Grandmaster (28 page)

Tagore should never have sent me to this place, he thought. The monks didn't know. Varja is evil, a ragged, smelly, contemptible thing.

And then there were the soft white hands on him, hands that smelled of kindness and desire. Duma was touching him, and Duma became all there was in the strange, convoluted world of the milky white liquid he had been made to drink.
Duma, I have always wanted you. I will always be yours. The man you were promised for will never own you, I promise. I will kill to prevent it, if I have to; I will even leave Rashimpur. But I will never let you go because I love you as I have never loved anything. I love you, Duma
.

"Come to me." The woman's voice was deep and passionate and wet with experience.

The tumescence between his legs was unbearable. He leaned forward, searching. "Duma," he sighed. "Duma, it was always you." He opened his eyes. And there, in front of him, lay a three-eyed monster with foul breath and paint melting from the sweat on her face.

Then Duma screamed, and Justin saw the knife at his throat. One of Varja's hands was clasping the amulet around his neck while the other brought down a razor-sharp blade.

In an instant Justin was in the air, not fully realizing what was happening, his mind still murky from the drug, but following the instinctive commands of his body. He had been trained to respond quickly, without thought, at a sign of danger. In that blinding moment when he saw the three-eyed woman lunge for his throat with the jeweled blade glittering in her hand, he ceased to remember that she was a goddess, or that he was in her presence at the request of his mentor, or that the knife might be a painless part of the ritual. All he knew was that someone was trying to kill him.

He responded by first knocking the blade out of Varja's hand, sending it clattering to the floor while the goddess watched its trajectory with amazement, and then slapping Varja hard across her face with the back of his hand. She reeled as she let go of the medallion around Justin's neck.

Duma propelled herself backward, aghast. She struck the wall behind her. Her face was ashen, and the fingers she raised to her mouth were shaking with fright.

Biting the inside of his cheeks to stay alert, he grasped her by the arm and forced her toward the doorway.

"Leave. Now," he said.

"I cannot," Duma answered breathlessly. "You struck the goddess..."

"Your goddess tried to kill me for my amulet, and she won't think anything about killing you."

"Patanjali..."

He threw her bodily into the hall. In the same motion, he whirled around to return to the bed where Varja still lay, stunned, the paint on her face smeared. He picked up the bowl of milky liquid that he had been made to drink. There was still some of the concoction left in the bottom. With a sound of utter disdain, he flung the liquid in Varja s face.

"You're no goddess," he said with disgust. "You're nothing more than a pillager of monasteries and a killer of men and women." His anger had cleared his head. Every other emotion had been replaced by a searing rage. He pulled back his arm to strike her again, then let it go. No violence would bring back Saraha. No matter how strong his hatred was, it would never restore the monasteries that Varja had looted and destroyed. All he could do now was to save Duma, because she would surely be Varja's next victim.

Duma was sprawled on the floor in the corridor outside the Sacred Chamber. "I'm sorry," Justin said, picking her up as deftly as he could manage. "Let's get out of here."

"But the others. My home—"

"I will tell the monks at Rashimpur. They will help the others. But your home is with me." He pulled her through the garden and out into the open fields.

The night sky was swirling with stars. Despite his fear and concern for Duma, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He tripped over a stone, landing painfully on his face. "So clumsy," he said, struggling to right himself.

"Even Patanjali is not completely immune to life-in-death. But he is very strong." She stroked his face with her long fingers. "I suspected that Varja meant to kill you with the drink she offered, but I could not believe she would do such a thing. Now I believe. Oh, Patanjali, will you ever forgive me? I should have known."

Justin smiled. "How could you have known?"

"The drink. It was the same as one I remembered."

Justin was startled to alertness. "She gave it to you?"

"Not me. Another." Duma put her arm beneath Justin's to help him walk. "When I was quite young, perhaps six or seven, I tried to escape from this place. There is something evil in Varja's palace. I could almost smell it. I cried myself to sleep every night after I was brought here. Then one day a friend—an older girl who was kind to me despite my ugliness—ran away, through the garden, just as we came. I begged her to let me come with her, and she allowed me."

"Where did you go?"

"Far away. To the west, it seemed. We traveled for many days. But Varja found us."

"How?"

"She has men. They live beneath the palace. They are"—she choked— "they are vile men who live like beasts. Varja lets them use us whenever they want. We were not permitted to speak of them to outsiders, but they are always in the palace. They'll come looking for us soon." She pointed into the distance. "There is a small cave nearby. My friend and I passed it when we escaped, but we did not stop there."

"What happened when Varja's men found you?" Justin asked, trying to keep himself awake by talking. "Were you punished?"

"I was made to wear the veil from that day. Varja said that my ugliness would someday be known to all the world. But I was very young, and the goddess had plans for me."

"You don't have to worry about those plans anymore, Duma."

Duma slowed. "Varja's plans are always fulfilled," she said softly. "My friend was not so fortunate. She was given the bowl to drink, as you were. I was made to watch her. Her punishment was life-in-death."

"Like Saraha."

Duma nodded. "And like Saraha, she never returned. The others speak of those who return after life-in-death, but I don't believe the legends are true. My friend is dead. And Saraha is dead."

They walked in silence to a cave in the foothills of the great Himalayan peaks that surrounded them.

"They will not find us here," Duma said. "It is dark, and they will walk beyond this place, to where my friend and I escaped before. You can sleep here, Patanjali."

"No, I mustn't—"

"It's all right. You will not succumb to life-in-death now. You are only tired."

Justin felt himself sinking into the cold earth of the cave floor. "But I should watch ... for you...."

Duma smiled. "I will watch, Patanjali. There is no danger now."

"Duma," Justin whispered, taking her hand. The stillness of the cave enveloped them like a womb. "Will you stay with me forever?"

Duma lowered her head. "I cannot stay with you at Rashimpur."

"Then we will leave Rashimpur."

"But you are the leader of the monastery. You are Patanjali."

"And you are the woman I love. I did not choose to be Patanjali. I don't even know if I am what the monks say I am. But I know what you are." He caressed her face. "And I choose to be with you. If you'll have me."

Duma looked at him with sad eyes. "We cannot chart our own destinies," she said at last. "If we are meant to be as one, then we shall be. But if we are not... if anything should happen ... I will always remember, Patanjali. I will always love you. I will save my heart for you."

"Do you promise?"

“I promise.”

"Then I do, too. Duma, I will have no woman but you." Then he touched her, and she held him, and he loved her in the quiet cave, feeling the pain of her first experience, entering her darkness, exploding with joy, and he was glad he had waited for her, and he knew that if he'd had to wait forever, he would have waited, because no other love was possible for him. Then, wrapped in the warm smoothness of her flesh, feeling her beating heart next to his own, Justin slept.

Rough hands awoke him, yanking his head backward, dragging him out from the cave into a night bright with fire.

Duma was gone. In the distance, in front of a huge bonfire, wavered the shapeless forms of women whose screams pierced the stillness of the mountain night.

"Duma!" Justin shouted, but there was too much noise and confusion for him to hear even his own voice in the sudden din. Big men with black-painted faces held him down as his wrists and ankles were tied.

"Patanjali!" someone called from the distance. It was not Duma's voice, but one he recognized from among the women at the palace. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness of the fire, he saw that the women were bound together in a circle surrounding the fire. He searched for Duma, but could not see her.

"What do you want with me?" he shouted.

The men didn't answer. Then, from the direction of Varja's palace came the jeweled palanquin of the goddess, borne by four men. When it approached Justin, the silk curtains of the carrier parted, and Varja, again resplendent in floor-length robes, stepped out.

"What have you done with her?" Justin rasped.

"Your accomplice will serve you no longer," she said. Her face held a look of malicious victory.

"You've killed her, you filthy whore!"

Varja raised her hand. "Ah, but you underestimate me, Patanjali. Killing is far too easy. Killing her, or killing you. No, my young fool. You shall live. For now."

She took a black cloth bag from a cord tied around her waist and poured the contents into her hand. It looked like black soot. She sprinkled the powder over Justin's face and body.

"And this shall be your destiny," she intoned in the formal dialect of her sect. "To live with such suffering that you yourself will seek death. To die with each breath of life. To be betrayed by all the gods. To be trusted by no one. To find no shelter from pain and sorrow throughout all your days. To see that which you love wither and die and be turned to dust. To be betrayed by your own heart. This to you, Patanjali, is the blessing of Varja and all the power at her command. And then, on the day that I will it, you will die and be no more."

Then she raised her hands high, and the men who served her left Justin to form an outer circle around the women. Justin watched, horrified, as they drew long sabers and held them aloft.

"What are they doing?" Justin asked, stunned. Surely... Not the
women
...

She lowered her arms. It was a definite, unmistakable command. And as Justin screamed with horror at the realization of what was about to happen, the guards hacked the heads off the women, one by one, and kicked the bodies into the flames.

"This is the beginning," Varja said softly as she mounted her palanquin. Her eyes gleamed. She was smiling.

At daybreak, after the men were gone, when the fire had settled to smoldering ashes and the stench of burning flesh had disappeared, Justin was able to release himself from the thick bonds that tied him. He walked to the site of the fire, feeling as if he had died along with the women.

There was nothing of Duma. A few bones and undistinguishable shapes—burned meat—rested among the coals. Nothing else remained. Nearby, he could hear the shuffling of hyenas coming to feast on the dead, to lick the charred bones of his love.

Using his hands, Justin covered the pit with earth, then walked back to the monastery at Rashimpur.

Varja's curse had already come to pass, he thought. He would seek his own death, and welcome it when it came.

The sooner the better.

 

 

T
here was a noise from the base of the hill in front
of Yva's small house. Justin sat bolt upright.

"Yva!" a voice rang out. "I have to talk to you now, Yva. It's important."

"It's Józek," Yva said, scrambling to her feet. She pressed her fingers to her lips and gestured for Justin to stay down. Hurriedly, she put on her dress and called, "What is it?" as she picked her way down the hillside among the traps.

Józek was visibly nervous, his thin fingers twitching. "The medallion," he said without preamble. His eyes darted in all directions. "I—I sold it to a Russian soldier."

"Pig!" she began.

"There isn't much time. Listen to me," Józek said, shaking her, his voice hushed and irritated. "That was a week ago. I went to Krakow and sold it to a soldier there. Today they came—to my house—to take me back to Krakow. There was this big-shot officer from Moscow. He had the medallion, and wanted to know where I got it. They kept me for six hours. I had no water. I was terrified."

"And so you told him," Yva said simply.

"I gave him the long route, through Lubsana. They won't be here for a while. Yva, you have to get that man out of your house, out of the area. He's wanted, a criminal maybe. If the soldiers find him here, they'll destroy everyone in the village. As it is, they'll know I led them on a goose chase around Czeskow."

Yva stuck out her chin. "Why should I believe you? You don't care anything about the village. And neither do I."

Józek hung his head. "They brought the doctor along, too," he said. "They wanted to know if it was the same man he'd looked after before. This man rose from the
dead,
Yva. There's something terrible about him." He shook his head. Spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. "The Russians want him bad. He must be a big underground leader or something. The doctor told me to warn you. He's in the village now, telling everybody to bury their valuables in case of fire." He scanned the dark house on top of the hill. "We have to move fast. I'll help you carry him out. Can he move at all?"

"Don't come," she said, pushing him back. "He can move. He's—he's already gone."

"Well, all right," Józek said uncertainly. "I'm not going to stick around to find out if you're telling me the truth or not. I only came because the doctor's a good man. But don't let the Russians find your pretty boy here."

Yva ran up the hill without another word.

"You have to leave," she whispered to Justin. "Now. There's no time to explain, but get out. Get as far away as possible for the next few days." She spoke while she gathered some dried fruit and a jug of water.