Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (42 page)

THE KRITYA WATCHED AS THE NEXT MAN WAS LED FORWARD
. His face showed neither dread nor despair, unlike the many before him. Watching them fall, one by one, he appeared to have
accepted the inevitable. The guard forced him to kneel and place his head on a stone block. He did so without protest, his
passive submission sending a jolt of anger through the Kritya. Yet another dull thud of an axe, and the attendants dragged
the man’s headless body to the huge
pyre and threw it, as though it were refuse, into the blazing depths. Another attendant reverently picked up the head and
presented it to King Sudakshin.

Whispering the words as directed by a bald man dressed in robes of black, Sudakshin offered the head into a smaller ritual
fire as his sacrifice to the gods. He felt the Kritya’s eyes on him and favoured her with a smirk. She returned an elegant
smile, before looking over at the bald magician–priest. The one who called himself a Firewright.

Whatever it was the true Wrights had meant by human sacrifice, she knew this was not it. Those Wrights had not been murderers,
they had been creators.
If you truly believe it
, a voice inside her mind questioned,
why didn’t you kill Govinda Shauri? Why didn’t you kill the man who brought the Wrights down, and ruined so many lives?

Much as she knew the answer, she could not admit it, not even to herself. With practised ease she restrained her inner anger,
and allowed the slight hint of a smile to rest seductively on her lips.

A stifled sob broke through the quiet as the last of the men was led forward. He was young, little more than a boy, but he
was Arya and the prince of a tiny territory in Kosala. The magician–priest had been clear. Nothing less than noble blood would
suffice for this purpose. The Kritya had to grit her teeth to not speak, not move, not offer the boy some slight consolation.
Disgust filled her being. This blood-fest was not Sudakshin’s idea, nor Jarasandha’s legacy as Sudakshin claimed it to be.
The bald magician had set this in motion.

The magician, such as he was, had turned up a little over a year ago. He had not only called himself a Firewright, but claimed
great prowess over the most difficult of their skills. Soon, he had Sudakshin completely ensnared, trapped by the promise
of unimaginable power. He was denied nothing, no matter how abominable or difficult the request.

At first, the Kritya had found the whole affair rather amusing, so much so that she had asked the bald man in her charming,
seductive way, ‘Are you really a magician?’

He had been contemptuous. ‘Hardly!’ he said. ‘When the real
Wrights were forced into hiding, they spent many years living among the forest-tribes, and even the nomadic desert-people.
Over generations, people from these tribes have learnt some of our skills but haven’t always imbibed the sacred meaning behind
them. As a result, you get what seems miraculous and inexplicable. Still, it’s certainly not sorcery! But don’t tell Sudakshin
that!’ he finished, beaming widely.

She had almost liked him, then. For the first time, she had met someone who was not fearful of her proximity. It had given
her a new kind of happiness, something she had not felt before.

Like all happiness she had ever known, it was fleeting.

All of the so-called magician’s efforts had made the imperial campaign more difficult and bloody for the commanders leading
the forces, but somehow it kept going on. He and Sudakshin were perpetually in a foul mood, and often squabbled like drunk
madmen.

Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. She asked him, ‘This Dharma Yudhisthir. What does it matter if he’s made
Emperor?’

‘What does it matter?’ he had turned on her, enraged. ‘Haven’t you understood a thing of what I’ve told you? If Dharma becomes
Emperor he will stamp what is left of us – my order – out. Dharma is nothing more than Govinda’s toy!’

She was not one to be intimidated. ‘What are you trying to protect by killing so many? What has this Govinda done that you
hate him so?’

In response, the magician had grabbed her wrist roughly and almost dragged her across the palace courtyard to a deserted corner
of the building. A guard had opened a padlocked door, which led to a narrow corridor. She had lost track of the twisting,
winding path they then took but it had ultimately led to a dark, well-guarded stairway. Only as they descended its rank depths
had she realized that the bald man was leading her to the palace dungeons. There, she met Agnivarna Angirasa, son, she was
told, of no less a man than Ghora Angirasa. Like his father, she learnt, this man too was a Firewright. Unlike his father,
though, he was a prisoner.

The man was naturally well-aged, but captivity had rendered him decrepit. Yet, he was far from insane or incompetent. He spoke
with clarity, and told her many interesting things about his order, including how a man named Govinda Shauri had destroyed
them. But, he also refused to answer the magician’s questions, even accept him as one of them.

The magician had led her out in a huff. ‘You won’t believe what secrets, what great powers the Wrights of old held. I know
much, yes, but there’s so much more I don’t know. If only I could get the old man to talk …’ Imagine! I was once so close
to learning their greatest skills, to being taught by this idiot’s father, by Ghora Angirasa himself … But for that bastard,
Govinda Shauri …’

Govinda Shauri. It was, the Kritya mentally noted, the only time she had ever failed. She had returned to Kashi and claimed
that Govinda had suspected her to be a spy before she could even get close to him. She had waited for Sudakshin to cut off
her head in a rage. Instead, he had merely given her a contemptuous look and said nothing.

Then, she saw the magician’s dark glee. He threw her into the same dungeon with Agnivarna Angirasa, ostensibly as a punishment.

She had felt slightly afraid of the old man’s recrimination for her failure, for passing by the chance for his vengeance.

‘Govinda Shauri …?’ he had repeated, when she told him of her failed mission.

‘Yes, Acharya.’ Her eyes then brimming with the memory of what she had shared with Govinda, she asked the old man, ‘Is he
really evil?’

‘Evil is a dubious word, my dear,’ Agnivarna had told her, with a sad smile. ‘Those who live to rule become the good, and
those who are defeated are consigned to the ranks of the evil. But yes, Govinda Shauri shattered our order in a way no one
else could have; not the Firstborn, not these kings who took such great pleasure in hunting us down and killing us, one by
one.’

‘Then, should I have …?’ She left the words hanging in the air, the very thought stirring up a pain that she could not explain.

Agnivarna briefly considered the question before finally saying, ‘No.’

‘Because Govinda is not evil?’

‘Because
you
are not.’

She had hesitated, not knowing how to respond to that statement, when Agnivarna had asked her, ‘Do you know anything at all
about your parents? Your family?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I know nothing. I remember nothing.’

A slight shudder passed through the old man, but he quickly pulled himself together and said, ‘They took many of our children,
the girls. Sudakshin’s father believed that Wright blood was magical, that those girls would make the best Kritya. Many died
or went mad from the terrible potions they forced down their throats. The others … well, let’s just say they were better off
dead.’

She gasped, and said, ‘You mean, I might be …?’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just the wishful thinking of an old man whose days are numbered. You see, I once had a granddaughter
who looked a little like you. Her skin was darker than yours, but she had your smile …’

They had spoken for a long time, of his family and many other things.

Three days later, the magician had stormed back into the dungeons, obviously enraged. She knew it had to be because Govinda
had found his camp in the forests, and wondered if perhaps he suspected her. He appeared, however, to have other problems
on his mind.

‘Do it,’ he told the old man. ‘Make the poison, damn you, or
she
dies.’ He had pointed at her.

‘No,’ Agnivarna had replied. ‘Not even for her.’

‘Then,’ the magician said, ‘we don’t need you anymore.’ Without any further ado, he pulled out a dagger and ran it through
Agnivarna’s heart.

The old Firewright met the blade without protest. His eyes sought out the Kritya one last time. Then he fell to the ground.

‘Narayana,’ he whispered and closed his eyes for the last time.

It was all the Kritya could do not to cry.

The magician had then taken her out of the dungeons and back to her palace. He had found another use for her; one more piece
of magic she could help with. He had trained the falcon-hawks native to Kashi to hunt down the messenger pigeons Govinda and
his friends had been using to communicate. Since he had lost his handlers in the attack on the camp, he now needed someone
else to manage the birds – someone who could learn fast. She grudgingly obliged, riding out with him every day, helping him
release the hawks, watching as they flew far and wide, searching out their prey and bringing it back to their master. It amazed
her how faithfully they waited till he removed the tiny message-scrolls from the grey-white pigeons’ legs before returning
the dead bird to its hunter.

‘They can catch anything and everything in the sky,’ he proudly declared.

‘Everything?’

‘Almost,’ he admitted. ‘Everything except eagles.’

From that day on she began looking out for eagles. Somehow they gave her hope.

‘Kritya!’ Sudakshin called out. She saw him standing by the sacred fire, ready to receive the gods’ blessings. Her feet felt
sticky and wet on the splattered blood of a hundred men as she walked across the courtyard towards him. Sudakshin held a golden
bowl in his hand and as she moved closer she saw its contents reflected in his insane, gleaming eyes: blood, the remains of
the ritual.

Despite all her training, the Kritya could no longer hide her emotions. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the bowl.
She looked up to see the magician staring at her. Her mind raged with hatred. How could he believe in this if he was a Wright?
How could he have promised Sudakshin the power of the gods if the king offered a hundred men as sacrifice?
Perhaps
,
this is what they really were
, she wondered.
This is why Govinda destroyed the Firewrights
.
And now, I must do what I must do
.

‘Hold this, Kritya,’ Sudakshin held out the bowl.

Kritya
. That was all he had ever called her. She wished she knew
her name after all, just so that she could carve it on Sudakshin’s chest with her sharp nails, the claws that terrified him
so. But, she reminded herself, it was not all that important in the larger scheme of things. Smiling, she reached out with
both hands, for the bowl. Before Sudakshin could realize how close she was, she struck.

Digging her talons into his chest, she wrenched his heart out of his body, the ultimate skill she had been taught, now perfected
with years of practice.

Sudakshin stared, a stupid, uncomprehending look on his face, as he watched his heart beat defiantly in her hand before coming
to a stop. Then he slumped to the floor, dead. Before the magician and his men could react, or even register what she had
done, a loud, earth-shattering sound rocked the temple. It was followed by another blast, and then another. Agnivarna’s explosives,
which he had taught the Kritya to make and set off before he died, had done their work well. She laughed till she felt the
sharp edge of a dagger at her neck.

‘You bitch! You stupid, ungrateful bitch!’ the magician shrieked, pressing the blade enough to hurt but not kill her.

She laughed again as she realized how afraid he was of her poisoned blood. For her part, she was not afraid to die, though
she would have loved to see Govinda Shauri one last time.

At the thought, she raised her eyes to the sky.

An eagle circled overhead.

‘
LET HER GO, DEVALA
.’

‘Or what, Govinda? You’ll never learn to stop with your heroics, will you? After all the wars and armies and scheming, it
still comes down to you, me and a girl …’

The area fronting the temple had been empty, but when Govinda and Shikandin had made their way through to the inner courtyard
they had found that the place was well guarded, after all. The best of Sudakshin’s soldiers now clustered around, weapons
drawn and at
the ready. Shikandin clucked his tongue and pulled a second sword out of his baldric. He twirled one blade in each hand and
evaluated the opposition. ‘I’ve got this, Govinda,’ he casually said. ‘You go ahead …’

The magician nodded at the soldiers. Then, his blazing eyes fixed on Govinda, he plunged the dagger into the Kritya’s flesh.
At the same time, the guards rushed towards the two men, yelling loudly, but Shikandin barred their way, his blades flashing
through the air in an impossibly quick blur. The first soldier was on the ground before the last had even stirred from his
place.

Paying no heed to the skirmish around him, Govinda rushed to the Kritya’s side. She looked up at him, tears rolling down her
cheeks, her face suffused with an aura of contentment. ‘I knew you’d come, Govinda.’

He said nothing, but lifted her up into a sitting position and rested her against his knee. Pulling her upper robe off from
around her shoulders, he pressed it against her bleeding stomach.

‘Careful …’ she warned him, but he did not seem to care. Slowly, he took in her bloody hands and the dead king sprawled close
by, his hollowed-out chest still bleeding, his mangled pulp of a heart by his feet. Govinda did not bother to ask her why
– the gruesome remains of the sacrifice around them said it all.

‘He … It was him …’ she gasped in explanation, trying to point to the magician. He was already across the courtyard and at
the river’s edge. ‘Agnivarna Angirasa … old man … dungeons … he killed him,’ she gasped.

Govinda thought for an instant, but decided not to leave the wounded woman’s side. There would be time to deal with Devala.

‘I’ll take care of it …’ he reassured her. ‘First we’ve got to get you to a medic …’

With effort she raised her hand towards Govinda’s face and touched his cheek, staining his skin with her blood. ‘There’s no
point …’

‘Don’t say that …’

‘Let it go, Govinda Shauri. Some things must come to an end. I am an aberration. Let me die.’

Govinda looked into her eyes, staring hard at her. For an instant, his usually inscrutable expression gave to a medley of
emotions, all writ clear on his face. And then, he was as always, his dark eyes warm yet indecipherable. The Kritya met his
gaze with mild surprise, felt her heart throb with newfound joy, even as the feeling faded into a hollow, hungry sense of
loss.

Smiling weakly, she said, ‘What if I’d killed you, Govinda Shauri? How could you have trusted me?’

‘What’s the point of living if I can’t trust another human being?’

She smiled, finally at peace. ‘Then, there’s hope. There’s hope for us all.’ Linking her fingers tightly through his, she
closed her eyes.

By the time Shikandin had finished off the last of his opponents and joined Govinda, her body was limp. He swore out loud
and made to go after the fleeing magician, but Govinda stopped him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I need you here. There’s much to be done. You can hunt him down another day …’

Grudgingly, Shikandin stepped back and sheathed both his swords.

It was almost evening when Shikandin came to join Govinda, who stood watching the flames dance over the Kritya’s pyre, the
eagle perched solemnly on his shoulder.

‘It’s done, Govinda,’ he said. ‘Every building has been checked, down to the dungeons and cellars. The explosions brought
down some parts of the old temple, the garrison and the royal palace, but most of the buildings are intact. The idea appears
to have been to reduce the size of the army as much as possible. That she did,’ he nodded towards the blazing pyre.

Clearing his throat lightly he continued, ‘We’ve found Devala’s workshops and armouries; he had every medic and healer in
the city – some who claim to have learnt their skill from the Wrights themselves – at work, mixing his poisons and what not.
Some of them claim they were kept prisoner, while the others … Frankly, Govinda, half of them are nothing but raving lunatics.
Anyway, I’ve had them all arrested and placed under guard.’

‘Let them go,’ Govinda said perfunctorily, without looking up.

Shikandin did not dispute the injunction. ‘All right.’

‘What about the people, the townsfolk?’

‘They’ve all been shifted out and are already on the plains. Our soldiers as well as the townsmen are building huts and putting
up tents as we speak. As for Sudakshin’s family, his son and the queen are in Devajit’s care. They will be treated with all
respect. I’ve personally sent the queen a message assuring her that she has nothing to be afraid of.’

‘The city is empty?’

‘Yes.’

Govinda reached up to whisper something to the eagle before setting it into the air. It circled overhead a few times and then,
with a single, haunting cry, rose higher and glided out of view.

‘Burn Kashi down, Shikandin,’ Govinda suddenly said. ‘Burn everything down. Let nothing remain of this bloody past. Burn everything
down, so that we can build anew.’

Shikandin studied his friend for a moment before nodding and moving away to carry out the orders.

Late that night Shikandin walked into his tent to find Sudakshin’s widow, the queen of Kashi, waiting for him. To his surprise,
the bereaved woman was dressed in bridal finery. She wore red robes of the best silk and had flowers in her hair. Her eyes
were rimmed with kohl, her lips stained red with a fragrant paste of sandalwood and herbs, and the faintest trace of a musky,
seductive perfume filled the space.

Shikandin stared, aghast, as she walked up to him with no trace of reluctance or sorrow and took him by the hand.

‘Mahamatra …?’

She did not explain. Instead she led him to a seat and handed him a glass of wine before sitting down next to him.

‘You must be tired from your day’s battle,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d care for a bath? Or does Prince Shikandin prefer to take
his prize still covered in the sweat and blood of his conquest?’

Despite her words, Shikandin did not miss the flash of anger. And then he understood. He stood up at once. ‘You mistake me.
I … I’ve no …’

‘You are the conqueror of Kashi. I’m your newly won property. Don’t you want me? Don’t you want to see how my body glows in
the light of Kashi’s embers? Doesn’t the thought stoke your desire?’ she pouted seductively at him.

‘I …’ Shikandin did not know whether to feel shocked, or ashamed, or even angry with her for presuming that he would expect
her in his bed.

Mistaking his confusion for hesitation, the queen stood up and threw her arms around him.

Shikandin gruffly pushed her away as he stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, after a moment.

She looked at him beseechingly from where she lay sprawled on the ground. ‘What do you want from me? Tell me, whatever you
want, whatever pleases you, I’ll do it. Do you think I’m some child, who doesn’t know or understand? I swear I’ll serve you
as you wish, but please …’ Then her courage failed her and she broke down completely. ‘I beg you, please … spare my son’s life
…’

‘Hai!’ Shikandin exclaimed. He longed to comfort her, but did not dare go near her or even touch a finger lest she misunderstand.
He waited till the sounds of sobbing had quietened down to a terrified whimpering.

‘Mahamatra …?’

Grudgingly, she looked up at him.

Shikandin was clear and reassuring. ‘Your son is now the ruler of Kashi. He’s a very young man, yes, but he will learn soon,
especially with you at his side. I promise, no harm will come to you or your son while I’m here. Please, go back to your tent
and tell your son whatever truth you may know about his father and the horrors he wreaked …’

The queen was disdainful. ‘Do you think your mercy is any better than your torment? I’d much rather that you’d have ravaged
me, killed me even, in exchange for my son’s life. That would have been
honourable. Instead, you force us to choose between living off your charity and dying a despicable death …’ She stood up,
pulling herself tall. ‘I’ll give you one last chance. I offer myself to you. If you don’t care for me alive, then kill me.
Why, I won’t even ask for my son’s life, but rather suggest you kill him too. If you leave us alive all we’ll ever show you
in return for your benevolence is malice.’

Shikandin’s eyes twinkled as he asked, ‘Will you restrain your malice till your city is rebuilt and your people are settled
back in their homes?’

‘I’ll hold my malice even longer. I’ll hold it till my son gathers his armies and marches to war against you. As the king
of Kashi ought to!’

‘Then I suggest we both get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Goodnight.’

The woman considered him with open confusion for a while. Shikandin met her troubled gaze with calm certitude. Then she nodded
and said, ‘Goodnight, Prince. And pleasant dreams …’ She gracefully left the tent.

Shikandin waited till he was sure she was gone. Muttering something about Kashi and women under his breath, he cast aside
his armour and went to see about the hot bath the queen had suggested.

It took another two weeks for the rebuilding of Kashi city to begin. Meanwhile, Govinda and Shikandin called upon the vassals
of the kingdom to reaffirm allegiance to the new monarch, Sudakshin the Second, and pledge their greater loyalties to the
empire.

Govinda left the affairs of Kashi city to Shikandin’s care, while he spent his time negotiating and dealing with the many
saamantas, rallying the smaller chieftains to the cause of a united Aryavarta. Though he had lost none of his charm or fervour
while playing the role of diplomat, Govinda was clearly more muted in private. At some point, Shikandin let his concern show.

‘I’m tired,’ Govinda countered. ‘Frankly, I can’t wait to get back to Indr-prastha and be done with this!’

‘Is that all, Govinda?’ Shikandin pointedly asked.

Govinda thought hard before he resolutely declared, ‘Yes, that’s all, Shikandin. I don’t have the time or the energy to waste
on irrational emotions. All that was done, every life and every death, was a calculated and well-merited sacrifice. There’s
no need to mourn for any of them. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

Shikandin did not press his friend any further and kept his opinions to himself. After that conversation, Govinda was completely
his usual self. The two men spent a few more days instructing the young Sudakshin and his mother in the many matters that
were left to handle before finally setting out for Indr-prastha.

‘Thank you,’ the queen softly told Shikandin as he said his farewell. ‘You’ve done so much for our people that we’re all indebted
to you. But, remember, this doesn’t change anything between us.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mahamatra,’ Shikandin riposted. He swung on to his horse and with a graceful bow of goodbye
rode away to join Govinda.

‘That’s one romance I never did expect from you, Shikandin,’ Govinda teased him as they set out at the head of their forces.

‘More like a non-romance, don’t you think?’

‘Passion is passion. Don’t you think?’

Shikandin shrugged. ‘Well, what can I say …? The women of this city find a way to claim my very soul! I suppose there’s something
to be said for them, after all.’

‘Right. Will you tell Panchali that, or shall I?’

The two men broke into a loud, raucous, laugh that sent a wave of mirth through the army as a whole. Soon, marching songs
ran up and down the ranks and the men set a brisk pace of their own accord. Hearts filled and content, the armies marched
back home under the shade of blossoming spring trees, along verdant, harvest-laden fields. The imperial campaign was over.
Aryavarta was one, a vast empire poised to reach the pinnacle of its power and prosperity.

For the moment, though, their pleasures were simpler. They were going home.