The Crown of Seven Stars

by Gitanjali Murari

  ‘I am an old man, who has begun to feel his years,’ Vasuket smiled. ‘The day is not far when one of my sons will succeed me to the throne, so it is appropriate I hand over some of my duties to them. I hope you will forgive their mistakes, guiding them as I know only you can. Prince Nandan has an artistic bent of mind, so I have decided he will be in charge of cultural activities.’

  Nandan dimpled at the deafening applause. Vasuket swept on, ‘Prince Shunen has a deep interest in law and justice, and it is his observance that for Aum to live up to its name, the laws need to be revised, that the people of Aum enjoy far too much freedom. What is too much freedom, you might ask. Well, let the new Chief Justice of Aum define that for you.’ The cheers this time were muted.

  ‘And finally, my eldest son.’ The court fell silent, noting Vasuket’s gaze. It was fixed on one man alone. Instinctively all heads swivelled in the same direction, towards the General of Aum. Vasuket glanced away, and when he spoke, his voice quivered a little, ‘Ashwath possesses not just a strong physique, but also a strong will. He has been training hard at the Defence Academy with only one aim—to serve Aum.’ After a tiny pause, he said in a rush, ‘And so I have decided, because I believe in his capabilities, that he shall be Commander of the Military.’

  In the awkward silence, only one sound made itself heard, the sound of footsteps. Saahas was hardly conscious of walking up to the king, of his embrace, of the whispered ‘Thank you, my boy’, of removing Shakti from her scabbard and offering the blade, hilt first to Ashwath.

  ‘Power is capricious. It wastes no time in switching loyalties,’ Amsha’s warning ran like a loop in his head, a hard knot growing in his chest, threatening to burst.

  ‘Truth at any cost’, the motto on the polished hilt danced before Ashwath’s eyes. His hand shot out to grasp it, but Vasuket stopped him. ‘This is a symbolic gesture, signifying that the general will remain obedient to your command. You are now the supreme leader of the armed forces, Ashwath.’

  The startled court chanted ‘Hail to the Commander’, but Ashwath, his gaze fixed on the khanda, heard only one voice, that of Kurikas, ‘The mace is your weapon, not the sword.’

  Chakrawaru remained out in the yard long after the court had emptied. The appointments had taken him unawares, unnerving him, leaving a vile taste on his tongue, the bitter taste of defeat. Leaves falling from the semal tree rustled dryly and he absently caught one as it drifted towards him, crunching it between his fingers. ‘Autumn,’ he muttered, ‘it has a way of stealing upon us.’

  ‘Like our sins,’ a familiar voice breathed in his ear.

  Gulping audibly, he forced a smile to his lips. ‘Shunen! You startled me—’

  ‘Chief Justice, please.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  Shunen eyed him speculatively. ‘Nervous, uncle?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Well, you should be. You are going to hand me a bit of paper. You know, the affidavit my mother signed.’

  Chakrawaru shivered, Shunen’s cold gaze freezing his blood. And then, unbidden, a face swam into his mind, a face with smiling lips and warm, brown eyes. The face of an enemy. But now, he admitted, his only hope.

  15

  On a cold and blustery afternoon, Ashwath rode into a noisy yard, the sound of anvils and the cheerful shouts of men resounding in the air.

  ‘Are you looking for Kurikas, Your Highness? Should I fetch him?’ A worker caught the reins of his horse, helping him dismount.

  ‘Where will I find him?’

  ‘There, in his studio,’ the man pointed to a brick shed with a large, smoking chimney.

  The heat inside the studio hit Ashwath like a wall, and he stopped, taken aback. Kurikas, his grey hair tied into a knot and muscles rippling in a sleeveless shirt, stirred a cauldron vigorously. ‘You are late, boy,’ he said over his shoulder, but discerning a large figure, turned around.

  Ashwath grimaced, ‘The smell is awful.’

  Kurikas grinned, wiping the sweat off his face and arms with a rag. ‘Metals,’ he said briefly. ‘You will get used to it. How are you, commander?’

  Displeased with the offhand greeting, Ashwath answered sullenly, ‘I am here about the sword.’

  ‘So, you will not try a mace. Very well. We have a great variety of blades. You must have seen them in the yard. Let me—’

  ‘No, I don’t want those,’ he cut in, unable to read the metalsmith’s face in the undulating firelight. ‘I want the one my father ordered you to make. The khanda.’

  ‘Ah, the khanda,’ the words were slowly drawn out of Kurikas as if he had suddenly recalled a long forgotten incident.

  Ashwath noticed his good eye flicker to the cauldron and he rushed to peer at the bubbling metal. ‘This is the Dakhini steel, isn’t it?’

  Kurikas gave a short nod.

  ‘So, when can I have my sword?’

  Without making a reply, Kurikas turned back to the cauldron, folding the steel deftly with a long bamboo staff.

  ‘You seem to be convinced that I will never be good with a khanda,’ Ashwath growled resentfully.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said it wasn’t your weapon.’

  ‘And why should I care for your opinion?’ the words burst out of him, his self-control snapping. ‘I, the eldest prince of the realm, will do as I wish.’

  ‘The khanda will become a liability for you. It will make you vulnerable for it will control you. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Oh, so now I am a weakling, am I?’ his voice shook with fury. ‘How dare you belittle me! You will do as my father commanded you. Forge the sword for me!’

  ‘No,’ came the firm answer. ‘His Majesty asked me to make it, but I am free to give it to one who I think has the ability to harness its power.’

  ‘Is that so? And have you found such a person?’

  Kurikas threw him a speculative glance. ‘Yes, someone with a cool temperament and humility, qualities necessary to hold the khanda, let alone own it.’

  Naked hatred distorted Ashwath’s features, ‘Give me the name of this worthy man.’

  Kurikas shook his head, turning away.

  ‘A mere smith, a workman, dares to slight me, a prince, again and again.’ Ashwath lifted the cauldron of boiling steel, unmindful of the heat searing his palms, and flung it at the metalsmith. Kurikas saw it coming, the molten steel pouring out in an arc. His breath caught in his throat. He tried to move but the heavy cauldron felled him to the ground, the red-hot liquid scorching him.

  A child’s scream had Ashwath whip around. The small silhouette at the door wavered and then vanished into the sunlight. Turning back, he watched in fascinated horror as Kurikas convulsed on the floor. The dying man didn’t make a sound, the metal he loved, ravaging him, eating into his lungs, his heart, claiming him painfully. Ashwath gagged, the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils. He stumbled out of the studio into the yard, pushed past the workers and galloped away at breakneck speed.

  The colour drained from his face. ‘It can’t be true. Prem, you didn’t see Kurikas die, did you, son?’ But the horror in the boy’s eyes spoke volumes, telling him there had been no mistake. Arigotra lamented aloud, ‘Why didn’t I read it in his face? I, who can read faces so well. How did I miss it? Was it the blind eye with the puckered skin that misled me? Or was it something else?’

  He rushed to his astrological charts, poring over one and then the other, almost giving up after hours of frantic search. But then his hand suddenly paused, hovering over one detail, a lead seemingly so innocuous that he had missed it so far. The more he looked at it, the more the certainty grew that he had been outwitted. While he, the expert diviner, had been focused on the past and futures of individuals, Destiny, the most accomplished player in the game of Life, had set Kurikas’s gruesome death in motion ages ago. It had remained concealed from him, for her moves had all the intricacy of a spider spinning a vast web, the individual strands indistinguishable. And when he at last pierced th
e veil of the mystery, its simplicity took his breath away.

  Every strand converged at the centre of Destiny’s grand design, for she had rolled the dice for an entire kingdom, a kingdom called Aum.

  Gathering his boy close to him, he whispered, ‘They are going to come for us, son. We must be brave.’

  Shunen considered his dishevelled brother. Ashwath wore the look of a desperate man.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said at last.

  ‘What does that mean? He’s only a little boy.’

  ‘Well, you know me, Ashwath. I don’t do any favours.’

  ‘Just take care of him, dammit!’

  Smiling, the chief justice set out to meet the lone witness to Kurikas’s killing, his carriage rolling into a shaded lane of a modest neighbourhood and stopping before a tidy, little house.

  ‘Arigotra, Astrologer,’ he read the plaque on the door. It opened before he could knock, almost as if the astrologer had been waiting for him. Shunen glanced at the boy. He was no more than seven or eight years old, an age when a child could easily confuse a ghastly accident with brutal murder.

  ‘He told me what he saw, your honour,’ Arigotra clutched Prem, his face haggard. ‘Kurikas lying on the floor, writhing. Your brother, I mean, the commander, trying to help him.’

  ‘That is absolutely correct,’ Shunen approved. ‘I am so glad you understand, otherwise it could get a little awkward. You see, I could so easily have summoned your son to court and interrogated him there, like a criminal, but then I knew it would be better in the privacy of your home, less distressful for the child.’ His cold hand touched Prem’s cheek lightly, noting the involuntary shiver. ‘Such a pity if anything were to happen to him. He is all you have, isn’t that so?’

  Arigotra fell to his knees, his hands folded in supplication. ‘He is just a frightened child, Your Highness. He will forget everything in a few days.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Shunen’s hooded eyes watched the astrologer keenly.

  ‘I know because I can predict the future, like yours.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he leaned forward.

  Arigotra drew a ragged breath. ‘The shape of your face, the length of your nose, the heavy lids, the way you hold your mouth firmly closed, and most of all your forehead, sharply sloping back, these are marks of an extraordinary will.’

  ‘You are wasting my time,’ the interruption was soft, ominous.

  ‘These are not ordinary features, Your Honour. They are of one who will soon be king.’

  Chakrawaru poked the brazier until it glowed a fiery red. Then he ripped the pages out of the register and dropped them on the burning coals, watching them curl up and vanish. When the last page had turned to ash, he sat back on his heels with a sigh but was immediately startled by a knock on the door.

  ‘It is the chief justice, sir. Open up, please.’

  Leaping to his feet, he threw open all the windows before rushing to the door, composing his features into an obsequious smile, ‘To what do I owe this honour, chief justice?’

  Shunen swept in with his guards, sniffing the air like a hound, his gaze snapping to the brazier. ‘Covering your tracks, eh, Chakra? Well, you should have taken care of this one too.’ Holding up a dead homing pigeon, he let it fall to the floor. ‘I am surprised you didn’t know the general left the city days ago. So when your pigeon returned after its futile mission, I was waiting for it.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I don’t know anything about this. I swear, I don’t,’ he staggered back, breaking into a cold sweat.

  ‘Let me refresh your memory,’ Shunen unfolded a small note. ‘This says, “Dear General, you can well imagine if I am writing to you, it must be because the situation is dire. We have a common enemy, one so diabolical that it is endangering Aum. I beg you to set aside our differences and join hands with me. Together, we can rout this enemy and save the kingdom. Eagerly awaiting your reply, Chakrawaru.”’ Shunen looked up. ‘Save the kingdom? Nice touch, uncle.’

  Darkness began to smother him, Shunen’s features blurring and receding from him, only the eyes remaining in sharp focus, like that of a cobra about to strike. ‘What do you want?’ His voice was faint, hoarse.

  ‘To bring you to justice.’ An odd giggle escaped the chief justice’s lips. ‘Your play is done, uncle.’

  ‘No,’ he gasped, eyeballs rolling. ‘Have mercy, please.’

  ‘All right.’ The agreement came too fast, too quickly. ‘Write a confession and I shall discuss it with father.’

  ‘Yes,’ he whimpered piteously, ‘I will write down everything. His Majesty is all merciful. He will certainly forgive me.’

  Hurrying to his desk, he snatched up a quill, scribbling as fast as his trembling hand would allow.

  ‘Finished?’ Shunen leaned over his shoulder. ‘Now, sign it.’

  Chakrawaru turned around slowly. The hooded eyes were strangely dilated. He had seen that look before, when young Shunen had whipped a puppy. He knew then, with dreadful certainty, what he had just done. Signed his own death sentence. His knees buckled. A guard quickly held him up, deftly slipping the noose over his head.

  ‘String him up,’ Shunen commanded. Chakrawaru drew in one last deep breath. The noose tightened around his neck, the long rope slowly slinging around a rafter, two guards pulling it firmly. A sudden yank lifted him off the ground, the blood thrumming in his head, body twitching, the bulging eyes staring all the time at his killer. And then, there was nothing.

  Guards and officials scurried in and out of Chakrawaru’s chambers and Shunen, his demeanour funereal, like the messenger of death, glided to the royal wing.

  ‘Father,’ he bowed to Vasuket, ‘you must see this,’ and handed over a crumpled note.

  The king’s hand began to shake and when he finished reading it, the paper fell from his listless fingers. ‘So, he is dead.’

  ‘By his own hand,’ Shunen’s answer came quickly. ‘He was found hanging from a rafter.’

  Vasuket sat down abruptly, his face pinched. ‘This confession, why do you think he wrote it?’

  ‘Guilt perhaps,’ Shunen watched him carefully. ‘I knew he was stealing from the treasury and when I confronted him, he cracked, but I never thought he would . . .’ he shook his head.

  ‘My advisor,’ Vasuket cried out in anguish. ‘He didn’t lack for anything, then why—?’ Burying his face in his hands, he mumbled, ‘Kurikas gone, Chakrawaru gone. What is happening?’

  Manmaani looked down into a courtyard, one hand protectively at her throat, her eyes following a shrouded body on a plain stretcher, a thin arm dangling out.

  ‘You can breathe easy now, mother.’ She gasped, spinning around. Shunen raised his eyebrows. ‘Why so pale? Aren’t you glad the threat has been removed? Or else, Saahas would have had us banished forever.’

  ‘Hush,’ she hissed, ‘even walls have ears.’

  ‘If that is so, I, the chief justice, will cut them off.’

  She looked at him, her breathing a little fast. He had always made her uneasy, even as a child, but now he frightened her, his bald head highlighting his cruel eyes. Shunen moved a little closer, tilting up her chin with one finger, ‘Sometimes, I can read your thoughts just by looking into your eyes. Like now. You are wondering what I’ll do next. And I’ll tell you, I am going to be king. It is predicted. But I’m in a bit of a hurry, mother.’ His voice dropped, ‘Give the old man a huge dose of poison in his tea.’

  She fell back, her small eyes stretched wide in alarm. ‘What! How . . .?’

  ‘I’ve been watching you, and your assignations with the Gondi chief.’

  ‘He brings me perfumes.’

  ‘Stop it, mother,’ Shunen snapped. ‘I know all about your hoard of snake venoms. The king seems a little more wan, a little more grey each day.’ Her nails bit into her palms, her gaze locked to his flinty one. ‘I’m tired of making good my family’s mistakes,’ his lips hardly moved. ‘It is time I got my due.’

  ‘It will be too soon,�
�� she blurted. ‘Too soon after Chakrawaru.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that. Look how smoothly it has gone so far.’

  ‘What about Ashwath?’

  ‘He has only one thing on his mind, the khanda.’

  ‘And Saahas?’

  Shunen relaxed, his smile confident. ‘By the time the general hears of the events, I will be king. And hasn’t he sworn to serve the throne, for life?’

  ‘Open the door,’ Manmaani demanded of the panicked guard.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he gulped. ‘My instructions are—’ Muffled shrieks of laughter from within cut him short. The queen pushed open the heavy doors, entering a spacious, gilded anteroom. It was empty, the sound of raucous laughter filtering through from the adjoining boudoir.

  The door swung open at her touch. Half-naked girls crowding the bed, quickly withdrew. Protesting, Nandan glanced up bleary-eyed, his clothes in disarray. Manmaani rushed to his side, cradling his curly head on her lap, her glance taking in the empty wine bottles on the floor.

  ‘Mother dearest,’ he slurred, putting his arms around her, ‘I am so happy.’

  Her gaze lingered on the damp curls framing the fair brow, the lashes thick on the rosy cheeks, the perfect lips slightly parted to reveal pearly teeth. ‘You have had too much to drink,’ she grimaced.

  ‘Just a drop,’ he hiccupped.

  ‘I need you to be careful, my dearest son,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘just till I make you King of Aum.’

  ‘Oh, mother, I love you.’

  ‘And I, you. And so, old Vasuket must live, for when he places the pagdi on your handsome head, nobody will dare protest.’ Nandan gave a soft snore and she smiled, ‘And behind you, my darling, will be me, the de facto ruler of Aum.’

  16

  There was an insistent pain deep within his head. Ashwath shivered, squeezing his eyes shut. The winter in Sundernagari felt particularly severe. A pair of dry, rough palms rubbed his face. Hussuri’s skin hadn’t softened despite the milk baths, the lotions and the potions.