25

Standing on the terrace of his tall house, General Amsha faced the east, intently watching for signs of daybreak. Suddenly, he blew into his flute. ‘Wake up,’ he whispered, his slender fingers tapping the thin pipe gently. ‘It is time.’ A sleepy note yawned, shaking itself out, and warbled in the cold. Amsha continued to play, and the notes shivered into the air, slowly beginning to soar. Just as the first orange light of day touched the sky and the birds began to twitter, the notes swirled into the early morning raga, ethereal in beauty but hard as diamonds. The melody settled on the low boundary wall skirting Swarus, one layer after another, erecting an invisible barrier that, along with the rising sun, climbed high into the heavens.

The previous day, King Odav had lightly rapped him, ‘Have you noticed the foul air blowing into our kingdom? It comes from Aham. Do something to shut out this malevolence, Amsha.’

He had roused himself then, sunk as he had been in gloom for weeks. When he had first heard of Saahas’s death, he had shaken his head vehemently, refusing to believe it. But then a young mason, newly arrived from Aham, had informed him in a low voice, ‘They found his sword, my lord. It is displayed in Andheri, like a trophy.’

Amsha had sighed, his face sagging. ‘Yes, only death could part him from his blade.’ The mason had hung his head, wishing he could break the promise he had made. ‘If anyone asks,’ Saahas had told him, ‘tell them I am dead.’

Amsha sniffed. The air smelt fresh again, that putrid stench from across the border banished at last. Even the young mason, creating the garden path, straightened, inhaling more deeply. Walking over to admire the fine mosaic of coloured stones, Amsha remarked, ‘I was wondering if your wife would like to help with the housework? My home could do with another pair of hands.’

Riju’s face cracked into a beaming smile. And for a moment Amsha recalled the first time he had seen him, a few months ago, staggering into Swarus, carrying his broken, little wife. ‘It would be perfect, my lord,’ the mason exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t be worrying about her then. May I fetch her, please? Perhaps she could begin right away?’

Amsha laughed, his long earrings playfully swinging, ‘Go on then, get her.’

Riju burst into the small house that he had lovingly constructed in a patch bathed in dappled sunshine. But Dharaa wasn’t home. He asked for her at the neighbour’s, then searched for her in the marketplace, an old, familiar fear beginning to gnaw at his insides.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he told himself, ‘this is Swarus, she is safe here.’ But still his heart thudded, the air escaping his lungs in terrified gasps. Loud shouts from across the road drew his attention to a park, famed for its musical fountains, one of the many wonders conjured by Amsha’s flute.

A group of boys, armed with swords and sticks, practised synchronized moves, uttering throaty yells each time they attacked their opponent. Standing near them was a lean, spare man, occasionally stepping in to correct a stance. And watching them wide-eyed was Dharaa, peeping from behind a tree. Riju drew a deep breath, his gaze lingering over her. The cheekbones, once softly curving, were angular, enhancing the blue shadows under her eyes. Yet, she had recovered well, the mellow climate of Swarus healing the wounds in her body and mind quickly. Although she still suffered from nightmares, she woke up bright each morning, eagerly absorbing the life-force of the lilting music pervading the kingdom’s atmosphere.

‘Do you want to learn?’ he whispered in her ear.

Dharaa spun into his arms, going on tiptoe to brush her lips lightly against his. ‘How did you guess?’

He grinned, pinching her chin, ‘I know you better than you know yourself. Come, let’s speak to the instructor.’

But she hung back, ‘It looks like a boys-only class.’

‘So what? If you are sure, then nothing can stop you.’

Their eyes locked and her hand gripped his tightly. ‘I want to be a warrior,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘And I want to open a school, to train other girls. No woman should go through what I have without being able to defend herself.’

Walking softly past the sleeping men, Nirmohi went to the mouth of the cave, staring out at the night. The rugged mountains of Yamathig towered around her, silent sentinels of her abode.

‘Where is he?’ she asked them. ‘He should have returned a long time ago.’ Sitting down on a boulder, she froze in thought, the mountains hunkering down to watch. The night sped past and Yamathig straightened up with the rising sun but still she didn’t move. It was almost evening when she stirred, her fingers twirling a silver lock of hair.

‘So, it must be this way,’ she murmured. ‘A journey of the alone to the alone.’

‘Is it sire, Your Highness?’ The voice was taut with worry. She turned slowly, appraising the lanky Gondi. The grave eyes, arching slightly towards the hollowed temples, looked back at her fearfully. ‘Is he . . . is he . . . dead?’ The rest of the brigade crowded behind him, painful anxiety in every pale face.

‘No, Tota,’ she shook her head, ‘but he is not returning. Not anytime soon.’

‘Where is sire, Your Highness?’ Lushai, his face working, pushed his way through the knot of men. ‘I must go to him.’

Nirmohi shrugged. ‘All I sense is a journey. Where he is and where he will go next, that is hidden from me.’

The manservant buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

‘What are we to do now?’ The brigade looked dazed, shattered.

‘Saahas has not abandoned you. He is in search of answers. You too must find yours.’

‘But where should we begin?’

‘Here,’ she answered, eyebrows slightly raised. ‘Let Yamathig guide you.’