guardswoman’s sharp eyes.
While she waited for her answer, Sitara went out onto her terrace. Night came late to Sindhu in the summer months, and when it did come, it laid itself down thick, heavy and sultry, stifling breath and movement and setting the whole land longing for the great rains that would wash the season away. Sitara knelt on the bare wood and stared into darkness. Mosquitoes whined about her ears, heedless of the dragonflies that darted here and there, or the great bats that flapped their leathery wings overhead. The tent of fine gauze that would have given her shelter waited empty a few feet away, its platform and pillows unused.
She heard a most familiar step on the floor behind her, but she did not turn.
“Your suffering will not bring her ease, Sitara.”
Kiet: her husband, a good king, a wise man, a kind father, the man whose embrace could quicken her heart and blood like nothing else in life. He moved closer. She felt him behind her, heard his breathing, smelled his scent. He laid his broad hands on her shoulders. The night turned their skin damp and despite the broad garden that surrounded the palace, they both breathed dust. Of its own volition, her hand covered one of his.
“I want to go to the forest, Kiet,” she said. “I want to go to the sorcerers.”
“Sitara, that is not wise. You mourn. I mourn as well. The sorcerers will not change that.”
Sitara turned without standing. She looked up at her husband. “They can offer her some safety, some blessing.”
Kiet sighed. “The Hastinapurans are not barbarians. She will not be ill-treated.”
In the face of her husband’s reasoned statement, Sitara found only anger. “She is a slave. Our child is made a slave to the Hastinapuran emperor’s whim! Had I the strength, I would have killed her before it came to this.”
Slowly, Kiet knelt before her, and in the dust-choked moonlight, Sitara saw the fullness of the sorrow he held back by the strength of his own silence. She saw heartbreak and grief that matched her own. “It is as it must be,” he whispered.
These were the right words, the wise words, but no place in her could hear them. “Why?”
Kiet stood, turning away. He walked to the edge of the terrace, resting his fist on the carved railing. He spoke to the prey and the predators that flew together beneath the moon. “Because, Sitara, they are great, and we are small.”
Why could she not go to him? This was her husband and her king. Why could she not put her arms around him, hold him and be held, for comfort, for strength, for life in the midst of loss. She felt as if she were yards away from her own body. She could not reach her hands to make them stretch out to her husband, nor her heart to will it to proper feeling for another’s grief.
“We are full as ancient as they,” she heard herself say. “Our spirits are as strong as theirs.”
“And our army is ten times smaller!” Kiet swung around, suddenly swollen with his rage and his grief, his great hands now both made into fists.
Stop. Stop
. Sitara pleaded with herself.
Remember silence. Remember wisdom
.
Instead, she met her husband’s eyes. “Then perhaps we must find a greater army.”
“Oh, Sitara,” Kiet breathed slowly. “Be careful what you say.”
He was right. She could offer no retort to that admonishment, not even as far away as she was. They must be careful. They must be as careful as the mongoose stealing up upon the cobra’s den.
“We have powers we have not yet begun to draw on,” she whispered. “They wait in the forest for your word.”
Kiet’s eyes searched hers, flickering back and forth, quickly, searching to see how serious she truly was, trying to see past the anger and the grief, down to the core of her. Sitara stepped back and drew herself up, meeting and matching his gaze, returning his silence with her own.
Look, then, husband. Understand. We must call on our own strengths, and on those of the enemy of our enemy
.
She
While she waited for her answer, Sitara went out onto her terrace. Night came late to Sindhu in the summer months, and when it did come, it laid itself down thick, heavy and sultry, stifling breath and movement and setting the whole land longing for the great rains that would wash the season away. Sitara knelt on the bare wood and stared into darkness. Mosquitoes whined about her ears, heedless of the dragonflies that darted here and there, or the great bats that flapped their leathery wings overhead. The tent of fine gauze that would have given her shelter waited empty a few feet away, its platform and pillows unused.
She heard a most familiar step on the floor behind her, but she did not turn.
“Your suffering will not bring her ease, Sitara.”
Kiet: her husband, a good king, a wise man, a kind father, the man whose embrace could quicken her heart and blood like nothing else in life. He moved closer. She felt him behind her, heard his breathing, smelled his scent. He laid his broad hands on her shoulders. The night turned their skin damp and despite the broad garden that surrounded the palace, they both breathed dust. Of its own volition, her hand covered one of his.
“I want to go to the forest, Kiet,” she said. “I want to go to the sorcerers.”
“Sitara, that is not wise. You mourn. I mourn as well. The sorcerers will not change that.”
Sitara turned without standing. She looked up at her husband. “They can offer her some safety, some blessing.”
Kiet sighed. “The Hastinapurans are not barbarians. She will not be ill-treated.”
In the face of her husband’s reasoned statement, Sitara found only anger. “She is a slave. Our child is made a slave to the Hastinapuran emperor’s whim! Had I the strength, I would have killed her before it came to this.”
Slowly, Kiet knelt before her, and in the dust-choked moonlight, Sitara saw the fullness of the sorrow he held back by the strength of his own silence. She saw heartbreak and grief that matched her own. “It is as it must be,” he whispered.
These were the right words, the wise words, but no place in her could hear them. “Why?”
Kiet stood, turning away. He walked to the edge of the terrace, resting his fist on the carved railing. He spoke to the prey and the predators that flew together beneath the moon. “Because, Sitara, they are great, and we are small.”
Why could she not go to him? This was her husband and her king. Why could she not put her arms around him, hold him and be held, for comfort, for strength, for life in the midst of loss. She felt as if she were yards away from her own body. She could not reach her hands to make them stretch out to her husband, nor her heart to will it to proper feeling for another’s grief.
“We are full as ancient as they,” she heard herself say. “Our spirits are as strong as theirs.”
“And our army is ten times smaller!” Kiet swung around, suddenly swollen with his rage and his grief, his great hands now both made into fists.
Stop. Stop
. Sitara pleaded with herself.
Remember silence. Remember wisdom
.
Instead, she met her husband’s eyes. “Then perhaps we must find a greater army.”
“Oh, Sitara,” Kiet breathed slowly. “Be careful what you say.”
He was right. She could offer no retort to that admonishment, not even as far away as she was. They must be careful. They must be as careful as the mongoose stealing up upon the cobra’s den.
“We have powers we have not yet begun to draw on,” she whispered. “They wait in the forest for your word.”
Kiet’s eyes searched hers, flickering back and forth, quickly, searching to see how serious she truly was, trying to see past the anger and the grief, down to the core of her. Sitara stepped back and drew herself up, meeting and matching his gaze, returning his silence with her own.
Look, then, husband. Understand. We must call on our own strengths, and on those of the enemy of our enemy
.
She
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