IN THE ARRGODI PAVILION, a great host of richly garbed and bejeweled royalty joined their few hundred voices to the roar of the hundreds of thousands thronging the avenues and streets and by-lanes. The gathering in the pavilion itself was such as few had seen before in their lifetimes.
Karna Sura and Padmeen, Vasurava’s parents, were present, joyfully radiant. His sister, Karni, and her adoptive father were there. All Vasurava’s family was present. As was Kewri’s family. Only Tyrak was missing. Not that anyone seemed to miss him. Certainly not me, thought Vasurava. With each passing year, Arrgodi and Mraashk missed Tyrak less and less—which really meant that their first relief at his departure had turned into full-blown joy over time. All that was known of Tyrak was that he had gone north to Morgolia; nobody was clear about the why of it or had any details of his ventures there. Not that anyone cared.
In the years since the extraordinary incident at the army camp and Tyrak’s subsequent disappearance, the air of Mraashk had changed from the fetid stench of the dungeons into the floral freshness of a garden in full bloom. The Mraashk wedding invitees who had arrived with Vasurava in his procession had grown so accustomed to Harvanya honey wine, it was all they drank night and day. In his quarters, the revelry had raged morn to night, then all night long. The wedding unleashed a great many pent-up emotions, all positive, that had been building since Tyrak’s departure. Today they were all set free to roam the length and breadth of the capitol city. Both nations united in celebration of the wedding of Kewri and Vasurava, a literal and symbolic joining of the two sister nations in holy ceremony.
And we actually love each other,Vasurava thought, smiling to himself. Unlike so many matches fixed for political reasons.
It was with a great effort that Vasurava had succeeded in remaining relatively sober during this festive period. He alone could not easily forget how precious this occasion was, how hard-won this joy, and how each peal of laughter or whistle and cheer had been paid for by innocent blood. He was also concerned by the incessant flow of news from distant regions, news of a great war campaign being waged by the demoniac Jarsun of Morgolia and his many allies. Accurate news was hard to come by, for few survived or were able to flee this far to tell their tale, but from the fragments that had drifted this way, he had formed a rough outline of a terrible invasion in progress. Even the most tenuous accounts and rumors all agreed on one thing: the scale of bloodshed was epic, the slaughter massive. His brothers, his allies, the Council, all shook their heads and stroked their beards sadly and commiserated with the plight of the people in those distant lands. But they also thanked the stone gods that their own misery had ended so fortuitously with the departure of Tyrak and the success of the peace treaty enforced by Vasurava.
It did no good for Vasurava to remind them that the storm that raged in their neighbor’s yard could easily turn and ravage their own tomorrow, or that Tyrak had only gone away, not died a mortal death. Arrgodi were positive thinking in outlook and did not care to dwell on the worst. People of the moment, they seized the day and every little pleasure that it brought. It was the only way to gain some satisfaction and joy from an uncertain life.
But now Vasurava himself succumbed to the enormous swell of sheer delight sweeping him along. How could he resist? What pomp, what splendor, what majesty! It was a wedding that would have honored a stone god! His head swam to even count the many rich treasures he had been gifted, and his heart filled with pride that he had been able to afford to gift the queen’s ransom he had given the Mraashk in return. To quote Kewri’s favorite phrase, truly today, they were both rich. Rich in pleasure, love, and goodwill, as well as in coin and kine!
He savored the warmth of the sun on his face, the fragrance of blossoms, the color and pageantry of the pavilion, the taste of the delectable soma distilled from the same Harvanya vineyards Kewri and he had walked amongst so many evenings, and the uplifting roar of the crowd. Ahead was the uks cart, the uks painted gaily as was the Mraashk custom, the drover seated and waiting to carry them away. It was time to go home and unlock the door to the future.
Vasurava turned to his bride to assist her up to the cart. Her face peeped out of the deep red-ochre wedding garments, bashful and demure as if she had only just picked him out of a swayamvara lineup and was suddenly contemplating the implications of going home with an absolute stranger for her husband.
He winked at her, and she blushed even redder but winked back with a coyness that thrilled him. Ah, he would have great children with this woman, a prodigious flock that they would raise together to be the joy of all the Arrgodi world. Five, ten, a dozen bonny children! And that number was the one she had spoken of, shyly, with eyes averted but with a mischievous twinkle in them.
His bride safely ensconced upon the uks cart, Vasurava leaped up beside her. The crowd achieved a new level of ecstasy, as dhol drums, kettle drums, conch shell trumpet and every manner of musical instrument, vocal performance, and accompaniment including the joyful baying of hounds, neighing of horses, lowing of kine, and trumpeting and foot-stamping of elephants all combined to create a deafening wave of sound that threatened to raise the cart itself up and carry it all the way to his doorstep. He laughed till tears poured from his eyes in joy, and put a hand gently on the shoulder of the drover of the cart, speaking into the man’s ear to tell him he could start the long, slow procession. It was customary for one of the bride’s brothers to drive his sister and her groom home in order to extend the filial connection as long as possible. Since Kewri had no brothers present, he assumed that the man was one of her many cousins filling in.
The man turned his face to Vasurava, and suddenly it mattered a great deal.
The man driving the uks cart was none other than Kewri’s own brother: Tyrak.
Vasurava’s brothers, each seated with his bride in an identical uks cart drawn by painted uks and driven by one of Kewri’s cousins, shouted to him to get a move on. Vasurava heard their voices as if from a great distance. His entire attention was focused on Tyrak’s face.
The prince of Arrgodi looked so different, Vasurava even tried to convince himself at first it was one of Kewri’s other cousins. But there was no mistaking that heavy brow, those almost colorless grey eyes, the jutting jaw, and general mien of menace. The face was sun-darkened, as were the burly arms gripping the uks reins, and the body had filled out, grown more muscular, bulging powerfully beneath the incongruous gaily colored wedding garb. There was something different about the man that went beyond just the physical muscularity; it was as if Tyrak had grown into a new person during the years he had been absent. Not that he had aged, if anything, he seemed more vital and vigorous. It was an overall drawing in of energies, a focusing of psychological and physiological strengths, a sharpening and a tightening. It was, it was . . . Vasurava groped to understand what he saw, even as his mind raced wildly through the myriad implications and likely possibilities that Tyrak’s reappearance entailed . . . It was, he realized at last, as if Tyrak had voyaged into the northern wilderness alone and had undergone some rite of passage that had made him a man.
Yes. For the face that turned to look back at Vasurava was not Tyrak the spoiled brat of a prince accustomed to having his own way in everything. Or even Tyrak the brutal bully who viewed the entire Arrgodi world as his playground. It was the face of a man who had grown into the full possession of his adult faculties.
Vasurava had no idea what this man might do or what he intended. He could not read his eyes, his face, or his inner spirit.
And now the question was, would the man act exactly as the boy had done? Or . . . ?
And in that “or . . .” lay an infinity of possibilities.
Vasurava felt a hand on his back, prodding him gently, insistently.
It was his bride, one hand holding her coverlet in place to maintain the custom of modesty, while urging him eagerly onward.
He swallowed and looked at Tyrak.
To his surprise, his brother-in-law merely smiled slyly and began driving the uks forward. The crowd roared with delight, their excitement reaching a peak as their princesses and their new husbands clattered away on the uks carts. Children ran alongside the carts, yelling, smiling. Those too old to be out on the streets watched, beaming, from their houses. All the onlookers cheered uproariously. The sound of drums and music could be heard all across the city. Beside him, Vasurava’s new bride laughed with pleasure, an open-throated sound that should have made him smile and laugh as well.
But all Vasurava could think was Tyrak is back!
What did he mean to do? Surely he wasn’t going to just drive them home like a good brother?
Vasurava looked at the broad back and tried to guess what was going through that man’s mind. Tyrak had changed so much that even the crowds they were passing did not recognize the crown prince at first glance. Those who noticed him at all probably assumed he was one of his brothers—after all, there was a striking resemblance. Did that external change reflect an inward one as well, or was the change only physical? What were Tyrak’s intentions?
Vasurava did not have to wait long to learn the answer.
Suddenly, a sound broke the din of cheering and celebration, a sound that almost seemed a part of the overall cacophony at first.
It was the sound of a woman screaming.
It was joined by other screams, both male and female.
Slowly, the jubilation in the great square began to die out as people realized that something was amiss.
As the cheering and yelling and whistling dwindled, the screaming grew more clearly audible.
Then even the music stopped.
And the terror began.