34

A shaft of light pierced the darkness of the shrine, a sign that the queen mother had arrived. The throng fell silent, its eyes riveted on the vertical beam. She appeared suddenly, standing in the yellow light, her head tilted back, revealing a pale, bare neck, arms crossed over her breast, a tragic figure.

‘Sacrifice,’ she intoned softly. ‘Sacrifice.’ Chanting the word like a mantra, her voice rose slowly, reaching a crescendo. The crowd picked it up, chorusing it, their hungry eyes devouring her as she slithered on to the platform.

Flinging her arms out, she dropped her head, and instantly the chanting ceased. Manmaani’s eyes rolled up, staring at the sea of desperate faces. ‘King Shunen demands a sacrifice,’ her scarlet mouth screamed. ‘Do you want to know what it is?’

‘Yes,’ they yelled.

‘Me,’ she shrieked, stunning them, ‘and my youngest boy. The king wants to sacrifice us, your queen mother. Give me your blood he says, give me the blood of my little brother.’

Nandan heard his cue and stepped into the shaft of light. The congregation drew in a quick breath. The Prince had never looked more beautiful, the dark curls framing his pale face.

‘The king wants to silence us forever,’ continued Manmaani, her voice striking the audience like a charge of lightning. ‘And so, we ran from the palace, like fugitives, to save the goddess in me. She speaks the truth through me. She tells you of the king’s indifference towards his people. He knows you go thirsty, that you drink water from the sewers, that your cattle lie dead in dry fields, and yet he does nothing. And you know he does nothing. Who tells you King Shunen bathes in fresh, cool water every day, that he quenches his thirst with icy drinks?’

‘The goddess tells us,’ they growled, edging close to her.

‘But when Shunen kills me, the goddess will fall silent.’

‘No,’ the throng roared, seething in the heat of the night, pressing against the platform, hands grasping at her, ‘we won’t let him take our goddess.’

Manmaani swallowed, taking a step back. She had fanned their anger to flash point. Any moment now it would spill over, sparing no one. Gesturing to Nandan to retreat into the shrine, she cast a quick look around and spotted a familiar face.

‘I’ve seen him at the palace,’ she raged. ‘King Shunen’s spy.’ The crowd paused and slowly turned as one, a monster with a thousand heads and several thousand limbs, its innumerable tongues flicking.

‘No! Lie she does,’ Bukkal screamed, spinning in a circle and realizing too late that he had uttered the wrong word.

‘The goddess never lies,’ the monster howled, tearing his limbs, the sight and smell of blood spurring it on.

‘Listen,’ screeched Manmaani, raising a hand and all ears cocked towards a sound. Hooves pounded the ground, shaking it. ‘The king has sent his army,’ she thundered, ‘to take me away!’

The monster shook its heads, smacking its lips, ‘We won’t allow it, mother.’

The assault was savage and unexpected, the soldiers unprepared. Peasants and aristocrats, transformed into demons, screamed, ‘Kill, kill, kill!’

Biting and scratching, they bludgeoned and battered with ghoulish relish. Caring not for swords or spears, they spared neither animals nor humans, hurling themselves at the soldiers with relentless ferocity, flesh and blood splattering them. The regiment retreated, begging for mercy, trying to control its panicked horses.

‘Hold on,’ Manmaani yelled, majestic in the wavering light, ‘they too are my children. I am ready to forgive them if they swear allegiance to me.’

The soldiers toppled to their knees crying, ‘Mother, mother we will obey only you.’

‘To Andheri then,’ Manmaani shrieked, ‘to the palace and let no one stand in your way!’

Shunen flung open the window, staring out at the muddy landscape, the commotion in the streets suddenly becoming louder. His brows snapped into a frown. The gracious trees, the elegant gardens of the palace had vanished behind a curtain of dust, heat hitting him like an angry wave. He hurriedly shut the window, relieved to be enclosed once again in the cool air of ice melting in a dozen bowls.

‘So much has changed in the last—’ his throat constricted, the vocal cords tight and he staggered to a couch, ‘in the last three years.’ Gulping several times, he found his voice and screamed for Ashish.

The steward appeared almost instantly, looking askance at the white-faced king.

‘Tell me,’ he gasped, ‘how long ago did you bring that traitorous astrologer to me, the one whom I put to death? I forget his name.’

A shadow darkened Ashish’s face, and he ducked his head to hide it. ‘Arigotra, Your Majesty,’ he replied after a moment. ‘That was exactly three years ago.’

Shunen choked, his face turning purple, and fumbled with the buttons at his throat.

‘Are you not well, Your Majesty? Should I fetch the royal vaid?’

‘Water,’ he croaked, and Ashish hurried to pour him a glass, holding it to his lips. Taking a sip, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then cursing, he dashed the glass to the floor, the veins blue in his bald head.

‘Where is my brother, the great commander?’ he shouted. ‘It is five days since I told him to hunt down the fugitives, and instead of seeing them hang in the main square, all I get are reports of unrest in Andheri or a riot someplace else. Where the devil is Ashwath?’

‘Your Majesty . . .’ Ashish found it difficult to go on.

‘Speak,’ Shunen snapped.

‘The commander has changed. I mean to say, he seems unwell.’

‘What! Is he is still in the palace? This is preposterous. How dare he defy me! I am going to—’ Marching to the door, Shunen flung it open and froze.

Deathly silence draped the corridors, not a guard or attendant in sight. ‘Where . . . what . . . why is it so quiet?’ he squawked and hurriedly slammed the door shut. Springing across the room, he threw open the window.

Bestial howls reverberated from below and the light from thousands of torches penetrated the dust. Shuffling silhouettes leapfrogged into his vision, bounding for the palace steps. A burning torch came flying through the window and he recoiled, the cruel facets of his face sagging, his sharp chin slackening into a trembling knob.

‘Stamp it out, Ashish,’ he cried. ‘She is coming. The witch has outplayed and outfoxed me.’

Rushing out into the empty corridor, he screamed, ‘My crown, my throne,’ his loud gasps rasping in his ears. ‘My men, my soldiers they have all abandoned me, Ashish, bewitched by her.’

He braked to a halt, looking over his shoulder. Except for strange shadows, there was nobody there. A sudden crash startled him. Hoots and shouts became audible along with the loud stamp of feet. Pressed into an alcove, he waited, trying not to make a sound.

And then he heard it, the euphoric ‘Hail Queen Manmaani! Hail Prince Nandan!’ rumbling from the throne room, the applause thunderous.

‘My people, this is our victory,’ Manmaani gloated from the pearl throne, the crown of seven emeralds shining in her tangled hair. Her triumphant gaze rested on the mob, the monster leashed to her will. ‘Aham begins to change from this very moment,’ she declared. ‘The silly rules, the regulations are struck off. Let the bars, the entertainment open again.’

‘Merciful Mother Goddess,’ the crowd bellowed, going wild.

‘And so what if you don’t have water,’ Nandan’s dulcet voice sang out, his handsome face flushed, ‘you shall drink madira. Tonight, we celebrate!’

Jubilant whoops drowned him out, chants of ‘a feast, wine and whores’ resounding up to the high ceiling. Manmaani rose to her feet and the mob hushed, cowed by the glitter of her black garnet eyes.

‘My children,’ she trilled, ‘the goddess shall grant your every wish, but only after you make her an offering. She asks for two traitors, Shunen and Ashwath. Go, find them and bring them to me.’

Feet tramped past the door, then stopped and returned, crashing it open. A babble of coarse voices spoke at once.

‘Nobody here.’

‘Have you looked properly, you oaf?’

‘Hey, watch your mouth!’

‘The servants haven’t seen them leave. Search every room.’

Hussuri buried her face in Ashwath’s neck, stifling her squeak of fright. He held her tight, one hand closing on the hilt of his sword. Furniture splintered and broke, the vandals moving ever closer to them. An excited shout interrupted the search.

‘Shunen has been spotted, trying to escape. We have to go after him.’

Yelping like hounds, they rushed out, their footsteps fading. Just as silence began to creep back, the door creaked again, this time stealthily.

A figure softly stepped in. ‘Your Highness,’ whispered a familiar voice, ‘it is I, Ashish.’

Sobbing with relief, Hussuri scrambled out from under the bed, Ashwath rolling out after her, a naked sword in his hand.

‘I know a way out,’ he told them, his face strained. ‘Please follow me.’ Quiet as a mouse, he led them through a labyrinth of narrow passages mostly used by servants.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ Hussuri turned to Ashwath suddenly, ‘this is our palace.’

‘We can’t stay, darling,’ he replied, ‘it is much too dangerous.’

Hussuri stiffened. ‘But I am going to be queen and you, king. Who will dare to attack us then?’

‘Hush, I’ll explain later. Now, walk as fast as you can.’

Emerging into the yard behind the palace, Ashish led them to the high wall, his fingers quickly recognizing the loose bricks. ‘I chipped away at this wall for months to make this escape route,’ he explained, removing the bricks. ‘Go, Your Highness, go fast,’ he darted anxious looks over his shoulder, ‘they will be here any moment now. I can see movement in the upper windows.’

‘No,’ Hussuri hung back. ‘I am not leaving without the crown.’

‘Darling, please,’ Ashwath begged, ‘we don’t have time for this. If they catch us, they’ll kill us.’

‘I even wrote a poem for my coronation,’ she whimpered, beginning to cry.

‘I promise you a priceless crown, the kind you’ve never seen before.’

‘What kind is that?’ she sniffled, eyeing him with suspicion.

‘The crown of freedom,’ he smiled. ‘Come with us, Ashish,’ he said to the steward, ‘the palace is not safe for you either.’

Expelling a sharp sigh, Ashish shook his head. ‘I have a family to look after, Your Highness. Besides, I must witness the unfolding of events here. One day I hope to narrate them to an extraordinary man. Goodbye, my lord, my lady. May you stay out of harm’s way.’

They skidded down a rough slope on the other side of the wall and hurried towards a patch of barren trees.

‘The woodland is dying,’ Ashwath remarked sadly. ‘Did you know Saahas would ride in it ever so often?’

Hussuri clutched him, dragging on his arm. ‘I am not going there. The curse killed him.’

‘We killed him,’ he said, a catch in his voice. ‘Just as we killed everything else. We are the curse, my dear. Come, it is the one place where no one will look for us.’ They trudged through stony underbrush for what seemed a long time, the palace receding behind them and the tangle of bare branches drawing closer.

‘I am dying of thirst,’ Hussuri moaned, crumpling to the ground. Ashwath sank down beside her, cushioning her head on his shoulder. ‘Take a rest,’ he said, starting to croon softly.

‘You sing well,’ she said, surprised.

‘I’d like to sing to you every day, in a small cottage far from here,’ he murmured in her hair. ‘Where the sky is blue and the clouds white, a home ringing with the laughter of children.’

Hussuri rose on one elbow, ‘It is a nice dream, but I would like to make one change—turn the cottage into a palace.’

‘All right, my queen,’ Ashwath chuckled. ‘Now let’s find some water.’

The afternoon wore on and still they found no trace of water. An eerie silence pervaded the forest, broken occasionally by the rustle of a lizard amongst the fallen, dried leaves.

‘Look there,’ Ashwath pointed to a grey sheet of glass shimmering through the branches. ‘Is it what I think it is?’ Panting, laughing, they ran towards it, coming out of the trees into a flat, dusty meadow. Heat radiated in waves over the dirt, rippling like water. ‘It’s a mirage,’ Ashwath’s shoulders slumped.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hussuri cried, ‘it’s just a little further on.’ She hitched up her skirt and ran, chasing the illusion. The faster she ran, the more quickly it escaped her, shimmering just out of reach. Sky and ground whirled before her eyes, revolving into a blur at great speed. Hussuri tripped and tumbled, Ashwath’s cry ringing painfully in her ears. Scrabbling with her nails to break the fall, she careened dizzily, and thumping against a fallen log, she cried out, stars bursting in her head.

‘There, there, I’ve got you, darling,’ Ashwath grasped her tightly. ‘Just a little bump is all you got.’

Comforted, she glared at the log from the circle of his arms, and then exclaimed in surprise, ‘It’s a statue, of a man, carved out of a tree.’

‘A statue? Here?’ He started to his feet, staring at the log intently. ‘A soldier,’ he declared and rolled it on its back. They examined it carefully, admiring the warrior stance, the feet set apart firmly, the shoulders thrown back. There was something familiar about the grooves of the face, the strong hands resting on the hilt of the upright sword, the point towards the ground.

Ashwath peered at the sword, at its peculiar pattern and then quickly glanced at the face again.

‘Saahas,’ he whispered, ‘it has to be Saahas.’ He put out a gentle hand to caress the wooden face, tears welling up in his eyes, when Hussuri snatched his hand back, her chest rising and falling in agitation.

‘He’s following us everywhere,’ she gasped. ‘He’ll have his revenge.’

‘No, darling, that is not true.’

‘You don’t understand,’ she screamed, dry sobs shaking her, ‘he has stolen you from me, and now he’ll take the crown, the throne, everything. We should never have come here.’ She spun on her heel, desperate to get away from the statue and blundered into a termite hill. It broke easily, the insects scuttling away from the fragments of old masonry.

‘The monastery,’ she choked, looking around wildly. It was right there before her, the ruins of an ancient building, thorny bushes and weeds growing out of it, camouflaging it from prying eyes. And standing on what must have been once a stone chair, was a figure, as motionless as the statue. The rags on the thin frame stirred and Hussuri cried out in alarm, flinging out an arm to cover her face. Ashwath caught her as she swooned, equally stunned by the stranger.

Unwinking dark eyes looked back at him, set in a face still carrying traces of childhood, the brown, unblemished skin stretched taut over the fine bones. The top knot of hair on the head gave the boy an austere appearance, his sleeveless robe patched together from many scraps. Ashwath noted the lean muscles cording the slender form and became aware of the other’s calm scrutiny.

‘Who are you?’ The question sounded rougher than he had intended.

Pointing behind him, the boy replied in a voice breaking into manhood, ‘There is a tree inside the ruins, full of water.’

‘I asked you a question,’ Ashwath grated. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Prem,’ he answered, ‘son of Arigotra, the finest astrologer of Aum.’ Turning away, he said over his shoulder, ‘You must have heard of him.’

‘Son of—’ Ashwath broke off, the blood rushing from his face, memories of Kurikas, the scream of a little child and the crucifixion returning with stabbing clarity. His chin sank to his chest and he didn’t notice when Prem returned or when he broke a tuberous root, sprinkling its water on Hussuri’s face. He neither heard her moans nor the boy’s urgings to rest. It was only when a hand touched his arm did he start to sudden awareness.

‘She’s sleeping now,’ Prem said in an undertone. ‘It will do her good.’

‘I have something to tell you,’ Ashwath looked at him. ‘I am—’

‘I know who you are, Your Highness,’ the interruption was soft, quick. ‘My father always said, “Good or bad, we are but Destiny’s pawns.” You, the king, everyone, we are but playing our parts.’

It seemed a long time before Ashwath found his voice. Clearing his throat noisily, he nodded towards the statue, ‘Let’s make him stand, shall we? It is a very good likeness.’

Prem’s face cracked into a beaming smile. ‘He brought me here, to this refuge,’ he said, helping to raise the statue to an upright position.

His heart wrung with pity, Ashwath asked, ‘Have you been here all this time? Alone?’

‘Why yes,’ came the surprised reply. ‘He told me to wait here for him,’ Prem gazed at the statue. ‘In less than four years, he will be back, and we will meet again.’

Ashwath looked at Saahas. The statue was almost his height, the eyes looking into his. ‘He will never return, Prem,’ he said, his voice low with shame, ‘I am sorry.’

‘Oh, you think he is dead, don’t you?’ The cheerful confidence of the question took him aback.

‘I have seen his corpse, lad.’

‘And were you able to identify it? Were you absolutely sure it was him?’ Prem smiled serenely at the uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Of course, you are not. The sword convinced you the corpse was his.’

‘What are you saying?’ Hope and disbelief warred in Ashwath’s breast.

‘My father told him of the Saade Saati. That he must leave and return only after it ended. Saahas is alive, and he will return. His destiny awaits him.’

‘I pray you are right,’ was all Ashwath could say, watching time turn its pages and paint Hussuri’s hair with grey. He listened to her plaintive songs, shedding quiet tears as her mind receded from reality. His heart tugged when Prem grew into a man, into the son he never had. And then one day, he caught his reflection in a shard of glass. His eyes had changed, resembling a pair of brown ones he had come to love.