel the wound.
Tarek hurried downstairs, eager to commence the plan before the sharta wore off. He knew from his last success that when the supernatural energy left him, he would be completely exhausted, barely strong enough to walk. He needed to challenge Lord Sahdin promptly.
Luckily, dinner was already underway by the time he returned to the guest hall. Seating had been arranged in advance, and Tarek found his place next to Lord Sahdin at the table of honor.
Sahdin frowned when Tarek took his place. Sahdin clearly disapproved of the arrangements. He quickly turned from Tarek to speak with the lord of Marshav instead.
Druv’s elderly father-in-law sat to Tarek’s right and provided kind, meaningless small talk during the meal. Tarek nodded his responses and said only what was necessary to maintain the illusion of a conversation. It was hard to focus on anything, even eating, while so much energy percolated in his body.
The meal was served on steaming platters, set strategically in the center of the low table in colorful presentations. Golden-red saffron rice, spicy grilled chicken, mint lamb, roasted eggplant, fried bananas and sesame seeds, spinach and cheese in a milk curry, shrimp with honey-glazed walnuts, one dish after another was laid before them until it became hard to see those sitting on the other side of the table.
During the meal, Sahdin remained turned away from Tarek. Sahdin picked at the large platters, choosing his food quickly and nibbling on his plate.
Tarek braced himself. He leaned across Sahdin to grab a pumpkin-stuffed pastry. Sahdin gritted his teeth but otherwise did not react.
The sharta pulsed in Tarek’s blood stream, making him dizzy. Aggression roiled through him as well, a burning hunger to expel the energy with sheer force. He would have to act overtly.
Tarek reached over and took a chicken leg directly from Sahdin’s plate.
Sahdin reacted instantaneously. He did not suppress a shudder of repulsion as he pushed back from the table and glared at Tarek in horror.
“You touched my food!” Sahdin gasped. “You filthy Suya!”
It did not matter how prepared he was for the insult, or how many times he heard it. Tarek’s chest tightened with hurt and hatred.
“I am a welcome guest at this table,” Tarek said. He kept his voice calm, but the sharta made his throat muscles tremble. “We are equals tonight.”
Lord Sahdin stood. “We will never be equals, Suya! It is against the will of God to even utter such blasphemy!” He threw down his cup and pointed at Druv. “Your hospitality has insulted me, and all of Jezza!”
The others in the room fell silent. Druv stood and held out his hands in the sign of peace. “Lord Sahdin, forgive me! I mean no offense. Surely the actions of one of my guests cannot reflect poorly on me?”
“It is you who have insulted me,” Tarek said, turning back to Sahdin. “I demand an apology.”
“Apology?” Sahdin spat on the ground between them. “I challenge you, Suya filth! This insult cannot be carried away with words!”
Tarek bowed his head slightly. “I am not filth.”
Sahdin spat again. “This Suya spouts endless bullshit.”
Tarek changed his mind. He
was
going to kill Sahdin. “I accept your challenge.”
Sahdin glared at Druv. “Call your priest!” Sahdin stormed out of the dining room.
A hush hung over the gathered crowd. And then everyone jumped up at once, the exquisite meal forgotten in the excitement of witnessing a traditional challenge. Even more exciting, this challenge would be between a Triya and a Suya. And on the Triya’s birthday, no less. The guests poured out onto the large courtyard of Druv’s townhouse, gathering along the edges to watch the duel.
Tarek lingered behind the press of the crowd. As he made his way outside, Darvad threw his arm around his shoulders and whispered in his ear. “Be careful, Tarek. I love you dearly—do not let that bastard harm you.”
Darvad’s words sent a tingle through Tarek’s body, almost as powerful as the sharta in his blood. Druv patted Tarek’s back and wished him luck as well.
Sahdin wasted no time. His charioteer had arrived and provided his master with leather gauntlets, Sahdin’s battle helmet, a shield and sword. Tarek had no such armor available. But the sharta that coursed through him made him feel impervious.
A messenger had been sent to Druv’s priest, and the man appeared only minutes later, out of breath and obviously fresh from his evening ablutions. His face was wet and he looked tired, but his purple robe was clean and he had his prayer beads firmly clenched in his hands.
The priest held out his hands for silence, and then ushered Sahdin and Tarek to the center of the courtyard. The dozens of guests formed a circle around them. Tarek could hear bets being placed, and partygoers rooting for Sahdin or Tarek. The challenge had taken on an air of a sports event, and the crowd seemed delighted.
Sahdin remained sober in his stance, however. Now dressed for battle, he looked more formidable than he had in his light yellow silks. Sahdin pulled out his sword and examined the blade.
“I ask God to consecrate this challenge, and know that if life be lost, it is lost in the name of God, and the prophets, and all of the tenets of our holy faith,” the priest said. He mumbled the prayer for bravery and forgiveness, and then held his hands aloft once more for silence.
“I will now recite the holy rules of combat,” the old priest said. Tarek almost rolled his eyes. When he got into fist fights back in the village, there were no long speeches. But Triya loved pomp and ceremony.
“These rules of war have been set by the Triya kings, and shall not be broken for fear of exile,” the priest said. “Multiple warriors may not attack a single warrior. Two warriors may engage in personal combat only if they carry the same weapons and they are on the same mount. No warrior may kill or injure any warrior who has surrendered. Nor may a warrior kill or injure any other who is unarmed, unconscious, or whose back is turned away. No warrior may kill or injure a person or animal not taking part in the challenge.”
At this point the priest turned and frowned at Tarek. “No Chaya warrior may lift a blade against a Suya or Triya. And no Suya can lift a blade against a Triya warrior.”
Tarek knew the traditional rules, but the fact was, he had just been told to remain unarmed, and the outrage caused another burst of anger through him.
“Then how am I to compete in this challenge?” Tarek roared.
The priest looked surprised at the outburst. “You may defend yourself, Suya. That is all the law allows.”
Lord Sahdin gave a snort of triumph and lifted his sword.
Darvad was at Tarek’s side then, handing Tarek a shield. “Use mine. Let him see the crest of my house as you defeat him.”
Darvad patted his back and then withdrew. Tarek stepped forward into the circle.
The priest lit incense and waved it over Sahdin’s head, and then over Tarek. He made the sign of peace and then withdrew, leaving Tarek and Sahdin alone in the center of the courtyard.
Tarek could hear his heart beating. He held up his shield. He lifted his sword, although the scabbard remained over the blade.
Suddenly, Sahdin lunged. The tip of his sword thrust into Tarek’s shield and the force of the blow sent Tarek stepping backwards. Again Sahdin advanced. He slashed at Tarek from an angle and Tarek blocked the sword with his own. Sahdin’s blade cut deep into the leather scabbard and Tarek had to jerk his arm back to free it.
Sahdin slowly circled Tarek. Tarek parried each assault. His confidence increased. He was younger and stronger than Sahdin, and he could outlast his opponent if this was the worst he could give.
But then Sahdin, now breathing heavily, began to utter a sharta. Tarek could feel the energy of Sahdin’s words, and a disturbing vibration shuddered over Tarek’s skin.
Sahdin’s eyes widened, seemed to almost bulge from his face, as he spat the sharta out towards Tarek.
“Chedu!”
Sahdin cried, thrusting towards Tarek at the same moment.
A burst of fire blinded Tarek. He fell back, shielding his eyes and face. His body burned in instant pain, and then, with a sucking sound, the sensation pulled from him.
Tarek watched in horror as the fire ball that Sahdin summoned engulfed Sahdin himself. Sahdin emitted an unholy screech as his arms and the fabric of his dejaru caught afire.