“What do you want?” Aatreya asked petulantly.
“They have discovered the prince is missing.”
“So?” the merchant shrugged. “They would have, sooner or later.”
“They are launching a hunt for him tomorrow morning. The governor has managed to buy time until daybreak, but he cannot stall after that without attracting suspicion.”
Chirayu took a step closer, so that he was just a hand’s breadth away from Aatreya.
“Tell your friends from across the mountains to move fast. They only have tonight to take the prince as far away from Udaypuri as possible.”
“What do you mean your friends?” Aatreya sounded resentful at the lackey’s apparent lack of courtesy. “They aren’t just my friends. They are your friends too… and friends with the man you serve so loyally. Let’s not forget that.”
Chirayu was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was as if he hadn’t heard the merchant at all. “Commander Atulyateja is the prince’s friend. He will look behind every tree and under every rock. Tell your friends they have tonight to take the prince into the mountains — ideally, over the mountains and into the Marusthali.”
The lackey spun on his heel and walked off, darkness swallowing him like a ravenous beast. Aatreya stood in the middle of the road, suddenly feeling all alone.
* * *
I have convinced the Samrat to take me to the meadow. We ride there in the morning.
Kshapanaka remembered the eagerness in Vishakha’s voice, her eyes sparkling in triumph as she had looked up from the pillow that night before her fall — the second one. Kshapanaka had dropped by to see how her sister was faring, and the queen had spoken of little else in her excitement at revisiting the meadow. And, despite her deep reservations, Kshapanaka had smiled in encouragement, knowing how desperate Vishakha was to recollect her past — especially the bits linked to Vikramaditya.
But now, seeing her sister lying listlessly on the same pillow, eyes dead to everything around her, Kshapanaka felt a familiar swell of anger at herself. Why, why, why, a voice in her head screamed critically, why didn’t you dissuade her that night, tell her that going back there was a terrible idea? Why didn’t you put a stop to the foolishness when you knew no good would come of it?
Leaning forward, the young councilor ran her palm over Vishakha’s brow and stroked her head, patting down a stray strand of hair. The day had barely dawned, but the queen had already been bathed and attended to by the matron and the maids in whose care she had been placed again. Both maids were still hovering close by — one was dicing mangoes and papaya for Vishakha’s first meal of the day, the other was preparing to file the queen’s nails — and it was to keep them from noticing the tears that Kshapanaka bent and kissed her sister’s forehead.
Why, why, why, the voice in her head suddenly — irrationally — trained its rant at the samrat. Why did you have to listen to her and take her to the meadow? You could have refused. You are the king, after all. Why did you indulge her?
“Do you wish to feed the Queen, your honour?”
Kshapanaka blinked and discreetly brushed a tear clinging to her eyelashes. Sitting erect, she accepted the bowl of fruit from the maid.
Vishakha’s dramatic recovery under the Healer’s supervision had ushered a period of relief and joy, the likes of which Kshapanaka had not experienced for a very long time. One by one, the sisters had rediscovered the bonds that had held them close since their childhood in Nishada, and these bonds had been reinforced in the course of umpteen conversations as Vishakha pieced together her past. They had almost come all the way, closed nearly every gap in Vishakha’s memory… and then, suddenly…
Why, the voice demanded, strident, accusing, why did you stop the Healer from taking a look at her? What harm would it have done? It’s not as if you had asked a favour of him — it was the Healer who offered. The Healer might have been able to revive her — but no, you wouldn’t have it. Adamant. Stubborn. Insisting it would be incorrect…
Conscious that her hands were shaking uncontrollably, Kshapanaka set the bowl aside. Clearing her throat, she addressed the maid, “I just remembered something. I have to go.” Rising abruptly, she was halfway to the door when she looked back. “Make sure the Queen eats well.”
Striding down the palace galleries, the councilor reached her room, where she stopped just long enough to grab her bow and quiver, which held three stout arrows. Slinging the quiver onto her back and retracing her steps, Kshapanaka felt the hot flush of anger on her cheeks and realized she was helpless to it. Sorrow, rage and frustration had been brewing in her for days now, and the concoction was finally on a boil, refusing to yield to reason, refusing to be placated, an amalgamation of emotions that felt like the sizzling of a rebellion in her veins.
…adamant, stubborn, and blinded by your goodness. Insisting on letting him go, when he should have been restrained and put in the dungeons. He said he was the son of Zho E’rami, chief of the x’sa line of Hunas. He rejected the name Kalidasa for his Huna name. He said he wouldn’t serve the throne of Avanti any longer. Yet you let him go, the son of a murdering Huna…
Kshapanaka traversed the palace causeway and turned in the direction of the royal stables. A bead of sweat trickled past her temple and ran down her cheek, but she hardly noticed it. Not a leaf stirred in the still morning air, and the day promised to be hot and oppressive.
An image of the council chamber formed in her mind’s eye as she walked, and she saw the king frown and say, we will acknowledge things once we have irrefutable evidence of their existence.
Irrefutable evidence, the voice in her head retorted scornfully. We will get that when he shows up at the frontier at the head of the barbarian army. His token of gratitude for letting him leave Avanti unharmed.
“How can I help you, councilor?”
Kshapanaka stared at the young stable boy bowing to her, then glanced around the stable. The place was more or less empty at this hour, and even Keeri, the Warden of the Stables, was nowhere to be seen. The councilor thought that was just as well. She was in no mood to answer any questions that the Warden might have had.
“Saddle my horse,” she replied. “The old one.”
“The old one, councilor?” The boy scratched his nose in confusion, eyeing the bow held combatively in the woman’s grasp with mild concern. “I don’t think I know…”
“Follow me.”
Kshapanaka brushed past the groom and walked deeper into the stables, past stalls filled with horses on both sides of the aisle. Snorts and whinnies filled the air as she took a twisting route almost to the very end, where she pointed at a big, grey stallion occupying a large, empty stall.
“No one rides that horse, your honour,” the boy’s tone was uneasy. “I’m told it has quite a reputation.”
“It definitely has a reputation,” Kshapanaka answered tersely. The boy was obviously unfamiliar with the stallion’s history. “Saddle him up.”
In almost no time, Kshapanaka was galloping along Ujjayini’s main streets. The day was young, the traffic on the streets thin, so the councilor was able to push her old mount hard. Though the beast had not been ridden much in the two years since Vishakha’s first fall, it had been well exercised — and on account of either that or old, unforgotten instincts, it responded well to Kshapanaka’s subtle commands. In a few minutes, they had slipped past the shadow of the city’s south gate and were on the high road to Mahishmati.
Zho E’rami was leader of the x’sa — the x’sa who murdered your wife’s father and mother, Samrat, my father and mother… shrill and furious, the voice in her head rose in pitch, drowning out the smaller, softer whispers cautioning her, urging restraint. But you turned a blind eye to that and let an offspring of the x’sa leave the palace because he was your friend. Your love for your wife is a lie, Samrat Vikramaditya. Else, you would have allowed the Healer to cure her fully…
You and I, we must make a visit to Nishada, Vishakha had said one evening, making plans as they ha
d walked along the promenade around the palace lake. It made no difference to her that there was hardly anyone left in the province of Nishada who was related to their father, King Vallabha, or to anyone else in Vallabha’s court. The Hunas may have wiped out every member of the royal household, but to Vishakha, a return to Nishada was a return to the childhood she remembered fondly.
Of course, remembering was once again no longer possible for Vishakha…
…and you are responsible for it, the voice was back to censuring her. For not stopping her from going back to the meadow, for letting her ride your horse…
Kshapanaka reined in sharply, yanking at the bridle. She had come to a halt on a quiet patch of the road, a small rise with the highway falling away on both sides. A few kimshuka trees dotted the rise, while farmland lay to the left and right. The stretch of road was deserted as far as her eyes could see. Dismounting, the councilor strode two dozen paces in the direction of Ujjayini, before turning to survey the horse grimly. The stallion’s black eyes were on her, watching her with hopelessness and remorse.
Lifting the bow, the councilor drew an arrow out of her quiver and nocked it in place. Pulling the string slowly back, she sighted down the sturdy shaft, fixing her aim on the horse’s silvery coat, at the point just above the beast’s forelegs. The horse’s heart lay just under the spot she was targeting.
You threw her down in the meadow, the voice directed its ire at the horse. You, to whom she caused no harm, but to whom you were most unkind. But for you, none of this would have come to pass. You should have been put down that very day, but the Samrat’s mercy saved you. No more kindness for you, though, bringer of darkness. Today, you shall pay.
Kshapanaka pulled the bowstring back, past her right eye, past her temple, past her ear. The bow bent and quivered in her left hand under the strain, the wood creaking in protest.
He didn’t ask me to ride on his back. It was my decision, so how can this poor beast be faulted for what happened?
Vishakha’s words, addressed to the Warden of the Stables the morning they had both gone to see the stallion, came back to Kshapanaka. She stared down the arrow at the stallion, which was still looking at her regretfully. She wanted justice, but more than that, she wanted revenge. She wanted to settle scores with something, with anything. She wanted to kill the horse, but her sister wouldn’t let her. And that enraged her and brought fresh tears to her eyes.
With a cry of frustration, she let the arrow fly.
A split-second earlier though, she had shifted her aim in a small arc, so the arrow whizzed past the stallion, burying itself deep in the trunk of one of the kimshuka trees growing by the roadside.
Her shoulders drooping, Kshapanaka trudged back to the horse. As she drew near, the beast, as if sensing its life had just been spared, stretched its head and nuzzled her. Throwing her arms around the horse’s neck, the councilor buried her face in its yellowing mane and let the pent-up anguish and rage run down her cheeks in torrents.
Because her face was to the horse’s coat, Kshapanaka missed the coal-black smear that had appeared on the kimshuka where her arrow had struck. She didn’t see the stain spread rapidly like an inkblot over the tree’s bark, nor did she observe the tree’s leaves shrivel, burn and blow away in a sudden gust of wind. The ground around the tree’s roots turned dry and collapsed a little, pulling the desiccated trunk down. The tree stood, gnarled, agonized and lopsided, its spindly branches entreating the sky for mercy.
* * *
They had been observing the rider from the moment he had appeared as a discernible speck on the shimmering desert landscape. Of course, as a speck in the distance, there was nothing to tell it was a rider — or that the rider was male — but as the speck had drawn closer and taken form, the details had become plain to the seven horsemen. Judging from where he was coming — east, where the faraway mountains were no more than ghostly outlines in the haze — and the way he drooped on the saddle, it was evident to the horsemen that his ride had been long and exhausting. Even the horse, otherwise a hardy specimen, shambled along, its last drink of water many miles behind it.
“Gwa’ake?” Cocking an eyebrow, one of the watchers surveyed his companions.
The men, who had the hriiz etched on their foreheads, exchanged uncertain glances even as they watched the approaching rider, their eyes narrowed against the glare. The youngest of the lot, a rough, shaggy-haired boy still in his teens, answered harshly.
“Iga uzz thra’akh,” he said, his right hand going to the quiver hanging by his saddle, fingers hovering over the feathered arrows. ‘Let’s kill him.’
The others in the group turned to the horseman who sat at their centre, square and upright on his horse. He sported a straggly, grey beard and looked to be their leader.
“Eb’a,” the man said, raising his hand to stay the boy.
The Huna patrol waited. Around them, erratic pockets of hot wind kicked up small puffs of dust that collapsed to the desert floor almost immediately. The wind plucked at the cotton shawls that the men had draped over their heads and around their shoulders, making the cloth flap and billow. Their shadows were short and stubby behind them, growing stubbier as noon ascended. Besides the seven horses — eight, if one included the stranger’s — not an animal, bird or insect was in sight.
When the rider was within earshot, the leader of the group hailed him. “Eb’a zuh!” Then, as if to make himself clear, he switched to slow and heavily accented Avanti. “Stop you!”
Slumped low on the horse’s neck, the rider seemed oblivious to the command. The beast kept up its plodding gait, coming nearer and nearer to the Hunas ranged in front, blocking its path.
“Eb’a zuh,” the leader shouted again, louder. He drew his sword to match tone with action, and the other six men did likewise, unsheathing swords and nocking arrows into bows.
This time, the order registered, and horse and rider came to a fumbling halt. With a degree of effort, the new arrival propped himself up on his saddle, and that was when the Hunas first sensed the gigantic bulk of the man. Under the linen shawl he wore to shield himself from the sun, the stranger’s shoulders were broad and massive, his thick, muscular neck rising to a dark face where a scruffy beard, matted with sweat and grime, pointed to a considerable time spent on the road. The rider’s long hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, accentuating his martial stance. The Hunas instinctively gripped their swords tighter, while bows were steadied and bowstrings were drawn back.
“Z’ah hriiz,” one of the horsemen muttered under his breath. ‘No hriiz’.
The leader nodded. When he spoke, his voice was colder, more challenging. “Zuh te’igo?”Then, in Avanti, “Who you?”
The stranger considered the patrol with tired eyes. Licking his sore and cracked lips, he spoke in halting words, his voice a gravelly croak, “Ma… rek’e tcha.” He raised a thumb to his lips, miming the act of drinking, and when the horsemen didn’t respond, he pointed to the sheepskin flask hanging by the leader’s saddle. “Tcha,” he repeated.
The Huna looked at the flask thoughtfully. Reaching down, he lifted it up, uncorked it and brought it to his lips. After swallowing a few measured gulps of the water, he carefully put the stopper back in, wiped his lips and beard with the back of his hand and appraised the rider with taunting eyes. “Zuh nukhi zuh te’i go,” he said, letting the flask drop back by the saddle. ‘You didn’t say who you are.’
The stranger stared back for a moment before speaking. “Zuh te’i ba’dor. Bun unnu zuh’i shy’or.” ‘You are impolite. Lead me to your chief.’
The horsemen exchanged looks, and a snigger caught and leaped from one to another like wildfire. With mocking grins, they prodded their steeds forward, opening up and spreading to both sides simultaneously, first flanking the rider, then surrounding him. The leader rode up until just ten paces separated him from the stranger.
“Ma’a khi shy’or, ur zuh ki’slat,” he said, scratching his beard and grinning. ‘I am the chief
, unluckily for you.’
The rider did not respond, his eyes on the sheepskin flask. Just then, one of the Hunas pointed and shouted, “ Urug ha, sho gwede’r.” ‘Watch out, he has a sword.’
Instantly, the horsemen raised their weapons, swords and arrows pointed at the rider, eyes wary and watchful. The newcomer appeared unperturbed, studying the ring around him before swinging his leg over the saddle and dismounting stiffly. He took three weary steps towards the leader, unsheathing his scimitar as he walked, and the horsemen promptly edged their mounts forward, drawing close and tight, their blades and arrowheads now steady, aimed purposefully at the man’s head and torso.
The stranger, whose head easily reached the top of all eight horses’ heads, stopped and planted the tip of his scimitar into the baking soil at his feet. Looking up at the leader, he repeated in a calm but hoarse voice, “Bun unnu zuh’i shy’or.”
“Ma nukhi zuh ma’a khi shy’or?” The leader’s eyes flashed angrily at the rider. ‘Didn’t I tell you I am the chief?’
Without warning, like a stone plummeting heavily and fast, the stranger dropped to a crouch. The two Huna archers released their arrows on reflex, but instead of striking their target, the missiles sailed over his head, one striking the horse positioned opposite in the chest, the other whistling harmlessly into the desert. As the struck horse neighed and reared in pain, the stranger swept his scimitar upwards and hard in a scything arc, striking the swords pointed at him in a fierce rattle of metal, unbalancing the Huna riders.
Displaying none of the fatigue that had seemingly gripped him moments ago, and moving at a speed that the patrol could never have anticipated from a thirsty, beat-up traveller, the stranger flung himself at the first Huna archer, the boy with the shaggy hair. The scimitar’s blunt edge struck the boy on the chest, unseating him before he could fit a second arrow in his bow. Even as the boy landed on his rump, his foot tangling clumsily with his bow, the stranger brushed aside the swords coming at him to reach the second archer, who had nocked a fresh arrow and was drawing the string back. Another furious lunge, another swing of the scimitar, and the bow snapped into two before the arrow could be shot. Whirling around, the rider ducked and weaved past thrusting swords, parrying cuts and stabs, while grabbing the surprised horsemen by their wrists and ankles and yanking them off their saddles as he passed them. With a final drop and roll under the forelegs of a rearing horse, he rose and leaped astride the steed that bore the group’s leader, the only Huna still on horseback.
The Vengeance of Indra Page 7
