Prince of Dharma (110 page)

Rama looked startled. ‘My weapons?’ 

‘Yes, this is imperative. From that point on, the flow of Brahman itself will protect you and guide you to the fulfilment of your task. Remember, if it is not ordained that you are the right person to save Ahilya, then you will fail no matter what you do. Therefore your only hope lies in trusting the shakti of Brahman itself. Do you understand?’ 

‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ 

Sita wondered how Rama could just take a command from the seer and accept it so easily. She would have debated the point about the weapons until she was satisfied or until she had convinced the seer to let her keep them. How could a Kshatriya hope to defend himself in such a place without weapons? The devas alone knew what lay in that pit, waiting to snare unwary— 

‘Do you wish to say something, rajkumari?’ The seer’s voice was deadly quiet. 

Sita looked at Vishwamitra. He knows what I’m thinking. She felt as embarrassed as a shishya caught peeping at her companion’s slate at gurukul. ‘No, Guru-dev,’ she said meekly. 

‘Very well,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Then let us proceed.’ 

Bejoo spoke hesitantly. ‘Maha-dev, what are these opponents who are likely to attack us within the vinaashe-wood?’ 

‘That’s exactly the question I was about to ask,’ Nakhudi whispered agitatedly. ‘How can we fight without knowing what we fight?’ 

Vishwamitra replied without looking back. 

‘Vetaals.’ 

Nakhudi exclaimed and clutched Sita’s shoulder tightly enough to hurt. Beside her, Bejoo swore softly. The Vajra captain had stopped dead in his tracks as if pole-axed by the seer’s last word. 

Apparently unaware of the agitation he had caused, the brahmarishi was already at the edge of the thicket. He gestured to the others to go different ways and entered a gap between two twisted trunks. He was swallowed by the darkness and was gone. 

The rest of them had no choice but to follow his lead. Rama and Lakshman went next, moving to the left and right of the gap through which the brahmarishi had entered the thicket. In an instant, they too had vanished into the vinaashe grove. 

Sita stepped forward, accompanied by Nakhudi, who was swearing freely under her breath now that the seer was out of earshot. The Vajra captain followed them, muttering incoherently. Sita only heard his last words. 

‘Vetaals,’ Bejoo said grimly. ‘And the seer said some of us may not emerge alive from this thicket? I say none of us will.’ 

Sita and Nakhudi entered the thicket. 

*** 

Sumitra stared at the serving girl. She recognised the woman from around the palace. She was a part of the Second Queen’s staff. 

She searched for the girl’s name. She was usually good at remembering the names of servants and even their families. It was one of the reasons she was nicknamed Queen of Angels, for her charitable work and her empathy for even the lowest of castes. 

‘Sulekha?’ she said. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ 

The woman stopped beating her fists against the stone wall through which she had appeared a few moments ago. She turned a tear-streaked face to Sumitra. She seemed to have difficulty focusing and keeping her balance. She tottered to the right, on the verge of falling. Sumitra shot out a hand and caught her in the nick of time. She helped the girl seat herself on the floor. 

‘What’s wrong? Are you not well, girl?’ 

The serving girl’s head dropped, her hair falling over her face. She looked up at Sumitra through gaps in her hair. 

‘The Third Queen,’ she said in a tone of shocked amazement. ‘Queen of Angels.’ 

Sumitra touched the girl’s forehead. She didn’t seem to have a fever. ‘What happened? Does she beat you?’ 

‘Beat me?’ The girl looked puzzled for a moment. Then she seemed to recall whom they were speaking about. ‘Oh, she! Manthara? She beats me sometimes. Yes. She beats everybody.’ She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. ‘There’s worse things than beating though, my queen. Worse!’ 

Sumitra realised with a start that the girl wasn’t ill as she had first thought. She was drunk! Her breath was as heavy with soma-wine as any Sumitra had ever smelled. 

‘Sulekha,’ she said gently. ‘You’ve been drinking.’ 

The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. She nodded slowly, several times, as if unable to stop. She looked as guilty as a maid caught stealing her mistress’s jewellery. Sumitra put a hand on her shoulder, calming her. 

‘Never mind that now. Tell me, what is this place? What does Manthara-daiimaa do here?’ 

The girl peered at Sumitra blankly for a moment. Her head lolled to one side as if in danger of dragging her body in that direction, then she registered the question posed to her and straightened up with some difficulty. She looked at the ceiling, then the walls, then scanned the room. It was so plain and bare, there was nothing really to see. None of the decorative fluting or carving or plasterwork that the rest of the palace was ornamented with. Just a large rectangular room Except for one thing. In the centre of the room. 

The serving girl’s eyes found the chaukat. Sumitra had already deduced that the stench coming from the fire-square was the same odour that had helped her locate the secret chamber in the first place. She had assumed the stench to be small goats, maybe even calves. She had heard there were people who still made such sacrifices to the dark pagan gods, devi alone knew why. 

Sulekha froze as she saw the chaukat. It took her soma-addled brain a moment to accept the reality of what the chaukat implied and therefore where she was right now. She rose shakily to her feet, staring at the secret room with horrified eyes, wide and showing more white than pupils. She turned around, like a girl lost in the throes of some childhood game. 

‘The witch’s lair,’ she said in a tone drained of all inflection. ‘We’re in the witch’s lair, the witch’s lair, the witch’s lair …’ 

Sumitra rose and caught the girl by the shoulders. 

‘Sit down, Sulekha, you’ll make yourself dizzy that way.’ 

The girl looked at the chaukat then back at the queen, then back at the wall through which she’d come. Her eyes flew one way then another like a person watching an archery contest in progress. Sumitra saw that only now was she truly seeing and accepting the reality of her situation. 

‘Maharani!’ 

Sulekha’s voice rose shrilly. She grew suddenly violent, her arms flailing in panic. ‘Maharani Sumitra! You mustn’t be here! You must leave this place at once! You don’t know what she does in here. We must leave at once, before she comes back. Go!’ 

She pushed Sumitra hard, caught in the grip of her panic attack. ‘Go, my rani! Go now or she’ll kill us both and sacrifice us to her black god!’ She sobbed suddenly. ‘The way she sacrifices the little boys to show her obeisance to He Who Makes The Universe Scream.’ 

Sumitra felt a dagger of ice pierce her heart. She looked at the chaukat. The small charred bones in the fire-square suddenly had a new meaning altogether. A horrible, unspeakable meaning. A shudder of revulsion shook her. She let go of the serving girl, her head reeling. 

Suddenly she felt this had been a bad idea. Coming here on her own, searching for a sign of Manthara’s complicity, seeking out the secret room. It had all been a very bad idea. And now she was caught. In the witch’s lair. 

SEVENTEEN 

Lakshman moved through the vinaashe grove as silently and carefully as he could manage. The shakti of the maha-mantras throbbed in his veins, enhancing his senses and keeping him preternaturally aware, yet he felt a tinge of doubt prick his heart. There were too many things about this particular mission that disturbed him. Not least was the sage’s sending Rama alone to perform the most vital task. 

Ever since he had been old enough to walk and talk, Lakshman had been devoted to his older brother. The bond was stronger than the biological one between Lakshman and his twin, Shatrugan. Never had he felt the faintest envy for Rama over anything, from the sharing of a favourite sweet to driving his brother’s chariot while Rama shot the arrow that won the chariot-archery contest. 

But tonight he felt something stir within his heart. A question. It was a very simple one, hardly worth speaking aloud. Yet it existed. Why only Rama? That was what troubled Lakshman. Not envy that his brother had been selected over him, but anxiety over their separation. He didn’t know what horrors might lie in the Pit of Vasuki. But he was certain Rama would be obstructed by something formidable, perhaps even worse than the hybrids in the Bhayanak-van, worse even than Tataka herself. Mortal danger was implied in the very nature of the mission. And the sage’s grim warning had left no doubt that while they were protected by the power of Brahman, they were not invulnerable. 

And Rama was being compelled to face the danger alone. Without Lakshman. 

Lakshman could understand leaving the others behind, they had joined the company incidentally. But Rama and he were oathsworn to obey the sage’s commands and fight the creatures that threatened their people. The sage ought not to have separated him from Rama for this task. His sword belonged beside his brother, defending Rama’s back, watching over him. Lakshman never doubted that Rama’s superior skill and the shakti of the maha-mantras made him almost deva-like in battle– he had seen evidence of that superiority first-hand in the Bhayanak-van. But he was uneasy at not being by his brother’s side in this moment of extreme danger. His place was with Rama, not running back to the river at the first sign of trouble as the sage had ordered them to do. 

Lakshman made up his mind. He couldn’t openly disobey Vishwamitra’s command by following Rama into the pit, much as that command frustrated him, but he could do the next best thing. 

He moved in the direction he had seen Rama go, deeper into the heart of the thicket. His eyes glowed softly blueish in the moonless night, seeking out his brother. So absorbed was he in this task, so preoccupied with his thoughts, that despite his preternatural awareness, he failed to notice the shadows gathering around and above him. Even the maha-mantras could not help a person who ignored their shakti. Lakshman was concentrating all his Brahman-given power on finding Rama rather than on protecting himself. 

As Lakshman moved forward slowly, the shadows moved too, stalking him. 

*** 

Bejoo cursed steadily as he moved through the thicket. He cursed almost everything he could think of at that moment. But he did so silently. 

There was only one thing he disliked more than taking orders from a Brahmin, and that was vetaals. He loathed the creatures more than even rakshasas. Rakshasas were powerful, bestial demons that came charging at you, roaring like fiends, and used brute force to try to destroy you. 

In that sense, they weren’t unlike mortals–well, they were quite different, but he was thinking only of their style of attack. As far as that went, vetaals were completely different from mortals. They didn’t attack directly, they stalked you. And they didn’t attack you when you were armed and ready, they came upon you when you were sleeping, resting, eating, praying, performing your ablutions, at any time except when you were armed and ready to fight. It violated every Arya code of warfare. But it was more than that. After all, all the asura races disregarded the Arya rules of war; why should they bother with civilised human rules when they were inhuman? But at least the other asuras sought mainly to kill mortals either outright, as rakshasas did, or slowly and painfully, as pisacas did. 

But vetaals never killed. Not truly. Instead, they fed on you, and kept you alive enough so they could feed on you some more. And then, perhaps when they’d had enough, or when it pleased them, they turned you into one of them. Like twice-lifers, the walking dead, who could infect you with a single bite. Except that even twice-lifers did so in a brainless, instinctive way, driven by some compulsion beyond human understanding. 

Vetaals, on the other hand, were very aware, very alive, very much driven by the same motivations and impulses as humans. They weren’t dead, as some ignorant people foolishly believed, or undead, as other even more foolish people assumed. They were simply humans who had been infected by other vetaals and had turned over to the vetaal way of life, either gradually, over days, weeks or even years and decades, or all at once. 

And once turned, they could never regain their humanity. For by then they had committed the most unspeakable human sin of all–they had fed on fellow humans. And having fed, had developed a taste for it that could never be ignored or forgotten. Like a merchant driven by the canny lure of gold, they were driven by the lust for human blood–and in some cases, human flesh, and certain choice organs. Their pleasure was derived from enslaving others and feeding off them, in much the same way that humans themselves corralled and fed on cattle or fowl. With one major difference–the vetaals never killed their human cattle. 

Because with their very first bite, they infected you with the gift of immortality. 

Bejoo cursed silently again and moved through the densely clustered thicket. He came around a large tree and found the way ahead slightly easier than before. The trees grew less close here than on the outskirts of the thicket, the brambly leaves less irksome. 

He guessed he was reaching some kind of clearing, perhaps the central one of which the brahmarishi had spoken. If so, that would mean he should be turning back soon. But where were the vetaals? Why hadn’t they attacked him yet? He had been alert for any sign that he was being stalked and was reasonably certain that none were on his trail. But they must have been aware of his presence by now. Vetaals could smell humans from yojanas away. Where were they then?