Page 26 of The Prince Without Sorrow

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ashoka

A SHOKA SAT IN HIS FATHER’S STUDY, THE HALF-MOON bathing the courtyard below in a pale glow.

He had just finished his dinner: steaming hot rice and a variety of vegetable curries cooked with a tamarind paste peculiar to Taksila. The study was quiet and cold, with nary a sound to be heard except for the occasional shuffling of soldiers outside the room. It smelled unnervingly like his father: of moss and areca. It had been left untouched, preserved the way it had been for years, with maps marking pockets of mayakari populations still hanging on the walls, the colours faded and yellowed. A handful of paper scraps lay on a wooden shelf, all in his father’s blunt script, all with the same inscription: A S THE EMPEROR STANDS TRUE, NONE WILL STAND WITH HIM, AS THE EMPEROR STANDS TRUE, YOU WILL LIE WITH HIM . Ashoka had brushed the scraps aside, without much thought. Sketches of women ranging from adolescent to elderly littered the floor, some marked over with large ‘X’s. He had torn them to shreds immediately.

He blew out a frustrated breath. The ride through Taksila with the governor had shown him nothing; only what had been sanitized for his own benefit. It wouldn’t do. He needed to see Taksila as it was, with the veil lifted.

‘Sachith,’ Ashoka called out.

A moment passed before Sachith’s dark head peered out from between the crack in the door.

‘Your Highness?’ he asked, bowing his head.

‘I’m going out for a stroll,’ Ashoka said coolly, leaning back against the chair. The wood pressed uncomfortably into his back.

Sachith glanced outside. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Prince Ashoka.’

‘I did notice that, yes.’

His guard appeared perplexed. ‘Right. I can order some soldiers to accompany you—’

‘No need, Sachith,’ Ashoka interrupted. ‘I don’t see the point in disturbing them. I’ll go alone.’

‘Absolutely not, Prince Ashoka,’ Sachith said immediately.

‘That’s not your order, Sachith,’ Ashoka replied. ‘I will go alone – no guards.’

Sachith sighed. ‘Rahil told me you might do this,’ he muttered.

Ashoka’s stomach fluttered. ‘Did he now?’

‘Yes, Prince Ashoka,’ Sachith said, exasperation clear on his blunt features, ‘and his advice was to bargain.’

Ashoka smiled. Rahil and good bargaining skills were mutually exclusive. ‘I shall entertain you, then,’ he said. ‘I refuse the accompaniment of soldiers.’

‘And I refuse you going alone,’ Sachith countered.

‘Sachith,’ Ashoka said. ‘I would’ve fled into the night without informing anyone, but here I am being honest with you. Surely, you’ll give leniency for my candour?’

Sachith’s expression was like granite. ‘No,’ he said.

‘I’ll take Rāga,’ Ashoka tried, ‘no one in their right mind will approach her.’

‘And then you will be recognized,’ came the frank response.

‘Would you rather I take Sahry?’

The mention of his serpent gave Sachith pause, as if the idea was worse than the first. ‘No. We’ll take the horses,’ he said finally. ‘That is my final offer, Prince Ashoka.’

‘Honesty gets me nowhere,’ Ashoka grumbled. ‘ All right , Sachith, I agree to your bargain.’ Somewhere in his mind, he heard Rahil cheer in victory.

He let Sachith lead him to the stable where the horses were being kept. Rāga was nearby in her own pen, likely sleeping away her tiredness. Curious glances were shot their way, but Ashoka kept his head high as Sachith quickly explained to the inquiring guards his desire for a midnight stroll.

After he saddled himself on a chestnut mare, Ashoka patted its neck. ‘You seem quite friendly,’ he remarked.

Sachith snorted. ‘Anything is friendlier than Sahry, Prince Ashoka.’

‘If I flew her into the razed lands, she’d terrify every living thing,’ Ashoka agreed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sachith’s hands still.

‘You wish to take a stroll around the razed lands, Prince Ashoka?’ the guard inquired, eyes narrowing.

‘Did I not mention that?’ Ashoka asked innocently.

‘You did not,’ Sachith replied, terse.

‘Well, what a surprise,’ Ashoka replied before he laid out his argument. ‘I’m not trying to kill myself, Sachith. I’m not travelling there to start brawls and terrorize people. I’m simply going to do as I said before: wander.’

‘But... you are you, Prince Ashoka.’

Ashoka narrowed his eyes. What was it that people saw when they looked at him – helplessness? ‘Do you think that I cannot keep myself safe, is that it?’ he asked. ‘Who will I be attacked by that I cannot fight against?’

‘Very muscular thieves,’ Sachith replied instantly. ‘Children who are brilliant with knives—’

‘The nerve to think I’d be bested by a child —’

‘A world-weary, battle-hardened child,’ Sachith corrected, ‘and those mayakari monsters.’

This time, Ashoka snorted.

‘The mayakari would only be a problem if I threaten them,’ he replied. ‘That does not make them monsters. That makes them human.’ He had meant to be sardonic, but the intonation had completely flown past Sachith’s head.

‘Prince Ashoka, the mayakari are not to be trusted,’ he said. ‘Your father—’

Ashoka’s chest constricted. ‘My father is not here , Sachith,’ he interrupted. Why did his name bleed into every conversation? Was the man not dead? ‘He does not govern Taksila. I do, and you will not contradict me any further.’

His tone was harsh. Unyielding. In fact, it reminded him of his father. Of his forcefulness, his adamant nature. Guilt came first, but it fizzled out quicker than he expected.

Chastened, Sachith cast his eyes to the ground. ‘As you wish, Prince Ashoka,’ his tone had deteriorated into something meeker, less insistent. Ashoka realized that, normally, he should’ve felt guilty.

All that he felt then, however, was satisfaction.

The distant wailing of the nature spirits caused goosepimples to erupt over Ashoka’s skin. He had never heard their sepulchral cries before, only their mellifluous chatter whenever he visited wild forestland. This, however, was something entirely different; this was a song of a thousand sorrows drowning in reverberation. How the people of the northern districts suffered through these ghostly dirges every night escaped him.

He’d left Sachith and their horses by the embankment that separated the northern and southern districts. Sachith had still been displeased at having to leave him alone to his devices, but he could not very well object. Sachith was beholden to Ashoka’s word. Such was the law; such was the way of the monarchy.

The northern district was jaw-droppingly decrepit. It was as if humanity and nature had warred against each other, with both sides having emerged victorious. Dusty-looking lanterns lit the streets, patches of wild grass grew out from cracks in walls, untamed and unkempt. Tree roots broke through paved roads, smooth surfaces fractured like a tooth. Lone stragglers sat outside small eateries, conversing in soft tones, and stray cats wandered the dingy streets in search of mice.

Ashoka found himself traipsing into a backwater alley, where shrill moans and concentrated grunts filtered out of brothels. He flushed at the sounds but was also hit by the pungent smell of smoke, soil, and saltfish in the air. What a startling difference it was to the smells of the palace, its sterility, freshly made sweets, and the scent of old parchment in the grand library.

Surrounded by the faraway chirping of crickets and the muggy darkness, he had never felt so free. No midnight straggler glanced his way, no pesky sibling taunted him from the council room. It was a freedom he could never have.

In his intense ruminations, Ashoka almost missed the sound of a scuffle as he passed by an unlit, unoccupied storefront. A pained whimper came from behind the fencing that separated the back from the front of the road, from where he spotted flames emitting from a torch.

‘From the resistance, are you?’ a gruff voice asked. ‘How lucky for us – two birds with one stone.’

‘Please,’ he heard a woman’s voice plead. Then came the sound of flesh being hit; a sharp slap followed by a muffled cry that made him tense. Fear spiked through his blood, paralysing him the way a drug would. Part of him did not want to venture into what was an unknown, dangerous situation. And yet, someone behind the fence needed help. Who was he to turn away like a coward and run?

Careful , the logical side of Ashoka’s head crooned as he approached, slowly unsheathing his sword. One hand pressed gently against the wood, Ashoka peered through a broken slat and bit his lips to prevent an audible gasp from coming out at the sight before him.

Two women were on their knees, hands bound behind their backs, surrounded by a group of soldiers. Another soldier stood in front of them, smiling viciously with a sword in her hand.

One of the bound women lifted her head up. In the dimness, he could not make out her expression. All he heard was, ‘ Please .’

His heartbeat picked up. Mayakari. They had to be. And from what he had heard, potential members of the resistance.

The soldier with the sword confirmed it. ‘My father lost everything in the Seven Day Flood,’ she said viciously to the witches. ‘His home, his crops, his mother. And while the common people suffered, your kind refused to help.’ Spittle came flying out as she said it. Still, the bound mayakari made no move to respond. It seemed to infuriate the soldier even more.

‘Wretched witch,’ she hissed. ‘Emperor Adil may have passed on, but we continue his legacy.’

Go , a part of Ashoka’s mind urged. Help them. Free them.

How? the other half responded, anxious.

Talk them down , came the suggestion. Your reputation will be sullied, but surely you will not let innocents die?

In a moment of indecisiveness, Ashoka missed his moment. Too late, he heard a startled gasp. Too late, he snapped his head up only to watch in silent horror as the soldier picked up her sword and sliced one of the mayakari’s heads clean off. The witch beside her screamed, a grief-stricken cry that pulverized his innards. He flinched as the head dropped to the ground with a dull thunk . Blood the colour of anthuriums spilled onto the ground in a hellish waterfall as the soldiers around her let out a loud cheer.

No.

No. He was too late, and it was all his fault.

‘What should we do with the body?’ one soldier asked as the cheers died.

The soldier shrugged dismissively. ‘Burn it,’ she suggested. ‘The witches burn a nice blue. Pretty to watch.’

You did nothing. Ashoka heard Rahil’s voice this time. You stood by and let a terrible thing unfold. You let this happen when you had all the freedom in this world to stop it. How dare you, Ashoka.

An unlikely blow, but a needed one. Ashoka clenched his teeth. Just as he heard the soldier say, ‘One more body,’ he leapt into action. Gripping the fence post, Ashoka found footing on the rails and hoisted himself over it, landing like a cat with its nine lives still intact. His landing surprised the group of soldiers who swiftly pulled out their own swords.

‘Who goes there?’ one demanded.

Ashoka refused to provide an intelligible response. ‘Step away from the mayakari,’ he ordered.

A harsh laugh followed his request. ‘Ah – another useless resistance member?’ one soldier asked. When Ashoka deigned not to reply, the soldier let out a frustrated growl before he barrelled towards him, hands outstretched and curling into fists. Ashoka had only a moment to locate his exposed neck before he delivered a swift punch to the soldier’s throat that sent him back, sputtering and winded.

‘You’ll pay for that, scum,’ the soldier growled, hands curling into fists. Ashoka barely avoided the punch intended for his jaw before he ducked and aimed a forceful blow, this time at the soldier’s nose bridge. Wheezing at the impact, the man stumbled back. Blood poured from his nose. Ashoka hoped he had hit hard enough to break it.

The soldier roared, his hands reaching for his sword. Before he could unsheathe it, Ashoka withdrew his own and aimed the tip near the man’s throat.

Rahil would have been impressed by his speed, though he would have critiqued his fluidity.

‘Put your weapon down, soldier,’ Ashoka ordered harshly. ‘Before I kill you myself.’

At the sound of his voice the soldier’s hands stilled, as did the others. Two holding torches came forward, abandoning the bound mayakari, causing Ashoka to flinch at the sudden flash of light. He watched the soldier whose throat was still pressed against his blade frown, and his eyes narrow as he scanned his face before they widened. Likely, he had noted the circlet. It gave him away without question.

‘Prince Ashoka ?’ The soldier’s voice was incredulous. A chorus of stunned gasps followed as the remaining soldiers bowed hastily.

‘Correct,’ Ashoka replied. He kept his weapon engaged. ‘Step away from the mayakari – all of you. Now .’

‘B-but, my prince,’ the soldier who had claimed the killing blow stepped forward, sputtering like she couldn’t believe her ears. Still, his order was followed. Weapons were lowered and a wide berth around the remaining witch was created. ‘This woman is a mayakari .’

The soldier had expected him to agree . She had not expected pushback. It was only a mayakari, after all. Let them be tortured and killed. What did it matter?

In his death, his father had left behind monsters of his own creation. No longer.

‘I could not care less,’ he said harshly. ‘What have they done to you?’

The soldier blinked. ‘We caught one of them speaking to a nature spirit in front of—’

‘Did they curse you?’ Ashoka demanded. The woman shook her head. ‘Did they send a spirit after you?’ Again, she denied it.

‘Then you had no business participating in murder, soldier,’ Ashoka said. ‘If they had done nothing, I believe the real perpetrator is you .’

A stunned silence followed. He knew that the soldiers would only be reciting one phrase in their heads: mayakari sympathizer . No doubt, this would be a blow to him in the future. Soldiers talked. To each other. To the people. To the governor. A misstep on his part, but at least he had saved one life. One was enough.

He lowered his weapon. ‘Leave.’ As he gave out the order, Ashoka straightened his back to make himself appear more commanding. ‘Do not expect me to govern like my father did. You will face dire consequences otherwise.’ A child’s threat. How well it worked, he did not know, but he knew that the soldiers would not refute a prince’s orders.

Quietly, the group of soldiers bowed before they retreated, one by one. Some glanced surreptitiously back towards the mayakari who remained alive, then at him. Just as the female soldier passed, the chains in her armour clinking like cups, Ashoka placed his hand on her shoulder. At his touch, she halted, surprise etched across her wide eyes.

‘Prince Ashoka?’

He leaned in close. ‘My condolences for your father’s loss of property, soldier,’ he muttered into her ear, ‘but that does not warrant senseless death in the name of personal justice.’

When he pulled back, her face was wiped clean of any expression. With a small nod, she too, departed.

Once he saw the glimmer of torchlight vanish down the road, Ashoka relaxed. Then, he turned his attention to the mayakari who had been watching their exchange in silence – a young woman who appeared to be a few years younger than him. Her wide, calf-like eyes were red and filled with tears as she gazed at him in absolute fear.

Ashoka held his hands up, palms out in a gesture of peace. ‘I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. Look.’ To prove his point, he slipped his sword back into its sheath. ‘I’m here to help.’

The young girl glanced at her headless comrade. When she turned back to look at him, her face was pinched. Destroyed. ‘They killed her, and they were about to kill me,’ her voice was devoid of all emotion as she spoke. ‘What’s to stop you from doing the same, Prince Ashoka?’ She stressed his title with venom. Ashoka understood the distrust.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You can’t trust me. I understand that. At least let me unbind you. You cannot go far with your hands tied.’

The mayakari said nothing, but she angled her back slightly towards him in a gesture of defeated acceptance. Hastily, he rushed towards her, bent down on one knee, and unknotted the thick rope. As it fell away, he spotted the indents against her wrists.

The moment the rope was removed, the young mayakari crawled towards the dead woman’s body, a sepulchral cry escaping her mouth. ‘Saumya,’ she sobbed, her hands squeezing the fabric across her friend’s torso. Visibly trembling, she turned to the head where the dead mayakari’s eyes were still open and frozen in terror. Ashoka couldn’t bring himself to focus on the head for more than a few moments before he forced himself to look away; his stomach churned when he stared too long.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, tone soft, ‘for you. For your friend.’

The young mayakari didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, she reached out and gently closed the eyelids. Her hands moved to rest on her lap once the task was complete, and for a long while, they stayed there in silence. A prince and a mayakari; the son of an oppressor and the oppressed. Then, she finally broke the quiet.

‘Naila,’ the mayakari said quietly. ‘My name is Naila.’

‘Naila,’ Ashoka echoed. ‘You should leave. The soldiers may come back.’

The young woman didn’t move. Instead, she appraised him suspiciously. ‘You really don’t want to kill me,’ she remarked.

‘Should I want to?’ Ashoka asked, exasperated.

‘You are a Maurya. Forgive me for assuming otherwise.’

Ashoka paused. There was nothing he could say to that.

‘Well then, if you’re not here to hurt me, help me,’ she said, adding, ‘Prince Ashoka,’ almost as an afterthought. ‘I can’t leave Saumya’s body here. She doesn’t deserve to be a feast for the crows.’

‘I... what do you...?’ He gestured helplessly at the body, then the head. What did Naila want to do? Perhaps they could burn it here, or even bury it. However, it seemed that she had an altogether different plan.

‘I-I’ll carry Saumya’s head,’ she stuttered first before twisting her expression into a determined grimace, ‘and you look quite capable, Prince Ashoka. Can you carry the body?’

Ashoka balked. Being asked to carry a dead body was certainly not what he had expected to do in his first night at Taksila. He couldn’t even look at it – how could he carry it? The thought made him sick, but he turned towards it. He could not stand there and do nothing.

The grass was stained dark where the head and body were separated. Small puddles of blood shone in the moonlight. Releasing a harsh breath, Ashoka bent down and gently, gently placed his arms beneath Saumya’s body, lifting so that they supported the back and legs. Shifting enough to right his posture, he couldn’t help but glance at the neck. Muscle, torn skin, and a distended gullet greeted him.

Breathe , he told himself. Breathe .

The body was warm, giving the impression that it was somewhat alive, but it wasn’t. It smelled like flowers and sweat, and he tried not to inhale, afraid he would regurgitate the contents of his dinner.

He watched Naila pick up the head in complete silence. Her hands and arms became smeared with streaks of blood as she cradled it like it was a baby. Beneath the glare of the moon, she looked like an avenging warrior from a children’s tale.

In this empire though, she was no hero; she was a midnight terror.

‘Where do we take her?’ he asked.

‘To the forestland where she belongs,’ Naila replied. Then, a quiet ‘Thank you’ followed.

Basic decency did not require a show of thanks, but Ashoka decided not to press Naila on it. After all, mayakari were likely used to receiving the bare minimum from Ran soldiers. Instead, he said, ‘Lead the way.’

As they walked, death blanketing them like a stifling heat, Ashoka recalled a similar scenario: the deer. Rahil. His father’s command. Here he was once again, burning an innocent. Blood from the open neck slithered down his right arm, and his skin crawled in response.

In both instances, he could have prevented a senseless death. But here, he could have steeled his resolve quicker, tempered his indecisiveness sooner. Saumya’s death was his fault. He could have stopped the soldiers.

And, for the first time in his life, Ashoka wondered if violence had been the right response.