The King’s Last Song. Geoff Ryman
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the interview might be about. Another round of matchmaking. Who was this Lady to have the Consecrator concern himself with her marriage?
‘So you should be ashamed.’ But the old man seemed to say it from sorrow. He touched the Prince’s arm. ‘You have no ambition to be King?’
‘Toh. All these little princes, all dreaming of being King, all making tiger faces at themselves. I want to be a holy warrior.’
The old man stopped, shuffled round to face him, took hold of both the Prince’s arms, and stared into his eyes. ‘War is never holy,’ he said. ‘War makes kings, and kings perform holy functions. But the two are separate.’
Nia felt shame again. He hung his head. ‘I feel things. But I don’t know things.’
‘Maybe there is someone who will take the time to teach you,’ said the holy man. ‘And then you might become what you want to be, a wise man.’ He drew himself up. ‘What will you do when the King dies?’
Nia felt alarm, for himself, for his whole life. ‘The King is ill?’
‘Ssh, ssh, no, but he is a man. What will you do when he dies?’
Nia thought. With his protector gone, with the Oxen fighting over kingship, there would be years of violence. He imagined Yashovarman, and found he felt disgust and alienation and fear. ‘It depends how he dies.’
‘How do you mean?’ The holy man’s eyes were narrowed.
‘If someone murders the King, then I will seek justice. If he dies in his bed, that’s different.’
The old man looked up and then back. ‘There is a war coming,’ he said. ‘In Champa and in the lands beyond. You will be sent away and may not come back. You are sixteen and it would be good if you were married. You see, Prince, you are as dear to Suryavarman as the Lady Jayarajadevi is to me. We have discussed a marriage between you and the Lady, the King and I. I have assessed you and find you as the King described.’
The Dust of the Feet drew up his robes. ‘The marriage will proceed,’ he said.
It was only the marriage of a high lady to a prince whose lack of family was made up for by his own subtleties of person.
But not only the Dhuli Jeng, but the King himself were to attend. It was to be held in a pavilion in the royal enclosure. The greatest soldier, Rajaindravarman, General of the Army of the Centre, was to be the young prince’s sponsor, as his father was dead.
And since this prince was already in line for a small throne, the Dhuli Jeng was to recognize him at the same time as a little king. He was to take his title.
The princes and the princesses all washed exuberantly around the cisterns. There were to be musicians and dancers. This was a chance for the King to express his love. A general sense of satisfaction emanated from him and was communicated to his loyal court. They were to be joyous before a time of war.
The Slave Prince was married wearing his quilted flowered coat, and carrying his shield. A crown of bronze had been wound into his hair. As always, he did without his torque, which gave immunity from harm.
Nia marched with a column of his comrades in arms. His friends looked pleased. They passed through the well-wishers and then climbed the steps to the pavilion.
Torches fluttered in the wind. Pressed around were wives of the King, high courtiers, and a few members of Jayarajadevi’s family.
The nephew-in-law of the childless King was there. Prince Nia saw in the eyes of Yashovarman something measured and measuring. He is not an Ox, that one, thought Nia. He may have been one once, but now he simply uses them. How wise he was, to marry the King’s niece. The certitude came. He will indeed be Universal King. As he advanced, Nia sompiahed particularly to him. Yashovarman blinked in surprise, and indicated a return of respect.
So that Jayarajadevi could in fact be married to a little king, the title-giving came first. Consecration was too high and holy a word for it. The Universal King would recognize the new title and the Little King be given a chance to swear loyalty.
So the Dhuli Jeng was to give out one more regal honorific. Which was to be?
The Prince smiled. He had thought long and hard about this. Once he took his title, then his bride might have to give up or amend her own if their titles clashed inauspiciously or gave obeisance to different principles. Why should she change her great name? His smile widened as he said, ‘My name is Jayavarman.’
He had taken a name to match his wife’s and not the other way around. The onlookers murmured among themselves.
It was a better title than Nia, but Jayavarman was also the honorific of many Great Kings. Did it show ambition? Suryavarman’s countenance did not flicker.
Divakarapandita’s smile widened a little further. The overturning prince had overturned again. ‘You are now Jayavarman of the City of the Eastern Buddha.’
Little King Jayavarman beamed as he swore loyalty to the Universal King.
Then he was married.
Indradevi Kansru held up an embroidered cloth so that the Little King could not see the beauty of his bride too soon and then be dazzled speechless or struck blind. Indradevi was so pleased for her sister that a whole night sky seemed to beam out of her eyes.
Divakarapandita himself scattered flowers, and poured water on the stone lingam and yoni. The embroidered cloth still stood between them.
My wife, thought Jayavarman. Behind that cloth is my wife. I shall be a husband, we will be together, we shall make love, we shall be each other’s support, and we will have children, brilliant babes.
Divakarapandita beckoned him forward and the Prince knelt and drank water, sign of everything, source of everything, as poured from the yoni. Unusually, making some obscure point, the Dust of the Feet asked him to drink from the lingam as well.
Then the cloth was lowered.
And Nia was dazzled and he was struck dumb, for there was Jayarajadevi, his wife, and her smile stretched all the way to the moon.
Her smile was pulled wide by a joy she could not express, and her eyes shone. She was sheathed in gold, jewels and signs of office, surrounded by fans and fly whisks and parasols, all borne by her friends. The paraphernalia bobbed around her beautiful face like flowers.
Jayavarman stared and could not speak. People chuckled. His mouth hung open. He had a declaration to make and could not make it.
‘Lord,’ reminded Divakarapandita.
Jayavarman restored himself and stumbled rough-voiced and awkward through the words that declared and promised and established and called upon others to witness. His wife’s eyes were on him all the time.
There was feasting and dancing. The Little King’s friends hugged him, shook him, teased him and declared that they would marry too, it would give them heart for battle, they had not known until now that wives completed warriors.
The bride’s female friends warned him, shaking fingers, that he must treat their friend well or the women would take revenge. It was both a joke and serious.
Indradevi Kansru wove her way towards them, her whole body writhing with happiness. Her eyes shone almost too brightly, and she took her sister’s hand, called the Little King ‘Brother’, and said repeatedly how happy she was. It was a good marriage, and they should both count on her always as a friend. She pulled away suddenly and Jayarajadevi started after her. And stopped.
For Yashovarman was upon them. Their other friends drew back. ‘Little King,’ he said, ‘the Universal King does you a great honour.’
‘He does, oh, he does indeed!’ said Jayavarman, still buoyed up with joy like a bobbing raft.
‘I wish you well in your marriage, and wish you good heart in the coming war.’
‘Oh!