Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  “So sorry to intrude! I didn’t realise you were busy, brother! I’ll give you some privacy, come back later…”

  “No, no! No need for that, Pratan!” The Rajah disentangled himself from Cecily’s clinging limbs sufficiently to assume a half-sitting position. However, he kept one wriggling finger embedded in her bum. “At this point I believe Miss Harrowsmith is far beyond modesty. Besides, she’s as much your prisoner as mine. Care to join us?”

  Cecily quivered with perverse excitement at the suggestion. Thus far in her numerous erotic encounters, she had never simultaneously entertained two men.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but after last night, I’m not sure I’m capable of giving our English guest the attention she deserves.”

  The edge she detected in Pratan’s voice dissipated most of Cecily’s lustful swoon. She opened her eyes to scrutinise the intruder.

  The prince-bandit most definitely looked the worse for wear. His normally-keen eyes were bloodshot, with grey circles of exhaustion beneath them. His long hair was matted and tangled. Dirt smeared his only garment, a pair of homespun trousers, and a long, rust-hued abrasion disfigured his chest, from his left breast down to his navel. A livid bruise darkened one cheekbone. Blood-crusted bandages wrapped both his hands.

  Amir made a noise of concern. Before she knew what was happening, he had released Cecily and tumbled her out of bed, back onto her pile of cushions. The men ignored her squawk of protest.

  “Come here—sit down, brother. You definitely did put up a fight, I’ll admit. Took six of my strongest guards to get you into the cage.” The Rajah’s voice took on a more serious tone. “Has this happened before—changing at the new moon as well as the full?”

  Pratan lowered himself to the opposite corner of the bed from where Cecily was bound. His normally graceful movements were stiff, as though he was in pain.

  “At the Vaishaka new moon, I felt some symptoms of the change, but the beast never arrived. Last month—Jyaistha—the new moon passed without incident, so I figured the previous time was some anomaly. Obviously I should have been more careful. If I’d known…”

  Cecily read regret and embarrassment in Pratan’s features. She almost didn’t recognise him.

  “I’m so sorry I put you at risk, Amir-ji. If I’d changed during the ceremony—if I’d injured or killed some of your subjects—” The brigand dropped his battered face to his bandaged hands. Cecily experienced a flicker of sympathy, though she didn’t fully understand their conversation.

  “Never mind, brother. There’s no harm done. Though perhaps this should be your last new moon ceremony, until the curse is lifted…”

  “What curse?” The men had seemed to forget her presence, and she’d sensed she was acquiring useful information, but Cecily’s curiosity got the better of her wisdom.

  Pratan and Amir locked eyes. “Should I tell her?” the Rajah asked, no trace of a smile on his succulent lips.

  The royal brigand shrugged. “Why not? It’s scarcely a secret. Everyone else knows the story. Perhaps the clever Miss Harrowsmith will have some ideas about how I might change my fate.”

  Another extended look passed between them, intimate and full of pain. It was Amir who spoke next.

  “Pratan’s mother was a high-ranking courtesan, while mine was the queen—the Maharani. That’s why I’m officially the Rajah. My father loved them both. As the supreme ruler, he was entitled to bed as many women as he wanted. The queen, however, did not agree with this custom.

  “She came to my father from the land of the high snows. Daughter of a lord whose palace soared above the clouds, the princess Ziya was cultured, learned and exquisitely beautiful. She was also, unbeknownst to my father, a sorceress with considerable skill in the dark arts. Some say that she enchanted him to bend him to her will. Certainly, for many years, she was the only woman who could arouse his desire. Then, after I was born, he met Pratan’s mother and brought her to court to be his concubine.

  “Queen Ziya’s jealousy was icy as the peaks of her distant home. She pretended to welcome the newcomer, while practising her charms to weaken Lady Chameela’s hold on her husband. As Pratan’s mother grew pale and sickly, though, my father’s devotion to her only increased. Finally, my mother burst into their bedchamber with a poisoned dagger, determined to slay them both. As they coupled, she stabbed at my father’s labouring back—but the gods protected him and the knife slashed the sheets, which burst into evil-smelling flames.”

  Pratan rose from the bed to pace the carpeted tiles as he picked up the thread of the tale.

  “Maharani Ziya was condemned to death for her attempt on the Rajah’s life. The people say that when my father pronounced judgement upon her, there were tears in his eyes. On the pyre where she was burnt alive, she cursed my mother and me. ‘Your son shall be a rutting beast like his father,’ the witch cried as the fire licked at her perfect body. ‘And you, whore Chameela, will die without ever seeing his face.’”

  Cecily watched Pratan’s restless progress, back and forth in front of the bed. Dark emotion ravaged his handsome face. Clearly, he couldn’t continue. The tendrils of sympathy she’d felt earlier burst into full flower.

  Amir resumed the narration in the stead of his stricken sibling. “All she had predicted came to pass. Pratan’s mother expired in childbirth—weakened by loss of blood, she sank into unconsciousness and never awakened. My father sent both of us to England, to educate us but also in the hope that in that distant country, so far from my mother’s home, Pratan could escape his fate.”

  “A vain hope,” Pratan added. “My sixteenth birthday fell upon a full moon. That night I changed for the first time, from a mostly innocent youth to a fierce, lustful animal—an enormous wolf with just enough human in my form to rape a village girl and then rip her body to bloody pieces.”

  Pratan sank to the floor, as though he could no longer bear the weight of horror and guilt. Cecily laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  “You couldn’t help it,” she soothed. “You didn’t know what to expect.” She understood now the solitude of his life in the wasteland, the cage she’d seen in his mountain den. “You’ve paid for that unintentional crime many times over, I’m certain.”

  Amir swung himself out of bed and helped Pratan to his feet. “Don’t blame yourself, brother.” His voice was taut with anguish, too. “The fault lies with my damned mother and her evil magic. The blood you’ve spilled stains her soul, not yours. May she be reborn as a blind worm in a pile of dung.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what sins I committed in my past lives, to bear this burden now.” Pratan shook off his brother’s consoling hand, strode to the window and threw open the latticework grille. Sunlight poured unhindered into the room. “For more than a decade, I’ve hidden myself away, raging and howling behind iron bars whenever the moon was full. Once a month was bad enough, but now it seems the curse is tightening its hold on me. Will there come a time when I wear my beast-form every night?”

  Cecily’s chest ached with vicarious sorrow. She wanted to go to Pratan and enfold him in the comfort of her arms, but her bonds would not allow that. “Is there no way to lift the curse?”

  “Sorcery is forbidden in Rajasthan,” Amir thundered. His voice faded almost to a whisper. “Of course, it’s too late for that now.”

  “I’ve studied a bit about magic,” Cecily persisted, rising from the cushions to seat herself on the bed. “From an intellectual perspective only, of course,” she hastened to add. “My impression was that sorcery depends upon balance and contrast, that every charm incorporates its own undoing. There must be a way to counter this spell.”

  “My mother brought many books with her when she arrived to wed the Rajah. Perhaps the secret to unravelling her curse lies within them. I imagine they’re still in the palace library. Nobody’s opened them since her death. In any case, most are in her native language—the ancient tongue of the mountain dwellers, which might as well be gibberish to us.”

 
“Would you be willing to let me look at them? Maybe I can help.”

  For a moment, Cecily forgot that she was naked, bound, a prisoner of these two men, and recently used as their whore. She saw only a problem she thought she might be able to solve.

  The brothers stared at her. “What kind of trick is this, Cecily Harrowsmith?” Pratan asked. “How can you help?”

  “And why would you want to, in any case?” added Amir.

  “I have considerable linguistic skill, as you may have already noticed. I’ve never seen the language of Queen Ziya’s people, but it might be similar to some other tongue with which I am conversant.” She paused, holding first Pratan’s gaze, then Amir’s, letting them feel the force of her self-confidence. “And as to why—well, perhaps if I can assist you, you might do the same for me. Purely self-interest, I assure you, but I believe you can understand that motivation.”

  Everything she said was true. They nodded in acquiescence, first Pratan, then Amir. She just didn’t tell them the whole truth. They would have thought her weak.

  She wanted to help Pratan escape his terrible fate because she couldn’t bear the sorrow she saw in their eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  Cecily looked up from the volume spread on the table in front of her and rubbed her temples. After nine hours’ poring over signs and symbols in books so fragile she scarcely dared touch them, she had an infernal headache. The scent of mouldy leather and the parchment dust hanging in the still air didn’t help, either.

  At least she was unbound—other than the collar—and alone…although she suspected Amir had ways to spy upon her from a distance, anywhere in the palace—lenses, mirrors, peepholes or periscopes. After Cecily had enjoyed breakfast and a sorely-needed bath, Sarita had delivered her to the library. The wizened and taciturn man who served as librarian—Gopal, Sarita had called him—had spent a quarter of an hour pointing out the shelves that housed the disgraced queen’s books, then had left Cecily to her research.

  Initially, she’d been able to make little sense of the multi-level script that flowed across the pages of Ziya’s books. Then she’d seen it was a possible variant on Brahmi, the ancestor of Devanagiri and Tamil alphabets, with extra ligatures and syllable-length marks. Assuming a homology gave her some clue to pronunciation. Following her hypotheses had led her to the conclusion that the language was actually quite similar to Kashmiri, which wasn’t surprising given its northern origins.

  By this time the sun had been high. Sarita had arrived with lunch, in a somewhat better temper than Cecily had seen her previously. Perhaps Amir had given her some carnal attention.

  “Have you made any progress?” Sarita had inquired.

  Cecily had chewed and swallowed a spicy mouthful of cauliflower curry before answering, “Some. I believe I can read the script. Now I need to find the books that deal with magic. That’s a challenge.” She’d indicated the ten shelves that housed Ziya’s volumes. “The Rajah’s mother was obviously quite a reader.”

  Sarita had nodded but hadn’t seemed inclined to answer. Cecily consumed another few bites of her lunch.

  “He misses her anyway.” Sarita spoke so softly that Cecily could scarcely make out what she’d said.

  “What?”

  “My Lord Amir misses his mother, even though he knows she was wicked. He was five when she was executed.”

  “Every child loves his mother. And no one is totally evil. Queen Ziya probably saw herself as defending her own future and that of her son.”

  “Perhaps. I worry sometimes that Amir inherited some of her darkness. He can be—cruel…”

  Cecily’s eyes had met Sarita’s. A new understanding had passed between them. “Yes,” she’d agreed. “I’ve gathered as much.” She took another bite. “How long have you known the Rajah?”

  “Almost all my life. My father rules the state of Maharashta, an important ally of Rajasthan. Amir and I were betrothed as children—before Pratan was born.”

  “Betrothed! But—are you his wife, then?”

  The despair Cecily had seen in Sarita’s eyes made her wish she had held her tongue and her curiosity in check.

  “Alas, no. My Lord Amir no longer believes in marriage, or in sexual exclusivity. When time and maturity revealed his brother’s evil destiny—well, the Rajah decided he did not wish to repeat his father’s mistake.”

  “I suspect that the marriage between Amir’s parents had nothing to do with the tragedy. The Rani would have been equally jealous had she been the Rajah’s concubine.”

  “Perhaps. Still, her status as the father’s legal spouse gave her a certain power over poor Lady Chameela. Amir is determined not to give that kind of power to any woman. Not even someone who worships and obeys him the way I do.”

  Cecily had not pursued the conversation, which obviously caused Sarita far more pain than her master’s evil toys.

  She laboured all afternoon, until she began to regret having volunteered to undertake what was starting to seem like an impossible task. In fact she had succeeded in finding two books she was fairly certain were grimoires, but none of the spells she deciphered seemed to have anything to do with shape-shifting.

  The sun had set hours before. Through the window, high up near the ceiling, Cecily caught a glimpse of indigo sky and a sliver of moon, just a bit fatter than it had been the previous evening.

  She leafed through the pages, scanning for the words she thought would translate as ‘wolf’ or ‘beast’. The letters swam in front of her. She raised her gaze to the moon to rest her eyes, then turned the next page.

  A half-sheet of parchment, crumpled and stained by mould, was tucked into the binding. Her heartbeat quickened as she extracted the fragment and smoothed it out on the table. There was writing on the sheet, dark-blue ink inscribed in a strong, graceful hand. In contrast to the book itself, the inserted page was in Hindi—in rhyming verse.

  The moon is ripe on Abu’s heights.

  Before the beast a virgin lies

  A full and willing sacrifice

  To end his wild and bloody nights.

  She is impaled, her body torn,

  Opened to his fierce desires.

  In blood and seed the wolf expires,

  Leaving the man, in lust reborn.

  A sense of triumph filled her, driving out her exhaustion. This was it—it had to be. The references to the moon, the prominence of the words ‘wolf’ and ‘beast’… Plus the fact that the hand was clearly feminine, and far more modern than the antique book in which the sheet had been tucked away.

  The stanza was far from clear, but it appeared to describe a ritual that would banish the curse, leaving the man ‘in lust reborn’.

  Pratan and Amir would both be so pleased.

  On the other hand, it might be to her advantage to not reveal the secret just yet.

  Cecily was about to tuck the parchment into her bodice. Then she recalled how ephemeral her clothing seemed to be in this environment. As an alternative, she studied the verses until she had committed them to memory. Then she returned the parchment to its original home between the pages. After closing the volume of magic and replacing it upon the shelf, she pulled the cord that would summon her captor.

  Sarita arrived in a matter of minutes. “Are you finally finished?” Her petulant expression suggested that her earlier mild temper had evaporated. “My Lord has refused to dine without your company. Come on—you’re keeping him waiting.”

  The courtesan grasped Cecily’s arm, dragging her towards the door.

  “Ouch! You needn’t be so rough.” Cecily shook off the other woman’s hand and massaged her temples. “I’ve a devil of a headache, and I’m as eager to eat as the Rajah. Don’t be so cross, Sarita. I’m trying to help your Lord and his brother.”

  Sarita’s face softened a bit. “Did you find anything useful?”

  A half truth is always better than an outright lie, Cecily reminded herself. “I’m not certain. Perhaps. I have some promising leads, but I need to inv
estigate further.”

  “I do hope you are successful. Perhaps then my Lord Amir will allow you to leave.”

  “Sarita, please understand, I’m not your rival for Amir’s affections. I don’t want him. I’d leave in an instant if I could, without looking back.” Another half truth. She didn’t trust the devious prince in the slightest, but she’d miss his physical attentions.

  “What you want doesn’t matter. He rules us all—you as well as I. And he finds you amusing—and arousing. That much is obvious. However, if you manage to free Lord Pratan from the curse, the Rajah will owe you a debt. Although he can be cruel, he’s also an honourable man.”

  “Well, we shall see. Meanwhile, shall we go off to supper? I’ll try to convince Amir that you should join us…”

  Sarita’s eyes narrowed. She nodded in cautious thanks, then started to open the library door.

  Like a bolt of dark lightning, a shadowy form hurtled through the entrance and bore her slender body to the floor. Sarita’s shriek was cut short as the weight of her attacker drove the breath from her lungs.

  A hulking, black-furred creature pinned the woman to the ground. He slashed her sari with brutal talons, until her clothing hung in shreds upon her nakedness, then clawed at her thighs. Blood streaked her ivory skin. A feral growl rose from the swarthy figure’s throat as his hairy back arched above Sarita’s fragile frame, hips pumping blindly. Cecily glimpsed vicious, yellowed teeth under an elongated snout and red-veined eyes that burnt with madness.

  “Stop! No!” Cecily seized a handful of the monster’s tangled black hair and pulled as hard as she could, trying to drag him away from his victim. He shook her off like a dog ridding himself of fleas, so that she tumbled onto the floor beside them, then he returned his attention to the girl stretched beneath him.