The Crown of Seven Stars

by Gitanjali Murari

  Dharaa looked at him, ‘These people, are they unarmed?’

  ‘Sticks and stones when wielded by violent bullies are as dangerous as swords. Besides, you will be shockingly outnumbered.’

  ‘Then we may have to kill?’

  Amsha pursed his lips, unwilling to utter the words. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘which means you cannot return, for Aham is sure to trace you back to Swarus, and that will make war inevitable.’ In the sudden hush that followed, the sound of rain magnified, drumming hard on the roof. ‘I am asking for a terrible sacrifice.’

  A faint smile touched Dharaa’s lips. Raising a clenched fist, she turned to face her team.

  ‘Victory is courage,’ the Vijaya Dal chanted. ‘Victory is sacrifice.’

  If only Saahas could see him now, Riju smiled wryly to himself. It was a hot, windy night outside the borders of Swarus, the gritty dust obscuring the moon. Dressed all in black, the Vijaya Dal proceeded cautiously, split into two groups, Dharaa leading one and Riju, the other. A sudden flare of light in the distance brought them to a halt. It was a cart set ablaze, looters heckling the trader, pushing and poking the cowering man with sticks.

  Dharaa turned sharply to her left. ‘Do you hear that?’ she asked in an undertone. Low mutters and grunts filtered through the darkness, punctuated with the sound of spades striking hard ground.

  ‘Dharaa,’ Riju whispered, feeling her back tense up, ‘I think some of the rioters are tunnelling under the stone wall.’

  ‘Let me take care of them, they can’t be too many. You take the girls and save the traders. I’ll see you there.’ Moving lightly, she ran on ahead, soundlessly unsheathing her sword, her sharp eye discerning a group of men huddled at the base of the wall. As she closed the distance, Dharaa counted under her breath, ‘One, two, three, four . . . and five.’

  The clatter of a loose pebble alerted them, and they jumped up, knives flashing. Leaping into the air, Dharaa brought down her sword, striking at their hands, just below the wrist. Yowls rent the night, followed by a rush of many rapid footsteps. Dark shadows jumped out, daggers and iron cudgels arcing, hoarse, rough voices shouting curses. Coiled like a spring, Dharaa waited for the men to converge on her. When they closed in, she shot above them, somersaulting over their heads and landing behind them. ‘Come on,’ she murmured, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her eyes gleaming above the black cloth masking her face.

  Enraged, the hulking silhouettes charged, spitting and yelling, eager to cut her to ribbons. But she evaded their blows comfortably, almost laughing at their amateur skills. Aiming a swift kick at a man’s groin, she jabbed stiffened fingers at another’s throat. Slipping out of their grasp again and again, she left them maimed and screaming in pain.

  ‘Lead them away,’ she shouted, sprinting towards Riju and the girls, helping them beat back the hordes from the carts. ‘Head north.’

  ‘Women,’ thrilled the looters, hearing the feminine shouts. ‘These are women.’

  ‘Let’s have some fun,’ they leered, sucking saliva through their teeth as they gave chase, wolves baying after deer.

  ‘This place should be good enough,’ Dharaa panted, slowing down and glancing quickly at the dry scrub hemmed in by a small, dying forest. ‘This is the real test,’ she said looking at every girl, searching for a sign of weakness. ‘So far we have not wounded anyone fatally, but now—’ she stopped, jerking towards the growing clamour of men.

  ‘Now,’ Riju continued, taking her hand in his, ‘we must fight to the death.’

  ‘We are prepared,’ the girls shouted in unison. ‘Victory is courage, victory is sacrifice!’

  ‘Get into the sickle formation,’ Dharaa commanded. ‘And keep the trees behind you. They’ll be of use to us.’ A rock came flying at them and her sword smashed it, crumbling it into the dirt. For a moment there was silence, the silence of dry leaves and dead branches, of a stifling hot night and smothering dust. But then it snapped. Snarling like dogs-on-the-scent, the rioters and looters hurtled forward, eager to hunt.

  The sickle of Vijaya Dal charged, scything through the hordes. Swords flashed and instantly sounds of ripping flesh and crunching bones filled the night. Men grunted and howled, swearing at the whirling women. Riju head-butted one fellow in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. ‘They have no stuff in them,’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘Just a lot of hot air.’

  ‘Hot air, huh,’ barked a rough voice and a knife slashed Riju’s midriff. But instantly the attacker staggered back, screaming, Riju’s sword hacking his arm, the stump spouting blood like a fountain.

  ‘To the trees,’ Dharaa screamed and the Vijaya Dal lunged for the high branches, swinging up and out of reach. The men snorted and snuffled below, trying to clamber up after the women, the unexpected thrust of a sword making them tumble back to earth. ‘Put a match to the jungle,’ a voice rasped. ‘It will burn like firewood. Smoke the bitches out.’

  ‘Hurry up,’ Riju shouted to Dharaa.

  ‘Keep moving north,’ she instructed the girls, swinging from tree to tree and counting every member. ‘And we’ll be out of this forest soon.’ The carpet of dry leaves below burst into flames. Grey smoke spiralled up, scratching their throats and without warning, a searing gust of wind blew in, fanning the fire into a blaze.

  ‘Grilled meat,’ the men guffawed, enjoying the spectacle, when a booming crack erased their grins. The fire, engulfing the jungle in one great whoosh, had snapped the trees. Fiery branches fell towards them, the dry grass exploding into a furnace. Pushing and tripping over each other, they tried to run but the fire outraced them, trapping them in black smoke and orange flames.

  On the other side of the inferno, the Vijaya Dal huddled on a large, flat rock, wheezing from the smoke in their lungs, their eyes streaming. Flames licked the prickly grass around them, and unable to race up the crag, began to die down at its edges. Coughing hard, Riju sank to his knees, and caught his side.

  ‘You are hurt,’ Dharaa peered at the gash and tearing off her mask, stanched the flow of blood with it.

  ‘We have avenged ourselves,’ he said to her. ‘Wiped out some of the horror Aham inflicted on us.’

  She looked up in surprise. ‘Avenged ourselves? No, never that. We fulfilled our duty, Riju. We owed Swarus and now we have repaid our debt.’

  ‘The traders must be safely inside Swarus,’ a girl remarked, striking a wistful note. ‘But where should we go?’

  Dharaa noted the sudden anxiety. It was there in every face turned towards her, trusting her to have the answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said biting her lip.

  ‘To Yamathig,’ Riju’s soft voice startled them. ‘Saahas told me about it,’ he nodded at Dharaa, a shadow of a smile on his face. ‘Perhaps we’ll see him there.’

  33

  Ashish glanced at Shunen. The king stood beside the bed, closely watching the doctor examine the lifeless Lalitara, unmoved by the sight of blood-soaked sheets. He had dismissed all the maids-in-waiting as soon as he had heard of her deteriorating condition, keeping only the steward. ‘This baby had better be saved, Ashish,’ he had said, shooting black looks at the queen as they had waited for the doctor. ‘I need an heir.’

  The old vaid straightened. ‘Would you be able to tell me, Your Majesty, if the queen complained of a chill?’

  Shunen looked towards Ashish. ‘Yes, she did,’ the steward nodded, ‘nothing seemed to warm her and then suddenly . . .’ Ashish stopped, gazing at the dead, white face, his heart welling with pity. Lalitara looked peaceful, her young features emptied of fear.

  ‘She started bleeding,’ the vaid finished for him. ‘How long after that did you notice she wasn’t breathing anymore?’

  Ashish swallowed. ‘Soon after, I think. She gasped once and was gone.’

  ‘She lost me two babies,’ Shunen bit out. ‘I should never have married her! Weakling!’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the vaid rinsed his hands vigorously in a silver basin, taking his time to reply
, ‘it is not a weak constitution that killed her . . . it was poison—snake poison.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Shunen’s voice was soft.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ the vaid’s face flushed with indignation, ‘in the fifty years of my practice—’

  Shunen waved his hand, ‘All right, all right, leave and don’t speak of this to anyone. Ashish, bring my secretary. No, wait . . .’ He began to pace, his eyes glittering with a feverish light. Beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead and his breath escaped in short, rasping pants. ‘How did she do it?’

  ‘Your Majesty, I don’t—’

  ‘Our food,’ Shunen cut in, bringing his face close to the steward’s. ‘Mine and Lalitara’s meals are prepared in a separate kitchen, by a different cook. And, because I know her so well, every dish is tasted before we are served. So how did mother poison my wife?’

  Ashish turned pale, groping for words, a tremor beginning to shake his limbs. ‘I . . . I . . . have n-no idea . . . I . . . s-swear, Your Majesty.’

  Shunen abruptly turned away, staring at the dead woman. ‘Mother is exceptionally resourceful,’ he murmured, a faint smile curling his thin mouth. ‘And so am I, her son,’ he shot a glance at Ashish. ‘Ah yes, good can come out of evil too. Nobody in the palace knows that Lalitara is dead, and before they do, we will surprise the murderess. Put guards outside mother’s door immediately, and tell her she is under arrest for killing my two unborn children and my wife, the queen.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Tomorrow, as Lalitara’s pyre burns, mother shall swing from the end of a rope, bringing down the curtain on the Goddess of Aham.’

  Hussuri retreated rapidly behind a pillar, emerging only after Ashish had walked past. Nimble-footed, she rushed down the dim passage, her nerves jangling. Bursting into her chamber, she shrieked for Ashwath, only to be informed by a startled servant that His Highness was preoccupied with some urgent business.

  ‘At this late hour?’ She whirled around and ran to her husband’s private office. ‘Don’t let anyone interrupt us,’ she instructed the guards and pushed open the doors.

  A solitary overhead lamp threw a yellow halo around Ashwath and a wooden tripod. Hussuri approached softly, her vacant gaze going from him to the painting on the stand. Her eyes widened. ‘Urgent business! What is so fascinating about a dead man?’

  Ashwath turned around slowly and she gasped, stunned at the transformation.

  The face that looked back at her stirred buried memories, of a time when they had been newly married, the crude features softening just for her. She touched them, the warm eyes, the relaxed mouth, the nostrils, no longer flared, appearing finely cut.

  ‘So like a gentleman,’ she murmured. He laughed, the sound joyful, boyish, searing her heart. ‘All these weeks when I have hardly seen you, you have been hiding here, with him.’ She lunged at Saahas’s portrait but Ashwath moved quickly between them.

  ‘He has bewitched you,’ she shrieked, her voice thin with jealousy. ‘I have to watch out for us, sneak around to find out what’s going on in this huge palace.’ Grabbing Ashwath’s collar, she shook him fiercely. ‘Lalitara is dead. The vaid told me that a large dose of snake venom killed her.’

  Ashwath shrank. ‘Mother,’ he whispered, his voice full of revulsion. ‘Shunen won’t spare her, or Nandan. Then it will be just us and him, facing each other like adversaries.’

  Tears spilled down Hussuri’s face. ‘Imprison him,’ she caressed his cheek, ‘then you can be king, darling, and I, queen. I want to wear a crown, so badly.’

  Putting his arms around her, he shook his head. ‘The crown is at the root of all this trouble. We should have nothing to do with it. Let us go away from here, dearest, and start a new life.’

  ‘No,’ she screamed, pulling out the dagger from his belt and slashing Saahas’s portrait. Ashwath grabbed her wrist, twisting it until her nerveless fingers dropped the weapon. ‘Shunen will hunt us down,’ she cried, ‘the way you hunted him.’ She pointed a shaking finger at the mutilated face on the stand. ‘Do you want to see me run, hide and die a miserable death, like he did?’

  A change came over him, his facial muscles sinking back into their old grooves. ‘No,’ he swallowed, ‘I won’t let Shunen touch a hair on your head. Go to your room and stay there,’ he instructed and strode out.

  It was past midnight and instead of the usual hush, the palace rippled with excitement. Panicked guards rushed to and fro, barely stopping to salute him.

  ‘What is going on?’ he barked and a guard faltered in his stride.

  ‘Your Highness,’ the soldier began, taking a deep breath, ‘the queen mother and Prince Nandan, they . . . they . . .’

  ‘Say it!’ snapped Ashwath.

  ‘They have fled. The king has sent soldiers after them.’

  He found Shunen seated on the pearl throne, head sunk in one hand. ‘I heard about Lalitara,’ he began, ‘I am sorry.’

  Shunen raised his head, a dangerous gleam in his hooded eyes. ‘Come, come, brother, if you were really sorry, you would have commanded your forces to scour Andheri for mother and her whelp, but no,’ he snorted, ‘you stand here offering me condolences!’

  ‘I was told that you have already dispatched my soldiers to do the job. What is left for me to do?’

  ‘Get out,’ Shunen screamed, leaping to his feet, ‘and don’t show me your face again till you have captured them.’

  Flushing with anger, Ashwath’s hands bunched into fists, ready to smash Shunen’s skull. Instead, he turned away, as if pulled by an unseen hand. A feeling of painful loss gnawed at him, a smiling face, cruelly slashed in half, mocking him. Groaning, he stumbled back into his office, and picked up the mutilated portrait. Desperate to make the face whole again, he held the jagged pieces of the canvas together, whispering, ‘I must be going mad. I have hated you for as long as I can remember, and do you know why? Because I secretly longed to be you, free, strong, all the while knowing in my heart that it was impossible.’

  He looked away, shamefaced, ‘So I tried to shackle you, clip your soaring wings, turn you into me. But look at what you have done! Reaching out from beyond the grave, you have me at your mercy!’ Bursting into uproarious, hysterical laughter, he shook the painting in a frenzy. ‘What do you want me to do? Turn all soft and honourable? Tell me, damn you!’ The brown eyes looked back at him, silent and steady. Ashwath drew a shaky breath and clutching the painting to his chest, began to cry like an inconsolable child.

  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.