Free Sword of the Deceiver by Sarah Zettel

trust so much?”
    “Because you must give restless hands work and restless hearts a purpose, lest others do so first.”
    With that, Sitara made her decision. “Father Abbot,” she said. “I have a message that needs to be taken to a man in Paitong called Pakpao Kamol. Can you send one of the lay brothers?” The dedicated monks did not leave the monastery except for ceremony or strictest need.
    “Of course, daughter.” He held out his hand. She saw the question in his eyes, but knew he would not ask. It was this that gave her the final strength she needed. From the waistband of her skirt, Sitara took the note she had written on the barge on the previous day. She had not dared to carry it on her person from the palace. The writing was weak and wandering, not at all like her usual hand. Sitara handed the paper to the abbot. He tucked it into his sleeve without reading the direction written on it. “I would pray, now, Father,” said Sitara. “And then visit my people. When that is done, you and I should speak further.”
    Father Thanom bowed. Side by side in silence they returned to the temple. The abbot touched her head one more time in blessing and left her there. As she knelt alone before the Great Teacher, Sitara felt her fear draining from her. All decisions for the moment had been made. All action that could be taken at this time had been. What understanding she had was in motion in the world.
    Sitara turned to the image of Anidita, bowed her head, and finally began to pray.
    In the darkness, outside the temple, a second figure watched Father Thanom leave on his errand, and softly stole away to the river gate, to watch and to wait and to send his own words where they must go.

Chapter Four
    Prince Samudra stepped from the barge onto the crowded, noisy docks of the city of Vaudanya, the capital city of Hastinapura. As his sandal touched the tarred boards, his first feeling was one of profound relief. The year was over, and he was home. The city that had known him since his birth surrounded him. Its magnificent stone and marble was supported by terraced hills and backed by mountains of emerald and onyx, sapphire and snow. At their base waited the Palace of the Pearl Throne, shining ivory-white and granite-pink in the painfully bright light of midday. Once he entered there, he was home in truth.
    A year. A year of wastelands and deep forests; a year of sleeping in shifts to keep Divakesh safe from whatever tiger or snake might be fool enough to try its fangs on him; a year of visiting the courts of conquered lands and telling threadbare and defiant kings that they must give the gifts of triumph and celebration yet again.
    It had been a year without real news of home, or of the northern borders. Only the briefest of missives from the palace had reached him, and those said only that all was well and he should continue on with his so-vital work of following the horse and the high priest.
    But now he was home, and soon there would be real work, fit for a prince, which would serve the land and the Mothers, and not just the vanity of Divakesh.
    The docks were a blur of colors, an ocean of noise, both human and animal, and a world of stench. Shirtless men, their bodies gleaming with sweat, hoisted bales and sacks, chests and cages. Elephants lifted teak logs off the open barges and laid them in neat stacks on the shore. A man with skin so dark it was nearly black shouted at a herd of silky white goats that bleated scornfully in response. A merchant poked through a sack of peppercorns with a wooden stick while the seller fluttered and twittered beside him. Samudra found himself looking for the black horse who had been his reluctant guide for the past year. It was easy to spot the creature even in the dockside’s riot of activity. It had a golden halter on now, and was tossing its great head this way and that to keep the reins out of the hands of its keepers, turning its body and stamping its hooves, looking for a way out