Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (9 page)

Panchali had felt a sense of dread creeping up on her as, for the first time, she saw the larger implications of their adoption.
She never would forget that moment when she had finally brought herself to meet Gandavati’s gaze, for it was then that she
had been gripped by
an indescribable fear, despair at the notion that her life as a whole was about to be reduced to nothing.

The queen’s tone had become disturbingly sweet. ‘As a token of my gratitude, let me give you some advice. Not as your mother,
but from one princess to another. Like it or not, no matter how much you fight or what you say, you can’t change the decisions
that are made around you, for you. You cannot even begin to alter the life that’s laid out for you. All you can do is choose
whether you’ll resist the occasional happiness that comes your way and be tormented by your own hatred and self-loathing,
or you’ll spare yourself your own judgement at the least and take what you can get.’

Those, possibly, had been the most maternal emotions Gandavati had ever shown her.

The moment the queen had swept regally out of the room, her old nurse had entered. The woman had been kind and gentle in her
examinations, but much to Panchali’s discomfiture, also obedient to the orders she had been given. That the nurse had reported
to Dhrupad, with some relief, that his new daughter was in all objectivity an attractive woman of unblemished beauty had brought
no comfort to Panchali. But it had irked her just a little that he had treated the news with the same decisiveness he had
shown when the training commander had informed him that Dhrstyadymn was an exemplary soldier for his age: Dhrupad began making
his plans.

After that, Panchali had quickly understood the deeper truth behind Gandavati’s words. Day after day, she and Dhrstyadymn
had been amazed by their own abilities, things they had not known they could do. They could read and write, which placed them
as being of somewhat noble, if not royal, origin. Their knowledge was broad, ranging from astronomy to geology and the basics
of medicine. Whoever had taught them had taught them well.

It was then that the idea had struck them. Perhaps they could find out their former identities, after all. The siblings turned
to their tutor – a young Firstborn scholar on his very first assignment as a full initiate into the order. Despite his youth
the scholar was a learned man and enthusiastically engaged Panchali and Dhrstyadymn in
discussions on such works of knowledge as the Vyasa permitted to be shared outside the confines of the Firstborn order. With
his help the two siblings made a list of all the topics and premises that they were able to recall and tried to match them
with a place of learning where they were commonly taught. In this way, Pançali hoped, they could identify their teachers,
maybe even the hermitage where they had been educated. But it was what they had not known that had defined their fate. Most
astonishingly, Panchali and Dhrstyadymn both found they had never heard of Firewrights.

Their tutor’s reaction had been one of disbelief. He had sent immediately for his senior colleagues and as a group they had
yet again expressed their dismay at the ignorance of the two youngsters. The matter was then referred with the utmost urgency
to Dhrupad.

Whether Dhrupad was concerned or offended at their ignorance, Panchali never did find out, but he had immediately sent for
her and Dhrstyadymn. He led them down into the deepest levels of the castle that housed the dreaded dungeons. There, as screams
rent the air, and the smell of blood and decay hung heavy over them, Dhrupad had proudly explained to his children the strict
laws that Panchala had against the Firewrights, those ruthless fiends who questioned the system of divine law and order set
by the gods; tricksters who beguiled commoners, sometimes even kings, with their false promises of magic that could pervert
even all-powerful destiny.

He had then made them watch while a suspected Firewright was interrogated.

Panchali had flinched, though she did not turn away, as the young man was painfully, brutally, blinded right in front of them.
The memory still made her want to retch but, more important, it secretly kept alive the anger she had felt at that moment.
For many nights after that, she had lain awake, tormented by what she had seen. No matter how evil the Wrights and how much
hatred she could rile up in her heart for them, she still could not reconcile herself to the brutality of her own kind, of
the noble, enlightened rulers of the land. It just did not make sense. But she had kept her thoughts to herself.

The incident had been their last trial, and from that day Dhrupad began to lavish great affection and pride on them both.
They had become his children, without question, shadows of his own soul. Soon their lives were no different from that of any
other prince or princess of Aryavarta. Their tutor was recalled to the service of the Vyasa and the siblings were forced to
abandon their research into their past. Instead, they were guided towards activities more suited to their new station in life.
Panchali was taught to sing and paint, and Dhrstyadymn was put into intensive military training. Their spirits were tamed
and lulled into submission and the two of them became nothing but prisoners held in luxury.

Then, Shikandin had returned home to Kampilya from his post near the Eastern Forests. The palace had filled with rumours of
a dark past, of how he had driven Dhrupad to hatred and shame. Panchali and Dhrstyadymn, however, had neither time nor thought
to spare for such gossip, filled as they were with guilt at the thought of the Crown Prince they had dethroned. Their fear
had been as ironical as it was redundant, for Shikandin was nothing like they had expected him to be. Only after his return
had the two siblings dared to laugh and live and feel – it was he who had truly made them the prince and princess of Panchala.

Dhrstyadymn’s voice brought Panchali back to the present. ‘Do
you
ever wonder who we are, Panchali?’

She was momentarily taken aback by the question. ‘Every single day,’ she finally confessed. ‘I … I feel terrified, Dhrstyadymn.’

‘Why are you afraid, dearest sister? What are you afraid of?’

‘What am I afraid of?’ she screamed out loud, giving vent to emotions suppressed for so long. ‘What is there to not be afraid
of? An exiled Firewright returns to Aryavarta after decades and dies. Within days, armies are mustered and moved all over
the empire, long-lost friends return, bringing death and danger on their tail, and it’s decided that I am to be married within
weeks. What in this do you
not
find disconcerting?’

Dhrstyadymn threw his arms around her in an encouraging
embrace. ‘Oh, Panchali! It’s only natural that you’re afraid, I suppose. I should have realized. But don’t worry, more than
half the contest has already been played out, across assembly halls and private audience rooms, at dinner feasts and in courtesans’
beds … not just in Kampilya, but all over Aryavarta. Many will come, but not compete; and many will compete, but not win.
This was instigated by Bhisma, the Grandsire of the Kurus. In fact, Dwaipayana, the Vyasa, came here straight from Hastina
and settled everything with our father. You’re to be married to Syoddhan, heir to the Kuru throne.’

‘What? But …’

‘Trust me, Panchali, you’ve got nothing to fear. Everything has been arranged. You, my dear, will be Queen of Hastina!’ he
joyfully concluded.

Panchali longed to retort, but the happiness on her brother’s face made her hold back.
Our lives are not our own
. Once again, Gandavati’s words had been nothing less than prophetic.

‘Come,’ she said, forcing cheer into her words, ‘we ought to head back. I’m famished. Besides, Shikandin will worry when he
finds us missing.’

Dhrstyadymn shot her a strange look. ‘He and Govinda left, not long before we did, I suspect. The attendant found their horses
gone when he went to fetch ours. No one can tell where they were headed to.’

Panchali sighed. ‘And what’s new about that?’

‘
WHOEVER DID THIS …’ SHIKANDIN BEGAN AND THEN FELL SILENT
, his knuckles white from his tight grip on the hilt of his sword.

‘…had no choice. He has his loyalties as we have ours. We can’t hold it against him,’ Govinda declared, calmly surveying the
carnage around him. It had taken them one night to reach the Eastern Forests that lay on the border of Panchala, but they
had spent the better part of the next day searching for the first of the destroyed villages. From
there on, the trail was unmistakeably clear. ‘Still, we’re too late to save anyone,’ he dully admitted.

The two men walked past the still-smouldering debris to the hut at the edge of the village. Tethering their horses to a tree-stump
outside the hut, the two stepped in and looked around.

‘He was here,’ Shikandin remarked, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly as though he could still smell the previous visitor’s
scent. His eyes took in the clean cut in the thatching where the warrior had slashed at the roof, and he reached up thoughtfully
to pull at a loose straw. Letting it drop to the ground with a quiet sigh, he came to join Govinda, who was perched on one
knee, examining a dark stain on the ground.

‘Hardly a day old,’ Govinda said. Standing up, he fixed the other man with a steady gaze. ‘You still have your men posted
in these parts?’

‘Yes.’

‘Trusted men?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then how did he get through? Why didn’t anyone stop him? I can understand someone slipping past the Emperor’s ring of spies
and guards, but how did they get past yours?’

If Shikandin saw the least offence in Govinda’s questions, he did not show it. He stared at the blood-stained floor, then
moved back slowly, step by step. ‘Come on,’ he called out, heading outside. The warrior they were following was adept at hiding
his trail, and once outside the hut his tracks all but disappeared. It took Shikandin every bit of his skill to find a dislodged
pebble, or the slight dent in the tender bark of a young tree – signs that their quarry had gone that way. It was slow work,
but by nightfall they reached the river. Despite the dim light they could make out the smoking pyre, the last few embers still
shining in the dark.

‘I can’t track any further in the dark, Govinda. We’ll have to wait till morning,’ Shikandin said.

Govinda said nothing. He simply nodded and drew his sword, a long, flat blade with a straight hilt and open grip that spanned
nearly
four feet, from hilt to tip. The two-sided blade was inflexible, but strong and unusually bereft of the markings that narrated
the lineage and victories of the sword and its owner. It bore only its own name as inscription, a strange one too for a sword
– Nandaka, that which brings bliss.

As unconventional as its name was the use to which Govinda now put the sword. In a move that most Arya nobles would have squirmed
at, he stepped up to the pyre and used the blade to go through the ashes. Looking around, he picked up a dry branch from the
ground and unceremoniously thrust it into the depths of the pyre. The heat trapped inside was enough to set the dry wood ablaze.

He pulled out the branch and handed it to Shikandin. ‘Light a fire, will you.’

‘With this?’

But Govinda had already walked away, toward the river.

Shikandin sighed, looking down at the flame. ‘Oh well, I suppose death follows life, and all that …’ He walked for some distance
along the riverbank till the fragrance from the night-blossom trees cleaned his nostrils of the ashen smell of death. Then
he started a small campfire and led both their horses to the river, where he washed them and let them drink, before diving
in for a cooling swim. By the time Shikandin had returned to the small campsite, Govinda was already there. From the looks
of his wet antariya, he too had indulged in a bath.

‘Hungry?’ Shikandin queried.

‘Are you joking? Are you?’

Shikandin said nothing as he sat down next to Govinda. ‘First Ghora, now him – Agniveshya Angirasa, Ghora’s own grandson …’
he began. ‘Dwaipayana certainly doesn’t leave things to chance.’ His tone was soft, but held an unmistakeable edge.

Govinda said nothing. Without another word, they both turned in for the night.

Shikandin woke up well before dawn. He saddled both horses and put out the campfire before he gently awakened Govinda. It
was still dark as the two men led their horses back to the pyre but the smell
of dawn was already in the air. The misty freshness of the forest was pleasantly invigorating and they felt light-hearted
despite the task that lay ahead of them. As the outline of the bier loomed ahead, Govinda stopped and took the reins of Shikandin’s
horse as well. He waited as Shikandin walked ahead and crouched down on the ground. The sun soon broke from the unseen horizon,
and the forest came alive with light and sound.

Govinda watched with a smile as Shikandin became one with the forest, keenly aware of every bent blade of grass, every broken
twig and twisted leaf. Shikandin, he knew, was more than just a good tracker. He was a true hunter, a creature of the wild.
Few men could see the forests as he saw them, a living tapestry of life and death. Still crouched on the ground, his eyes
closed in concentration, Shikandin heard the territorial rumble of a tiger as it prowled the opposite bank; he noted how the
wild hog ran, grunting, it’s scavenging complete; and watched as the smaller game began their day’s journey, heading downriver.
All these signs told him that their quarry had gone upstream, to the north. Almost reluctantly, he pulled himself back into
the world of men. Taking back the reins of his horse he began to lead the way. Govinda followed wordlessly, unwilling to defile
the serenity around them with speech.

They stopped for the night but did not light a fire. Govinda was about to suggest they take turns to keep watch, but Shikandin
pre-empted him. ‘Sleep. I’ll take the first watch.’ He fell asleep, knowing well that Shikandin would not wake him till morning.
In any case, with Shikandin around, no creature of the wild posed any threat.

By afternoon, the next day, Shikandin began to look downcast. ‘We’re almost at the northern end of the forest. We’ll soon
emerge onto the last plains before the White Mountains begin.’

‘Perhaps we can still find out which way he went before that.’

‘And of what use is that?’ Shikandin grumbled.

It was a little before sunset when the two friends emerged through the last of the trees, onto the edge of a small hillock.
Below them lay the rolling plains of Northern Panchala. In the distance,
almost at the foothills of the lesser Himalayas, was the hazy outline of Ahichattra, its capital city.

The two men trailed their quarry down to the edge of the plains, but the tracks were soon lost in the ploughed consistency
of the farmlands.

‘Mih!’ Shikandin swore out loud. ‘He’s gone over the freshly tilled land and not through the fields which are yet to be harvested
… It’s almost as if he knew he’d be trailed!’

‘Trailed through the Eastern Forests, and that too for two days?’ Govinda was incredulous.

‘What are you saying Govinda? That he knew I’d be trailing him?’

‘Possibly,’ Govinda’s voice took on a strained timbre, ‘and that he surmised I’d bring you here. Strange, isn’t it? It’s almost
as if someone wanted me to know that Agniveshya had been killed and who had done it. As if any of it would make a difference
to my decision not to compete for Panchali’s hand.

‘And it won’t?’ Shikandin was terse.

‘No,’ Govinda shook his head. ‘Come,’ he continued, in a lighter tone. ‘You’d better get back to Kampilya quickly. They’ll
be wondering where we’ve disappeared. I too need to meet Balabadra and the others near your borders.’

Shikandin nodded. For a moment he hesitated, as if on the verge of saying something, but then decided against it and rode
on in silence. His thoughts rested on his sister and his eyes held a pained regret.

Govinda did not notice.