The Simoqin Prophecies

by Samit Basu

  ‘I will stay, my lord. The men you are about to slay are like my brothers. It is fitting that we fight together.’

  ‘Two flaws, Vijay. First, people on my side tend to stay alive after fights. Second, if you saw my face I would have to either trust you or kill you. And since you just betrayed your dearest friends, I cannot possible trust you.’

  ‘ I did what I had to do, my lord’

  ‘ You did a very noble and dangerous thing. Which is why you are still alive. And I’m not a lord.’

  Vijay left.

  What he did with the rest of his life does not concern us.

  ‘These Avrantics are crazy.’

  ‘Quiet, Hihuspix.’

  ‘Of course, the Civilian’s crazy too. “The prophecy demands that he enters the human city in a cart driven by a stranger half his height.” I mean, is that even true or is she just saying it so that…’

  ‘Quiet, Hihuspix.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The Dagger and his men waited, silent on tall trees in the still afternoon. They were used to waiting. The forest was quiet. It waited too.

  An hour passed. Nothing happened.

  Another hour passed. Many things happened to the twenty-one people who rode into the large circular clearing at the end of that hour. Twenty died. But one lived. And whatever happened to him for the rest of his life concerns us. Deeply. For he was Prince Asvin of Avranti, the Hero of our story. The Chosen One. A Person to Whom Things Happen. Many Things.

  Chapter Two

  History tells us that some things never change. One of these things is–history bores a lot of people.

  And when young spellbinders in Enki University, Kol, were bored, they tended to do something about it.

  ‘Put that thing away, Borphi,’ said Chancellor Ombwiri, his eyes never leaving the blackboard.

  The Boy Genius put the inkatapult away. How did old Ombwiri do it? But then again, he was the Chancellor of Enki University, the most famous centre of magical studies in Kol, and, indeed, the world, and so he was someone who you’d expect would have a few tricks up his sleeve. The Chancellor, however, was not using magic on this particular occasion. He was using another potent force–habit.

  Ombwiri hardly ever took classes for first-years. He didn’t like telling shiny-eyed young students who had been dreaming of coming to Enki from the day they had discovered that they could use magic that their wands would be useless, that unless they were exceptionally gifted they probably wouldn’t be able to work magic at all. He didn’t like telling them that it was mostly physics, chemistry, biology and astronomy, with liberal doses of mathematics thrown in everywhere. He hated the looks of disillusionment on their faces when they were given white coats instead of blue robes with stars and moons drawn on them, or pointy hats. Magic, like so many other things, was just not what it used to be. But there were always the few who could actually make every spell work, and they made it all worthwhile. For the rest, it was chemicals in huge glass tubes, bodies to dissect and wires and mirrors to play with.

  Many first-year students dropped out and went to Hero School. Not that that was any better, thought Ombwiri. Bunch of mercenaries, really. How could anyone go there from Enki? Enki was where it all began. Enki was what made Kol what it was–the greatest, most powerful city in the world.

  Ombwiri’s classes were always full. This was because he never stuck to his subject, and he used a large number of thrilling and usually dangerous spells in all his lectures. Explosions, injuries, love potions–all of these were standard ingredients in an Ombwiri classroom. The Chancellor never had to take attendance.

  ‘Early spellbinders used wands to absorb and focus the energy of the magical field around them into one concentrated beam, to make their spells more effective,’ he continued. ‘So the wand was an essential part of spellbinding even three hundred years ago. It was when the ravians taught the spellbinders of Kol how to do the same focusing through intricate hand movements that the wand or staff ceased to be even necessary. However, many spellbinders are superstitious even in this Age, and so the wand has not died out even now, and spellbinders with little or no ability often believe that buying a wand is the answer to their problems. Before we move on, any questions?’

  Ranvir raised a trembling hand. ‘Please, sir, what’s a ravian?’

  Ombwiri started. ‘You don’t know what a ravian is? What is this? Good heavens, I’ll be hearing that people don’t know what a dragon is, next!’

  The students who thought it was their sacred duty to laugh, no matter how bad the teacher’s joke was, laughed dutifully. Ombwiri looked at them lazily, and they were suddenly silent.

  Ombwiri rattled of a list of nine books. ‘Essential reading,’ he said. ‘I must say I’m very surprised. Who will tell Ranvir who the ravians were? Borphi?’

  Borphi stood up, dropping various small and valuable magical toys and tricks to the floor. He would have to pick them up carefully later on–the Stuff was very expensive

  ‘The ravians were an immortal race of powerful warriors and great and wise sorcerers.’ he said. ‘Chief enemies of the rakshas Danh-Gem, the great ruler of Imokoi who tried to take over the world in the Age of Terror. They lived in a hidden city called Asroye, somewhere in Vrihataranya. It was a secret, enchanted city–uninvited people crossing its borders on one side would emerge at the other, as if the city was not there at all. After the Great War, exactly two hundred years ago, when Danh-Gem had been vanquished, the ravians disappeared from the world. No one knows how, but their passing is known as the Departure, with a capital D because it’s important, and there are many songs and plays about it. And after they left, the dragons disappeared and so did many other magical creatures.’

  ‘I see you’ve been working,’ said Ombwiri. ‘Good.’

  The Boy Genius sat down, flushed with pride.

  ‘And, Borphi,’ continued the Chancellor, ‘I know the Stuff, as you call it, is all the rage among teenagers, but I would appreciate it if you handed me that rat-in-the-box you have concealed in your desk.’

  Borphi’s smile vanished, but he had to obey. What an amazing eye for the Stuff Ombwiri had.

  ‘I wish you students would stop buying these silly toys and jokes,’ said Ombwiri, feeling slightly guilty about the rubber hippo in his own desk. ‘Make them yourselves, and keep them out of my classes. Yes, now what were we talking about? Ravians, yes. In case Ranvir’s curiosity is not yet satisfied…Black Leaf, name the two most famous ravian heroes.’

  The young centaur moved forward. ‘Isara and Narak. Isara was the name of the princess of Asroye, the Hidden City, and Narak, also known as the Demon-hunter, was her husband. They sacrificed their own lives to slay the Enemy, the great Rakshas, and end the Age of Terror.

  ‘Their marriage was a source of great discord in the ravian world. Her clan had been against the marriage–Isara had been betrothed to another ravian-lord, Simoqin the Dreamer, whom Danh-Gem murdered. What was worse, apparently Narak was not high-born, and no one even knew which clan he belonged to. So they refused to let Princess Isara marry him. But she did anyway and was banished from the city. They lived in the forest, ceaselessly hunting the servants of the Rakshas and plotting his downfall. Narak was…’

  ‘That’s all Ranvir will remember at present. Thank you, Leaf, that was well put,’ said the Chancellor. Leaf trotted to his corner, flushed with pride.

  Ranvir, however, had another question. ‘My mother said she didn’t want me come to Enki this year because, she said, this is the year of the Simoqin Prophecies. Is this Simoqin the same one Leaf talked about? And what were the prophecies?’

  ‘Your ignorance astounds me, Ranvir. No doubt you are destined for political office,’ said Ombwiri. ‘Well? Who wants to tell him?’

  No hands went up.

  ‘All right, Peyaj, you can tell him.’

  Peyaj of Potolpur, known to teachers and students alike as the Textbook Case, looked smug. He knew she knew.

  ‘Before we come
to the Simoqin Prophecies, sir,’ she said breathlessly, ‘as a future gender activist I’d like to take a moment to discuss Princess Isara, who, in my considered opinion, is a fascinating example of female empowerment in ravian society. May I?’

  Chancellor Ombwiri looked mildly amused. ‘Please do,’ he said.

  ‘Princess Isara was the wisest, bravest and most beautiful living being that ever walked this earth,’ said Peyaj fervently. ‘Fortunately for her, Simoqin the Dreamer had a sufficiently progressive outlook, and agreed to a long betrothal so she had enough time and space to decide whether she wanted to marry him or not.’

  Seeing that the interest of the class was waning, the Textbook Case abandoned whatever she had planned to say about gender issues in Asroye and hurried towards the point. ‘Unfortunately, Isara’s many virtues caught the eye of Danh-Gem himself. He was completely infatuated with her–and please note, class, that he was not aware of her many talents, it was an attraction based solely on Isara’s physical appeal.’

  Someone at the back of the class said ‘Woohoo.’ Peyaj ignored him.

  ‘The rakshas even sent a proposal of marriage to Isara’s father, who rejected it angrily. After that, Danh-Gem hunted Simoqin down and tortured him in the pits of Imokoi.’

  Peyaj paused and made contemptuous faces inside her head, deploring the fact that the mere mention of revenge and violence had made her sadly immature classmates sit up and listen. ‘It was Narak the Demon-hunter who went to Imokoi and made a daring rescue. But it was too late. The Rakshas had already done whatever he had intended to. Narak brought Simoqin back to Asroye, where he died in Isara’s arms. On Simoqin’s chest was found the first of the Simoqin Prophecies. It was a poem that we call Danh-Gem’s Warning. Danh-Gem had used some brutal method of torture to write this verse in tiny black letters on Simoqin’s chest. This is how the verse runs.’

  ‘Well, Peyaj, I’m sure he can read the Warning later, and…’ began Ombwiri, but Peyaj quelled him with a look. No mere Man could stop her from saying what she had decided to say. She cleared her throat and recited:

  ‘Lay this sweet young fool to rest and heed the words that burn his breast,

  For pain unbearable he felt when these same words were written.

  I am Danh-Gem whom you hate, Danh-Gem rakshas wise and great

  And on his thin dark ravian skin my bitter quill has bitten.

  Even as you blindly grope in long dark hours for rays of hope

  My great scheme, my one true dream, moves close to realization,

  I will have all that I desire, for I am Death and Dragon-fire,

  I am the Darkness and the Light, Destruction and Creation,

  My banner bright will be unfurled in every corner of the world

  And though the rumours of my death will bring you passing joy,

  In ten-score years I will return, and all you love will bleed and burn

  For what Danh-Gem does not desire Danh-Gem will destroy.’

  Though most of the young spellbinders-to-be were smiling bravely, as they always did when Peyaj was in full flow, the atmosphere in the room had suddenly become strained and tense.

  ‘Thank you, Peyaj. Now, the second of the Simoqin Prophecies…’

  ‘…was, the legend goes, made by Simoqin himself, to Isara, just before he died.’ continued Peyaj calmly. ‘He told her that while he was being tortured, he had lost consciousness and a dream had come to him. He had seen a shining mirror in front of him, where his face was clear even in complete darkness, and he had heard a dry little voice in his head. It had told him not to despair, for if Danh-Gem ever truly returned a Hero would appear in the same year, who would be his chief enemy.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘This hero would be of royal blood, and would return from the dead. He would wield the mightiest weapons in the world and wear the strongest armour. He would be brought to a human city by a stranger half his height. Of course, the second prophecy is also written in the form of a poem in the book I read, sir, but given the fact that the words of this prophecy were the last words Simoqin the Dreamer ever uttered, and the fact that he was seriously wounded, and, indeed, dying, I find it highly unlikely that he expressed himself in the form of a poem as complex in metre and rhyming pattern as the one in the Library.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Which is why I took the liberty of telling Leaf the second Simoqin Prophecy in colloquial prose. Personally, sir, I am quite skeptical about these prophecies. Danh-Gem declared several times that he did not believe in dreams and prophecies, and often played very cruel tricks on those who did. Therefore I find it very strange that he would believe in, and, furthermore, tell the world about his supposed reincarnation. And the second prophecy, sir, seems to me to be a message of hope for the people who believe in the first out of ignorance or superstition, even two hundred years later. The reason your mother was worried, Ranvir, is that this very year is the one when Danh-Gem is supposed to return. However, I am quite certain that no such return will take place, since I personally subscribe to the Organic Decomposition school of thought. Is there anything else?’

  Ombwiri looked at Ranvir, who looked as if he’d bitten off much, much more than he could dream of chewing, and asked him gently whether there was anything else that he wanted to know. Ranvir shook his head in panic. Ombwiri looked at Peyaj with a certain reluctant admiration. She hadn’t needed to take a single breath pause.

  'Very well done indeed, Peyaj. You must remember, however, that there are certain scholars who might not be entirely convinced that the last words of Simoqin the Dreamer are best understood by a first-year spellbinder. But I beg you not to let this affect you in any way.'

  Chapter Three

  Asvin woke up. The first thing he saw was a ceiling. A simple wooden ceiling in a simple wooden room. A bed, terribly hard, a pillow stuffed with what felt like crocodile skin, and a plain door bolted from the outside. His weapons and armour weren’t with him, and he could see no possibility of a daring escape, so he lay back, enjoying the sensation of his head still being attached to his body, which, given the last few things he remembered, it might easily not have been.

  He tried to piece the last few days together. The memory of the grand ceremonial farewell in Ektara, Avranti’s capital, still brought a smile to his face. They did things with style in Avranti. The air thick with rose petals and the heavy scent of jasmine, the struggle to get his many thigh-thick marigold garlands off, the people of the city cheering him on, the drums, the elephants lined up to salute him as he walked by. The music, the deafening blasts of giant conch-shells, the flower-strewn path to his chariot, the surprisingly sad face of his sister-in-law as he stepped into the chariot, as proud and radiant as the Sun God himself… His friends smiling as the crowds laughed, cried and got wildly drunk. His brother, Maharaja Aloke XII, smiling far wider than expected, for after all it was Asvin’s day, not his–it was Asvin heading out to conquer the world, Asvin on the asvamedh, wearing the holy armour, carrying a dazzling array of weapons, it was Asvin the city was cheering for.

  So what if the last three princes who had gone on an asvamedh had failed? Asvin was bound to succeed. It was his destiny. Had not the old priest said he was born under the most favourable set of stars possible? And had he not trained all his life under the strictest gurus, and had they not said there was something special about him?

  The first three days had been immense fun. His bodyguards were all old friends of his–they had been guarding him for ten of his twenty-one years. They rode behind the asvamedh horse, Asvin’s chariot leading the others. They were all well trained in the arts of war, twenty-one strong, dashing, bold men. Who would dare challenge them? The gods were smiling on them–Asvin remembered thinking it would take a whole army to conquer that intrepid group of friends.

  In reality, though, the gods weren’t smiling.

  They were sniggering.

  They had started southwards, towards the Peaceful Forest, Shantavan, deciding that
they would pass from Avranti to the Xi’en Empire in a great arc through the forest, thus not angering their friendly neighbours, Durg. Shantavan was shared territory–Asvin had thought they would ride swiftly through it, so there was no possibility of conflict until he reached the Xi’en Empire. Singing merrily, they had raced south from Ektara, waving at awestruck villagers, and reached the forest.

  Then his friends had suddenly fallen silent. Some of them seemed to be praying. Asvin had asked them why–they weren’t even in the dangerous part of the forest–and they had ridden on silently until they reached the statue of Aloke VIII.

  Arjun, his best friend, had suddenly put his sword to Asvin’s throat and told him to get off his chariot. Thunderstruck, he had descended. Arjun had started talking about some secret brotherhood, some ancient tradition–he hadn’t understood anything. He had just stood there blinking back tears as his friends looked at him with cold eyes and drawn swords. He was to be beheaded at sunset. His sword and armour were taken from him. They’d made him kneel at the feet of the statue. When the last rays of the departing sun fell on his face Arjun had raised his sword…

  And fallen stone dead with an arrow through his heart. Asvin had watched in stunned silence as a group of green-cloaked men swung down from the trees, noiseless but for the twanging of their bows. The attack was swift and deadly. He had snatched a sword and struck a blow or two. Then it was all over, and his would-be assassins lay dead in the gathering darkness. Then one man had stepped up, taller than the rest, his face hidden by a hood. ‘Drink this,’ he had commanded, holding out a small vial filled with a clear liquid. Asvin had drunk it quietly and then the whole world had turned on its head and he had fallen gracefully to the ground.

  ‘Did you sleep well, Prince Asvin?’

  The door opened and a khudran came in. Asvin had seen khudrans before–he’d once gone to a khudran village with his father when he was very young. He’d liked the little people then–the taller ones had been about his height–and he liked this one .The khudran had a winning smile and big, bright eyes. Unlike the khudrans that Asvin remembered, he had short, straight hair, and wore no earrings. He was also quite tall for a khudran, being all of three and a half feet high, and quite wiry and slim. He sank into a very formal and correct bow, and Asvin smiled, remembering the quaint mud huts and clay toys that he’d always associated the little people with.