Preface

Ever since my return from the Walled City of Angkor in the kingdom of Kambuja, I have been plagued by courtiers’ requests for stories and anecdotes of the people there. The general promulgation in the celestial court of my short account, Notes on the Kambujan People (written solely in our magnificent Emperor’s service), has but increased the appetite for such stories. For the people of Kambuja are, indeed, a strange breed of barbarian.

At the request of our glorious Emperor, I have translated a court tale which aptly illustrates the barbarity of these odd people. The tale is as lengthy and complex as anything the celestial court could produce, but wholly lacking in refinement and grace. The contrast between the two courts, I believe, is most illuminating. At the court of Angkor bribes are made with rice as often as gold or pearls, and the women, even ladies, walk about shamelessly bare-breasted with their feet uncovered. It is a distressing sight.

The tale was given to me along with other histories and stories of Angkor by one of the court princes, or as they style themselves, “dewas”. In Kambuja they know nothing of inks, paints and brushes for writing, and use instead a sharpened stylus and dried palm leaves. As you can imagine, such materials lack durability. Several sections of the tale were damaged on our journey back to the celestial court. I have done my humble best to supply the missing details. I have also divided the tale into sections and given those sections appropriate titles, as the Kambujans did not know enough to do so themselves.

It is my fondest hope that my humble efforts will be well-received by our most illustrious and learned Emperor and his celestial court.

Chou Ta-kuan (Zho Daguan), 25^th year of the Current Era

Chapter 1: In this country it rains half the year

The cursed Princess Jaysriva, first-born daughter of King Dewa Hayam Sri Kambuja (or Hayam the Unlucky as he was more popularly known) witnessed her first death when she was four years old. It was Sravana, the beginning of the wet season, and in any other palace in the world the green would already have begun to spread up the walls, and the mud to creep onto the floors. In the royal palace of the Walled City of Angkor, the army of servants were well able to keep every incursion of the wet at bay. It was spotless, with chichis, the ever-present house lizards, crawling up moss-free walls and scampering along gleaming tiles. The water which flowed along the central corridor, running from the main entrance to the courtyard in front of the king’s quarters, was sparkling and clean. The gardens were well drained, and once the rains stopped, tidy. On this particular day the rain had started unusually early, long before noon, obscuring the whole day in a gray-green murky light and a damp, enervating heat.

The heat had sunk deep into the skin of Dewa Vindra, the fourth eldest of King Hayam’s sons. But it did not lull him into a restless sleep; the heat chafed at him, magnifying hindrances and annoyances, turning disquiet into anger. After the midday meal, the Vindra decided to seek out the source of his anger: the little princess, his half-sister Jaysriva.

He found her and the youngest prince, Garung, in one of the smaller banquet halls. His half-siblings were alone. There were just two attendants. They were behind a large silk screen adorned in vivid colours with scenes of the first king of Kambuja, King Nagapala meeting his nagi wife. They were practising one of the warrior’s poses.

It was true then. Vindra had not actually doubted it; yet seeing the small girl learning the skills of a warrior was a different matter to merely hearing that it was happening. Princesses did not become warriors. They became dewis and were then exchanged in marriage for treasures, prestige, enhanced trade, lands. Their duty was to birth sons, princes, who at twelve become dewas–proper warriors, like himself.

What was in his uncle Arok’s heart? (Vindra, edged away from wondering why his father King Hayam permitted Arok to train her thus.) What game was Arok playing? He had long been responsible for the education of King Hayam’s sons, employing the most learned masters and monks (of both the old and the new way) and, when he felt it necessary, giving instruction himself. But extending that education to the king’s daughter? Bad enough to train a princess in the art of war; but Jaysriva bore the mark. She was jahat, cursed. Vindra knew, a deep knowledge that went all the way to his bones, that in turning a dewi into a dewa Kambuja would be undone. It had to be stopped.

He looked at the children, so intent on holding their pose that they were oblivious to his regard. It was the most basic of the warrior poses. Jaysriva held it almost as well as Garung, who had begun his instruction a year earlier. Their front legs were bent so the thigh was parallel to the floor, knee above ankle, arms held out straight. Their back legs stretched out behind them and their torsos held erect, straight from their hips, while their heads were held in profile. Both of the children were very exact. They must have been holding the pose for some time, as their arms were starting to tremble and glisten with sweat. It took years, Vindra knew, to achieve complete stillness in any of the warrior poses.

“Garung,” said Vindra. The boy startled. Jaysriva didn’t move. She had been born with the stillness of a warrior. She made Vindra’s skin crawl. “Dewa Arok wishes to see you.”

The little boy, Jaysriva’s senior by a year, stayed in the pose, turning only his head to look at his half-brother suspiciously. “What for?”

Vindra raised an eyebrow. “What for, Dewa Vindra.”

“What for?” Garung paused, “Dewa.”

Vindra noted the disrespect but let it pass. It was fitting that Garung be loyal to his full siblings. Vindra himself was loyal to his crippled older brother, Balit. “He wants you immediately.”

Garung stood up a little shakily. He began to rub his forearm.

“Well?” said Vindra. “Dewa Arok is waiting.”

Vindra could see his half-brother struggling between his distrust (Arok would never send a dewa on a servant’s business) and his duty to obey him (they would not be equals until Garung was twelve). Garung kissed his sister’s forehead. “Won’t be long.”

Vindra kneeled next to the little jahat girl holding her warrior’s pose. He was as close to her as he could stand. He could see the trembling of her body and hear the unevenness of her breath. She smelled of sweat. He was sure she was afraid of him.

“Your warrior pose is ridiculous. You will never be allowed to hold a weapon.” Vindra hoped that was true.

He moved round her slowly on his knees, as fluid as walking. It was part of the warrior’s path to be agile and able to fight from any position. He stopped at the mark on her left shoulder blade. Jahat mark. Red and ugly. Naga snake-heads. He shuddered.

“This dewa would have exposed you in the jungle as soon as you were born. Let you and your curse die.” He wished his father had done just that though it was disloyal to think it. The king had also spared Balit. A crippled child should also have been exposed.

Vindra circled her again. “You should not be alive,” he said. Her trembling increased but she still held her pose. Her demons gave her strength. “Jahat bitch. You should not be here.” He looked straight at her. “If you promise to stop, this dewa will leave you alone.” The little girl said nothing.

Vindra stood up and started to walk away to make the little girl think that he was finished. Instead he pushed the heavy screen on top of her, knocking the princess out of her pose. She yelped and lay there, making no attempt to get out from under it. He would have to touch her. Vindra breathed deeply then bent down, reaching beneath the screen and grasping the knot on top of her head. He dragged her out, letting go as soon as he could. He wiped his hands on the smooth fabric of his sampot. He loved the feel of it, silk because he was a dewa now.

Her attendants made no effort to stop him. They kept their eyes low. Dewas were a law unto themselves. They would not save the girl by intervening; they would only bring trouble down upon themselves. Besides, Vindra knew that there were many in the palace, high and low, who shared Vindra’s horror at the jahat girl.

Jaysriva did not cry out. Vindra watched her striving to master herself. It was not natural for a small child to be so controlled. She stood up unsteadily, pushing her tangled hair back from her eyes. “All you have to do is promise that you will give up this training, then this dewa will never touch you again. Do you promise?”

Jaysriva said nothing. He knocked her over again. The clasp of her belt broke and her cotton sampot tumbled to the ground. The little girl left the belt where it fell. She picked up the cotton cloth and did her best to tie it into place about her waist. She walked out of the hall and into the corridor, past servants ferrying food, cloths, water, keeping the walls and floors and streams along the main corridors clean, taking messages.

Vindra shadowed her as she walked past armed guards at all the doorways. Every time Vindra hit her he wiped his hands. He knew it was ridiculous but part of him was afraid of being contaminated by her curse. The guards looked the other way averting their gaze from the small princess walking along, poked, prodded and taunted. They were as appalled by her as Vindra was.

The little princess kept walking, though her stride was unsteady. She had many red marks on her back now, though none as vivid as that on her shoulder blade. In a while the new marks would bloom blue. Vindra noted the tears that streamed down her face; she had lost her battle not to cry. But she did so quietly. None of the sobbing hiccups that were natural to a small girl.

“Do you promise?”

He steered her into the thinly populated guest quarters–few servants, even fewer guests–and down a corridor that led onto the visitors’ orchid gardens. The rains outside fell so heavily there were no flowers to be seen, just a green-gray world. Some of the rainwater splashed inside. Vindra watched Jaysriva struggling to keep her footing on the slippery tiles.

“Skarp can’t help you now,” he said, though Vindra was not afraid of his half-brother.

He took a step towards her and the little girl moved away, slipped and toppled out into the garden, breaking the fall with her hands. She stared up at him. Vindra could see her hatred. The rain poured down, noisier than battle. He was beginning to have one of his recurrent headaches, his eyes blurred red. That was probably her fault too. He wondered what would happen to him if he just killed her? He couldn’t. Even though she was cursed and evil, he could not bring himself to kill a child.

“Do you promise?”

She did not answer him. He left her where she lay.

Chapter 2: Gold and silver vessels

As soon as Prince Garung arrived with his tale of being sent by Dewa Vindra, Arok sent two of his men to find Jaysriva. They found the child in the rain with her maid Suki bent over her mistress, trying to revive her.

When they entered Arok’s quarters dewa Garung took one look at the unconscious princess and burst into tears.

“This prince will kill Vindra,” he declared.

“Shush,” said Arok. He directed an attendant to take care of the small boy, who cried even louder as he was led away from his sister.

Jaysriva was carried into Arok’s own sleeping room where his healer waited. All the shutters were open, allowing fresh air to enter through the large gap (as wide as four chichis placed head to tail) which ran along the top of three walls. Despite all the fresh air, the room smelt strongly of coconut oil and incense. In the farthest corner Arok’s sorcerer sat locked in quiet chant, burning incense, keeping the room free of malign spirits. Arok averted his eyes. It did not do to meet the eyes of a sorcerer working their magic.

Arok nodded and his healer began his examination of the princess, putting his hand to her wrist and opening her mouth to examine her tongue, then lifting her eyelids to check irises, whites and pupils.

Arok left indicating that Jaysriva’s maid, Suki, follow him. He led her to his study. “Sit.”

She sat on the cushions indicated and took the wooden cup he offered. Arok watched as she covertly examined his study, with its large array of boxes and baskets full of palm leaves sewn neatly together. Nasa, his scribe, pushed aside a plan sketched out in chalk on deer skin. Arok was quite sure she looked at it closely. As it happened it was merely of possible improvements for the drainage of the Walled City’s second reservoir. Information valuable to no-one. Most servants were adept at examining their surrounds without raising their eyes. Majaan like Suki seemed to have a particular aptitude for it.

Arok sat opposite Suki in lotus, waiting patiently as she sipped the water and her breathing became more even. He had found that servants’ breathing was often a clear reflection of the order or, more commonly, disorder of their thoughts.

He turned to one of his attendants, “Fetch rice wine and sweets.” He nodded to Nasa. “Witness the tasting.” Nasa left.

Suki’s gaze had shifted from contemplating the room to contemplating the jug of water. Arok nodded and the servant poured herself more. He had long known that Vindra would be a problem. Perhaps this latest attack on the princess offered an opportunity to deal with that problem?

His healer entered the room with his head bowed.

“Yes?” said Arok.

“The princess is awake, dewa. She sees and hears perfectly well, though her left eye is swelling.” He paused as Nasa entered laden with the rice wine and sweets. Nasa set them down next to his master, nodding his head briefly to indicate that they had been tasted.

“The princess complains of an ache to her head, dewa. There is much blood and bruising but no broken bones. Does Dewa Arok wish to speak to the princess? If not, it would be best to give a draught for sleep. It will help with the pain, dewa.”

“Good. Give her the draught.”

Once he was alone with the Majaan servant, Arok poured himself a cup of rangko. He sipped at it the rice wine. Sweet and smooth. He picked up one of the coconut balls. A mixture of palm sugar, coconut meat, and sesame seeds covered with a paste made from sticky rice cooked in coconut milk, and then deep fried. They were his favourite, though he made it a habit to eat them only sparingly. If no-one knew what foods were favoured, then no-one knew which was best to poison. Even Nasa was unaware of what Arok liked best.

“What happened. What did you see, Suki?”

“They told this servant that Dewa Vindra was with the princess. So this servant went to find her. The princess was out in the guests’ gardens, dewa. There was no-one else nearby. She was covered in blood, even though the rain had washed some of it away.”

“You did not see who attacked her?”

“No, dewa.”

“Was she conscious when you found her?”

“No, dewa.”

“Go now, attend to the princess.”

#

Jaysriva was Arok’s only niece. Arok’s brother, Hayam the “unlucky”, had eight sons and one daughter. The king’s first and most fertile wife, the dewi Suhita, was in exile. His second wife, Dewi Charat, had not had another child since Kalat had been born to her five years ago. His third wife, Dewi Sudewa, had been pregnant many times, but had given birth to only one living child, Srikat, now six years old. Too many sons, not enough daughters.

There had been other daughters: four of them. But they were born when Hayam’s dedication to the new way, was still young, still weak. The four daughters born to his first wife Suhita arrived before his first son. The old way dictated that they could not live; they did not.

King Hayam would not improve his luck without more daughters, more dewis to marry off to ambitious war lords, to secure his alliances with the countries of Kediri and Anura, and even make new ones with the Moon or Indu Kingdoms. A young dewi as bride could buy the loyalty of a rebellious lord. Arok’s brother needed to fill the bellies of his two remaining wives, or to get himself another, more fertile one. But Hayam showed more enthusiasm for the presence of his pet General Vikrama in his sleeping room than that of any woman.

Instead of a bevy of daughters, the king had one cursed princess whom he largely ignored, making no plans for her future. That was left to Arok.

Arok went into his sleeping room. Although it was still light Suki lay sleeping on a palate to one side of the princess. His Ash sorcerer continued to chant. He decided he would send the sorcerer to cleanse the princess’s rooms as well. Arok looked down at the small girl. She lay sleeping, curled on her side with her thumb in her mouth.

He would deal with Vindra.

#

Although everyone within the Walled City knew who had hurt the princess, nothing was said against Vindra. So far it was the worst attack against her. Arok knew that at every opportunity the little dewa Kalat called Jaysriva jahat, spat and kicked at her. But Kalat was little more than a year older than Jaysriva. A child not yet allowed to hold a weapon.

He attacked her because his older brother Vindra encouraged him to. Vindra who followed the old way while his father flirted with the new.

King Hayam did not punish his fourth oldest son. Arok had not expected that he would. Indeed that evening, for the second time since he had become a dewa, Vindra was invited to dine with his father. Arok smiled. It was a dinner he would have liked to attend.

#

The king’s quarters were large and opulent, even this informal room where King Hayam took food with his intimates. The silk hangings depicted stories of past kings of Kambuja in elaborate detail. Opposite Vindra the gardener of the royal manna fruit garden was shown, about to kill someone lurking in the shadows. Threads of every colour were used, including silver and gold. Most cunningly, a glint of gold showed through the shadows so you knew it was the king the gardener was about to slay.

In the next hanging, the first king, King Nagapala, was selecting his ceremonial guard. The king was shown choosing the most comely village girls with pale skin and big eyes. This was all any of them thought a woman with a weapon could be. A pretty girl with a weapon made of gold. Fancy dress and ceremonies. Vindra knew better. Arok knew better; he did not want Jaysriva to lead the king’s ceremonial guard. The warrior’s pose Vindra had seen her practising was real and so too were the weapons she would heft.

He picked up his bowl. It was heavy. Solid gold. The richness of the bowls contrasted oddly with the simple fare King Hayam preferred: sticky rice served with a peppery relish, dried fish, fresh fruits. The rice wine, rangko, was rough as the king liked it. His father had a peasant’s tastes.

Vindra had never been in this room before. He was conscious of the honour, being inviting to dine privately with his father. Of his father’s rooms, he had only seen the formal banquet hall, and that but once. Like every dewa in the palace, he wanted to penetrate into the heart of his father’s rooms and climb the golden tower. All dewas were born to be king.

Vindra had been in the king’s formal banquet room on the occasion of becoming a dewa. The dinner in his honour was held there, as it had been for all dewas before him. All his brothers and half-brothers had attended, along with those hotars, such as General Vikrama, currently favoured by the king. The ceremony for a new dewa was not an occasion to which other kings or their embassies were invited. State celebrations were feasted in the grand banquet hall (it did not do to have rival kings too close to the king’s private rooms).

The food served had been very fine, instead of one or two dishes, there had been twenty. The rice was perfect: each grain separate, swollen and succulent. When they had all finished eating, the food had been cleared away and the servants dismissed, there had been a great deal of drinking, rangko that was smooth, and honey wine that coated the back of your throat with sweetness. Vindra had enjoyed it enormously. When he returned to his rooms one of the king’s concubines had been waiting for him, as succulent as rice.

This evening Vindra would return to his own concubine, not as wondrous as those of the king, but she did well enough. He looked across at his oldest full brother, Dewa Balit, one of their father’s favourites who regularly enjoyed the king’s women. Present also was General Vikrama, who sat, as was King Hayam’s pleasure, at his right-hand side. The general’s jewellery was less splendid than that of the king, but only slightly. Vindra did not imagine that Vikrama would have any dealings with the king’s women.

In this intimate setting the king did not sit on a raised platform. Vindra found it difficult to get used to. He followed the cues of his brother, keeping his eyes, but not his head lowered, when speaking to his father. Little food remained in front of them. The three men sat as easily as you could in front of your king, drinking, and talking.

The subject of Jaysriva was raised even earlier than Vindra had anticipated.

“Was it necessary?” asked Hayam, sipping at his rice wine. “And if so, must you be so obvious? I doubt there was a servant in the palace who was not witness to your attack.”

Vindra found himself sitting less easily. He thought the king had invited him to dine with him to demonstrate his approval, not to remonstrate with him. Vindra hoped he would become one of Hayam’s favourite sons, like Balit, the madman Skarp or the saintly (blasphemous) brat Srikat.

It seemed unlikely. In contrast to those favoured brothers, Vindra was whole in body and mind and not very good at dissembling. He could not follow his father’s beloved new way, with its dour purohitas and their tedious tales about buffaloes and kings. He knew in his heart that what they said was wrong. A gardener or a buffalo boy could never be a king’s equal. Only a dewa could be a king.

He was grateful that the king’s views were still a minority, that even if the king did not follow the old way, all the rituals of the palaces–the weddings, funerals, cleansings–were still done as they had been for centuries. Srikat with his shining face and clever questions might garner his father’s praise, but he did not make the gods smile. Hayam might follow the new way, but Vindra was sure that he had come to see letting the princess Jaysriva live was a mistake. Vindra was sure that his father wanted her punished.

“She is cursed, sire,” Vindra said, regretting his words at once. He felt his face get hot. Why could he not just tell his father how dangerous she was? A woman could not be a warrior; but Jaysriva was not a woman, she was a cursed thing.

“I decreed that she would live despite her mark. Do you seek to punish me for my audacity?”

“No, sire.”

“Should I have killed Balit also?” asked Hayam.

Vindra glanced at his brother. Balit had been born with an ill-formed foot. If his father had followed the old way, Balit would have been strangled at birth or given to the jungle. It would not be politic to answer his father honestly. Besides, Vindra did not wish his brother dead; he wished that he had been born well made. “No, sire.”

“Perhaps, sire,” said Balit, using his favoured status to speak before the king spoke to him, “Dewa Vindra believes that tormenting a four-year-old girl is an apt way to annoy those brothers fondest of her. There is much honour in attacking such an able and hardened foe. Clearly defeating Princess Jaysriva in a bout is more challenging than defeating Dewa Skarp or Raden.”

King Hayam and General Vikrama laughed. Of all Hayam’s sons, none fought better than Raden and Skarp. Vindra felt himself flush. Though Balit’s words were untrue, they stung.

Balit knew why he had attacked their half-sister. Vindra had warned him what would happen if she was allowed to become a dewa. Balit had been unimpressed. “You are afraid of a woman becoming a warrior? No woman can. No matter who teaches her or how hard she trains. A woman can become a show soldier, but nothing more.” “But she is not a woman,” Vindra told him. Balit had laughed.

Hayam turned to look closely at his fourth oldest son. Vindra kept his head low, he felt hot and uncomfortable. “Vindra, it is only a short while, a very short while, since you became a dewa. It takes time to truly become one.” The king paused. “Choose your targets carefully. If you are unsuccessful, be secretive enough that it does not matter. If you are not secretive, make sure you are successful.”

Vindra understood his father perfectly.

Chapter 3: No coffins are used for the dead

Later that night, in the men’s quarters, the two guards on last watch let Dewa Vindra into Arok’s rooms. He brought broth; he had already given them bags of rice. The guards drank the broth in one gulp.

“Good dreams,” Vindra whispered.

Vindra waited until they slept. The ache behind his eyes had still not disappeared. He was quite sure the little jahat girl had wished it on him. It was wrong to kill a child but it was also wrong to let a child with the curse live. The old way was riddled with contradictions. A dewa had to be loyal to his brothers and yet it was his duty to take the throne. Such contradictions only made sense when they were considered clearly and at the right time. Vindra was sure that time had come.

Both guards sat on the tiles still conscious. The broth was supposed to make them sleep instantly. Instead it took forever. When their bodies at last slumped, the dewa slid open the door and stepped into Arok’s dining room. It was empty.

He noted that it was bigger than his own. One day, he thought.

Vindra slipped the small phial from the belt of his sampot and passed it from hand to hand as he made his way to the room where his informant said his half-sister with her jahat mark lay sleeping. He head felt tighter, as though it was being squeezed. Did she know he was here? Vindra barely dared to breathe. He would do as his father, King Hayam, had commanded. He would be successful. The gods wanted her dead–Iso, Raman, they would help him.

He slid the door open. Miraculously it made not the faintest noise. He heard something, a muffled staccato moaning, and froze. It took only a moment to realise it was the jahat princess. The smell of sorcerer’s incense and oils was heavy in the air. Vindra moved to where she slept. As he began to ease the stopper out, hands closed around his throat. Cutting off his air so he could not call to Lord Iso or any of the other gods.

Vindra twisted to take the pressure off his windpipe. He tried to tear the hands off, slammed his heels down into his assailant’s feet, thrust back with his elbows. His blows struck something but it made no difference, the hands around his neck did not loosen. He didn’t think it was a man at all. A spirit, a demon, a nagi. Something she had called. He tried to get purchase with his feet, push whatever it was back into the wall, the doorway.

They fell. Something hit the side of his head hard. He could smell blood. He was still choking. Spots started to appear in front of his eyes. He fought to breathe, to remain conscious. It was a demon. Just before he felt himself slip under, Vindra used all his strength to jerk forward, trying to throw the demon from him, but the jahat girl had won.

#

Vindra’s assailant slid out from under and knelt, still putting all his strength into his hands locked around the dewa’s throat. After a moment, he let the body fall to the floor. He grinned.

“Is he dead, Skarp?” asked the princess Jaysriva.

Dewa Skarp, second born son of King Hayam and his first wife Dewi Suhita, shrugged. He got up, paused to get his breath back, flexed his fingers. “Dewa Arok will make sure of it,” he said, turning and bowing to Arok in the doorway.

“Well fought, nephew. A little slower than perhaps was warranted, but this dewa has won his wager and cannot complain.”

Skarp wondered who the wager had been with.

Arok clapped his hands and suddenly his sleeping room was full of his and Skarp’s guardsmen. Two of them picked up the inert dewa and carried him away. The princess remained against the wall, where Suki held her, whispering something soothing.

Skarp walked across to his sister, bent down, and kissed her unswollen cheek. She pulled away from her servant and slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it gently.

“Don’t worry,” he said so softly only she could hear him. In a corner of the room the sorcerer was still locked in chant. “You know Skarp will protect you.”

She squeezed his hand in return. She was so small.

Arok picked up the phial of poison and turned to the rest of his guard ushering them into the room. “Sanna? You are now the head of Princess Jaysriva’s personal guard. Daksa and Vashan, you will serve under him. Your blood is now that of the Princess Jaysriva. Do you understand?”

All three bent down in front of the little princess and touched their foreheads to the ground.

“Jaysriva? Accept their pledge.”

Skarp watched as Jaysriva coloured beneath her bruises. She looked at him, at her uncle and then at the men prostrate in front of her. “Stand up,” she said in a shaky voice.

The three men rose in front of her with their heads bowed slightly and their eyes downcast.

“Your pledge is accepted.”

Skarp smiled and Arok nodded. “Sanna, set up the guard for the rest of the night.”

Vindra’s body was found in the stone garden. Apparently, he had drunkenly tripped and broken his neck.

#

Skarp stood at the royal crematorium where for generations the first family had taken their dead to burn. Skarp stood with his six remaining brothers, their father King Hayam, their uncle Arok, General Vikrama (even wearing white he managed to appear gaudily dressed, so many pearls), the king’s justice Hotar Jakula, his chief minister Hotar Sankara, and the Purohita Kaivalya and his monks (there were no monks of the new way, as yet the king still ascribed to the old way in public).

Vindra’s body was bound in white cloth for mourning and laid out on a wooden pallet. The king’s only living brother, Arok, and the king’s oldest sonsÑRaden, newly returned from his embassy to the Kediri capital, Lanphon; Balit resting heavily on his cane (Skarp would swear to it that Balit’s infirmity always seemed worse at formal occasions, perhaps to guile the ambitious into thinking he could be easily bested?), and Skarp himself. The three brothers and their uncle arrayed themselves at each corner of the pallet and lifted it onto the pyre.

Skarp found it hard to keep from gagging at the overpowering smell of the body. Even in the beautifully kept Walled City, where moss and weeds (and the jungle) were never allowed to take hold, everything rotted quickly. It was impossible to defy the humidity and the heat. The awful smell was a reminder to those who remained, thought Skarp, of what awaited their bodies. It was hard to think of your soul, of the next stage on the wheel, in the midst of that stench.

The brothers stepped back to allow King Hayam, attired in an elegant white and gold sampot, room to move forward and drop a handful of white petals and then a few drops of rice wine onto Vindra’s body. He was followed by Raden. It always amused Skarp to see the two men, father and eldest son, near each other, the king barely able to conceal his dislike. It would not be long before the king found another embassy to send him on, or before Raden had his own accident.

One by one the king’s sons followed. First, Raden’s full brothers, the sons of the first wife, Skarp and the littlest prince, Garung. Skarp lifted him up so he was able to make his offering.

Then the sons of the second wife–Balit, Sotor, and Kalat. Kalat, almost as small as Garung, was assisted by his not-much-older brother Sotor. The little boy’s face streamed with tears. Kalat had been Vindra’s pet. Lastly Srikat, the only son of the king’s third wife.

Skarp watched Srikat with amusement. Other than Kalat he was the only one who did not have to manufacture his tears. He should have been born to the priestly caste, devoting his life to prayer and study, and not caught in the bloodthirsty life of a dewa. He wished no-one harm, and would not willingly kill even a creature so small and insignificant as an ant.

Each brother alternated petals and wine. They wore silk sampots of white secured at the waist with broad gold belts like that of their dead brother. The purohita Kaivalya orated prayers in a flat featureless tone, which seemed to wind out over their heads towards the horizon. For a while Skarp was not sure that the purohita would ever stop, so unending did his single-toned chant seem. When it did, all of them except the king took a step back.

Time for the dewaburning, thought Skarp, feeling a little sorrow that Vindra wasn’t alive to feel it. One of the monks produced the torch and the purohita lit it, blessed it, took it from the monk, and handed it to the king, who threw it onto the pyre.

In the morning, the bones that did not burn would be ground up. These would be added to Vindra’s ashes and taken to the southern end of the Walled City where the newest royal statue had been erected and would be dedicated in another formal ceremony. The statue became part of the stone forest of dewas of the first family. It had the body of the war god and the face of Vindra. In its base would be placed his remains.

Skarp had his own mixture to add to the remains. It would prevent the wheel turning for Vindra. He would not return to this life of mortals, he would not be able to seek revenge, and he would never ascend.

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