He was marched into a hall on the ground floor of the fort, where a sizeable number of Huna warriors were already gathered. Their eyes followed him — the way they had all day, since his arrival in Mun’h — all the way in and stayed on him as he was presented to Khash’i Dur.
“Thra’akha, my friend,” the shy’or exclaimed, choosing to address him by a shortened name — and choosing Avanti over the Huna tongue once again. “I hope you slept well.”
“I had just begun sleeping well when I was woken up,” Kalidasa replied.
“Ah,” Khash’i Dur made a face and shrugged as if to say he was helpless.
“What is this about?” Kalidasa asked. He cast a glance around and observed that all the warriors gathered there were armed.
“Someone wants to meet you.”
“Who?”
“The droiba.”
“Right at this moment?” Kalidasa looked incredulous. “Couldn’t he have waited for a more civilized hour?”
“The droiba heard about your arrival and decided to come back right away. He is keen to meet you, so he has been travelling all night.”
“Honoured and all that,” Kalidasa snorted, “but it could still have waited. It’s not like I was running away.”
The shy’or did not respond to that.
“Where is he?” Kalidasa asked, looking around.
“He is on his way.”
“We’re going to stand here and wait for him?” Kalidasa’s eyebrows shot upwards.
“He sent word to keep you ready.”
For the first time, Khash’i Dur frowned. Kalidasa got the sense that the shy’or was unhappy with his impatience and didn’t understand why he, Kalidasa, found the whole situation absurd.
“Okay,” he shrugged.
He tried remembering why the droiba was so important for the Hunas, but couldn’t glean much from the memories of his own childhood. The Hunas worshipped the hriiz or the mythical desert scorpion, though their concept of prayer was nothing like what it was for the people of Sindhuvarta. The droiba, from what he recalled, was soothsayer and sorcerer rolled into one, a rare individual vested with great powers. He had heard his father mention a Wa’a droiba, supposedly the first droiba who helped the desert scorpion create the world. Beyond that he knew nothing and —
It took Kalidasa a moment to register the sudden drop in the murmurs across the hall. As the words and whisperings eased into a hushed silence, he saw that the men stood with their heads bowed, and even Khash’i Dur had bent his head in the direction of the door. Kalidasa turned to see a figure standing just inside the hall, assessing him with shrewd eyes.
One look at the man, and he knew he had to be the droiba. He looked like an identical twin of the droiba he had killed that night many years ago. A little younger, a little taller…
His eyes fixed on Kalidasa, the shaman walked into the hall in a strange, awkward gait that reminded Kalidasa of herons in a paddy field. The man wore a headdress made of feathers — vultures’ feathers, he remembered — and his face was painted with a blue pigment; the lips were blackened with charcoal, and the whole effect was creepy. It was hard to gauge his age under all that paint, but his skin was smooth, so Kalidasa figured he couldn’t be too old. The droiba carried a shamanic staff that was fashioned to resemble the barbed tail of a scorpion.
“I’da duz’ur Zho E’rami?” he asked in a deep baritone at odds with his personality.
Khash’i Dur gave a respectful nod. “Ga’ur Thra’akha.”
The shaman approached Kalidasa. When they were an arm’s length from each other, he stopped and peered up into Kalidasa’s face.
“Zuh te’i ge ba’dor,” he said. “Zuh’i bor h’yet.”
‘You are without manners. Bow your head.’
“Seh?” Kalidasa stared down calmly at the face that barely made it to his chest. “Ma’a kunu e’rim. Ma ud droiba thra’akh.”
‘Why? I am not afraid. I have killed a droiba.’
Even as the shaman reeled back, his eyes flying open in fear, a collective hiss of gasps sprang up all around the room. In his peripheral vision, Kalidasa saw the Huna warriors draw swords and daggers, and though he was tempted to look up and take stock of the situation, Kalidasa kept his eyes on the droiba, pinning him in a merciless gaze.
“What are you saying?” Khash’i Dur pushed himself between Kalidasa and the shaman, his voice hoarse, his knife at Kalidasa’s throat.
Kalidasa switched his gaze to the shy’or, and even as he felt the knife’s blade nick his skin — and half-a-dozen other swords press into his back — he kept his voice equable and reasonable.
“I come here as a friend, but I am treated like an enemy. I give up my sword only to have knives put to my throat. Is this how you repay my trust? Is this what the Hunas have come to? No honour, no dignity?”
“You insult our droiba,” Khash’i Dur snarled softly. “That is not the Huna way. Every Huna knows that, yet you claim to be a Huna. Didn’t your father teach you anything?”
“Don’t talk about Zho E’rami and what he taught me and what he didn’t.” There was an edge to the giant’s voice, and he seemed unmindful of all the swords sticking into his flesh. “Zho E’rami taught me how to fight like a man, not like a coward, with a room full of armed warriors for help against a weaponless foe.”
Khash’i Dur glared up at Kalidasa, and the moment shimmered like the surface of a lake, thin and waiting to erupt and boil over. Day had broken, and the first rays of the sun found their way into the hall, lighting up Khash’i Dur and Kalidasa in a shade of gold stained with blood.
“Eb’a.” The shaman slowly reached out and touched Khash’i Dur on the shoulder. “Eb’a,” he repeated. ‘Stop.’
The shy’or glanced briefly over his shoulder, then inclined his head at the droiba and eased the pressure on the knife. He stepped back, and almost in unison, the swords pricking Kalidasa from behind were withdrawn.
Letting his breath out, Kalidasa touched a finger to the spot where the knife had pressed into his throat. It hurt just a little, and when he drew the finger away, he saw a small smear of blood on the fingertip. He suspected there were similar wounds on his back as well.
The droiba was whispering something into Khash’i Dur’s ear. The shy’or listened for a moment, then nodded and looked at Kalidasa.
“You say you have killed a droiba. Our droiba will find out if what you say is true, and whether you are the son of Zho E’rami, as you claim. If the droiba thinks you are telling the truth, you will live. Otherwise, you die.”
* * *
The stillness of the morning carried the drumming of hooves up to the terrace, where Vikramaditya stood twirling a weighted wooden mallet over his head in an elaborate exercise regimen. The samrat paused, and lowering the mallet, he looked at the far shore of the lake, where a horse was in full gallop. The trees grew thick and close on that part of the shore and the early light was still insufficient, so the king failed to make out the rider until he made a turn for the palace causeway. Vikramaditya’s eyes brightened on recognizing the horseman, and relief spread over his face in a soft tide.
Placing the mallet on the ground, where it unbalanced and toppled with a clatter, the samrat strode over to a wide stone basin at the centre of which a small fountain gushed, sending boats of bubbles to the basin’s rim. He quickly splashed water on his face, neck and arms, rubbing and washing the sweat away, before running his wet palms once over his hair. Blinking and dripping water over the basin, he extended his hand to the boy standing attendance.
“Towel,” he said, snapping his fingers a trifle impatiently.
He was still wiping his beard dry when he descended the stairs to the central hallway, and his foot was on the bottom step when a shadow fell across the entrance. Looking up, Vikramaditya saw the rider walk into the palace and smiled.
“Brother,” he exclaimed. “It is nice to set eyes on you.”
Vararuchi gave a curt nod, his eyes surveying the galleries
and passageways on the upper levels. The samrat saw the graveness in his half-brother’s eyes and his own expression turned serious.
“What took you so long? Is badi-maa alright?” he asked.
“She is,” Vararuchi answered a little absent-mindedly. He had paused and was still looking about the hall and the galleries searchingly.
“A lot has happened in the last few days,” said the samrat, interpreting Vararuchi’s reticence as a reaction to the chain of recent events. He walked towards his brother, closing the gap between them. “You’ve obviously heard that…”
“I have heard,” Vararuchi cut in a trifle harshly, and when Vikramaditya looked at him in surprise, he added, “What does the Queen Mother have to say?”
“What?”
The samrat stopped and peered at his brother in confusion.
“I said, what does the Queen Mother have to say in her defence?” Vararuchi repeated, his eyes fixing on the samrat’s.
“The Queen…” Then, finally getting it, “Brother, how does it matter what mother has to say?” He took a couple of steps forward. “I consider father as my…”
“Which father — the one who came yesterday or the one whose ashes we scattered in the holy Kshipra?” Vararuchi looked up at Vikramaditya combatively. “Which one?”
“Brother,” the samrat let out a gasp and froze, his face twisting in agony.
“And how does it not matter what the Queen Mother has to say?” Vararuchi went on. “Some stranger comes along claiming to be the legitimate father of her son, who is the ruler of Avanti because he happens to be her late husband’s legitimate son. Isn’t it the Queen Mother’s duty to clear up the matter and put all doubt to rest?”
“Brother, why are you…” the samrat began, but Vararuchi wasn’t done yet.
“Shouldn’t the Queen Mother have issued a public statement? Who is the legitimate father of her son? Why isn’t she saying anything? Why is she hiding behind a wall of silence? Why can’t she…”
“Brother,” Vikramaditya shouted in a sudden fit of temper, his voice echoing from the end of the hall, silencing Vararuchi.
A couple of palace hands who were up and about their business stopped in their tracks and turned to observe the brothers in the middle of the hall. Conscious of the gazes directed at him and Vararuchi, the samrat strived to get a hold on himself. Lowering his tone, he spoke in a slow and measured manner.
“Brother, there is only one man who can be father to me, and that is our father, King Mahendraditya. You know he loved me and I loved him, and that is all that matters. Father will be father, always and forever.”
Vararuchi stared at the samrat for a moment. “It is not a question of who can be father to you, Vikrama. It is a question of who is. It is not a question of emotions, but one of facts. Once the Queen Mother…”
“King Mahendraditya is my father,” Vikramaditya said heavily, his tone implying he was done arguing. Vararuchi recognized the tone and nodded.
“I believe you.” His own tone was stiff and unbending. “But I want to hear the Queen Mother say so as well.”
“She will not,” Vikramaditya said flatly.
“Why is that?” Vararuchi narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
“Because I won’t let her. And because she is not answerable to you either.”
Vararuchi’s gaze was bleak and bitter as he appraised his half-brother. “You are protecting her, Vikrama.”
The samrat inclined his head in a half-shrug. “I have given my word that I will.”
“And I thought you said you loved father,” Vararuchi said accusingly, his lips twisting in a sneer. “The man the Queen Mother has wronged. ”
“I still love father, now more than I ever did.”
The brothers faced each other like antagonists in an arena, circling and watchful, their guards up, their growing bad blood fouling the atmosphere around them, hot and stifling. At last, Vararuchi nodded.
“Is this your final decision?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Vararuchi nodded again and cast one look up and around him, taking in the galleries that staggered up to the high dome right over their heads.
“Very well,” he said. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Brother, wait. Hear me out…” The samrat’s hand went up to stop Vararuchi, his tone pained and entreating, but seeing that his brother was in no mood to listen to him, the king checked himself and let his hand drop. His face was in turmoil as pieces broke and came apart inside him. But Vararuchi failed to see any of this as he stalked out of the palace, leaving Vikramaditya to stare at the empty doorway.
Letting out an anguished sigh, the samrat retraced his steps, each foot heavy on the stairs, his shoulders stooped under the inexorable weight of endless cares and burdens. The sun broke through a high window and fell on the king, his shadow dragging along behind him, elongated and broken on the steps, like a cripple in mourning.
It wasn’t until Vikramaditya had disappeared down one of the passageways — and the palace hands had left, and the hall was deserted once again — that the figure emerged from the shadows of the floor-length drapes drawn across a bank of windows. The figure didn’t so much come out from behind the curtains as it slipped through them, like a shadow taking form, wavering into existence. The figure looked around to make sure he was alone, then gazed up at the spot where the samrat had gone. Then, slowly, he considered the main entrance, the way Vararuchi had left.
The human king and his half-brother had had a big disagreement and had parted ways, perhaps even as bitter enemies. This was an important development. He was certain his master would want to know about this too.
Making a mental note to report the confrontation he had just witnessed, the figure slipped into shadow… and immediately out again, this time disguised as a soldier of the Palace Guards, hard to tell apart from the other guards ambling around the palace.
Droiba
The shadows drifted in and out all night — or was it all day? — mumbling among themselves in low voices, speaking in a tongue that was alien to Vetala Bhatta. They approached and bent over him before retreating softly. To him, they looked unhappy.
Just once, he imagined a voice speaking in a dialect of Avanti. The royal tutor couldn’t remember exactly what had been said, but the memory of the words — the familiar sounds and syllables and intonations — warmed him like the glow from a gentle fire on wintry evenings.
“Wake up, raj-guru.”
Yes, he thought. Those had been the words he had heard.
“Please wake up, raj-guru.”
The shadows returned, hovering over him from all sides, peering down.
“Raj-guru, you are awake,” one of the shadows spoke. The Acharya thought the voice was one that he had heard before. The shadow even looked like someone he knew.
The other shadows clucked in that strange tongue of theirs, but a new shadow pushed through the circle.
“You are back with us, raj-guru,” it said in obvious relief. Slowly, the face of Kedara, the captain leading his escort from Avanti, swam into focus.
“Back?” The word lurched out of the Acharya in a thick, wooden stumble. His tongue felt coarse, heavy and leaden in the back of his mouth. “From where?”
“We had lost hope, raj-guru,” the captain said. “We thought… we assumed the worst, and somehow…”
Kedara dissolved into shadow again, and the Acharya sank back into the soft pillow of sleep. Nearly an hour passed before he awakened next, and this time, instead of blurry shadows and soft lights, everything was clean lines, sharp angles and clear light. He lay for a moment, inspecting his surroundings, studying the reed-woven thatch that sheltered him from the sky, the mud-plastered bamboo poles that made up the walls and the bright sunlight filtering in through the leaves of the branches just outside the open window. The leaves and branches were so close that Vetala Bhatta understood in a flash that he was inside a treehouse.
“
Kedara,” he called out, still hoarse. “Captain, are you there?”
It was another half-hour before the five surviving members of the escort sat around the Acharya’s bed, updating him on all that had transpired after he had fallen unconscious the previous morning.
“Durra died yesterday evening, raj-guru. Just after sunset,” said Kedara, referring to the old soldier who had tried killing himself by jumping into the swamp. “The fever finally took him.”
“That’s unfortunate, but it seemed inevitable,” Vetala Bhatta shook his head sadly, remembering the man shivering with ague. A small woman appeared and thrust a calabash of steaming hot broth into his hands, which he accepted with a grateful nod. “Tell her I said thanks,” he said to the interpreter, glad they hadn’t lost him to the Aanupa.
As the interpreter mumbled to the woman, the Acharya took a delicate sip of the broth and flinched at its spiciness. “Are we still in the Aanupa?” he asked.
“Yes, raj-guru. But by good fortune, we are on the eastern edge of the marsh, not very far from Odra.”
“Who are these people?” Vetala Bhatta indicated the retreating woman.
“They are a branch of the swamp tribes, raj-guru,” it was the interpreter who answered. “They thrive in the swamps and its neighbouring forests.”
“We didn’t see a single one in all the time we were lost.”
“I understand that they like to keep to themselves.”
“How do they survive here in the Aanupa? What do they eat? We found nothing.”
“That,” the interpreter pointed to the calabash the Acharya was drinking from. “Fish.”
“Fish,” Vetala Bhatta paused and looked into the bowl suspiciously.
“It is tasty and nutritive, and is found in abundance in some of the marsh pools,” the interpreter explained. “The swamp tribes know where to find them.”
The councilor nodded and sipped the broth. It was tasty, he had to admit. “How did they find us?”
The Vengeance of Indra Page 22