The King’s Last Song. Geoff Ryman
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Great Soul is the only true Way. Divakarapandita answered, ‘His words are notable. Powerful expression is like the wind, it wears down mountains of resistance. In the end. But the Gods do not talk the language of words. They make facts. Due observance of their powers is necessary.’
‘Oh indeed.’ Jayarajadevi sat up even straighter, slightly outraged perhaps at the implication that she was saying the overlords, Siva, Vishnu and Brahma, should be neglected. ‘Though these powers seem so alien and strange that some of our devotions to them come from terror not from love.’
Divakarapandita considered, and smiled. ‘The Gods are not responsible for the quality of emotion we bring to them. If people approach the Gods with terror in their hearts, then terror will be returned to them. Gods make facts, men only speak words, even the Buddha.’
Kansri’s answer was ready. ‘But we need words to explain what is righteous. Without words, we just burn.’
Divakarapandita said, ‘Do not misinterpret this, but I think that is a certain kind of wisdom. It is the wisdom of the feminine principle. To listen and express, to take the hard fact and surround it lovingly. The male principle is the making of facts. In human beings male and female are divided. Only in the Gods are male and female conjoined.’
Jayarajadevi scowled. ‘Then why do we split the power of Siva up again, into the yoni and the lingam?’
It was such a pleasure, such a privilege, to see a fine young mind blossom like the lotus. It was a noble thing to find you could discuss the holy significance of the male and female parts with a young woman whose mind was so clear that there was no embarrassment.
‘They are split in our realm precisely because we are split, and the hard fact of godly power must take different forms when working on us. A woman seeking pregnancy will drink from the lingam. A man seeking a still heart and a calm mind will drink from the yoni.’
Jayarajadevi nodded and smiled. Something in that idea pleased her, or solved something for her.
‘What we need,’ she said, ‘is men who are also partly women.’
Divakarapandita smiled to himself. Oh no, he thought looking at her determined face. That is what you need. He thought of how very lucky or very unlucky her husband would be.
‘Two great winds blow through our souls,’ she said. ‘The winds of war, and the winds of peace. We do not conjoin them.’
Mulling it over later, Divakarapandita realized that this girl had said that what they needed was a different kind of king. And he, Kingmaker, Consecrator, at least in part agreed with her. Had not he and the Sun King long ago made Vishnu a new focus of worship for just that reason?
The princesses would gather to watch the training.
It was a piddling annoyance to the old sergeant, but there was very little kamlaa people such as himself could do about it.
If the King’s female cousin eight times removed wanted to make a fool of herself, giggling and prodding other girls and looking at handsome young princes wearing only battle dress, who was a category person to tell them no?
It was saddening to see the Lady Jayarajadevi caught up in the craze. It did not matter that she strode across the training ground with the mature elegance of a married woman. It did not matter that she was accompanied by her older sister the Lady Indradevi who was just as beautiful and accomplished as she was. They were still reviewing potential husbands, like the King looking at his elephants.
There were crazes for particular princes. The favourite now was Yashovarman, the son of the King’s nephew. He’d already been selected to succeed old Suryavarman who had no children of his own. The boy then married one of the King’s nieces and promptly got himself a son, also lined up for inheritance.
So he wasn’t as dull in the court as he was on the battlefield.
Yashovarman had the physical qualities of a bull; he was somewhat short with strength bunched up around his shoulders and springing out of his calves. He had a warlike heart but was impatient and easily distracted. The women liked him though. Many of the princesses threw flowers at him even knowing that he was married.
Other princes found favour, too, all handsome and skilled with sword and shield and bow.
Like the quiet one, the curious favourite on whom the King had also bestowed his love. Some of the girls liked him a lot, too.
He had a woman’s beautiful face.
He had a moustache.
This was the damnable thing, a hard fact that made even his enemies acknowledge he had the blessing of the Gods. All the great teachers of Kalinga had beards or moustaches. Gods like Yama had moustaches. This prince was only sixteen years old, but he already sported a thick, unmistakable and unpainted line of facial hair on his upper lip.
He was not perhaps a man’s man and certainly was not destined for kingship. He was small, slight in the shoulders, and perhaps also slightly plump.
So he was not strong, but he never made a false move. He would nip up the side of an elephant unassisted, barefoot. He strung and sprung the crossbows, not by brute force, but by knowing how to stroke things into place. He made the weapons work by loving them.
Yes, he was a good soldier.
The old sergeant saw him scamper up a balding beast, finding footholds in the creases of her skin. The old sergeant approved of this lack of wasted motion, for he had served under generals who moved by sheer force. Without this neatness, they sometimes lacked strategy. They would march you into a swamp of blood. You survived, but your comrades had been opened up to the sun, transformed into abandoned corpses that only the floods or scavengers would remove.
The old sergeant saw the Prince tuck himself into the howdah. Again, he did it almost invisibly. If you blinked you would miss him doing it. The old sergeant saw him look up, and under his black lip, his white teeth suddenly glowed. Life warmed the old sergeant’s heart, he who had seen so much death. The old sergeant followed his gaze.
Oh, ho ho, it was the Lady Jayarajadevi who had caught his eye. It was a young man’s fiery heart seeking what it needed. Oh yes, there was competition among these young hawks, these young elephants.
Still smiling at beauty, the Slave Prince turned, dipped at the knees and pulled his young training partner up into the howdah.
Responsible. That was another thing a commander needed to be. He needed to know where his men were and who they were, who needed help, who needed to be chastised and beaten. His young partner was willing but unsteady. The Slave Prince did not mock him or complain that his partner was dragging him down. His job was to make the most of his young partner, and he did. He pulled his apprentice up onto the platform and steadied him on it.
And then he glanced again at Jayarajadevi. Oh, he aimed at the stars that one.
‘’Sru, who is the short fat one?’ asked Jayarajadevi.
‘Oh, you know him,’ said Indradevi, her sister. Her Khmer name was Kansru, which meant Well-Shaped. The sisters nicknamed each other ‘Sri and ‘Sru.
‘No I don’t.’
‘You do, ‘Sri! He is a great favourite of the King. He is the one they call Slave.’
‘Oh yes. So that is him.’ Kansri did not quite like the knowing look in her elegant sister’s eyes. ‘’Sru! Careful.’
‘His father was a Buddhist,’ said Indradevi. ‘His father and his brother are now dead, so he is in name a little king. Only, he doesn’t seem to be bothered about being consecrated or taking a title.’
‘Perhaps he is showing indifference to the world.’ Jayarajadevi Kansri meant to be mildly sarcastic. Indradevi was always looking out for her.
Indradevi pretended to take her seriously. ‘I was wondering the same