Page 11 of The Prince Without Sorrow
Chapter Ten
Ashoka
A SHOKA HAD NEVER WITNESSED DEATH ON SUCH AN opulent scale.
The funeral ceremony for Emperor Adil began on the third day following his death. The entire palace had been swathed in white, the colour of death, rebirth, and peace. The colour of innocence.
A shame then, to associate it with his father.
White muslin cloth was draped over the Obsidian Throne. White roses and frangipanis scattered the garden pools. White doves were set free into the roaring blue sky. Today, his father’s body would be carried from the palace to the Golden City below, and from there to the Mountain of Rebirth. Following prayers, his body was to be cremated and scattered.
Ashoka himself was adorned in white clothing, free of all the customary royal jewelleries. Only the singular gold stud on his burned ear remained, a small act of rebellion on his part.
‘How do I look?’ he asked Rahil before they joined his mother and siblings in the throne room.
‘Untainted,’ Rahil had replied.
The response had given Ashoka a brief pause. Untainted . That was what white signified. That was the colour his father’s body would be dressed in. How hypocritical.
With Rahil behind him, Ashoka joined his family in the throne room. It was jarring to see so much disparity in the colour scheme of the crow-black hall. His mother and siblings, all dressed in simple clothing, stood in front of the throne while the palace officials bustled about with hushed whispers and furtive glances.
In the crowd, Ashoka suddenly felt insignificant.
‘Can you stay beside me?’ Ashoka asked Rahil quietly. Rahil gave him confidence when he didn’t have it and, at this moment, he needed him. ‘I... I need—’
Rahil laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes, Ashoka,’ he said. It was all he needed to say for Ashoka to relax. They had become so attuned to each other that sometimes words were useless. Ashoka would notice Rahil’s consternation in the slight pursing of his lips, sense suspicion when his hands reached for his dual broadswords, see happiness when his eyes crinkled and shone like a thousand lanterns. And Rahil, in turn, knew Ashoka’s mannerisms by heart.
As always, his mother noticed him first and offered a comforting smile.
Ashoka wondered how his mother felt.
His parents’ personalities had always clashed; the hateful emperor and the sympathetic empress. As a child, he’d heard the arguments in their chamber, the heated discussions in the war council rooms, and the dismissive glances around the palace. No marriage was without its arguments – that he knew – but it felt as if his parents had more disagreements than most.
He was pulled back into his memories to the time he was six years old. He and his siblings were playing in the palace gardens. Their mother was keeping watch beneath a marquee, along with a dozen of her servants. Arush was fidgeting with a slingshot that he had fashioned. His father had been in the tent with their mother. A rare occasion, Ashoka remembered. Sitting beside him on a teal-coloured spread of cushions had been Aarya, while Ashoka squatted on the grass and observed his brother.
The snap, snap, snap of Arush’s slingshot was consistent. Then came a high-pitched squawk .
Ashoka’s head snapped up when he heard the stone being released from its sling. He saw it hit Arush’s target: a myna bird perched on a wispy tree branch. Ashoka remembered its descent clearly; the black wings flapped uselessly as it tried to slow its fall.
Before the bird’s body hit the ground, Ashoka had turned away. He stared at the shoots of grass for a moment and was hit with the image of the myna bird, dead. Its body began to decompose in front of his eyes, the flesh eaten by maggots, sinking beneath the shifting earth until all that remained was a shard of bone and a smattering of feathers.
Innocent .
His mother had echoed his thoughts. While their father praised Arush’s impeccable aim, she had raised her voice. Clear disapproval coloured her sharp tones before they were shushed by their father.
Ashoka could not summon such admiration for a cruel act. Instead, he had run towards the fallen creature. Blood coated its head. He could still see its small chest rise and fall, but it was slow.
You’re still alive , he thought, relieved. He could still save it.
He picked up the bird and ran to his mother, pleading for her to save it somehow. As if her adultness came with power that knew how to save a dying creature when his child-self couldn’t. But by the time a servant came with a cloth to wrap the myna up in, it had died. A piece of Ashoka’s own heart had died with it.
While Manali was sympathetic, Adil had scorned him.
‘You will never be a warrior with that manner, son,’ his father said. ‘Never cry for the weak. They are that way for a reason.’
‘But it didn’t deserve to die,’ Ashoka had refuted. An exciting idea sprang into his head. Surely his father would appreciate his creative thinking. ‘Maybe a mayakari can fix it! They can bring it back from the dea—’
Pain spread across his right cheek. His father had slapped him.
‘ Adil! ’ Manali had screamed.
‘Hush, Manali,’ his father had replied. ‘You dote on him too much.’
Ashoka had felt complete and utter surprise. He had never been hit before. Heat emanated from the area of skin that had contact with his father’s palm. Before he could stop himself, the tears came, and embarrassment along with them. How shameful , he thought, blinking furiously, to be viewed like the poor bird, helpless and pathetic . Aarya had been observing him throughout the entire ordeal. Her expression had been blank. There was no sympathy in her eyes. Adil’s, meanwhile, promised a lifetime of punishment.
‘Throw away that stupid bird,’ his father’s voice boomed, ignoring his tears. ‘And never speak of such things again.’
Rahil’s insistent prodding at his arm brought Ashoka out of his thoughts. ‘Go,’ he urged, ‘play the prince.’ It was what Rahil always said when Ashoka was obliged to attend royal ceremonies that made him want to bludgeon his own skull.
‘But I... the ending ceremony,’ Ashoka said, face creasing into a frown.
‘I know,’ Rahil patted his back reassuringly, ‘you’ll be all right.’
Comforted that Rahil would be close by, Ashoka made his way towards his family members who were all standing side by side.
Arush frowned as Ashoka found a place beside him. ‘You’re late, brother,’ he remarked.
‘What could I possibly miss?’ Ashoka replied. ‘Father remains dead.’
Arush flinched.
From the other side, Aarya turned to him, looking scandalized. ‘Ashoka!’ she scolded him. ‘How dare you speak in such a disrespectful manner.’
He had the sudden urge to incense Aarya further. ‘Draping him in white seems hypocritical,’ he said. ‘Father and the word “peace”, I would argue, are mutually exclusive.’
‘ Ashoka ,’ Aarya began, frost seeping into her voice, ‘this is the height of contempt.’
At that moment, all Ashoka wanted to do was to rain hell upon his sister’s indignation. Father’s favourite be damned. He was soon to be cremated, and here she was trying to act like he was a benevolent god instead of a malicious monster. ‘It is not contempt if it is the truth.’
The look she threw him would have matched the icy tundra of the north. Then, her eyes flickered to the side of his face, and her eyes narrowed in disgust.
‘Take that stud out, Ashoka,’ she ordered coolly. ‘Be respectful.’
Ashoka stiffened. How unsurprising; Aarya was trying to order him around even during a funeral. ‘I’d rather not,’ he replied nonchalantly and tugged at his burned ear. ‘Think of this as my own special way of remembering him.’
‘Children, please,’ their mother’s voice snapped the siblings out of their terse exchange. ‘Stop this squabbling – you’re like a murder of crows. Compose yourselves so that we can begin the funeral procession.’
At their mother’s warning tone, the three Maurya children sewed their mouths shut. Even the tempestuous Aarya, who was more likely to pick a fight with their mother than agree with her, quietened down. Moments later, the sound of a lone flute broke the sombre silence.
The procession had begun.
The officials inside the throne room formed a parallel line in an orderly fashion from the steps of the throne to the entrance of the room, effectively wedging the small Maurya clan between them. Their heads bowed low as Ashoka and his family passed out of the throne room and the long palace corridors onto the palace steps. His mother led the three of them, her head held high and her eyes devoid of tears.
His father’s ornate black casket lay surrounded by wreaths of red and blue flowers, crushed gold flecks, and gossamer white cloth. Ashoka’s heart pounded like mallets at the sight of the open coffin. He had not seen his father since the day he had left for Kolakola. In fact, he had avoided gazing upon his father’s dead body in the last few days with the knowledge that he would be forced to look upon his face on the day of the funeral ceremony. Now that it was here, he wanted to run away. But running was seen by his father as an act of cowardice, and Ashoka could not be a coward in front of a dead man. After all, what was there to fear?
A priestess stood beside the coffin, her hair braided with white jasmines and her arms folded together. As the royals approached, she bowed and took three steps back, allowing them to surround the casket like a flock of birds and gaze upon its sole inhabitant.
Ashoka’s breath died in his throat when his eyes rested upon his father’s body.
Adil looked almost... peaceful. His eyes were closed. Ashoka half-expected to see the rise and fall of his chest, as if to prove that his father was not dead and simply asleep. His harsh features, the sharp nose, the hard angles of his jaw, and his razor-sharp brows were more relaxed than Ashoka had ever seen them. In his death, they had erased his anger and made him human. This was magic that not even the mayakari could achieve.
Staring at his father’s face brought forth a wild rush of emotions. It was everything that Ashoka had felt for him since his childhood days. Embers of affection. Blind respect. Wildfires of anger. Whorls of distrust. A lifetime’s worth of disappointment.
Aarya was watching him curiously.
‘You’ve gone pale,’ she remarked. Her gaze flicked briefly towards the gold stud in his ear again, lips thinning in disapproval. ‘Are you all right?’
Ashoka found himself nodding and taking a step back, feeling dizzy. He needed to steady himself; the youngest prince could not be seen observing his dear father’s casket with such vehemence.
His eyes sought Rahil’s, who was standing with his guard a few feet away from them in their midnight-coloured armour. Rahil’s features appeared indifferent and emotionless, but his umber eyes spoke a clear message:
Play the prince, Ashoka .
Steeling himself, Ashoka hardened his features and straightened his back. The cacophony of drums began to permeate the air, beating fast and angry under the mid-morning sun. They were the sounds of war drums, traditionally used before an army left for battle. It was unusual to use it in a funeral procession, but for his father’s passing, it made more sense than not. He supposed that his mother had authorized their use.
Ashoka watched silently as his father’s coffin was delicately loaded onto the back of the carriage, drawn by four beautiful leopards. It was first to be taken in a viewing carriage through the Golden City so that citizens would be able to pay their respects.
As the children began to search for their carriages that would similarly take them through the city to the Mountain of Rebirth, their mother stopped them.
‘Once we reach the base of the mountain, I have advised there to be no carriages to take us up,’ Manali remarked firmly. ‘Today, we walk.’
Ashoka balked but was unsurprised. Coming from their mother, it would likely be some sort of lesson in humility. His father may receive a grand farewell through the city streets, drawn in leopard and carriage, but they were still alive. They were still present with beating hearts, sound minds, and able feet.
‘Mother!’ Aarya’s outrage was palpable. ‘You will let us travel like commoners? For what?’
‘A lesson in humility,’ Manali echoed Ashoka’s exact thoughts. ‘If you do not agree with me, stay where you are, Aarya. That decision belongs entirely to you.’
‘Father would not have us travel like peasants ,’ Aarya seethed, her brown eyes sparking with barely restrained fury.
‘I do not doubt that,’ their mother replied coolly, ‘but this is an old custom of my kingdom, and I wish to see it executed. It serves as a sign of respect for the departed. Do not argue with me, Aarya.’
Ashoka saw a muscle twitch in his sister’s jaw and thought she would lash out with some choice words of her own. He knew Aarya was hurting more than him or his brother over the loss of their father. The golden child had lost her favoured parent. Thinking he ought to prevent another acidic retort from his older sister, Ashoka spoke at the same time his brother did to cool the waters.
‘I will aid you if you feel too weary to walk,’ Arush pacified.
‘We all have our customs – let mother grieve in her way, and you grieve in yours,’ Ashoka added.
Though Aarya scowled, it was in defeat. ‘Fine,’ she agreed, moving towards their carriage, ‘but I do not require your help, Arush. I am perfectly capable of trekking up a mountain – I simply loathe the fact that we are to travel like the common people. We shall be subject to the heat, the dirt, and the sweat. What a bother.’ She shot a contemptuous look at their mother who pointedly ignored it.
Their carriage took the steep downward slope of road that connected the hilltop palace to the Golden City. At the base of the hill, the main road diverged, one towards the city centre, the other towards the Marble Stupa and the Mountain of Rebirth several miles south. While their father’s carriage took the former route, the Mauryas took the latter.
All four of them were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. They passed a large, destroyed stone building singed black near the outskirts of the city where trees, weeds, and wildflowers grew from the ruins. The old mayakari library. A shame , Ashoka thought. Centuries’ worth of knowledge and innocent bodies destroyed by hate.
Aarya’s statement soon proved correct. After reaching the Mountain of Rebirth, the royals and their guards took the trail that was barely paved, brimming with overgrown tree roots and the occasional birdsong of nature spirits. Dressed as they were in their long saris, Aarya and their mother must have found the task of climbing past rubble and giant stepping-stones arduous, but the two took it in their stride. Aarya’s glowering features had morphed into a determined expression, as she staunchly refused Arush’s hand to climb over ledges. By the time they arrived at the top of the mountain, and from the position of the sun in the sky, Ashoka guessed that they had spent a good half hour walking to their destination.
The Mountain of Rebirth was an odd place. Like the royal palace, it was situated on the extremities of the Golden City, east of the city centre and several miles south of the palace. Standing alone like a giant, its peak perpetually covered in a thick, grey mist, the summit was a marriage of life and death. Greenery scattered the area from tall twisting Hora trees to poisonous purple petals, but it was intermingled with flora that were withered and lifeless. Some trees had lost their leaves, leaving dried-up branches and rotting roots behind. Some flowers remained wilted. It was unusual – they did not decompose but instead continued to flourish in a permanent state of death. Hundreds of years ago, during the reign of his namesake, Ashoka the First, the mountain had been as natural as any other, until magic – either mayakari or Great Spirit, not even the empire’s greatest scholars could deduce – caused half to deteriorate like a necrotic limb. This reason was the most well-known, but later stories for the mountain’s current state often veered into downright fantasy.
Officiants and the head ascetic of the Marble Stupa – the largest in the city – were already present by the time they arrived. They stood with flaming torches in their hands and the oil-slicked coffin behind them, ready to burn.
‘Empress.’ The ascetic bowed as they approached. ‘Princes, princess. I hope the trek to the mountain proved to be without complication?’
‘Indeed, ascetic Venya,’ Manali nodded. ‘We are ready to begin the cremation.’
The ascetic bowed once more, stepping back to murmur something to the other officiants beside her. They all turned their backs to the royals, and the ascetic began to chant a verse for luck and good rebirth.
‘Emperor Adil of the Maurya clan, of the glorious Ran Empire – may your rebirth be plentiful.’
Ashoka clenched his jaw at the ascetic’s stanza. He wanted nothing more than for his father to get his karmic retribution. Senseless slaughter did not warrant a bountiful rebirth.
If I could tear your legacy apart, father, I would do so without question .
The words came to him like lightning. Uttering them aloud would be seen as treachery. Uttering them aloud would see him removed from the throne line and exiled to the north.
With a final prayer, the men and women silently threw their torches onto the coffin, which burst into frightful angry flames. Ashoka heard the slight hitch of Aarya’s breath, Arush’s sharp exhale, and his mother’s light gasp.
This was the end.
And so, they watched. Watched and waited patiently as the coffin and the man inside it burned into ashes. The flames licked ever higher, and Ashoka swore that he almost saw the spark of bluish white flames erupting from the yellow-orange glare.
Following the burning, the painting of the ashes began.
From the still-smouldering pile of grey matter, the head ascetic dipped a spindly, damp hand into the ashes, allowing his father’s ashes to be glued to her skin like a mixture of paint and wet sand. Slowly, the woman approached his mother who knelt on one knee, her face angled towards the sun. Ashoka watched as the ascetic gently drew a circle on his mother’s forehead – signifying the never-ending cycle of samsara: the beginning that would never end – observing the grey ashes that were once his father stick to her like a second skin.
He remembered Sau telling him that this tradition had come from the mayakari. He forced himself not to heave out a dry chuckle at the irony of it all.
One by one, the Maurya children were painted with the ashes of their father. When the ascetic finally stopped in front of Ashoka, he felt ill. He half-wished that he were not here, having to kneel only to have an old ascetic draw a circle on his forehead with paint made from his father’s cremated remains. This was all that was left of Adil, and yet, Ashoka was unable to escape it. His father’s presence followed him even after his death, and now, his ashes would be branded onto his skin.
The touch of her hand was warm, but the sensation of the crumbled fragments of ash made Ashoka feel as if he were frozen in ice.
You will follow me to death, father , he thought to himself. I can never escape you. But, for all this, I will never become you .