Krushita

IT WAS SEVERAL DAYS before Vessa finally reached out to Krushita.

She was upset with him. She had spent the last many days seeking him out in the portals. She had found not so much as a scent trail. She was certain now that he had deliberately lured her to that unspace within the maze of portals to witness the meeting with Jarsun. She burned with eagerness to know why but also resented being made to wait.

Little one, he said with his customary calmness, we must have words. It is important.

What if I don’t want to talk? she asked irritably.

Very well, then, he replied, I will leave you alone.

Wait, she cried as he began to retreat from her presence. She should have known better than to show pique to the sage. He took things too literally. I didn’t mean it. Please stay. I do wish to talk.

He returned, moving closer in her mind. Are you unwell? You sound . . . strained.

She laughed a little. You sound like my mother!

I apologize if I seem overprotective. I am an old man who spends most of his time listening and talking to the wind, water, trees, and animals. My people skills, as you may say, are less than desirable.

You talk to wind and trees and water? I can communicate with animals, but to talk to things? Is that even possible?

It is not difficult. It requires only that you learn to listen. It is less a matter of skill than patience.

Will you teach me?

He paused. She sensed a distance in him, not a physical distance, but within his mind. As if he was shielding thoughts that he didn’t want her to access. She knew she could access them if she really tried, but she didn’t do it. There were too many questions she wanted the answers to, and he was the only one who could answer them.

We need to talk about what you heard that day.

She knew he had done what grown-ups often did: avoided her question entirely and begun talking about something he wanted. She hated it when they did that, but she had learned to accept it—​at least with Vessa. With her mother, she would have persisted, even argued. She knew that approach would never work with the sage.

You meant for me to follow you through the portals, to eavesdrop on your conversation.

Did you understand what it meant?

Did he mean the conversation itself or the fact that he had lured her there? She thought he must mean the former. You cut a deal. That’s the way my mother says it. She learned that from Bulan. When people negotiate or bargain, they cut a deal that neither person really wants, but both accept it as the best one they can get.

Yes, yes. But the larger implications?

She frowned. Larger implications? She knew what the words meant; she didn’t know what he meant by them. About him facing your champion. Not running away as he always does when he’s losing. Standing and finishing it. To the death.She wanted to add what her mother used to say: like a man.But Aqreen had taught her that was inaccurate. Everyone was the same. The male gender wasn’t more brave or “man-like” simply because they only had a penis and none of the other parts. If anything, they were the lesser because they only had a penis. So it was wrong to say “like a man” for any situation. That made sense, even though some people (Aqreen had been one of them) still used the phrase: people did that all the time, said stuff even if it wasn’t true. That didn’t make it true. She settled for like an honorable Krushan.

Yes. That is very significant. Do you understand why?

Because if he stands and fights your champion, instead of running away, then he will have to either kill your champion or be killed himself?

He will die. By agreeing to that pact, Jarsun has signed his own death warrant. He is too arrogant to ever realize it, but it is the truth.

Krushita mulled on that for a moment. This champion of yours must really be something. Are you really sure he can kill the Krushan? She no longer thought of Jarsun as her father. She saw him as what he really was—​a mendacious, cruel monster who wanted to kill her mother and use her as a pawn in his game of power. If she had ever felt any trace of filial affection for him, he himself had quelled it before it could take root, through his actions.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. My champion is no mere warrior. He is an avatar.

A real avatar? You mean, he is one of the stone gods?

Slow down, little one. He is not a stone god. Just an avatar, and a limited one at that. For one thing, he was sent to Arthaloka to fulfill only one purpose.

To kill the Krushan?

No. And therein lies the problem. His purpose is solely to slay the tyrant usurper named Tyrak.

Who’s that? I’ve never heard of him.

He is the prince of Arrgodi, a great city in the East, one of three principal kingdoms in the region known as the Sea of Grass.

She remembered the vast plain of grass and the mandala pattern burned into it.

Yes, that is only a few thousand miles from Mraashk, where the Deliverer lives, awaiting the day of the prophecy. When the time comes, he will face Tyrak and slay him. Once that is done, his task as an avatar will be done, and he will seek sameduan.

What is . . . sammydon?

Sameduan is a ritual immersion in the sacred waters of Jeel, to seek transcendence.

You mean . . . suicide? By drowning?

It is more than that. I cannot explain further, but someday you will understand it. It is not pertinent to us today. The main thing is, Drishya the Deliverer was sent to Arthaloka only to slay Tyrak. Once that is done, he will depart this mortal coil, and his essence will return once more to the realm of the stone gods.

She had so many new questions, her mind was bursting. But she understood that now was not the time. Then how will he fight and kill the Krushan?

That is where you come in.

Me?

You have mastered the ability to possess almost any form you choose. Your skills are quite impressive for one so young, although I have learned over the ages that physical age is far less important than one’s talents. Your talents are prodigious, far greater than your father’s.

I . . . thank you, guruji.

Live long, my child. The instant Drishya slays the tyrant Tyrak, I wish you to possess his physical form. With your Krushan powers and his martial mastery, you will be able to confront and kill Jarsun. That is my plan.

She could hardly believe her ears—​or, her mind, actually, since physical senses had no relevance in the unspace. You want me to kill him?

With your powers and Drishya’s body, yes. You will perfectly complement each other. Jarsun will see only the Deliverer and knowing, as I do, that he has served his purpose once Tyrak is dead, he will assume an easy victory. He has long been a hated enemy of the stone god whose avatar is Drishya, and I am counting on that emotional factor to motivate him further, in case the pact he made with me is not sufficient. Jarsun fights only when he is confident of winning, as most bullies and cowards do. He will face Drishya, and with your help, Drishya will kill him. The world will be rid of a great and malevolent villain, one who threatens the stability and peace of all Arthaloka and will otherwise cause the deaths of untold millions. You and your mother will be safe forever after, and can live your lives in peace wherever you please.

Krushita’s mind raced as she tried to embrace all the implications and possibilities.

She pictured her mother and herself living in a house high on Reygar Mountain, with a grand view of the Red Desert, shvan puppies frolicking at their feet, going shopping in the bazaars, traveling in caravans to exotic, faraway places, eating the spiciest savories and sampling the sweetest treats. She imagined her mother happy again, laughing, her forehead free of the worry wrinkles that seemed to deepen with each passing year, dancing and singing and practicing the flute and the sarodi—​both instruments bought with money Krushita herself earned from working in the bazaar or for some merchant. Bulan and their Vanjhani friends coming to visit, all of them feasting and singing and dancing to Vanjhani songs, and having a gala time.

Could it really happen? Was all that truly possible? She had stopped hoping, stopped believing. But Vessa was a wise sage, a guru, a greatly knowledgeable priest and master of lore. He must have planned this scheme for years, decades maybe, laid all the parts down so carefully, preparing it piece by piece. He had even gotten Jarsun to agree to the confrontation. She had witnessed that herself. And by playing her part in this, she would be rid of the monster who had plagued and harried them these past so many years.

Ever since her birth, it seemed, Krushita had seen her father as nothing but a monster. A terrible bully, a demoniac tyrant who would do anything, kill anyone, to get what he wanted. She knew he would never back off. The only way to stop him was to kill him.

She didn’t want to be the one to do it. She knew how terrible it was for a child to kill their own parent, no matter the justification. But who else was there? Jarsun was powerful, too powerful to be defeated by any mortal. Only a demigod, another Krushan, or a stone god could end his tyranny.

From where she stood, she couldn’t see any other demigods, Krushan, or stone gods lining up to take a stab at Jarsun.

She was the only one.

In a sense, it was her task and hers alone.

She had too many questions to ask. She settled for just one.

Do you think I can do it?

The guru contemplated her question seriously. That made her respect him all the more. He didn’t reply offhandedly, the way most grown-ups did to children, taking it for granted they knew everything simply because they were adults. He considered the query carefully, thoughtfully, even though she knew he must have spent a great deal of time and effort considering it before he even embarked on this plan. That was Vessa’s way. He was not the rooster who thought the sun had risen because he crowed. He had lived far too long and seen far too much to take anything, including himself, for granted.

I believe there is a chance.

She exhaled in frustration. But you aren’t sure.

There is only one way to be absolutely sure of the consequences of any action.

To do it.

Yes.

She considered the question as well. She might not be Vessa, hundreds (or was it thousands?) of years old, knowledgeable in all the Ashcrit lore since the age of the stone gods, capable of things most mortals could not even imagine, but she had lived a lifetime in her handful of years, and she had been forced to learn more than most children could ever imagine. She knew what was what and that some things had to be done, whether one wanted to do them or not.

She had not wanted to go into the portal from which the deadwalkers were coming, but if she hadn’t, the entire train would have died that day, and their corpses would be rotting in the Red Desert—​or worse, tottering around as deadwalkers themselves. She had done what was needed when it was needed, and people were alive now because of it. Her mother was alive. Bulan was alive. Niede and Dor, Afranus and his siblings, so many others in their circle and across the train, people she considered friends and who liked, respected, and admired her for her abilities and what she had done that day. She had a place in the world. She was loved. She loved her family and friends, even the shvan pack who recognized that she was special and treated her specially. She wanted to go to Reygar, to live the life she and her mother had talked about so many times on the seemingly endless journey. She wanted happiness for Aqreen, for Bulan, for all of them.

And the only way to get that happiness, that freedom, was to rid themselves of the menace of Jarsun.

And now she had a chance.

Not a guarantee—​there were no guarantees, as Bulan often said—​but a chance.

In a way, the decision was already made for her.

It was made the day she walked out into the desert in the night and witnessed her father about to kill her mother, and had used her powers to stop him, to summon the shvan pack and use them as weapons.

She had sacrificed their lives to protect her mother’s.

She had wanted to kill him that day, but hadn’t known how, hadn’t possessed sufficient power, maturity, or skill.

Now she had all those things, and much more.

She had a reason to kill him.

An imperative.

And a chance.

Yes, she said to Vessa firmly, feeling her mind and heart as clear as they could ever be, I will do this. I will kill my father.