“Sita, I am sure Rama cares for you.” I could not imagine Rama not caring about any member of his family or his city. “But when it comes to matters of the heart—”
“I am not asking for you to make him love me,” Sita interrupted. “It is painful, to be sure, that I might feel more for him than he feels for me. But I would at least like to be a part of his life. If I am not the radnyi he needs, he will hate me. I am sure of it.”
“No,” I protested. “He will not hate you, Sita.”
“Rama is a god, and a powerful one. If one day I did not meet his standards, I know he could easily punish me.”
“But he would not,” I said.
Sita looked at me. “And what if I were to tell you that at night, he talks to me about how easily he can convince people to do his bidding? That he knows exactly what to say to someone to convince them to be a part of his work and sees how to weave people together?”
She was describing my own powers quite well.
“Sita, I know that may seem scary. But think. Rama has not actually done anything to hurt anyone. What he does, he does for the good of others.” Even as I spoke, I thought about Dasharath. Was his decision not likely a result of manipulation, even if unconscious? “Has he done something to worry you?”
“He wishes to rule, and now his perfectly healthy father is abdicating. I do not believe that was Raja Dasharath’s decision.” It was as though she had seen my fears and given them voice.
“Rama loves his father,” I said, maternal instinct pushing me to defend my son. But I doubted. For I knew much less about Rama than I thought. He had hidden Sage Vamadeva from me, despite knowing the man’s beliefs. I wanted to blame another man for everything, but Rama was his own person. An adult. I believed his actions were unconscious, but could I really know that about him?
“I know that he does, but…” She sighed. “I do not know how to explain it better than this. You are always so wise, and I thought perhaps you would have an answer.”
“What would you have me do?” I asked.
“Do you not see? You are the only person who can stand up to him. He has no power over you, but he still cares for you and your opinion, does he not?”
Maybe that had once been true. I did not know any longer.
A wave of exhaustion swept over me. This was all too much. “I need to think. Thank you for coming to me with your concerns,” I said to Sita. “Let us talk further tomorrow.”
Her face fell, but she bowed her head and left.
Manthara had departed on some errand while we spoke, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The walls felt unfamiliar after moons away, just another piece of my home that was now foreign to me. I shivered under my robe. I was exposed, vulnerable, in a way I had not been for many years. This Ayodhya wasn’t quite mine anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN I arrived at the Mantri Parishad, I was surprised to find several new faces. I recognized the children of some older ministers, young men who were not much older than Rama. They looked at him as though he was already wearing the crown. Until now, I had imagined Rama perhaps wreaking this havoc without understanding his own actions. But this was real and deliberate, not unconscious magic.
I stepped into the Binding Plane. To my shock, I was greeted not by a riot of color, but the sight of thin, sickly strings that nearly blended into the gray of the world around me. My connection to almost every advisor was failing. And the moment I was seated, bright blue threads flared into existence, connected not to me, but to my son. The weakness of my bond to Dasharath still lay heavy in my heart, and seeing this, my life’s work, gone in mere months… I felt empty. The absence, in a way, was worse than pain. I could not bring myself to even try to reinvigorate those threads. And every time Rama spoke during the meeting, his bonds shone as if set aflame.
After the council, Rama sought me out. “Ma, it is good to see you again.” His smile was sincere, his warm manner unchanged. This was no incomprehensible stranger, no conniving disciple. He was my son—my son.
“You as well,” I said, finding a smile of my own. Even so, my voice sounded uncertain to my ears, and his face fell a fraction. I responded as his mother, on instinct, my arms reaching out and hugging him, rubbing his back to soothe away his sadness. He relaxed against me, as he always had. But between my body and my mind lay a gap of suspicions, the distance between us clear.
“How was your journey?” he asked. “What did you learn of the asura?”