Vetala Bhatta also saw abject fear and despair in the men’s minds. Fear of the eerie Aanupa, and despair at the slowly solidifying certainty that they would all die in the marsh. An hour later, the old soldier, the one burning up with fever now, had thrown himself into a swamp with the intention of committing suicide and sparing himself an agonizing, drawn-out death brought on by starvation. He had been rescued, but by nightfall the fever had set in, and seeing him shiver and sweat in turns, the raj-guru had wondered if it would have been best to let him drown.
Upon sensing the men’s deep dejection and weakening spirit, Vetala Bhatta had decided to try and influence their thoughts. Working hard to stay unobtrusive, he had reached into the men’s minds, planting hope where despair grew, masking dark fears with a sense of determination, infusing positivity wherever he could. He had no idea whether this would work at all, but as the day progressed, he found the men more cheerful and saw distinct streaks of optimism. Ever since, he had been working on the men’s minds almost non-stop, instilling in them the belief that they could leave the Ghost Marsh alive — while keeping their attention diverted from the lights that still accompanied them everywhere, trying to distract and tantalize.
“I am fairly certain we are moving eastwards, your honour,” said Kedara, the captain of the escort, coming to the Acharya’s side. There was a slight buoyancy in his step and he smiled at the raj-guru, not knowing that he owed his optimism and the thoughts he had just verbalized to the man he was escorting to the court of Queen Abhirami. “If we stay the course, we should eventually enter Odra.”
“I agree,” said Vetala Bhatta, pushing his spear subtly out of sight, so that the captain wouldn’t notice the skulls near its tip glowing red from within. “I agree,” he repeated, running his palm over his face in weariness.
He wanted to say more, assure Kedara that he was right in his thinking and was doing a fine job of leading the men, but the words died on his tongue as he failed to gather the energy to speak. It was good for everyone’s sake that he was manipulating the soldiers’ thoughts, propping their flagging spirits, keeping them focused and upbeat, but it was a challenging task, sapping him of his strength. He had to constantly monitor the minds around him, looking for traces of depression creeping in and quickly countering it before moving to the next mind. Added to that, he had to keep his own sense of reality — and the gloom it engendered — in check, so that that didn’t accidentally tinge the minds he was influencing. The whole exercise was so taxing that the raj-guru had started feeling weak in the legs and his vision wheeled and spun now and then, as if suddenly on an independent axis.
“Is something bothering you, raj-guru?” Kedara peered in sudden alarm.
“No, not at all.” The Acharya shook his head so vehemently that the swamp swung and veered for a moment. “Absolutely fine,” he said, avoiding the ball of light that had showed up to his left. He sent his mind out to the men, trying to gauge who else had noticed the light. Just one of them had, but he was keeping what he had seen to himself.
“When should we stop for breakfast?” Kedara asked. “The men don’t look hungry.”
Another successful attempt at implanting thoughts on Vetala Bhatta’s part — he had got the men to believe they weren’t as hungry as they were, so they would think less about food and consume even less of the depleting rations.
“We can break in another hour or so, I suppose. Breakfast and lunch together.” Out of sheer habit, Vetala Bhatta looked up at the sky, realizing even as he did so that he wouldn’t be able to locate the sun, which was hidden, as usual, somewhere above the stacks of impenetrable yellow-grey clouds.
“What’s the matter, raj-guru?” the captain’s voice was edged with panic. “Are you alright?”
The Acharya’s vision swam violently as he lowered his head. The clouds seemed to descend with his gaze, and for some reason, the swamp suddenly lurched, lopsided, then rose to meet the clouds in a churn. He observed his escort run towards him as he felt a sudden, painful jarring sensation in his knees, as if they had struck something hard.
“Raj-guru! Men, come quickly! Help me lift the raj-guru.”
Vetala Bhatta felt something grab him by the shoulders, propping him up, but his head still lolled. The men were running, and behind them, the mist was closing in, dark and heavy. A few balls of light rose and danced, coming in with the mist, and then, for the first time, the Acharya saw shadowy figures approaching him and his men through the mist.
Figures draped in shrouds. Tall and thin and gaunt. Like skeletons. Drawing around them from all sides. Coming with the mist. Like minions of death.
The raj-guru closed his eyes. He was too tired to fight any longer. It was easier to let the darkness win.
* * *
A giant of a man with a fierce black beard, a laugh that burst out from somewhere deep in his gut, and a long, powerful stride that forced him, Vikramaditya, to run along, so that he could keep up on his short, stubby legs. These were the things the samrat remembered most about Mahendraditya.
There were other specific memories from his childhood as well. Mahendraditya lifting him onto the saddle of his horse, and the two of them riding slowly around Ujjayini’s countryside, Mahendraditya pointing out spotted deer and teetar and migratory cranes as the late afternoon sun slanted through the leaves. And the nights they camped in a forest or an open meadow, Mahendraditya showing him the constellations and the akashganga, while all Vikramaditya had been keen on was sitting by the fire and listening to the ghost story where the kind, old man is swallowed by his own shadow.
On one occasion, Mahendraditya had gifted him a finely carved wooden play sword, and Vikramaditya had a vivid recollection of showing it off proudly to everyone, until he discovered that Mahendraditya had given Vararuchi a sword made of real steel, which could actually cut things. This blatant act of deception had left Vikramaditya so inconsolable that Mahendraditya had taken him to the foundry the next day and instructed the royal smith to make Vikramaditya a steel sword, but with rounded edges. One night, not many years later, a grievously wounded Mahendraditya had summoned the brothers to his bedside and pressed his two swords into their hands, one for each of them, saying the swords were now theirs, and it was on them to protect Avanti and its people. Vikramaditya recalled standing by Mahendraditya’s pyre, Vararuchi at his side, the hide-bound hilt of his new sword smooth under his palm, his eyes smarting from the smoke — and from anger at fate, for having taken his father away from him.
“So, are you sending word to the Queen Mother to join us, or do we go to her?”
Vikramaditya blinked and refocused his vision on Indra and Gandharvasena. The samrat observed an amused smile play on Indra’s lips, one with the shadow of a supercilious smirk, as if those lips were savouring a hard-fought victory. He realized that the city’s bells had ceased ringing, though their echoes seemed to linger like a stale reminder of ever-lurking danger. Other than the stray jingle of a harness and the snorting of a restless horse, the street around him was silent. Vikramaditya became acutely aware that his people were watching how he responded to the deva’s shocking revelation.
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?” Indra asked, taken aback. “Unless you are ready to take my word for it, how are we to establish the truth without your mother telling…”
“No,” the samrat repeated, squaring his shoulders and meeting Indra’s eye. “I will not have anyone disturb the Queen Mother.”
Indra’s eyebrows rose in minute movements, and when he spoke, his words had a sly texture. “Could it be that you are afraid of learning the truth about your real father?”
Every shadow in the street was immobile, every soul hanging on to every word that was being traded at the centre of this tense tableau.
“I don’t fear confronting the truth, deva,” came Vikramaditya’s reply, his voice sharp, clear and emphatic for the benefit of everyone present. “But I will not insult my mother by having her character put to test
just because someone comes along questioning my paternity. I will not allow you to humiliate my mother in front of her people. I don’t know how you treat your women in Devaloka, but in Avanti, the dignity and honour of our women is sacrosanct. No, deva,” the samrat glanced from Indra to Gandharvasena hotly, “my mother is not answerable to the two of you.”
Indra looked at Vikramaditya with his cold blue eyes, and the samrat saw uncertainty thrashing about in their depths. The deva had clearly not anticipated such stubborn resistance. “Whether you want to involve the Queen Mother or not is your decision, but you cannot run away from the fact that you are a deva,” he said. “Do you realize what it means to be a deva? There is so much…”
A sudden stir and a murmur of voices arose to Vikramaditya’s left, interrupting Indra. The commotion came from one of the side streets, and the samrat noticed those gathered along that street parting way for someone. The crowd’s manner was awed and respectful, and as more onlookers made room and the heads blocking his view moved aside, Vikramaditya saw a familiar face ploughing its way through the throng.
Pralupi.
His eyes had barely widened in surprise at his sister’s unexpected appearance when a few more heads in the crowd shifted to give Vikramaditya a glimpse of the person coming behind Pralupi.
Queen Upashruti.
Even as the shock registered and alarm raised a white-hot flare in his mind, the samrat remembered why his sister and mother were in this section of Ujjayini. The previous evening, over dinner, he had overheard them planning a visit to the Kali temple near the city’s western gate. In his hurry to confront Indra, he had forgotten all about their planned trip, and now they were both on their way back to the palace, their route taking them past the exact spot where he had forced Indra to stop.
“Mother,” he exclaimed, wondering why they were out when the city’s bells had been ringing, and why they weren’t under the escort of the Palace Guards.
Pralupi and Upashruti nudged past the crowd and stepped into full view. The samrat saw the wicker baskets they were carrying, filled with flowers, coconuts and other offerings brought back from the temple. Pralupi, who was in the lead, noticed the samrat, but switched her attention to the elephant, her jaw falling open at the size of the beast. Upashruti also looked at the mammoth once in astonishment, but her gaze drew back to Vikramaditya.
“Guards,” the samrat shouted, staring wildly about him. “Your Queen Mother is unprotected. Get to her side, quick. Take her and Princess Pralupi away. Go, go!”
Shanku, who was to Vikramaditya’s left, instinctively spurred her mount towards the two women. The king’s commands galvanized the Palace Guards and the soldiers of the City Watch, and there was a scrabble of feet and hooves as men rushed to shield Upashruti and Pralupi. The queen stared at Vikramaditya, her eyes wide with confusion, and the samrat waved his hand, motioning her to step back.
But Upashruti either didn’t see him or didn’t comprehend his gesture. Instead, her gaze swept over the scene in front of her, moving curiously from Vikramaditya back to the imposing elephant, and from there to Indra to —
The samrat was looking straight at his mother when he saw her eyes move to the deva standing beside Indra. Vikramaditya saw Upashruti’s eyes widen in surprise, her face turning pale and then freezing in bewilderment and horror, as her gaze was riveted to the deva. Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, Vikramaditya jerked his head around to Gandharvasena, who was staring at Upashruti, his deep, soulful eyes glowing with the unmistakable light of recognition.
The galloping of hooves was loud in Vikramaditya’s ears; his hands felt numb, the Hellfires heavy in his grip; he had trouble lifting his head to look back in his mother’s direction. By the time his gaze went to where she was standing, the Palace Guards had formed a cordon around her and Pralupi, obscuring them from view, and Shanku was driving a wedge through the crowds, pushing the onlookers back and clearing a path, so that the guards could swiftly take their Queen Mother and her daughter away from danger. Vikramaditya stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of his mother, and as he watched her retreating form, she turned once, throwing a glance over her shoulder, her frightened eyes seeking out the face that she had encountered so unexpectedly.
With the queen and the princess safely away, the hubbub in the street died down as quickly as it had started, and Indra and the samrat once again became the focus of undivided attention. The deva lord understood that Vikramaditya had escaped the embarrassment of Upashruti and Gandharvasena coming face to face by the slenderest of margins, but seeing the samrat’s discomposure, a superior smile spread across his face, and he gave Gandharvasena a nod of satisfaction. The younger deva was shaken, though, and his gaze kept straying to where the Palace Guards had taken Upashruti.
“What was I saying?” Indra looked at the samrat for a moment. “Yes… being a deva…”
“You said something about me being afraid of learning the truth about my real father,” Vikramaditya cut in. He had gained full control of his emotions, and his eyes were calm but cold as they assessed Indra and Gandharvasena. “In all honesty, it matters little to me who my real father is. I have always thought of myself as Mahendraditya’s son, and it makes no difference to me if he is or isn’t my father. I am still his son.”
Gandharvasena turned to the samrat and took a step forward. “Son, I wish you…”
“Stop,” Vikramaditya snapped, his voice crackling like wildfire. “Do not call me that. The only one who had that right was King Mahendraditya, who showered me with love and affection and taught me everything I know. From him, I learned the worth of a friend, the value of a promise and the price of loyalty. He gave me a sword, so I could put my strength and courage to good use; he offered me wisdom, so I knew when to keep the sword sheathed. He told me stories of war but sang me songs of compassion. He was all the father a son could ever want. You — even assuming what you say is true — you don’t count. Father is King Mahendraditya. No one else”
Gandharvasena stepped back, thrown by the force of the samrat’s words. He turned to Indra in distress, seeking guidance, and Vikramaditya saw the deva was but a tool in Indra’s hands, helpless to think and act for himself. Indra, for his part, seemed in two minds, not entirely pleased at the turn of events but not wholly unhappy either.
“It saddens me no end to see you turn away from your father’s embrace." Indra gave his head a morose shake. Despite his words, to the samrat it felt as if the deva was satisfied with the way things had unravelled, which was worrying. “As your grandfather, I had hoped to give you everything befitting a deva,” Indra went on. “Why, I wanted to set right all the troubles this city and its people have had to suffer recently, but…”
“The troubles that you brought upon my city and its people.” Disregarding the flash of anger in Indra’s eyes, the samrat continued, “And for all that you say you can give me, why do I think you are the one with the greater sense of loss when I refuse to accept any so-called deva lineage? Wait… let me guess. Were you hoping that I would cry in joy and hand Veeshada’s dagger to you?” Vikramaditya’s tone turned sarcastic.
“You are a deva, Vikramaditya. You owe allegiance to Devaloka, and it is your duty to uphold the glory of the devas.” In one final bid to sway him, Indra stepped close to the samrat and took him by the shoulders. “Veeshada’s dagger will ensure that the asuras never get the better of us, ever. Give it to me, Vikramaditya. For the sake of the blood that courses through your veins.”
The samrat looked at the two massive hands resting on his shoulders, then turned to stare into Indra’s blue eyes, cold and calculating, but also full of hope and expectation. Keeping his gaze locked on Indra, Vikramaditya sheathed his swords very carefully. Then, taking Indra’s hands by the wrists, he lifted them off his shoulders one by one and dropped them, freeing himself of the deva’s hold. Instead of stepping away, the king narrowed the distance between him and Indra by another inch, and when he spoke, his cold tone had a heavy finality.
“To your credit, your intentions have always been unwavering and crystal clear,” he said. “You may not realize it, but that makes two of us, deva. I have promised to protect the Halahala. No matter what you do or say, no matter who I am or who my father might be, you will never get Veeshada’s dagger from me. My suggestion to you is to leave my city in peace.”
Scrutinizing the samrat with eyes narrowed in displeasure, Indra drew in a deep breath and offered a smile that curled his lips, giving it the semblance of a snarl. Without a word, he nodded once and turned back towards the beast towering over the street. It wasn’t until he was seated on the elephant and Gandharvasena was back on his saddle that the lord of the devas spoke.
“You think you are very brave, Vikramaditya,” he sounded like the faraway rumbling of thunder. “Knowing it is my blood coursing through your veins, you probably are. But you make a mistake. You are only part deva. The other half of you is human, which makes you weak and vulnerable. That is the part I will crush when I return next.” He turned to look down at the faces of Ujjayini’s citizenry, staring nervously up at him. He directed his words as much at them as at the samrat, working on their anxiety, nudging them slowly towards the precipice of abject fear. “Promise or no promise, grandson or no grandson, nothing will stop me from taking the Halahala. I will be back soon. That is my promise to you — it is also my warning.”
Promise
Hey,” he shouted. Then louder, “Hey you... can you hear me?”
His head almost didn’t hurt when he was sitting still, his back pressed to the rough stone wall of his cell. When he moved, it throbbed with a dull, insistent pain that he had somehow learned to ignore. But the effort of shouting brought an explosion of agony, a shower of pain that sent shards down his neck and caused his world to tilt precariously. Still he shouted, doing what he could to attract the attention of whoever was outside.
“Hey, I know you can hear me, you idiots. Let me out.” He shook his manacled fists vigorously, partly in frustration, partly with the idea of getting the heavy chain and bracket tethering him to the wall to rattle loudly enough for the sound to carry outside. The metal links chinked against one another dully, and the chain clattered and sank to the cold stone floor in an abrupt little collapse. “Heyy!”
The Vengeance of Indra Page 18
