“My deepest apologies, Samrat,” the guard drew to a halt the moment he was within hailing distance. He fidgeted on his horse, his manner tentative but tense. “I… the captain of the Guard asked me…”
“What is the matter, soldier?” The samrat demanded as he stepped out from under the suvarnaka. “Speak up.”
“Your honour, the bells.”
“What bells?” Vikramaditya frowned, and then his face cleared. Cocking his head, he listened. At first, he heard nothing but the drizzle, but with a shift in the wind, he thought he caught the clang of Ujjayini’s bells, indistinct and elusive.
“We aren’t sure of it ourselves, your honour,” said the soldier. “We might be mistaken…”
“We can’t take chances. Get the horses ready.”
The guard left to do as commanded. Vikramaditya spun around and stretched one hand out to Vishakha. “We must go. Ujjayini is probably under attack.”
“Is it demons like the last time?” the queen asked as they hastened across the meadow to their horses. “Kshapanaka told me they were almost inside the palace.”
“It could be rakshasas, or even something sent from Devaloka,” the samrat spoke without breaking his stride. “We’ll know only once we get to Ujjayini. But first, we have to get you to the safety of the Labyrinth.”
“That’s easily done, especially from here,” said Vishakha. “We only have to take the underground passage back through the stone well that we passed while coming here.”
“You remember the secret escape route from the Labyrinth to the stone well?” the samrat stared at his queen in amazement.
“Yes. It was shown to us by Vik…” Vishakha stopped. Her eyes widened, and her voice almost dropped to a whisper. “… by you”
The samrat held his breath, hardly believing his ears. “What do you remember of that day?”
“We were young, Kshapanaka and I. Vikrama and Kalidasa showed us the way out of the Labyrinth. We were told to use the route if ever we needed to get away from the palace and the city.” Vishakha looked through the king, into the past. “I was so scared in the dark passageway. I thought we would all get lost. Then Kalidasa slipped on a ledge and nearly fell into a chasm, but Vikra… you caught him. You saved him just in time.” She blinked and refocused on her husband. As she stretched her hands out toward him, her voice quivered. “You… didn’t have a moustache then.”
Vikramaditya held Vishakha by the tips of her fingers, too choked for words, feeling the relief well up in his eyes as tears. The last obstinate lock had finally turned when he had least expected it. It was now a question of time before she remembered –
The samrat spotted something in the periphery of his vision. He froze.
An arrow. Skimming across the meadow, coming straight at Vishakha!
It was just a blur of motion, a whisper in the drizzle, slipping deceptively through the rain and the light and shadow of the trees around the clearing. It came in fast, nosing through the air with murderous intent, its vicious barbed head pointing directly at the soft curve of Vishakha’s exposed neck. As it approached, it keened and sang with bloodlust.
Alerted to the unseen threat by some sixth sense, Vishakha’s pupils dilated and her mouth opened in fear. However, before she could say a word, Vikramaditya grabbed the queen’s wrist with one hand and pulled her toward him and out of harm’s way. In the same fluid motion, he spun on his heel and drew his sword. Pivoting all the way round, he slashed at the arrow with his sword, timing the stroke to perfection so the shaft snapped into two at the middle.
The broken halves of the missile fell to the ground, but even as they touched the grass, both bits transformed into writhing parts of a snake – the barbed head turning into the pointed, triangular head of a viper, the feathered shaft changing into a lashing tail. Even as the tail squirmed and flailed in the grass, the part with the head went straight for Vishakha’s ankle.
The queen uttered a small shriek and hopped, but she was always going to be too slow for a viper in the grass. The reptile was just a foot away from her when the tip of Vikramaditya’s sword skewered its head, splitting it, impaling it to the ground. There it thrashed about for a moment – and then the snake lost form and became its own shadow, a black ripple that freed itself of the sword and slipped into the tall grass, toward a clump of thorny bushes.
“Guards, protect the queen,” the samrat shouted, bringing his foot down hard on the tail that was still flopping about, trampling it into a gory pulp. At the same time, he drew Vishakha back, putting himself between her and the bushes where the viper’s shadow had disappeared.
In a thunderous gallop of hooves, the Palace Guards came rushing over and formed a tight, protective circle around their king and queen. Four guards dismounted and moved in close, helping Vikramaditya shield Vishakha from all sides.
“What are we guarding against, your honour?” asked the captain of the Guards, scanning the nearby forest for danger.
“Sorcery,” Vikramaditya said brusquely. “An arrow was shot at your queen from the forest. I cut the arrow into two, but the arrow turned into a snake. I tried killing the snake, but it became a shadow and went into the bushes there.”
A crested bulbul lifted out of the bushes and rose into the trees on the other side of the clearing. The samrat watched the bird closely as it flitted from branch to branch before vanishing amidst the thick foliage.
“We need to get the queen out of here,” said Vikramaditya, switching his sight from the bushes to the tree where the bulbul had disappeared. “Move toward the horses.”
With small shuffling steps, the group inched across the meadow. The guards were watchful, their swords drawn and shields up, the three cavalry archers ready to unleash their arrows at the first glimpse of an assailant. Yet, for all their alertness, none of the soldiers noticed the javelin come plunging out of the sky – until it was too late. The javelin struck one of the cavalry archers in his chest, burying in deep and barreling through his body until its pointed tip emerged out of his lower back, streaked with blood.
Two shrill screams rent the damp air over the forest. One was the archer’s, choking and thrumming with agony; the other belonged to Vishakha, horrified at the sight of the impaled soldier reeling on his saddle. The others were still recovering from the shock when the archer’s scream died abruptly, and his bow slipped from his lifeless fingers. He toppled sideways off his mount, but before his body hit the ground, the javelin protruding from his back transformed into a tongue of orange flame. Within seconds, the entire shaft was a burning spoke of fire – and then the fire went out, leaving no trace of itself or the javelin. All that remained was a lazy tendril of black, oily smoke spiraling and lifting over the clearing.
“Move, move, move,” Vikramaditya shouted, snapping the men out of their stupefaction, instilling urgency in them.
The soldiers broke into an awkward, stumbling run, struggling to stay together to cover the queen even as each of them fought the urge to break free and flee from a threat that none of them could comprehend. The horses that bore no riders had no such conflicts to deal with – surrendering to fear, they charged off in all directions, taking to the forest. As the king crossed the dead archer, he bent over to grab the man’s bow and quiver, slinging both over his shoulders.
Behind and above the fleeing party, the wisp of smoke stretched, elongated and looped in the air. In the twinkling of an eye, it turned into a thick, sinewy vine sprouting large, brambly thorns. It whipped around and reached after two of the mounted guards, coiling its ends tightly around their necks and unseating them both with a ferocious tug. Both soldiers crashed heavily to the ground, croaking and gasping as the vine constricted, its thorns digging into the soft flesh of their necks.
Seeing the guards writhing and kicking on the grass, the samrat turned and sprinted back. He attacked the vine with all his might, hacking away until the tough fibres split and began giving way. Still the vine held the guards in an ever-tightening grasp. The soldier
s clawed desperately at the coils around their throats, fingers lacerating against the hooked thorns, panicked eyes bulging out of their sockets. Vikramaditya swung his sword at the vine until it finally severed, but by then, it was too late for the guards. The thorns had sunk deep into their necks, bursting arteries. Blood spilled from under the vine’s coils as both men spasmed to slow, painful deaths.
“We are ready, your honour,” yelled the Guards captain.
With a frustrated cry, the samrat whirled and made a dash toward the group waiting by the edge of the clearing. Vishakha was astride her mare, her face white and bloodless against the darkness of the forest. Her eyes met his, frightened and looking to him for help and protection. Reaching his horse, the king swung himself onto the saddle.
“Stay as close to the queen as possible,” he ordered, unslinging the bow and nocking an arrow into place. “Let’s go.”
The clearing echoed with the beat of hooves as the group spurred into action and headed for the path to Ujjayini. Throwing one final glance over his shoulder at the clearing, Vikramaditya saw the vine relax its hold over the two dead guards. Uncoiling, it quickly dissipated into thin air. The samrat raised the bow and pulled its string back, his eyes searching the forest.
The threat had not passed, he knew. Whatever it was, it didn’t like being thwarted. It would come at them with renewed fury, more vengeful and vicious than before.
* * *
The heady smell of burned cannabis. And the stale fragrance of aguru and sandalwood oil.
Jayanta looked around the narrow confines of the hut with a start, wondering where the smells had come from. The seven lamps had burned low, and the room had grown dark as the rainclouds gathered and shed their misery over the plain. Outside, the kinnara was moaning again. Jayanta sniffed the air delicately, then inhaled deeper, but all he could smell was damp, mouldy wood.
Yet, the prince was certain that layered somewhere beneath was the discernable whiff of cannabis and sandalwood oil.
The scents stirred something old and melancholic inside him. He associated the scent of cannabis and sandalwood with his mother – not the one who had existed before Puloman’s death, but the one after. The one obsessed with the paintings of the cliffs; the relic who haunted a wretched, abandoned corner of Amaravati’s palace.
The prince gave his head a vigorous shake to expel thoughts of Shachi, but the trapdoor had been unlatched long enough for the memories to come pushing through. In a rush of sadness, he remembered Shachi clutching him to her breast and weeping at the death of Puloman. Indra, in an exceptional act of vindictiveness, had forbade Shachi from even seeing her father’s dead body, and Jayanta could still feel his mother’s anguish as she begged her husband to grant her one last sight of Puloman. Indra had stoutly refused, and Shachi had spent two whole nights crying into Jayanta’s shoulders.
It was on the third morning that Shachi painted the cliffs for the first time.
Jayanta felt a wetness on his cheeks and tasted salt at the corners of his mouth. Sniffling and wiping the tears away, he stared down at the simmering bowl in front of him, trying hard to keep his thoughts from straying. Ahi was in Ujjayini and there was work to be done…
Shachi’s laughter was the oldest memory the prince had of his mother. It was a clear laugh, like tiny brass bells, full of joy every time she threw him in the air and caught him, or spun him round and round as she held him by his plump little baby fingers. He heard his own gurgling laughter mingling with hers, his world a riotous twirl of light and colour with Shachi at its centre. She laughed when he chased butterflies in Amaravati’s gardens, and she laughed when he spoke to her in a baby language that none but the two of them understood. Jayanta had never quite observed the gradual fraying and fading in Shachi’s laughter – and then one day it was gone, eclipsed forever by a stillness far deeper than pain.
The thought of that forgotten laughter brought fresh tears to Jayanta’s eyes and his chest tightened with sorrow. Somewhere, a small voice inside him kept reminding him that Ahi had to be controlled, that he should stay focused on retrieving the Halahala…
Urvashi was another one with a delightful laugh.
He remembered the apsara in his father’s court when Puloman was alive, but it was only after Puloman’s death – and Shachi’s exile into her private world – that he had begun seeing more of her as he wandered, aimless and uncared for, around the palace. For a long time, he had wanted nothing to do with her, and Urvashi too had stayed out of his way. But all that had changed the morning they crossed paths near the palace bath.
The prince had been sauntering along the landscaped garden that lined the bath when he chanced upon Urvashi plucking orchids from a bough that overhung a channel of gently flowing water. The apsara was standing on a wooden bridge, and as she stretched to reach a far bunch of flowers, she lost her balance. She made an instant grab at the bridge’s railings, and although she saved herself from falling, her flower basket slipped from her hand. The basket struck the railing and went over, tumbling toward the water.
Jayanta had instinctively reached for the basket and caught it – but his lunge was poorly timed, causing him to tip over and splash headlong into the stream. He surfaced, coughing and spluttering, to hear Urvashi’s laughter. Not a heartless, derisive laugh at his plight, but one brimming with mirth and sympathy and innocence. When he had hauled himself out of the water and handed her the basket, half-full of dripping flowers, the apsara had picked out a sprig of violet orchids and given it to him with the sweetest of smiles.
That was the moment when Urvashi’s beauty had first blinded Jayanta. When, in those deep and enchanting eyes, he had seen the love and passion that the apsara was capable of harbouring. That day, on the bridge by the bath, desire for Urvashi had kindled in his heart.
He loved the apsara over everything else and was willing to go to any lengths to please her. Yet, she toyed with him. She flirted with every other deva in the court, and she preened and pouted at Narada, laughing at his silly jokes – that innocent, youthful laugh of hers that she ought to have reserved exclusively for him, but instead shared wantonly with everyone.
Urvashi and Shachi, the two women he cared most about. One had struck him with love, the other had showered him with affection. Yet, both had grown distant with the passage of time. Both, in their own ways, had left him hopeless and pining for their love.
The scent of dew-fresh orchids and stale sandalwood washed over the prince once again, smothering him in inconsolable grief. He didn’t know why he felt such overwhelming sorrow, but he surrendered to its softness, sinking deeper and deeper into its folds as memories overtook him.
Jayanta hardly noticed when the first barbs of hot pain shot through his body.
* * *
As Kshapanaka crouched on the rooftop and bent her bow at the monster, Shanku’s words, spoken just minutes ago, flashed through her mind.
“There is something special in you, something rare and unique that protects you from the serpent’s venom. It also helped you destroy the armour of the rakshasa that attacked the palace. The oracle says these things are gifts, that we are blessed to have them. But she says we have to learn to use these gifts – otherwise they are useless and we are better off without them. Believe in your gift, Kshapanaka. Believe that you can harm the serpent.”
Summoning all the anger she had felt at seeing the devastation in the ironworkers’ quarters, Kshapanaka let the arrow slip from between her fingers. She watched the shaft shoot across the grey sky and bury itself in the monster’s head. She saw the splash of water where the arrow struck, the same dirty brown splash that had appeared every time she had shot at the beast. However, this time she saw something else as well.
A current, dense and jet-black in colour, that forked and rippled across the serpent’s skin, causing it to flinch as if in pain. Kshapanaka fitted another arrow into her bow. Pulling back the strings, she brought to her mind the image of Sadguna, the dead chief of the Palace Guards, l
ying headless at the foot of the stairway. The old man had given his life to protect the palace household from the rakshasa; death was an unjust reward for his loyalty to the crown. The thought filled her with rage and she shot the arrow at the serpent.
The creature almost staggered back, and as it raised itself, Kshapanaka noticed that it was waning in places and losing substance. Its malevolence had far from dimmed, though, and as it surveyed the councilor, it opened its mouth wide to spit venom.
“What’s happening? Any luck?”
Kshapanaka darted a glance at the street below, where Amara Simha and Shanku huddled behind a wall for protection. Amara Simha had returned to his human form, and was staring at her from under his furry red eyebrows.
Before Kshapanaka could reply, a blast of venom hit her hard, and even though she had braced herself for it, she lost her footing and had to grab the tiled roof to steady herself. The venom, which smelled of juiced lemons and rancid water, drenched her completely, but left her otherwise unharmed, and the councilor swiftly nocked an arrow and bent her bow. However, before she could shoot, the monster burst and scattered into the pouring rain.
Cursing under her breath, Kshapanaka returned the arrow to the quiver. Slinging her bow over her shoulders, she quickly slithered down the roof and descended to the street. “It’s gone again,” she said in a resigned tone, wiping rainwater from her forehead with one arm.
“Wonder where it will show up next,” Amara Simha growled in vexation. “I even wonder if what we are doing is helping at all.”
“It is helping,” said Kshapanaka. “Shanku was right. I have been able to inflict pain on the monster and weaken it.”
“You have?” Shanku’s face shone in excitement.
“I saw it jerk in pain,” Kshapanaka nodded as she mounted the horse lent to her by the City Watch.
“That hasn’t stopped it from spitting venom,” said Amara Simha, getting onto his saddle.
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 27
