Take the opening, Yudhajit said, but I did not need his advice.
Holding the reins of the horses firmly in my left hand, I reached behind me and grabbed the smooth wooden shaft of one of Dasharath’s mighty spears. Relying on instinct, on the muscle memory of years of old lessons, I adjusted my grasp on the haft, finding the center of gravity. I threw, my breath rushing out of me in a shout.
By the time obsidian-tipped death found Sambarasura, piercing his neck and shoulder in a deadly blow, I had jumped down from my injured husband’s chariot to examine the damage, conscious it was our only form of escape.
My hands shook as I examined the smashed wheel, two spokes broken, the whole thing fallen off its axis. Steel clanged behind me, the shouts of fighters mixing with the cries of dying men. My magic could not help me now.
“Indra, please,” I whispered, desperate.
Indra was the god of charioteers and had long been considered a protector of Kosala. Perhaps he would help me to save a favored raja. “Guide my hand.”
No inspiration struck me. Maybe the gods were punishing me for joining the fight after all. And Dasharath… He might already be dead.
I grabbed the bottom of the wheel and tugged with all my strength, trying to push it back into place. My shoulder blade pressed back into the splintered spoke. I strained with the effort, eyes clenched shut, until a battle cry sounded too near for comfort.
Never take your eyes off your enemy!
I opened my eyes as the wheel popped back into place. A soldier lunged toward me, sword ready.
I rolled out of the way and he buried his blade into the earth as I swung myself back into the charioteer’s seat. If only Yudhajit could see me now—he would laugh and call me as agile as a monkey for clambering back up so quickly. I spared a moment of gratitude for my brother’s words, for they had kept me alive. Then I snapped the horses into motion, barely hearing the soldier scream beneath the wheels as I carved a path away from the battlefield, my mind fixed firmly on my husband.
Dasharath’s troops parted for me like ghee on a warm summer day. An observant rider outstripped me, racing back to camp to prepare them for our arrival. In the broken chariot, it took us several precious minutes in which I felt as though with every breath I was the one bleeding and not my husband. If he died in a chariot I drove into battle, they might as well put me on the pyre with him.
I pulled up into the middle of camp, and healers swarmed us before I’d completely stopped.
“Is he alive?” I asked, leaping onto the dirt, uncaring of who might witness my unwomanly behavior. Not that it mattered, because nobody so much as looked at me. Their chattering overlapped into an undecipherable din.
I slipped into the Binding Plane and studied the fragile ties binding me to the men around me. The threads were thin, brittle, and dull besides, as though I was trapped in an aged wheel. Magic would not work.
“Is. My. Husband. Alive?” I made each word ring like metal blades.
The raja’s retinue all turned to me with varying expressions of confusion, contempt, and horror. A small man next to Dasharath’s prone form nodded. “Yes, Radnyi. He still draws breath.”
The work resumed, but now the advisors encircled me.
“What happened?” one demanded.
“Sambarasura cracked one of the chariot’s wheels, and in the ensuing confusion, his spear struck true.” Skepticism radiated through each on the Binding Plane.
“And where is Sambarasura now?” This voice I knew. Virendra, the Minister of War. He was Dasharath’s favorite advisor. He shouldered his way into the circle. The string between us was orange, made thicker than the rest through familiarity, although I knew that did not mean much.
“Dead,” I said, turning to face him. “The raja slew him before succumbing to his wounds.”
The lie was easy. It felt as though I prepared my whole life to tell it.
Their discussion subsided as they stared.
“How did you escape?” another asked.
“I jumped down from the chariot and pushed the wheel back into place,” I said. “And then I brought him here immediately.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw the healers lift the raja onto a hammock and carry him off to another tent. I thought his arm moved, but perhaps that was simply the jostling motion.
“You?” the advisor said, pulling my attention back. He looked me up and down, just as Asha had that morning. But whereas I had felt at ease under Asha’s gaze, under his I felt disgusting. His mouth pulled into a slight grimace. “How could you fix the wheel of a war chariot?”
“I prayed to Indra, and he guided my hand.” Another lie. The only one that would quiet them, for of course the gods would assist in saving their beloved raja.
Accepting that as truth, they turned away from me and followed Dasharath into the tent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DASHARATH’S DEATH WAS, IN some ways, my fault. In the end he was a casualty of a much greater war, his undoing meant as a punishment for me. Let it be known that I did not wish it so; on the contrary, even when I stopped all other prayer, I always prayed for my husband’s long life.
Perhaps that was his doom.
For two days and two nights, Dasharath lay pale and still in the healing tent. The camp physicians assured me that they had diagnosed and treated him according to the most comprehensive Ayurvedic texts, but still the outcome was uncertain.
I sat by his bedside, leaving only to eat and bathe. I constantly slipped into the Binding Plane to look at our golden cable, just to ensure Dasharath still lived. Live, I instructed him. Wake up. But he did not respond. I slept on a straw mat next to his bedside for the first night, and on the second, Asha managed to construct a more comfortable makeshift bedroll.
On the third day, Dasharath woke every few hours, disoriented and confused. Each time, I patiently explained what happened. Each time, he subsided back into sleep upon learning that he had dealt the decisive blow, and our men had routed Sambarasura’s remaining forces.
The next day, Dasharath woke at dawn in full possession of his faculties. He managed to sit up, drink water, and consume a light broth. I wished for him to stay secluded and rest, but soon his advisors crowded around him. I was relegated to the corner of the tent until one of them noticed my presence and tartly informed me that this was no place for a woman. Somehow my daring rescue had not endeared me to them.
Feeling low, I went to visit the horses. Dasharath’s team had escaped unscathed, and the brown stallion I had first met greeted me eagerly, pressing his soft nose into my hand. I stretched out to rub his neck and heard someone clear their throat behind me.
“You did well,” said Ashwasen.
I did not turn around to meet his eyes. “The raja almost died.”
“But he did not. And the battle was won.” I said nothing, and after a moment he continued, “I have seen many charioteers in my time. You are not the most skilled I have ever seen, but you are certainly the most determined. I doubt any other would have brought him back alive.”
At this I did spin around. The Master of Horses was smiling at me, and I felt hot tears rush into my eyes. I blinked rapidly before they could spill. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Take as long as you need,” he said. “I find they are quite calming.”
But I did not feel calm. As I pet the horses, tears began falling down my cheeks, until I pressed my face into the side of the chestnut horse and wept. I cried not just for Dasharath, but for the men I had killed, and for the horror I had seen. Battle was nothing like the glorious martial exercise I had thought it would be. My hands shook as I stroked the horse’s mane, whispering praise to it just to calm myself.