“Are you returning to the palace?” Amara Simha asked. Seeing Kalidasa nod, he jerked his head. “Come along then. We’re also headed that way.”
“My horse is tethered on the other side,” the giant pointed down an alley. “Go ahead. I will fetch it and join you.”
As Vararuchi and Amara Simha prodded their mounts forward, Kalidasa ducked into the alleyway. Walking along the narrow, checkered stretch of pavement dappled with sunlight, the giant blinked again, trying to recollect a thought –an awareness? –that had flitted through his mind like an apparition as he had come down the stairs. One moment it had been there, a doe in the mist –a snake in the grass? –but the next it was gone, a shadow in the mind’s eye, more imagined than real.
Kalidasa riffled through the compartments of his mind, searching for a remnant of the thought so he could pick up the trail again, but whatever it was stayed two steps ahead, eluding him.
* * *
“We are glad the masters of Patala see opportunity in collaborating with the devas.”
Narada beamed a shiny, artificial smile at Hiranyaksha and Shukracharya from across the stretch of polished teakwood where the two estranged sets of Sage Kashyapa’s descendants sat in negotiation.
For all the goodwill and enthusiasm that the diplomat exuded, there was a marked lack of cheer among those seated in the ornate gazebo, and the mood was edgy as Hiranyaksha and Indra missed no opportunity to glower at each other. Shukracharya and Brihaspati didn’t help the situation with their poorly concealed dislike for one another, so the misty breeze that blew through the forest of Himavanta –laden with the rich scents of devadaru, narilata and a hundred varieties of wild orchid –failed to have a soothing effect on the small gathering.
“It is not a question of opportunity. It is a matter of need,” Shukracharya answered curtly.
“Whose need?” Brihaspati asked in a needling tone. “Yours or ours?”
Favouring the chamberlain with a sour look, the high priest answered, “The question would have been unnecessary had you been better qualified to comprehend the problem facing us, gurudev. But as you so kindly ask, let me tell you that the need is both ours and yours.”
Narada winced inwardly at Shukracharya’s effrontery and braced himself for a cutting retort from Brihaspati. The rivalry between the two was legendary, and dated back to the time they were pupils training together under Sage Angirasa, then chamberlain of Devaloka. Though neck to neck in talent and application, the consensus was that Shukracharya was the marginally better student –and the one most likely to succeed Angirasa as the spiritual guru of the devas. However, to the surprise of many, at the time of anointing a new chamberlain, Angirasa picked his own son Brihaspati over Shukracharya. Not one to give in without a fight, Shukracharya accused Angirasa of favouritism and appealed to the council of Devaloka to adjudicate the matter. It will never be known whether it was out of respect for Angirasa or a general reluctance to rocking the boat, but the devas refused to overturn Angirasa’s decision –a costly mistake, Narada had often admitted to himself in private later.
Having staked his reputation on the challenge, Shukracharya suffered a grave loss of face –to say nothing of having earned the displeasure of Brihaspati, Devaloka’s new chamberlain. Embittered by what he saw as an abject pandering to Angirasa’s whim –and a support of nepotism over meritocracy –the young sage swore vengeance on the deva council and left Amaravati for Patala, where, out of spite, he offered his services to the asuras. The asuras promptly made Shukracharya their high priest, fuelling more hatred between Angirasa’s former pupils.
“Need,” Indra answered in place of the chamberlain. “You speak as if you are in mortal fear of the human king. One defeat at his hands and the mighty asuras appear to have lost the appetite to fight.” The lord of the devas looked from Narada to Brihaspati, a smirk playing on his lips.
“One defeat is a little more dignified than three at a human’s hands.” It was Hiranyaksha’s turn to ratchet up the sarcasm.
Narada felt disheartened. He had brought the two sides together to discuss peace, but there was the history of mistrust and betrayals to surmount first. Here, in this very gazebo, under the monastic shadow of Mount Meru, Puloman had died when a meeting called for peace had escalated into a war of words and got out of hand; the diplomat worried that they were heading down that same path all over again.
“You are right when you say I fear the human king cannot be defeated,” Shukracharya interjected in a sombre tone that made everyone look at him in surprise. “We have learnt it the hard way, and so have you.”
“A setback or two doesn’t mean he can’t be defeated,” Indra countered, but the arrogance had suddenly gone out of his voice, replaced with doubt. “He is only human, after all.”
“We sent Andhaka and a pishacha army. You sent the Ashvin Brotherhood, the Maruts and Ahi.” The high priest observed the devas exchange furtive glances at the mention of the serpent-dragon, and wondered why. “One would think this would have been enough to break any enemy. But the human king still stands. I have spent a lot of time in the king’s palace, so…”
“You were in the king’s palace?” Brihaspati blurted, the shock making him shed his usual hostility toward the high priest.
“I was looking for a way to get to Veeshada’s dagger,” Shukracharya spread his hands and said with surprising candour. “It is a long story, but what is important is that I saw enough to realize he can’t be defeated by you or us –or both of us together. Not right now, at least.”
“May I ask what makes you so certain, mahaguru?” Narada peered at Shukracharya.
“What do you know of the Nine Pearls?”
The devas looked at one another. “The Nine Sacred Pearls?” Indra’s brow crinkled in a dubious frown. “They don’t exist. Everyone knows that.”
“Until not very long ago, all of you in Amaravati thought the vyalas didn’t exist.” Shukracharya saw the devas’ faces darken at the mention of the gruesome beasts. “Until a little while ago, we in Patala believed the mantra to raise Ahi had been destroyed for good.”
“So the Nine Pearls exist. What about them?” Brihaspati asked.
“Vikramaditya has a council of nine warriors. Each of them bears one of the Nine Pearls.” The high priest paused to assess the three devas across the table. “I have seen and heard about how the powers of the pearls manifest in the councilors. One of them is immune to venom, another transforms into a man–lion, while a third can appear and disappear at will. I was right beside one of them when he conjured an energy shield out of thin air to block Ahi’s venom. And you know the interesting thing? Most of them don’t even know what they are doing, what powers they possess. They are seeing and using these powers for the first time.”
“How did they acquire these powers?” Indra asked, flustered.
“They have always had these powers, only locked away safely. I was responsible for their unlocking,” Shukracharya gave a sheepish nod. “When the Maruts came to claim Veeshada’s dagger, I cast a Regeneration Spell over Ujjayini to render the king’s army hardier, so they could counter the attack. Unfortunately, the spell worked too well. It stimulated the dormant power of the pearls and brought them out into the open.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Brihaspati’s tone was mocking, irascible. “Even under father’s tutelage, you were impulsive, doing things without considering the consequences. Look where your rashness has landed us.”
“Pardon me, mahaguru,” Narada butted in, nipping another heated exchange in the bud. “I fail to understand how the Nine Pearls are an impediment to defeating the king.”
“The Nine Pearls are designed to protect powerful things from coming to harm –it could be anything, a place, an energy source… or, as in this case, the human king. It is not a coincidence that all nine bearers of the pearls are the king’s councilors. That is the way it has been ordained. The Nine Pearls are interdependent and draw their strength from one another, growing stronger and stronge
r as each pearl gains in strength. It is a virtuous cycle. And the stronger they grow, the better they protect the thing they have been designed to protect.” The high priest paused to let his words sink in. “See the problem we are up against?”
The sighing of the wind in the devadarus and the rush of a hidden mountain stream filled the silence that had laid siege to the gazebo. Mist drifted past the assembly seated around the teakwood table, the edge of combativeness ripped out by the sobering realization of the challenge they were facing.
“You must have seen a way around this,” Indra looked perceptively from Hiranyaksha to Shukracharya. “You wouldn’t have made this journey all the way from Patala just to tell us it can’t be done.”
“Oh, there is a way,” the high priest smiled. “There is always a way.” He looked around the table, the smile going cold on his face. “As long as the Council of Nine stays together, nothing can happen to the king. Inversely, to get to the king, we only have to weaken the force that the Nine Pearls exert on one another. We have to drive a wedge between the pearls, and then keep driving them apart.”
“We break the chain that binds the councilors together. their unity,” said Narada. “How?”
A wolfish smile lit up the high priest’s countenance. “I had the opportunity to observe the king and the councilors closely when I was at the palace, and upon leaving Ujjayini, I applied myself to learning everything I could about them. I have discovered deeply guarded secrets and bitter truths that can divide the king and his council –fissures that run deep, which the humans themselves are yet ignorant of, and are ours to exploit. Already, with some help from me, the wheels have been set in motion to trigger an initial crack in their unity –any moment now, that rift will tear into the open. That will only be the beginning, though. There is potential to split the palace right down the middle –” rubbing his hands together, Shukracharya fixed on Indra, “–but for that, I will need your help. This can be the revenge you have been thirsting for.”
“Tell me what I should do, mahaguru.”
Shukracharya began detailing his plot, and shedding their antagonism, Indra and Hiranyaksha drew closer in anticipation of the misfortunes that would strike Vikramaditya down.
Horseman
Water streamed off Kalidasa’s head, neck and shoulders in rivulets as he bent low over the bubbling fountain, bracing his hands against its stony rim for support, staring down into the broad bowl of dark, glistening water. His reflection bobbed amidst the ripples, a dull silhouette against the starlit sky.
“Umg’a, Thra’akha… umg’a!”
Jump, Thra’akha… jump!
“Is everything alright, your honour?”
Kalidasa gave a start and turned. A sentry stood in the shadows at the edge of the terrace, right by the gallery that gave into the councilors’ bedchambers. The soldier looked unsure, caught in two minds over approaching the samsaptaka commander.
“Yes… I’m fine,” the giant blurted. “It’s. just the heat. You may go.”
The sentry withdrew with a short bow, returning to his nocturnal vigil of the palace. Kalidasa waited for him to disappear from view before making a slow, ponderous plod back to his quarters. It was hardly twenty paces from the fountain to his bedchamber, but by the time the councilor shut the door behind him, sweat had once again broken out on his brow, and ran freely down his neck and jawline.
“Umg’a, Thra’akha… umg’a!”
Somewhere in his sleep, just like that, he had understood what the man wielding the bow and arrow was yelling. He had also understood the words that had escaped his own lips in a shriek before the man had responded, urging him to jump.
“Ba… unnu pa’hze!” Father, help me!
Father.
The dark face behind the drawn bow, bronzed by the heat of the desert sun. The curly beard and the ferocious black moustache, speckled with the grey of time. The fierce black eyes of a predator that softened and glowed with pride whenever they settled on him. The hriiz on his forehead, strong, black and talismanic. Ba. Father.
“A’po h’lumi oa, ba?”
He remembered sitting across the ritual fire, watching his father hone and cleanse the dagger in the sacred flames as the priests sat around chanting ancient hymns to propitiate the desert scorpion. He recalled the fear creeping over him as he looked at the gleaming dagger. He recalled wondering aloud if the dagger would hurt a lot as it cut and gouged the skin and flesh on his own forehead.
“Z’ah, z’ah,” his father had replied with a kind chuckle. Not at all.
Examining the dagger’s edge in the firelight, he had added, “A’hiy h’lumi? Zuh te’i Ga’ur Thra’akha.” What pain? You are Ga’ur Thra’akha, the Gift of Death itself. “Iniamgo du’z… duz’ur Zho E’rami.” Moreover, you are my son… son of Zho E’rami, Zho the Fearless.
Kalidasa also remembered the hunt. All of them, charging across the open plain in pursuit of the herd of deer. It had been his first hunt, and he had been brimming with excitement as his father and his men had first stalked, then cornered their prey, hunting the deer down with ruthless precision. He had been too small to wield a weapon, but the thrill of the chase had still been heady…
Then, without warning, his horse had bolted.
He had hung on to the bucking beast for dear life, and it was plain luck that his father caught sight of the crazed horse making a beeline for the dense forest at the edge of the plain. His father had given chase, screaming at him to leap off the horse before it crashed into the trees and the undergrowth. But terror had made him numb and he clung to his mount’s neck, ignoring his father’s commands. In a last-ditch effort, his father had raised his bow and taken aim at the horse with the intention of stopping it with an arrow.
“Umg’a, Thra’akha… umg’a!” Jump, Thra’akha. jump!
Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was his father’s words finally getting through to him, but he had leaped off, landing hard and bouncing and rolling… He had ended up with a dislocated shoulder; the horse disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again.
Standing in his chamber, absently towelling sweat and water off his sculpted chest and shoulders, Kalidasa suddenly recalled something else. Smoke. Curtains and curtains of white smoke swirling around him, filled with the smell of burning wood. And charred flesh.
He recalled lying on his stomach and looking down into a valley where some buildings had been set ablaze. He recalled watching a knot of soldiers hustle four prisoners – three women, one man, all in chains – into a granary. The soldiers had then set the granary on fire, burning their prisoners alive.
The towel dropped from the councilor’s nerveless fingers. He reeled at the memory of the smoke and the blazing granary. His throat felt parched, as if the heat from those flames had dehydrated him. The room swam before his eyes, tilting steeply one way, then rocking the other. Kalidasa lurched to the nearest wall and rested his back against it, drawing support from its solidity. He bent his knees and slid to the floor.
The man whom the soldiers had pushed into the granary was Zho E’rami. Huna warlord. Ba. Father. Strong, unbending, holding his head high until his last breath. The women… one was his elder sister, Ei’hi. One, a widowed aunt. The third, the aunt’s daughter. The women’s screams issued from the granary as another sound filled his ears – sandalled feet pounding on earth, drawing closer. And all the while, his eyes on the horseman.
The horseman. The one who had ordered the granary to be torched with his family trapped inside. The leader of the soldiers. There was something familiar about him, the way he sat on his saddle, the slight slouch of his left shoulder…
That was when everything came back to the giant in a boiling, seething tide. Everything.
* * *
Hearing the heavy door creak on its hinges, Vikramaditya looked up to see Pralupi flounce unceremoniously into the room.
“I need to speak with you, Vikrama.” The princess took three steps forward and stopped, lips pursed into a thin
line, waiting for the king to respond. If she noticed Vishakha lying in her bed, pale and detached, she gave no indication of it, and she roundly ignored the two maids and the matron entrusted with the queen’s care.
The samrat raised an eyebrow at his sister in surprise, taking in the fatigue that lined her face and cast dark circles around her eyes. “I didn’t know you were expected in Ujjayini,” he said. “When did you arrive?”
“Last night.” Pralupi’s manner was abrupt. “Can we talk?”
Vikramaditya glanced out of the open window. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the horizon, and the mist still hung in blankets over the lake. The breeze that blew past the billowing brocade curtains bore a mild nip that sent gooseflesh along the king’s arms. “It is still early. Maybe once you are properly rested…”
“I have rested enough.” Pralupi crossed her arms and planted herself square so her intention was plain to everyone in the room.
Vikramaditya sighed. From as far back as he cared to remember, this was how it had been with Pralupi. Obstinate and demanding, bent on having her way every time. Age had robbed much from his sister, but regrettably, it had left her dour mulishness untouched.
With a nod, the king rose from the queen’s side. He paused to give Vishakha a tender glance, bending down to tuck back a curl of hair that had escaped from behind her ear. His fingers strayed down one cheek, brushing softly against her skin, the lightest of caresses, and then he was striding away from the bed, businesslike. “Come,” he said to Pralupi, gesturing to the door.
Not another word was exchanged until the siblings had crossed to a private alcove abutting a terrace at the other end of the gallery. The samrat stopped to ascertain they were alone, before turning to Pralupi. “So what new crisis brings you all this way to Ujjayini?” he asked without preamble.
“You were behind the move to have Shashivardhan declared successor to Vatsa’s throne.”
Thrown off guard, Vikramaditya blinked at his sister. Finally, he gave a small, noncommittal shrug.
The Conspiracy at Meru Page 34
