PRINCE IN EXILE (103 page)

‘Lakshman … quickly …’ 

‘It’s Rama, he needs you,’ she said, clutching Lakshman’s arm. ‘You must go to him.’ She added needlessly: ‘I heard him this time. The voice came from north.’ 

Lakshman looked around, uncertainly. ‘Yes, that is where I heard it come from. But Sita, I don’t understand it. Rama went
south-west
after the deer.’ 

He pointed that way, then turned and pointed in the direction the call had come from: they were almost at opposite sides. 

Sita exhaled. ‘Perhaps he circled round while pursuing the deer. It was a frisky buck, no doubt it led him a merry chase. But you must go to him, Lakshman. You must go south-west. He would not call unless he needed help. Perhaps—’ She stopped herself, not wanting to say the word they had all avoided so successfully these past months.
Rakshasas
. No. There were no rakshasas left in this part of the world, in Panchvati, or the wilderness beyond. ‘Go,’ she finished. 

‘But he told me to stay with you,’ Lakshman said, looking miserable now, his handsome face tight with indecision. It was hard for him to hear Rama call like that and not go at once, Sita knew. Now that she had heard that call, she did not want to stand here speaking for an instant more. ‘You know what that means, bhabhi. I must wait here until he returns, no matter what.’ 

‘Yes, yes, I know. But he may be hurt! Or under attack! We cannot waste time arguing the point. You must go!’ She gasped triumphantly, seeing a way out. ‘Or we can both go! I will accompany you. That way, you will not be leaving me here alone. You see? That will solve the problem. Let me just get my sword.’ 

He caught her forearm as she started to turn back toward the hut, stopping her gently but firmly. ‘Nay, bhabhi. You must stay here. We must not both go. Had Rama intended for all of us to go after the deer, he would have said so.’ He released her arm. 

She could have cried out with frustration! ‘But that was
then
, this is
now
! He is
calling for help
, Lakshman! I heard him too.’ 

‘He was calling me. Each time I only heard my name.’ 

As if in confirmation of his words, the cry came again, ever so slightly louder, as if Rama was now closer than before. ‘
Lakshman
…
bhaiyya
…’ 

In an instant, Sita saw Lakshman’s face change. From the good-natured, easygoing brother-in-law he had become these past summer months, he turned at once into the battle-hardened rakshasa slayer she had seen in action at Janasthana and before that. He removed his sword from his waist-thong, keeping it still sheathed, and he strode rapidly to the perimeter of the hut. Bending slightly, he drew a line in the dirt with the sheathed tip of the sword. It scraped with a rasping sound, raising a tiny dust trail. ‘Do not cross this line,’ he said. ‘Stay within the hut and its limits until either Rama or I return. Whatever happens, do not follow me. Do I have your word?’ 

She put her hands on her hips in exasperation. ‘This is absurd, bhaiyya. I should go with you. I can fight if there is trouble.’ 

Lakshman cut his eyes away, towards the south-west. He was no longer listening to her, she saw. It made her angrier. ‘Give me your word and let me go quickly to my brother. He needs my aid urgently.’ 

She seethed silently. 

His eyes came back to rest on her face. His face was determined, his mind made up. Nothing she would say would dissuade him now. She would only delay him further. ‘Sita bhabhi?’ 

‘Yes, yes, and ten times yes! You have my word,’ she said angrily. ‘I will stay within your silly line!’ To express her anger, she marched three steps to the left, crossing to the hut side of his freshly-drawn line and stamped her foot, emphasising her agreement and registering her protest both at once. 

He looked at her one last time, sharply yet with a measured concentration, as if weighing the pros and cons of the situation one last time. Then, he turned, sprinting into the woods, his feet kicking up a flurry of dried leaves, and was gone. 

She sat on the stoop, hunching over, and slammed her fist into the mud floor. Tiny fissures appeared, spreading outwards from the point where her fist had struck, cracking the dried surface. 

THIRTEEN 

The facade of the gold tower loomed smooth and unbroken, as high and wide as he could see. He had walked thrice around its considerable base, estimating the circumference to be some ninety-odd yards, which would mean the radius was forty-some yards. And from what he could tell, looking up, the tower rose to at least a thousand yards high. It was incredible to think that this entire structure was an expansion of the Pushpak. Yet it was so. And because it was the Pushpak, this entire vaulting edifice could alter its structure at will—or rather, at the behest of its master’s will. If desired, he had no doubt it could revert to its most familiar form as a sky- chariot in moments. Which was why, even though he could find no visible entrance, he knew that there must be a means to cause one to appear in order to let 

a visitor such as himself enter Ravana’s inner sanctum. 

Assuming, of course, that Ravana permitted him to enter. 

Vibhisena reached out and touched the wall of the tower. He felt the delicate skin of his fingerpads tingle with the familiar electric sensation that he thought of as the Pushpak’s breathing. As a devotee of Brahman, he knew that the celestial vehicle drew its energy from the universe at large, for Brahman was everywhere and everything. And like all things sustained by Brahman, it lived, though not in the way that a rakshasa or a mortal or even a tree lived. In the universe of Brahman, even stones possessed shakti, awaiting but the right command to release that celestial power. The Pushpak was but a thing of gold whose Brahman shakti could be used by any mind that commanded it, altering its very structure and substance at will to achieve almost any shape, effect or action. Such as this enormous tower. Therefore, he knew there would be a way to effect the opening of a portal in its surface. He had only to find that way and— 

The wall yielded to his touch, growing soft and ever so slightly warmer, like a thin membrane of skin. Under the pressure of his light touch, his hand passed through the wall itself without encountering any resistance. 

He stared at his truncated forearm, embedded in the golden wall that had been so solid a moment earlier, and swallowed nervously. He had no doubt that if the Pushpak’s owner willed it, the substance of the tower would lose its permeability and sever his arm so neatly as to cauterise every blood vessel without spilling a single drop. Snatching his hand back, he was relieved to see his forearm and fingers whole and quite solid. The fact that he was still standing here, his hand whole and unsevered, meant that the Pushpak accepted him and permitted him entry. His wish had been heard and apparently answered by the master of the gold tower. 

He took a deep breath, bracing himself before stepping forward and passing through the wall and into the private sanctum of Ravana. 

He experienced a moment of tingling madness in his brain, as if it was filled momentarily with a swarm of minuscule frantically-buzzing wasps, then the sensation passed and he was inside the tower. 

The chamber he was in was large and quietly illuminated by some unseen source of light. It provided a soothing, sensual light that melded the edges of objects into dusky shadows, not allowing anything to have a definitive outline, softening everything into a sensual melange. Soft, stirring music played somewhere high above. Surprisingly, the inner wall of the tower was not gold as one might have expected. It was a deep rich vermillion, the rich shade of royal velvet. There was little furnishing, and a sense of enormous space. Since he had only just walked around the base of the tower, Vibhisena knew at once that the geometry within was implausible. The inside of the tower was much, much larger than was possible from the exterior dimensions. Also, it was not round at all, but pentagonal, whereas the exterior of the tower had been as perfectly rounded as a gold cylinder turned on a lathe. 

He didn’t allow any of these details to distract him. He knew what the Pushpak was capable of, and Ravana as well. The old Lanka’s heart had been the black fortress, built of ensorcelled blackstone that possessed magical properties and responded to Ravana’s commands, growing and reducing at his will. The Pushpak was even more flexible, able to warp the laws of the natural universe itself. He must not allow himself to be distracted by anything he saw or heard here within this sorcerous place. Only his purpose mattered: to see Ravana and speak with him directly about the matter that was weighing heavily on his conscience. But he did not doubt that to retain that focus would tax his self-control to its limits. 

The chamber he was in had no ceiling to speak of. It rose up limitlessly, rising far higher than the exterior length of the tower. As he squinted up, he could spy wisps of clouds far above. Instead of the usual spiralling stairway leading upwards to different levels set off by traditional floors and ceilings, the Pushpak tower had floating platforms hovering at different heights, in no discernible pattern that he could find. These platforms were of varying sizes and shapes, some rectangular, square, round, or multi-sided, and floated at varying heights for as far as he could see, continuing even beyond the cloudbanks high above. There appeared to be no way to ascend to and from these platforms. 

He looked around uncertainly, unsure of what to do next, and saw a figure approaching. 

It was distinctly female, and moved sinuously. It was a sanharsin rakshasi, with the characteristic anteater-like proboscis and disturbingly mortal-like body of the clan. Her voluptuous body was nude and painted with a living pattern of images that moved across her limbs and torso, changing slowly. A battle of some kind was in progress, he saw, and recognised it for the battle of Indralok, when Ravana had invaded the realm of the devas. Asura armies rolled up her midriff and thighs, charging the gleaming, blue-white towered city of the king of gods. There was no sound to the images of course, but so realistic was the imagery that Vibhisena imagined he could almost hear the roar of the demoniac hordes and the trumpeting of the conch trumpets. 

‘Valakam,’ she said in a lilting tone that belied her proboscis mouth. ‘Welcome, swagatam, namaskar. What pleasure do you seek in the Tower of Kama?’ 

The Tower of Kama
? Vibhisena had heard it called that before, in whispered rumours among the clan chiefs. But he had always assumed that it was a mere appellation given by jealous subordinates to their lord’s palace. Pleasure palace, he supposed, would be a fair approximation of what the term ‘Tower of Kama’ implied. Though what the lord of love and erotic arts—as well as the often overlooked tantric energy of life itself—had to do with Ravana’s private chambers was a matter Vibhisena didn’t care to dwell on. 

‘I desire an audience with my brother,’ he said politely, averting his eyes from the disturbing proboscis and stalk eyes of the rakshasi. ‘Ravana,’ he added, just in case she thought he meant their other, older and much, much larger brother. 

‘He is engaged at present,’ she said in a voice that conveyed more sensual promise than the words themselves, ‘but he has asked me to see that your needs are fulfilled while you wait.’ 

Vibhisena pursed his lips. ‘I have no needs apart from meeting Ravana.’ 

‘Very well, then. Let me convey you to the Hall of Patience.’ 

Without warning, the floor began to rise. Vibhisena lurched and was caught by a shapely rakshasi arm, surprisingly strong for its slenderness. A section of the floor had detached itself from the ground and was transporting them upwards. A gentle wind ruffled Vibhisena’s hair and garments as they rose with the familiar unnervingly rapid smoothness of the Pushpak. 

‘Slower,’ Vibhisena requested. ‘If you please.’ 

The proboscoid mouth spoke sub-vocally and the platform slowed to a much more bearable rate of ascent. They approached the first level, and rose up past it, providing Vibhisena with a clear view of a grassy, flower-bedecked field extending as far as the eye could see, dotted with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of rakshasas of all breeds and sub-breeds engaged in the most naked of acts. He blinked, taken by surprise at this unexpected display, then quickly averted his eyes from the mass of writhing, sweat-limned bodies. 

‘Would you care to join them?’ 

He resisted the urge to snap at her. She was only a minion, he reminded himself, trying to be hospitable. Among her breed, sexual gratification was no different from eating or sleeping. ‘Thank you, no,’ he said flatly. 

He kept his head averted after the first level was past but there was to be no relief for his celibate senses. Already the next level approached, and this one was occupied by even more explicit acts of sexuality. He swallowed and ignored her repeated offer this time. By the third level, he sighed and resigned himself to keeping his eyes shut, but alarming sounds of pain and suffering compelled him to open them again and he saw, on the fourth level, scenes of sadism and masochism being enacted. After that, either the levels were closer together or he grew gradually numbed by the sights of sexual excess and depravity. Even through his numbness, he discerned that the levels were arrayed according to some arcane system of rising debauchery. The higher one went, the more depraved and violent the acts became, the more malevolent and bestial the participants. By the time he was some dozen-odd levels high, the sights and sounds were too much for him to bear even with his eyes shut and hands covering his ears.