“We have all heard of Rama’s and Lakshmana’s triumphs,” he said proudly. “It has reminded me that the boys are almost seventeen, and well accomplished. It is time for them to marry.”
The last time he had called all of us to his chambers, we’d sat on the ground by his feet as he bid us sacrifice our bodies to his quest for an heir. This time we sat on cushioned benches in Dasharath’s study, meeting one another as equals.
The years had aged all of us, but Dasharath remained vital as ever, laboring each day to ensure the kingdom’s prosperity. While he did not ride out to fight anymore, there was hardly any occasion for it—the villages and tribes to the north had been completely folded into our kingdom under Dasharath’s reign, and the southwest of Kosala had become more settled and therefore less hospitable to bandit encampments.
Kaushalya had retained her serene elegance and biting wit and still masterfully followed all the inner workings of the court and palace. And Sumitra’s constant cheerful wisdom was a balm, her laugh lines only accentuating her beauty.
I did not know what the others saw when they looked at me, or what they thought my governing quality might be, but I knew that my hard edges and raw ambition had softened with time.
“Who did you have in mind?” Kaushalya asked, pulling me out of my musings.
“King Janaka of Videha is holding a swayamvara in his capital of Mithila for his daughter Sita. She is rumored to be a girl of great beauty and compassion. And Janaka and his brothers have other fine daughters besides. If Rama wins Sita’s hand, there is no reason we cannot bind Kosala and Videha with several ties of marriage.”
Videha. It was a powerful kingdom to our east and had long been our ally. Although smaller than Kosala in size, it was renowned for its cultivation of spices and therefore highly prosperous. This would indeed be a strong match.
“You should all prepare to travel within one moon,” Dasharath said. “Rama and Lakshmana will meet us there, and I expect we will not leave until there has been a wedding.”
Mithila, the capital of Videha, was located at the base of the mountains. Its deep swathes of forest and crisp, clean air sent a sharp pang of longing through me, for it resembled the landscape of my childhood. But unlike in Kekaya, the people of the Videhan court wore the same dress and practiced the same customs as those in Kosala.
We were among the first to arrive for the swayamvara. Raja Janaka had invited Dasharath to discuss matters of state beforehand. Whoever married Sita would likely take the throne of Videha, and Dasharath wanted to ensure that if it was not Rama, Kosala’s alliance would still be secure.
Secretly, I had no doubt it would be my son. I had heard a rumor that Janaka had convinced Lord Shiva himself to provide his bow for the swayamvara. The suitor who could lift the Shiva Dhanush, string it, and shoot an arrow from it would win Sita’s hand in marriage. It was the kind of challenge that would live on in stories and in song, outlasting any mortal heart. Rama had grown into a warrior capable of slaying rakshasas unaided, and he had his divinity besides. I did not know what man could match him.
The palace was busy with preparations for the swayamvara, so one afternoon, while Janaka and Dasharath held council and Kaushalya and Sumitra took rest in their rooms, I decided to walk down to the stables. Even if I could not ride here, I always enjoyed spending time with horses.
Along the way, I passed a girl dressed in the garb of a servant. She hurried past me up the path toward the castle, and I stopped to watch her go, for she carried herself quite gracefully. In fact, there was something familiar about her…
“Sita?” I called. She froze, and I knew I was right. “Yuvradnyi Sita. We met at the welcome feast.”
Slowly she turned back around. “Radnyi Kaikeyi, how good to see you again. Please, pardon my rudeness.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to pardon. Were you visiting the stables?”
She bit her lip, but nodded. “I like to ride out in the mornings. When I can. To pray.” Sita was quite pretty, with long black hair woven in a thick braid, shining black eyes, and a full mouth. But she had been given away by the stripe of luminous silver running through the front of her hair and the tiny flower-shaped birthmark at the corner of her right eye. Not a face one forgot easily.
“I see. Are you very devout?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of prayer on horseback.”
She laughed, then covered her mouth as if horrified that the sound had slipped out. “I think I am. I pray every day, many times, to many gods.”