On the appointed date the following tenday, Cayman sent his personal pedicab to gather Jayan from the university. Jayan thought of his brother as he stepped into the cab—it didn’t take much to trigger a thought of Najat these days. Jayan had wrangled repeated promises out of Dechen and Rajung over the last year, to insure that he could see Najat immediately upon the Kumasagi’s return from his retreat.
The pedicab took Jayan up the switchback road of Marg Shakti and through the massive southern gate into the plateau, where the wall surrounding the top of the plateau stood in much better repair than it did at Jayan’s favored—if less impressive—corner entrance. Beyond the southern gate, the inevitable market stalls were also in much better repair than those of the southeast corner market. Jayan knew that the wares at this market demanded a much higher price.
From there the road formed an unbending line straight north to the temple. At the end of the market, they passed under a free-standing rectangular arch, which marked the beginning of the temple complex. Several generations of mosaic artists had worked on the patterns covering the arch.
Giant buildings loomed immediately past the arch—a balconied pagoda on the left, which housed various dignitaries and other visitors, and the massive Shakti Lake City Waterball Arena on the right. A circular stone plaza—complete with a fountain in the middle—connected the space between the arena and the Shakti Lake City Aquatic Theater.
The pedicab skirted to the right as a long reflecting pool split the road down the middle. Jayan moved over to watch for fish among the landscaped water plants and boulders. He seldom traveled to the complex from this direction, so the giant ornamental carp here were a treat to see. Some of them were as long as his legs. He had helped cultivate one blue-finned variety himself, after carefully bringing several specimens back from Sindhupat Island.
He almost would have preferred to stroll the remaining distance. The fish were probably more interesting than any cut-from-the-mold destin to be offered by Shakti Lake.
Then again, the one destin had actually drawn such fish as this. Jayan pondered this as he watched the deep green water. He managed to spot two bluefins before his pedicab reached the temple.
With a nod and a mudra, the pedaler dropped Jayan off where the road formed a wide circle around the end of the reflecting pool. The multistoried wooden balconies of the temple rose before him, capped with a curving red-tiled roof. A long stairway leading up to the entrance undulated with two loosely segregated lines of people climbing up or trotting down.
Cayman did not meet him at the top. A harried temple attendant found Jayan wandering the small front plaza among growing stares from other visitors as they entered or exited the building.
“Natarajan-Saat sends his apologies,” the attendant told Jayan. “He has been…detained.” She paused, as if unsure what to do next. She glanced around the crowd and then looked back at Jayan. Jayan looked back at her.
“Come with me,” she said. She led Jayan into the first floor of the temple, which revealed a busy corridor lined with shops—the expensive, upscale kind. Jayan knew the merchants paid well for rent here.
The attendant turned down a narrow side corridor and ushered Jayan into a large room, where a gathering of various son-and-parent configurations sat clustered around low tables. Everyone looked up at Jayan, half of them with full mouths. Jayan noticed the remains of a buffet along one wall. This must be the complimentary lunch provided by the temple for prospective buyers, some of whom had traveled quite far.
The attendant gazed around, trying to find an empty seat for Jayan, while all the guests in the room stared at him, trying to understand his dark complexion. Many of them put down their plates and started to wipe their hands with napkins as they realized who he was. One young man stood up near the back of the room—Jayan recognized him as one of his students. They nodded at each other across the room.
Fierce whispering distracted Jayan from behind. Another attendant had arrived and seemed to be admonishing the first.
The first attendant turned to Jayan and took his arm. “My apologies, Saat. Please—”
“Saat, please follow us,” said the second. They held his arms from either side and herded him from the room. Jayan glanced back to see several people standing halfway up, as if they had hoped to introduce themselves.
Cayman swooped down on them immediately outside the door. “My sincerest apologies, Gampoban-Saat.” He took Jayan’s arm as the first attendant fell into repeated bows, never lifting her eyes from the floor. Her silvery gray face flushed completely red. Cayman cut his chin at the second, who took the cue and escorted the first attendant away as quickly as possible.
“My apologies,” Cayman repeated at least ten times as he hurried Jayan back through the main corridor. “This way.” They took a flight of open-air steps to the second floor.
They landed in a large private room, where several attendants stood at attention along mahogany walls. Cayman deposited Jayan at a table in the center and then clapped the fingers and palm of one hand together in a gesture to the waiters.
They all moved at once, bending to lift covers off silver platters and pouring wine into Jayan’s glass and scooping food onto his plate. Even the napkin seemed to be made from highest quality linen. One server stood by holding wet minted towels for Jayan to clean his hands with after eating.
Jayan looked at the extravagant spread and wished he could have remained downstairs with the others.
“Ah!” said Cayman. He crossed back to the door to greet someone, “Your Eminence…”
Najat? Jayan stood up.
It was not the Kumasagi. A regal, Kandargirian woman with tightly coifed black hair entered the room, causing all the servers to pause and snap into mudra poses with bowed heads.
Jayan brought his hands up as well. He recognized Amala Vengar from stories told by Najat long before. She tipped her head at him but did not return the mudra.
“Gampoban-Saat,” she said. “We welcome you to Shakti Lake. We are very pleased, and honored, that you have come to us to find your mate.”
Jayan did not say that he had been living in the area for almost a year. He did not say that he doubted Shakti Lake would offer a woman to his taste. It was easier to just say nothing. He nodded his head instead.
It was enough to satisfy Vengar. She returned to the door with Cayman, speaking in low tones. Jayan could hear their conversation perfectly.
“Everyone is waiting,” she said.
“I know. My apologies. I’ll see what I can do.”
Vengar left. Jayan could see two acolytes move to flank her as she receded into the corridor. He walked over to stand by Cayman. “She came all the way to the temple to tell you that?”
Cayman gazed into the now empty corridor. “Amala Vengar—Her Eminence—has a habit of…showing up in odd places.”
The bursar looked away and cleared his throat, as if suddenly aware of his own indiscretion. Jayan smirked. He glanced back at the food and told Cayman, “I’m actually not very hungry. Shall we go across now?”
Cayman bobbed his head. “Certainly. Let us go this way…”
He led Jayan downstairs and out one of the smaller back doors. All of the back doors opened to the same expansive wooden deck, where wide steps led down to the lane and the park beyond.
They had bypassed the small shrine area of the temple, which in this Shakti Lake design was almost an afterthought. If one wanted to see glorious, gigantic shrines built to honor Ayudena the Skyfish, the Devadutas, and the Primordial Amala, it was best to travel to the half-deserted city of Old Ayunath.
“If you do find yourself hungry, please let us know at any time,” Cayman said as they walked the lane around the park. “Our staff will accommodate you.”
Jayan nodded. On the other side of the park they passed the mosaic-detailed wall of the nursery’s western garden and came to the core building. It rose four stories above them as a massive, straight-faced cube—a stark visual contrast to the adjoining pagoda-like structures on the left and right. The pagodas seemed to be three stories tall. Jayan knew that the one behind the garden wall on the left housed Amala Tebbe, and the one on the right housed Amala Vengar.
“You’ve never been inside the nursery, correct?” Cayman said.
“Right.”
“It’s completely closed to visitors, of course, except for the fourth floor.” Cayman led Jayan up a staircase, which stuck out from the center of the cube like a massive, pleated tongue. The steps formed a bridge over the water where the lane hugged the side of the building. A few young men exited from the open double doors with their parents.
The foyer inside bustled with nursery staff and visitors. Cayman gestured toward two small doors to the left and right. “Those lead to the Amalas’ wings.” He nodded his way past various attendants, then took Jayan up a large stairwell directly across from the front entrance. None of the landings had a window or door.
Sunlight dazzled Jayan’s eyes as they emerged onto the fourth floor balcony. Cayman pointed over a stout wooden railing to the park below. “The fourth floor is the only area with balconies in the core section of the nursery,” he told Jayan.
An attendant greeted them in the open foyer and took their sandals. Cayman continued his narration as he led Jayan around a corner to walk along the western balcony. The wall to their right contained no doors or windows. “Dressing rooms along here. The other side has one entrance, for the private rooms.” Jayan knew that Cayman referred to rooms where a buyer could request a single destin for closer viewing.
Jayan looked down as they passed the top of Amala Tebbe’s wing. He could see a flat area of the roof, where the kitchen staff had laid out sections of blackrock to soak in the sun. The heated slabs would be used to cook that night’s dinner for Tebbe and her attendants.
Halfway down the length of the building, the wall to their right gave way to a thin railing, which served to separate them from an expansive, open deck area. They had to walk all the way to the end to gain access to the deck, via three ascending wooden steps.
Jayan paused at the higher railing along the north side to absorb an astonishing view of Shakti Lake. He could see the diver complex on the western shore.
“Gampo-Saat,” Cayman called to him. Jayan turned to see many eyes upon him. A white canopy shielded the deck from the sun, and several families already occupied the rows of cushions beneath it.
Jayan walked among the gazing eyes to where Cayman stood in the middle aisle. He noticed a few people moving to the back, and wondered if Cayman had ordered them to vacate the now-empty cushions near his feet.
Cayman bent slightly to talk near Jayan’s ear. “We could arrange a more private viewing, if you wish.”
“No.” Jayan said. An attendant arrived to offer him a cup of tea, which—after accepting it with a polite nod— he immediately placed on one of the small tables separating the cushions.
“Very well.” Cayman gestured for Jayan to sit, and then folded himself onto the next cushion near the aisle.
“You don’t have to—”
“I am here to answer your questions, Gampo-Saat,” Cayman said. “I will not reveal anything unless you ask.”
“Ai, Gampoban-Saat!” said a voice above them. They both looked up to see Big Selda’s smiling face framed by the shadowed underbelly of the canopy.
“Ai!” answered Jayan. He leaned across Cayman to clasp her hand as she knelt down next to them. “Have you heard any word of Najat?”
“Yes! His retreat ended yesterday, and he’s already headed back,” she said.
“I thought he was here at the Shakti Lake hut.”
“No, the other one. In the valley near Thin River Bend. He only started back this morning.” Selda seemed to notice Cayman for the first time as he leaned back to avoid their talking heads. She nodded to him. “Nata-Saat.”
“Saati,” Cayman said. He remained leaning.
“I need to see him,” said Jayan.
“He knows. We’ll make sure he finds you.” Selda grinned and waggled a thumb between Jayan and the presentation stage. “Don’t worry, no one told him about this yet. We’ll let you tell him.”
Jayan cocked his head. “There may be nothing to tell.”
Cayman grunted beside him.
“Keep an open mind, Gampo-Saat.” Selda smiled and stood up. Above her wrapped skirt of deep red silk, she wore a formal, thin-strapped white top embellished with delicate red and orange embroidery. She adjusted the matching shawl over her shoulder and said, “I have to go back. Good luck.”
Jayan watched her walk to the stage and disappear behind the drapery at one side. He noticed for the first time how the mothers seated around him wore formal clothing similar to Selda’s. The fathers and sons wore buttoned pants and sleeveless jackets made of silk.
Jayan’s drawstring pants were made of linen. He sipped his tea and looked around, failing to spot anyone—other than himself—who had forgotten to wear a shirt or jacket.
The presentation of destins unfolded as formally as the silk clothing of the audience. The long back wall of the dressing rooms provided a backdrop for the stage. A nondescript woman with all the marks of a purebred Shakti Lake daughter mounted the steps to the stage and addressed the audience. “We are pleased to present five destins today, born from the pristine waters of Shakti Lake. We will begin with the visual attributes.”
Jayan folded his arms and settled in for the show. Cayman kept his promise and remained silent at Jayan’s side.
The first destin wouldn’t even raise her eyes. A handler escorted her up the steps to the middle of the stage as the announcer read from prepared notes. “Asta. Diksha performed by Her Eminence Amala Tebbe. Skin: light shade, cool gray. Scales: dark silver. Wrist and ankle: medium pattern. Navel and spine: small pattern.”
Jayan thought this sounded like the destin Cayman had described. But she seemed a bit plump, and anyway he couldn’t muster much interest toward a destin who only looked at the floor. “Eyes: light gray,” said the announcer. The handler whispered something to the destin, but the destin refused to look up.
“This one really does have beautiful eyes,” the announcer said as the handler led the destin to the rear of the stage to sit on a cushion. “Just a little shy at the moment.”
A different handler escorted a new destin to the stage. This one did look up to steal glances at the crowd. Her face maintained a pretty pink blush as the announcer read her statistics. “Madhurini. Diksha performed by Her Eminence Amala Vengar. Skin: light shade, cool gray. Scales: medium silver. Wrist and ankle: medium pattern. Naval and spine: small pattern.”
Jayan sighed. All these destins probably listed the same. He stole a glance at Cayman, but the bursar remained expressionless at his side, watching the stage.
“Eyes: light gray,” said the announcer.
The destin, visibly more slim than the first, walked with her handler to sit on the second cushion. The handlers sat behind their respective destins, never allowing them to feel alone.
The remaining handlers and destins took their turn at the center of the stage as the announcer read from her notes. There were some variations. Two of the destins had darker skin with light silver scales visible at the wrists. Another one had yellowish streaks in her hair. All of these destins held their eyes up toward the audience, some with a defiant air. The fifth looked downright angry.
Jayan noticed how the announcer did not mention the destins’ ages—normally a crucial statistic for a man to consider when he looked for a mate. Jayan suspected that some of these destins were older than the temple cared to reveal.
After the last destin completed the row in the back of the stage, two new handlers walked up the steps to the front. The first handler stood her destin up and walked her to stand between them. The destin gazed down at the wooden boards of the stage.
“Asta. Diksha performed by Her Eminence Amala Tebbe.” The announcer repeated the previous statistics. Then she added new statistics: height, width of bust, width of hips, length of webbing between the fingers. The two handlers on either side of the destin unhooked hidden fasteners at her shoulders and waist to release the front panels of her embroidered, sleeveless overgown. The handlers caught the curving folds of stiff fabric as the panels seemed to peel away from the destin on their own.
Murmurs of appreciation floated up from the crowd.
A low, stiff collar held the back of the overgown in place, as a sort of cape to frame an exposed, sheer undergown. What had previously seemed “plump” now stood revealed as a shapely blend of soft lines and robust, sensual curves.
The lacy, light green fabric of the undergown hung from a fitted border below the destin’s collarbone, leaving her shoulders free to the air. The handlers lifted her hands slightly to better show her arms beneath wide, wispy sleeves. The entire piece covered the destin from cleavage to feet, but it did little to conceal her nude body beneath. The cloth fell especially transparent against her breasts and hips, while strategic shadings of green dye added tantalizing shadows to her pubic region.
With deft movements, the two handlers unbuttoned the overgown’s collar to allow the third handler to lift the remains of the overgown away, after which they guided the destin in a slow turn until her back faced the audience. More murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. Even Jayan sat up straight. The cloth of the undergown fit nicely along the destin’s curves. Shades of green concealed the lower half of her full, perfectly proportioned buttocks, accentuating her hips against the sheer fabric above.
The destin’s eyes never left the floor as the two handlers replaced all the panels of her overgown and fastened it into place. Her main handler returned to her side and escorted her across the stage. “Thank you, Tesame,” the announcer said. As the pair disappeared behind the drapery at the side of the stage, the next handler brought forward the second destin. "Madhurini," the announcer continued. "Diksha performed by Her Eminence Amala Vengar..."
Selda met Tesame and Asta in the long dressing room backstage. They led Asta behind a screened cubicle where other women from the prep team helped them remove Asta’s double-layered gown.
“I couldn’t get her to look up,” Tesame told Selda.
Selda handed a set of undergarments to Asta and let her put them on herself. She lowered her voice, not sure who stood in the cubicles nearby. “We should try to get her to look up at least once. Someone will report it to Amala Vengar otherwise, and we’ll all catch it from her before this is over.”
Asta looked up.
“Yes, Vengar,” Selda said. The women wrapped a long, deep indigo skirt—perfectly tailored to Asta’s curves—around Asta’s hips and buttoned it in place. It sat low enough to expose the curling pattern of dark scales at her navel.
“Can you look up at the audience at least once?” Tesame asked her. “You can see the lake behind them. Just look out at the lake.”
Asta lowered her eyes again. Tesame lifted her own shoulders and shook her head at Selda.
Selda felt a tug in her mind and realized that Amala Tebbe needed her. “Please finish up here,” she told the team. “I’ll be back shortly.”
The team finished dressing Asta without her. They adjusted the bands at Asta’s breasts to maximize her cleavage and lowered the midriff top over her head. The top was white, with a low-cut indigo border around her bosom. Sheer sleeves ended in white cuffs just past her elbows, to better show off the scale pattern at her wrists.
They had just finished touching up the paint on her face and pinning her curls in a new configuration when Selda returned to the cubicle. Amala Tebbe walked with a cane beside her.
Asta lifted her eyes and mirrored the deeply respectful mudras of the other women toward the old Amala. Tebbe approached Asta and took her hand.
“Daughter, you look beautiful,” Tebbe said.
Asta blushed.
“When you return to the stage, please raise your face and look out at the audience.”
Asta narrowed her eyes but turned her hardened look toward the floor instead of Amala Tebbe.
Tebbe squeezed her hand. “You will not gain anything by letting this day pass by you. You must look around yourself. Face your experiences, and you will better understand them.”
Once again Asta lifted her eyes to Amala Tebbe. The other women watched the two of them without emitting a sound.
“Yes?” Tebbe said, wiggling Asta’s hand a bit with her fingers.
Asta nodded. Tesame let out a sigh, and the other women relaxed.
Back out on the deck, Jayan sat beside Cayman watching the handlers reveal this and that angle of the fifth destin beneath her sheer blue undergown. Jayan’s mind wandered back to what lay beneath the undergown of the first destin.
The last destin and handler left the stage, and the announcer proclaimed a short break. Servers walked the rows of cushions to refill empty teacups.
“Do you have any questions so far?” Cayman asked Jayan.
Jayan shook his head.
“Very well. I must leave you for a moment,” Cayman said. Then, as an afterthought, “Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Cayman bowed his head. “I’ll return.”
Jayan watched Cayman walk along the aisles to check on the other buyers. Several families stood up to chat with him. All of the sons looked much younger than Jayan.
An attendant walked the central aisle, offering scented and unscented oils to those guests who might need to moisturize their skin. Cayman returned to the cushion beside Jayan as the announcer returned to the stage.
“Please be seated, as we will now tell you more about these lovely destins,” the announcer said. The five handlers led their destins back onto the stage from the side wing, and arranged them in a seated row near the back. The destins wore formal clothing now, as a husband might see his wife wear to a ceremonial event.
“Asta,” the announcer called the first destin and handler to the center of the stage.
The destin’s eyes fluttered back and forth along the floor as she walked beside her handler. Finally, as they stepped into the soft glow where special angled flaps of the canopy filtered sunlight onto the stage, the destin lifted her eyes to the audience.
She took a step back as if the number of faces surprised her. The handler steadied her with a hand on her elbow. The destin swept a look across the audience and started to drop her eyes again, but then something caught her attention. Her eyes snapped back to one face near the middle aisle.
Jayan saw her looking at him—and saw an expression of recognition burst over her face. Before the announcer could continue, the destin quickly walked forward, following a straight line toward Jayan.
“Asta!” said the handler. The destin checked herself at the edge of the stage and looked around for the steps. She started toward the right side, trying to find her way down to the audience while trying to keep her eyes on the bronze face near the middle.
Jayan stood up, and the rest of the audience followed suit as if in a panic. He could see more handlers emerge from the wings to help the first one corner the destin. They stood with her a moment, whispering to her.
“It’s alright,” the announcer said to the audience. “Please, remain seated.”
The audience folded to their cushions again, murmuring and then shushing each other. Jayan found himself a bit short of breath. He drained his tea as the handlers led the destin back to her cushion. They all remained sitting behind her.
“Ah…we’ll come back to Asta in a moment,” the announcer said. “We can start with our next destin, Madhurini…”
The second handler and destin walked to the center of the stage. Cayman leaned over to Jayan and tilted his chin to indicate the first destin, who stared directly at Jayan from the back of the stage.
“That one seems to like you,” Cayman said.
Jayan swallowed. “Nata-Saat, which one of these destins produced the drawings that you showed me?”
Cayman smirked. “She did. Asta.”
Jayan looked at Cayman. “I think I would like to have some lunch after all, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, Gampo-Saat.” Cayman Natarajan’s smile broadened, until he was grinning from ear to ear.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Later that night, long after the destins had been fed and bathed and sent off to bed, Tesame noticed that Asta’s light was still on. She knocked on the door.
Asta cracked open the door, and then opened it wider when she saw Tesame there. She returned to her desk, letting Tesame follow her in.
Tesame sat on a cushion beside Asta as the destin picked up a rag she had been working with. The oil lamp on a shelf above them illuminated a long, open box on the desk. Asta’s pashi braid lay in the box. Asta had removed the silver clips from it, and now resumed rubbing the metal with her rag.
Tesame studied her for a moment, then said, “You can talk, can’t you?”
Asta kept rubbing. “No,” she said.
“No?”
Asta glanced at Tesame. “Sometimes.”
“I heard you earlier today.”
Asta shrugged and spit into her rag. Her knuckles blurred over the silver, but the metal remained as dull as ever.
“That will never work,” Tesame said. “Let me get some polish.”
Tesame left the room and returned with a small can of silver polish, a small bottle of wood oil, and a large handful of extra rags. She resumed her seat near Asta and opened the can. “Here you go.”
Asta took a small bit of polish and wiped it over the edge of one of the clips. The sliver gleamed back to life. She smiled at Tesame.
“So why are you fixing up your braid?”
The lamplight was bright enough to reveal a sudden blush across Asta’s cheeks. She bent over the clips again.
“Never mind, I think I know.” Tesame grinned and handed Asta a fresh rag.
Tesame cleaned the fendelwood box with the citrus-scented oil as Asta finished polishing. They pinned each end of the braid with the shining clips and folded it in thirds to fit the length of the box. Tesame replaced the box cover and waved her hand over it, then gave it a final pat.
“For good luck,” she said.
Asta snorted. Tesame kissed her forehead and left her with a command, “Now get some sleep!”
As she washed her hands and prepared for bed, Asta thought about the bronze-skinned man with golden scales. She had never considered that he might be a real person until today. Tesame told her he was from a far off, exotic island called Sindhupat.
There must be some connection between them, if he could appear so often in her dreams.
She felt sure that she had seen a look of recognition on his face. Even during the private viewing after the main presentations, his brown eyes had searched hers with a sort of knowing. Asta slipped into bed and thought it funny how the real-life bronze-skinned man had a full head of thick, cobalt blue hair. Dreams could be odd in that way.
When sleep finally claimed her, the man reappeared in her dream, standing tall beside her. She touched his bare shoulder, trying to find his eyes. But his face appeared indistinct, blurring above her against a dusk-purple sky.
His head turned away from her as the dream dissolved into deep, black sleep.