by Samit Basu
Just next to the Turning ravian-werewolf, there was this wooden stand, with a book lying open on it. Blagyar’s Journals, I realized, and yelled out to Arti to get it. She heard me, and flew in like a hurricane to the middle of the hall, but the ravians used all their weird mind power things to hold the book in place, and Arti was hurled back into the air. Something was wrong with her, she was wailing in pain, and then she shifted shape, turned into this spear of air, set herself on fire, and flew right into the thick of things again. But the ravians were stronger, and they all sort of pointed at her and yelled, and the spear broke and fell burning to the floor; Arti was dying, but she wasn’t dying easy; she screamed and cried and turned some kind of flaming fountain, setting everything I could see on fire. Borji saw her fall and went berserk; he turned wolf and leaped into the air, landing right by the platform, where a lot of ravians stabbed him for all they were worth, and he went down looking like a porcupine. Beside me, the White Lady muttered something, and the Journals flew out of the stand; she sent the book flying down to where Arti was fizzling out, and Arti’s last dying breath set the book on fire.
Nearly everything was ablaze now; more ravians appeared, led by some kind of bigshot; he was yelling curses at the White Lady, something about how she had betrayed them, and Project Ursag could not be stopped now. She took this well, she didn’t cry or anything, just picked up a sword from somewhere and started chopping ravian heads off. The Lady was one mean swordswoman.
Then there was this really terrible howl, and I know terrible – I’d heard Saroo singing in the privy for years, but he had nothing on this. The ravian werewolf had woken. He broke his chains like threads, and howled again. Two werewolves leapt on him; he caught them in mid-leap and slammed them on the floor, breaking their backs. The ceiling was falling in by now; the castle was going down in seconds, and it was time for me to leave, mission accomplished and all that, but I was rooted to the ground.
The White Lady wasn’t, though; she ran right past the ravians and werewolves still going at it around the platform, jumped up beside the newborn werewolf and stuck her sword into his heart before he’d even noticed her. Then he grabbed her, and would have killed her, but Borjigin suddenly rose out of a pile of corpses, roaring blue murder, sprang at them, changed to wolf-form mid-leap, got the ravian by the neck and ripped his throat out. He dropped the White Lady, and she cut his head off. She turned to Borjigin, probably to thank him, but he was well beyond thanks now. He looked around wildly, saw me, winked, and jumped into the flames.
Everything was collapsing now; the party was over. I started running. I passed the ravian bigshot on the way to the stairs, stuck a knife into him, and kicked him in the head; it helped my case that he was trapped under a big burning beam. Still, he was defiant to the last. I told him he’d lost, and the book had burnt, and his monster was dead. Then he said something that sort of got me; the ravians are good at these mind game things. He said it didn’t matter if the new Ursag was dead; they had a spare, and the Dark Lord was as good as dead. I didn’t have much time to think about what this meant, so I kicked his head again, and ran downstairs. I met him again a few seconds later; this time I was running upstairs, with flames climbing the stairs behind me. Things weren’t looking good.
I ran and ran, higher and higher, until the stairs were broken and I ran into a room and met this quiet-looking wolf standing and looking calmly out of a very high window, as if nothing of any consequence was going on. I yelled at him, and he told me to get on his back. I thought we were going to do a daredevil-y ride through the flames, mostly hurting him, which was fine by me, but no; he just jumped out of the window. We were somewhere near the top of the castle at this point, so I was pretty annoyed; spectacular view, of course, stars twinkling and all that, but I wasn’t enjoying it, because he’d killed me, and I yelled many very very rude things at him all the way down, determined not to go out without letting the world know how I felt about stuff.
But, as you might have guessed, I didn’t die. That’s because the wolf just landed on the grounds, and tossed me off his shoulder. It made no sense. A very strong werewolf might have survived that fall, but he would have broken a few legs, at least. I would have thought about it more then, but bits of the castle kept landing really near me, so I staggered around a bit, being sick in a handsome sort of way, high as a kite because of the rush coming down so far at that speed.
Then the wolf looks at me, quiet like, and says, Tell your master I come for him, and then he takes off, one big leap over the castle walls and into the forest. Soon as I could walk in something like a straight line, I got the hells out of there. I turned around when I was safe, and watched Castle Blagyar crumble; it must have been a metaphor for something, but I couldn’t remember what. I came home.
Now I’m here in my tent, and Migna and Munni have promised to visit and cheer me up, and I’m happy on the whole, but there are still so many questions.
Who was the White Lady? Was she a ravian of some sort? Did she live? Did they really make another ravian werewolf, or were they just bluffing? Whose baby clothes was the one we killed sniffing? Was the wolf who saved me a werewolf, or the Ursag? Was he going to attack the Dark Lord?
I’ll probably never know. These questions aren’t for me to ask anyway, that would be stretching the wise-woman’s blessing. I succeeded, and I survived, like she said I always would, and that’s the end of this story.
(Unut’s war journal ends here. Contrary to the wise-woman’s prediction, he did not survive his next mission)
Chapter Six
In a small hut in southern Avranti, the former Dark Lord and the Unwaba’s Prophetess kept themselves busily occupied in doing nothing. The hut was in a village that was strangely empty; Maya told Kirin this was because everyone in the land had gone to Ektara to join the army; this was some ravian scheme the unwaba had hinted at, but they were not allowed to do anything to hinder it.
Outside the hut, Spikes lumbered around by a pond, causing great distress to the local fauna. Inside, Maya slept, her face troubled; terrible dreams had haunted her for weeks. Kirin sat by her, eyes wide open, watching in concern as she tossed and turned. He was moving his fingers absent-mindedly, and cobwebs on the ceiling were rearranging themselves. Kirin did not see this, though; his mind was occupied in trying to make sense of all that he’d heard from Maya in the last few days.
The gods were playing a game with the world. This was apparently something they did from time to time, to keep themselves entertained. Only this time, the god who’d made up the game – Zivran – had decided to experiment with the game, and had placed the world and himself in great peril by doing so. He’d created a gameworld where the pieces in the game, the people of the world, were free to act as they chose, and the gods only got to watch. But he hadn’t thought things through clearly. There were flaws in the game, and if they were discovered, the gods would destroy Zivran, and the game, and the world. If they were not found, the world would rebel against the game, and then the gods would destroy the world. For Kirin, who hadn’t really believed in gods in the first place, this was a lot to take in.
Every significant piece in the game, Maya had explained to Kirin, was visible through a crystal to a god-player, and after initial disagreements between gods as to the relative importance of their pieces, Zivran had redesigned the board with a wave of his hand. Heroes were now randomly reassigned to gods at intervals of one day. It was of utmost importance, the unwaba had told Maya, that Kirin and Maya were off the board; the simplest way to achieve this was by doing nothing important, and not being conspicuous. Both Kirin and Maya had done far too much in the last year to be removed from the playing crystals for a while, but if they kept out of trouble and adventure for long enough, other heroes would rise to replace them in the gods’ crystals; the war would ensure that. Fame was a fickle thing, and apparently humanity’s extremely short collective attention span was created in the image of its maker’s. Kirin had argued that doing nothing was
not going to save the world even if it removed them from the gods’ sight. Maya had agreed, and repeated what the unwaba had told her.
‘The most important thing to remember is that the gods have chosen to play the game and abide by its rules. The rules are all that constrain the gods and their powers; to cheat at the game and defeat the players you must find ways of exploiting the rules so that the gods would have to break the rules to defeat you. You cannot be seen going on quests,’ the unwaba had said. ‘There is no simple formula for saving the world; anything that appears to be so is a part of the game, and a trap. What you must do, instead, is to disguise yourselves; this is best done by seeming insignificant. The gods are not interested in the mundane; if they do not have high drama to sustain them, they will find something else to watch.
‘How do you hide from the gods and remain involved in world-changing events? You must fade. I am invisible to the gods, and have a certain amount of influence; while you are near me, you are visible to the gods, but cloudy. You can save the world by not being heroes. This does not mean, I repeat, that you have nothing to do. Nearly all the work in the world is done by people who are not heroes. What you have to be is people who assist the hero in his tasks; to overcome the players backstage, you have to fade into the background yourselves. This will be difficult for you, but the task you have undertaken was never going to be easy.’
Spikes had been extremely pleased to hear that Kirin and Maya were now his servants. ‘Less backchat, then, and get me some food,’ were his first words as master, and Kirin, grinning, had obeyed. The Gauntlet of Tatsu and the Shadowknife were also in Spikes’ custody now. They did not make him look significantly more terrifying.
These were the facts, and Kirin was still struggling to comprehend them. How he and Maya were supposed to save the world they did not know, and had no chance of knowing until the unwaba woke up.
They’d spent several days regaling each other with tales of their adventures since they had last spoken in the Bleakwoods. Neither wanted in particular to bring up the time they had seen each other last, their stormy encounter on Mount Laoye in Xi’en. They had not expected things to be the same as they were in Kol what seemed liked a lifetime ago; it was as if they were two new people, older, more guarded, better at hiding with words what they truly felt. About her time with the ravians, Maya had said nothing, except that it was painful to remember, and not something she was willing to talk about yet. By unspoken consent, they had not discussed Asvin’s death even once. Kirin had accepted that without question; they had always had secrets from each other. And there was plenty to talk about; they buried themselves in comfortable discussions about the incredible places and people they’d seen in their journeys around the world. And from their days together, their walks in the barren red fields around the village and their uncertain, uncomfortable silences, Kirin had realized what the greatest difference between the present and their past life in Kol was; both of them had learned to hate.
Outside, afternoon cast drowsy spells over empty paddy fields, and cows stared longingly at each other and chewed cud in a melancholy, passionate sort of way. Kirin looked at the little chameleon’s head, poking out from a black pouch around Maya’s neck. The unwaba. The Shanti-Joddha’s inspiration, the true founder of Kol, the voice that had guided the world for centuries. Or so he claimed. Or so Maya said he claimed; Kirin had spoken to the unwaba just once, and they hadn’t talked about history.
Kirin’s first encounter with the unwaba had left him rather shaken. He’d woken up in the shadow of a tree one lazy afternoon and had sat up to see where Maya was when he’d come face to face with the ancient chameleon, sitting on a low-hanging branch and regarding him with a baleful stare. Kirin’s yell of surprise had knocked the unwaba off his branch, but Kirin had caught him before he fell to the ground, and put him back where he was. This placatory gesture had not, however, won the unwaba’s favour.
‘I knew you’d do that, young Kirin,’ he’d said, in his whispery voice, like sand falling through an hourglass. ‘I know you know who I am, just as I know who you are, but then that was only to be expected, since I know everything, being, as I am – ‘
‘The unwaba, oldest and wisest of chameleons,’ Kirin had said, smiling. ‘Good to see you awake. I don’t suppose you know where Maya is?’
The unwaba had looked mightily offended at this. ‘Do not be impertinent with me, young man,’ he’d said stiffly. ‘Your fate, and this world’s, hangs by a thread, and this is not a time for levity. Maya is at present very close by, approaching us, thinking about what your presence here means for both of you, wondering what she really feels about you and reproaching herself for not mourning as much as she should for Asvin. That’s good to know. Tell me more.’
Kirin had opened and shut his mouth. Maya had warned him about the unwaba’s unique conversational style, but nothing could have really prepared him for the astonishing experience of having someone else say the words he was going to.
The unwaba had looked at him smugly and carried on. ‘Maya is aware, of course, that you came to rescue her from Myrdak, and was displeased when she learned from me that you had left quite happily with young Red. Her name was Red? Clearly you did not waste much time talking. Red is her identity; name she has none. She is a shapeshifter, a member of a secret society of shapeshifters in Kol, and contrary to what you believe, she is alive. What? Yes. But Aciram said… I know what Aciram said. These are epic times, boy. No one’s dead until you see the body, and sometimes not even then. We shall waste no more time on this. Your duties lie elsewhere, and so should your attention. I was speaking of Maya, the woman you love. Hang on a minute… Do not waste my time, Kirin. It is more precious than yours.
‘Maya was somewhat mollified when she learned that your hurried shift in affections was related to the fact that Red had taken her guise, and that you saw through this deception eventually despite Red knowing enough about both of you to impersonate Maya convincingly. You’re quite a gossip for a lizard, aren’t you? I don’t think I want to hear any more. Nonsense. I know you do. And Maya does not know, as I know, that your own feelings for Red were considerably strong, though we shall make allowances for the considerable heat of the moment and let that pass. Do not interpret this as a signal that I have any real control over what I am saying. Just consider yourself blessed by benevolent fate.
‘More importantly, I am a chameleon, not a lizard. There is a difference.
‘Despite not knowing of the breach in your affections, I doubt Maya has cause to feel any fondness for Red, considering Red almost successfully seduced you, and had previously been romantically involved with Asvin, while disguised as the Durgan princess Rukmini. Now, of course, Red, in the guise of Maya, is rapidly on her way towards an intense alliance with Aciram, who she thinks is you, which is reasonable, as he wears your face. Is all this true? Consider my telling you so a fairly substantial indication, yes. It’s too complicated to follow. Do you mind if I draw a little map? Yes, I do. Your intellectual limitations are your problem, not mine. Now, to continue, Maya was also extremely angry with Asvin. However, this did not dilute her grief at the knowledge of his death. She has not had much time to dwell on his passing, however, given the perils she has had to face in the recent past at the hands of the ravians. I don’t know anything about that. Oh yes, of course, you do not know. She has decided not to tell you. I, however, know. Don’t tell me. Very well. Let me tell you, then, what is to happen between you and Maya in the days to come.’
The unwaba had proceeded no further because Maya had emerged from behind his tree and her hand had come down, firmly and less gently than ever before, on his mouth. ‘I think it’s time I made it clear,’ she’d said, her eyes blazing, ‘that if you gossip about either one of us again, we will toss you off a high cliff. I do not want to hear prophecies regarding my love life or Kirin’s again, and you must promise not to make them. Are we in agreement on this, Kirin?’
‘Complete and utter,’ Kirin had
said with feeling.
Maya had let go of the unwaba’s mouth and the venerable chameleon had glared at her. ‘Your presumption exceeds all possible limits,’ he’d said. ‘Remember, I am a god.’
‘Then in the name of all possible gods, stop behaving like my aunt Dimpi, who I turned into a dung-beetle when I was twelve, and tell us what we need to do to save the world.’
‘Very well,' the unwaba had said, and then he’d gone back to sleep.
Having consumed all available butterflies in the region, Spikes returned to the hut, and ordered Kirin to look snappy and clean the mud off his toes. Eyebrows rising skywards, Kirin got up, but before he could attend to the pashan’s beauty needs, the unwaba wriggled out of the pouch and placed a clammy paw on Maya’s neck. She woke instantly, and the unwaba said, ‘I will now tell you both many important things.’
He clambered on to Maya’s palm in an important sort of way, cleared his throat, sounding like a very small kitten sneezing and settled down to tell his tale.
‘Once upon a time there was a chameleon named Unwaba. And when the first creation came to pass, it fell to Unwaba to inform man, greatest creation of S/He’ – the unwaba was silent for a while – ‘ that he was to be immortal. But Unwaba was lazy, and did not journey swiftly; he loitered, he slept, he ate the fruit of the great tree Ubukwebezane, and gloried in the beauties of creation, and tarried some more. And so it came to pass that S/He… grew impatient and sent Abantu the lizard to tell man he was to die, and Abantu, curse his insufficiently sticky feet, hurried to man’s hut and told him of his mortality. And when Unwaba reached man’s hut and told him he was immortal, there was no rejoicing at all, for man had already heard the words of Abantu, and thus, through the word of the lizard, death came to man. Had Unwaba been less lazy… had I woken up a little earlier…’ The chameleon’s voice cracked and faded. Maya patted him on the head with an encouraging finger, and he opened his eyes again.
