23

Hussuri glanced up from her scribbles. ‘I would have felt bad for him if the dear old king hadn’t loved him so much.’

Ashwath shot her a curious look. ‘Did you like him? Saahas?’

Tilting her head to one side, she considered the question. ‘I’m not sure. I feared that he would find out the truth about us.’

Ashwath cracked his knuckles. ‘All’s well that ends well. And now it is time for me to claim the khanda.’

He ran all the way to the court and when he arrived panting, his gaze was instantly drawn to the gleaming steel blade on a table.

‘It awaits its new master, brother,’ Shunen nodded towards it. Ashwath swallowed, wiping his sweating palms on his shirt. He approached it carefully, as if the sword might vanish if he made a sudden move towards it. When at last he stood over it, he breathed a sigh of exultation, drinking in every detail of the exquisite blade.

‘My khanda,’ he whispered, his voice rough with longing. The engraved motto on the hilt caught his eye, ‘Truth at any cost. ‘I will have the hilt changed with my motto carved in it—Victory at any cost.’

Just for an instant, the blade seemed to turn an angry red, and Ashwath shrank.

Shunen laughed. ‘Scared of a dead man’s sword? This is your prize. Go on, pick it up.’

Ashwath reached for the blade, and just as his fingers grazed the hilt, he yowled in pain, his hand bent at the wrist. ‘That accursed khanda,’ he screamed, ‘it has burned my hand.’

Shunen frowned, gesturing to a royal guard, ‘You there, pick it up.’ The soldier nervously prodded the hilt with the tip of his index finger. The wood felt warm and smooth to his touch. Smiling in relief, he hefted the sword high over his head, turning around in a circle. Ashwath glowered, holding his smarting hand with the other, the pain jarring up to his shoulder.

‘I think your morbid fascination with it has addled your brains, dear brother,’ Shunen smirked.

‘Give it to me,’ Ashwath barked and the soldier presented the sword to him, hilt first. Reaching out with his left hand, he hesitated. The steel seemed to turn red again. Ashwath froze, fear paralysing him.

Shunen shook his head, ‘Let it be, brother. I shall have it installed in the main square—a warning to all traitors.’

The citizens flocked to the glass cage, craning to read the sign beneath the blade. ‘Here lies the traitor’s sword, to remind you all of your once glorious general-turned-outlaw. The man who was driven by his own hand to an ignominious death. Be warned, swift punishment lies in store for those who consider themselves above the laws of Aham.’

Squeezing through the crowds, Prem pushed himself to the front, pressing his face to the thick glass. Shakti appeared dull, lifeless, far from the gleaming steel he remembered from that terrible night. But as he stared at it with unwinking eyes, he caught a tiny twinkle at its tip. It slid down the blade’s broad surface, sparkling like a dewdrop. A wave of warm comfort enveloped him, and then quite suddenly the light went out, turning the sword lifeless again.

Prem turned away, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. ‘Saahas lives,’ he whispered, hugging himself, ‘and we will meet again.’

Another keen eye had discerned the twinkle. Ashish blinked away tears, ‘Yes, you are alive and we are certain to meet again.’

Riju’s bullock cart trundled out of the north gate on to an empty road. A bright sun in a clean, blue sky dispersed the last vestiges of the grey fog seeping out of Aham.

Flinging off the rug under which he had hidden himself, Saahas gulped in fresh air, his tense muscles beginning to ease. Riju rolled a smoke, allowing the bullocks to trot at a comfortable pace. There was peace in him, for his Dharaa had fallen into a restful sleep the moment they had left Aham. He glanced at Saahas’s profile. Despite the beard, he could tell that the mouth was tightly pursed. ‘I am sorry,’ he began, ‘for the loss of your sword. I know you’ll miss it. That was a big sacrifice.’

Saahas stirred, ‘No, it isn’t my sacrifice, it is Shakti’s. She knew that only she could save us.’

The highway forked into two, one carrying on straight ahead to the north and the other a narrow dirt track going west to nobody knew where. Saahas pulled at the slackened reins in Riju’s hand, and the bullocks slowed to a stop.

Jumping off the cart, he went to unhitch his horse from the back. ‘Our journey together ends here,’ he told Riju. ‘If God wills it, maybe we’ll cross paths again.’

‘Wait, general,’ Riju leapt to the ground, ‘we are coming with you. We’ll serve you, take care of you.’ Saahas shook his head.

‘But don’t you understand?’ he stammered. ‘I, I want to be with you, with your men.’

‘But I’m not returning to my brigade,’ Saahas held Riju’s hand in a tight clasp. ‘How can I face them? What will I tell them? That in less than a year, the kingdom we knew has changed beyond recognition? That people have turned into self-serving rats, the mettle knocked out of them?’ He passed a hand over his tired eyes. ‘Dharaa needs good care urgently. Go to Swarus. You will need to retrace your steps, for we have overshot it a bit. It is the safest place in the world for you.’

‘And you, what will you do?’

‘I don’t know, Riju. I have always wanted to travel.’ He tried to smile but failed. ‘And remember, if anyone asks about me, tell them General Saahas is dead, which is true in more ways than one.’

He watched the cart until it became a speck in the distance. With the midday sun beating down on him, he turned off on to the dirt track, leading his horse by the reins. His steps faltered. Weariness stole over him, weariness of the heart rupturing into his soul. He threw himself under a tree, his body wracked with sobs, hot tears scalding his face.

He wept for old Vasuket, for his father Meghabhuti, for his carefree youth. He wept for Anuj, for little Prem, the frightened orphan. And Dharaa. And Riju. He wept for his soldiers, his army that served another master now. He wept for his brigade that would wait for him in vain, waiting to return home. And he wept for Aum, broken and crushed, stinking with the foul deeds of those who had shackled it. His Aum, which had been his purpose, which had defined him, was gone, lost in the dust of Aham.

He drew up his knees to his chest, hugging them, curled in a foetal position. A chatter of voices filled his head, taunting him. You are a coward, they jeered. You ran away, a second time. Yes, stay safe, hide. Forget Aum, forget that you are scared.

‘No,’ he screamed, flinging mud and grass at his unseen tormentors. ‘That’s a lie. I am not scared. I am not!’ His tears fell into the dirt, raising a wonderful fragrance of wet earth so reminiscent of Aum. That whiff of home comforted him, soothed him, and the voices faded. His mind numbed to blankness, he at last fell into an exhausted sleep.