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The sound of her own voice boosted her spirit, and she quickened her steps.
An hour later, she returned with two quivers full of water. The water source had been farther than she had hoped. She broke into a run when she saw Dasharatha’s form. She had to move closer to the water in the morning, where she had even found a few bulbs of turmeric root. Turmeric was such a common ingredient in both food and medicine Kaikeyi knew it would prevent wounds from festering and illnesses from escalating. She dropped the bulbs to the ground and fell to her knees by Dasharatha’s side, pouring water into his mouth. Most of it flowed down his neck.
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“You are safe now,” she said. Pure love for him pulsated in her being. “I’m here.”
In response, she heard an icy laughter, which ran up her spine. She looked up and saw two translucent creatures with bright pink eyes watching her, the most base of the blood-drinkers who lived under the ground. She had never seen their kind before. Their blue veins ran along their bodies; their tongues flickered in and out of their fanged mouths.
Kaikeyi just stared. Her eyelids drooped over her eyes. Her arms hung limply by her sides.
In the moment when she most needed it, her body was shutting down. The king twitched; his hand flicked against her thigh. She woke with a start, and without thinking, she was on her feet. A growl rose from her throat, so menacing that the hairs on her arms stood on end. The pink-eyed creatures fell on all fours, pouncing toward her, salivating like two dogs.
Kaikeyi broke into a run, lifting her sword, screaming, “Yah!”
With one quick stroke, she lopped off one of their heads. Like a headless snake, its body slithered on the ground. The other one shot upright, lifting its claws.
Silently Kaikeyi and the creature circled, swiping in the air at each other. He had no weapon, but his claws were sharp and so fast that she could see only a blur of movement.
He was much faster and hungrier than she was. When she jabbed at his belly, he drew back, hissing.
In one desperate move, she kicked the head of the dead one. It flew up toward the creature. Instinctively he caught it, and in that moment Kaikeyi threw her blade at him with all her might. It sank into his belly to the hilt. For a second, he stood there, head in his hands, blade in his belly.
She ran forward, kicking him down as she drew her blade out.
His blue veins squirted blood so dark it seemed black. When it spread out on his translucent skin, however, it was as bright red as human blood. Kaikeyi felt sick with the thought that it quite probably was ingested human blood.
“Yah!” she yelled again and again, hacking both the creatures to pieces. “Die!”
They died, a hundred times over.
She collapsed onto the ground next to their mangled bodies. She took a deep breath and gagged at the foul smell. She crawled away from the stinking corpses and the defecation of death, then got onto her knees and then her feet. She had to get rid of these reeking bodies and untie the horses.
But first she checked on Dasharatha, pouring water into his mouth again. She carefully poured water over his body, hoping to cool down his feverish limbs. She kissed his brow and his cheeks. Her hands hovered over the wound. She had to move elsewhere; there could be other blood-drinkers on the prowl. But she didn’t know if any other place would be safer.
The king was too weak to be moved and he was too heavy for her, and . . . and . . . and . . . The young queen passed out next to her husband, falling into darkness so deep, she might have joined her husband in the halls of death.
“Come back to me,” she called out.
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chapter 14
The Dream of Rama
hen the javelin crashed into his chest, he did not even have time to Wscream. Kaikeyi did. Her piercing cry went straight through him too. And he fell dead.
He who had fought alongside the gods in countless battles was now dead. He, who thought himself as immortal as a human could be, was dead. He who had no children—who carried the sun’s blood in his veins, who ruled the Earth—was dead.
Who was he now?
“Wake up!” she screamed.
Who was she?
“Sh-sh-sh,” he struggled to say. If only he could have some silence, then the pain of “I” would be over.
“Open your eyes,” she begged.
But he could not. The horses snorted, their hooves clattering against the ground.
Where was he going?
His body was being rushed somewhere, but he hovered above it effortlessly. Yet he was connected somehow to that dying body, forced to follow the frightful rush of the chariot, its horses, and the commandeering woman.
He was not dead yet, he realized.
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He saw her then, from up there. A woman whipping her horses until their eyes were rolling, her long black hair flying behind her like the goddess of war. Don’t get in her way, he thought. Nothing could stop her. He knew this about her, but couldn’t say who the fierce woman was. Then he saw the corpse in the chariot with its head bouncing wildly with every jostle of the chariot. The golden helmet was smashed in on the side. There was blood in a pool around his chest and her red footprints all around him. It had been his blood, his body.
He drifted from the chariot. Up and away. He could neither hear nor feel its hasty escape from the battleground behind them. As he felt the connection to his mortal life weaken, there was only one regret: the Sun dynasty’s illustrious line would end because he was dying and he had no sons. The regret surprised him. He had felt the pressure to produce an heir, and he had dutifully pursued it. But he had not wanted sons, not truly. He had known it would just end badly. He had killed that innocent boy, and the curse of the boy’s father had branded him. That fateful night had been buried deep in his mind, where he kept secrets. It was the last coherent thought he had.
Memories of his earthly life grew dim. Thoughts became amorphous. He could no longer think or formulate his feelings as he had done as a human being. And yet he was not released from his mind. He was trapped in a borderland, neither dead nor alive. He was powerless, a strange, new feeling for him. The king and the man he had been would have raged against it. But there were no conflicts in this borderland, no tension. Now he was both more and less than the man he had been. In that powerless state, he simply waited and began to dream.
A green luminescence shimmered around him. He was not alone. There was a small boy next to him whose luminous emerald skin lit up everything around both of them. The king had never seen anything like it. The child had big brown eyes that were both intense and kind. Children did not have eyes like that. The boy, who was maybe two or three, did not speak, just floated effortlessly next to the king. Every now and then, he turned toward the king and looked him long in the eyes.
He wasn’t a child, the king knew; he was in disguise.
That made the boy smile, and he took the king’s hand.
The king opened his arms, and the child returned his embrace. The boy did not stop there, but walked into the king’s heart. Stunned, the king followed. He realized he had never been inside it before. It was a vast place, a complete world with lush fields, forests, and buildings. There was a room full of the books he loved. Another room was full of paintings of people he admired. He stopped to look at two large ones of his father and his mother. They were young in the portraits, the way they looked when he himself was a young boy.
The child beckoned him to continue, walking ahead, deeper into the maze of his heart.
The king followed, trying to catch hold of the boy’s hand again.
“Are you my son?” he asked the boy.
“Rama,” the boy said, uttering the two syllables with childish charm. He disappeared from view, into the maze of Dasharatha’s heart, the green luminescence growing dimmer.
“Come back,” the king called.
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And he heard the words echo in every chamber of his heart: “Come back, come back, come back.” It was his own call magnified by someone else’s.
The woman on the chariot whispered, “Come back to me.”
At once he was not in his heart anymore. He was back in his spirit, looking down at the pitiful scene of his body and the lady laboring for his life. Just as quickly, darkness shrouded him, and he was back in his body. He felt the strong beating of his heart, the pulsating ache of his near-fatal wound, the weakness of his limbs, and the thirst of his dry lips and throat.
The world took shape around him even though his eyes were closed. The sun was scorching, and he felt the blaze on his skin. He felt as clearheaded as he once had been, the visions and thoughts of his spirit as diffuse to him now as his human thoughts had been. Though he longed to ask for water, the word that started forming on his lips was a name. Kaikeyi. He was acutely aware of his queen beside him and every word she said.
She was speaking to herself, as if he was not there at all. Incoherent words. A constant stream of words and stories that all centered around him.
“Kai,” was all the king managed to say, but he felt his wife startle and turn to him with eyes that were as round as the sun. “Water.”
Even these were too many words for a man who had nearly died and whose voice had not been used in days. How many days? He would ask that as soon as Kaikeyi got him some water.
She moved swift like lightning, and when she lifted the water to his mouth, she pressed her lips to his head and buried her face in his hair. He drank the water greedily at first, but told himself to slow down and sip it instead. If he drank too much all at once, his body would reject it. Though his body felt weak like never before in his life, he felt light and carefree.
This woman had saved his life, and he had a tremendous feeling of something completely astounding in their future. There was a feeling of tenderness deep within his heart, toward whom or what, he could not say. He was grateful to be alive.
Without words, he pulled Kaikeyi into his arms, ignoring the explosion of pain in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and felt her hot tears against his neck. The pain grew tolerable and Dasharatha noticed Kaikeyi was barely clothed. She looked as wild as a feral tribeswoman. Every piece of clothing had evidently gone toward dressing his wound. He felt his chest, and groaned. The pain was constant but bearable.
“How many days?” he finally asked, without letting her go. He could feel her rib cage pressing against his arms.
“I lost count,” she answered at his neck. “More than ten. Less than thirty.”
He stroked her long black hair. She would need extra care now. He knew what it was, coming out of a crisis. They had both been hit hard. Even before he looked at his arms and legs, he knew he had lost much of his strength. He would have to train many months, maybe years, to regain a semblance of his previous power. After a cursory examination of his body, he noticed that his beard had grown white. It meant nothing except he probably looked like an old man now. All these physical changes were inconsequential, compared to the deeper changes in his psyche.
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“The battle? My men? Where are we?”
“Two of your men found us yesterday,” she said. “We won. Nearly everyone on both sides succumbed. But Shambara was slain, and the battle is over. They would have found us sooner if I had not moved you several times to hide from blood-drinkers. I didn’t know if you would ever come back to consciousness. I insisted that slinging you across a horse one more time might kill you. They will be here today with a carriage.”
Dasharatha drank the remaining water. “I owe you my life,” he said. The tenderness in his heart grew. “Ask anything from me and it’s yours.”
She looked up at him with her deep blue eyes. “My prayers have already been answered.
You are alive.”
He laughed, feeling both the joy and the pain spread in his chest. “Even more reason for me to repay you. I will give you anything you want.”
“Just love me forever,” she said, the words of the young woman that she was.
“I already love you more than I should. You could destroy me with one word, and you don’t even realize it.”
The spark in her eye showed up. “You make no sense.”
He smiled, hugging her as close as his throbbing wound allowed. “If you had not saved me, I would not have survived. My life is yours. Now I’ve said it twice. You have two boons at your disposal. Any time you want something from me, it’s yours.”
Though his body was weakened, his passion for her was not. He drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her vitality seep into his skin. The pain of his body mingled with the passion of his blood. Only the two of them existed, alone on the Earth together.
The union was an affirmation of the life he had nearly lost. After, the king’s wounds throbbed relentlessly, and Dasharatha pulled away. A voice in his mind sent him a caution.
It was perhaps the voice of reason, but it sounded very much like Sumantra, his faithful minister. Sumantra would not be pleased with Dasharatha’s impulsive act, giving Kaikeyi two unconditional boons. It was not a wise political move. But Dasharatha was alive due to Kaikeyi.
To be certain, however, Dasharatha turned to Kaikeyi. He didn’t have much strength left, but said, “The boons. Keep them to yourself. They are yours alone.”
She nodded.
He fainted.
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chapter 15
The Queen’s Secret
anthara was Ayodhya’s best-kept secret. No one knew that they had a mastermind among them in the guise of a hunchback. She would own Ayodhya the way she had owned Kekaya. Her foremost instrument was Kaikeyi, and she was intent on discovering Ayodhya’s weaknesses. Her eyes were on the court of justice, the royal gardens, and the other two queens. Few people dared interfere with her. Of course, Kausalya had insulted Manthara by suggesting that Manthara would be a fitting mentor for Ravana’s victims. Certainly: couple the outcasts with the cripple. Manthara could see Kausalya’s logic, but it was as twisted as Manthara’s spine ever was. First of all, those new girls couldn’t even dance, so it was a joke. Second, Manthara did not want to compromise her status by mingling with that lot. If you associated with an outcast for one year, you became an outcast. Everyone knew this. Manthara was on to Kausalya’s plan and avoided the new dancing girls as if they were diseased. It pleased her to look at them with disgust and see them shiver under her gaze.
Though Manthara frequently reported back to Ashvapati, she neglected to mention the abduction incident and Kausalya’s solution. Ashva would learn of it through the ordinary channels, like every other king. Manthara was aware that in despising the dancing girls, she acted contrary to Ashva’s principles.
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She had not extended the compassion that she expected to receive herself. But why should she? Their situation was nothing like hers. No one would think of abducting Manthara, so apologies to all the thirty gods if she didn’t exactly empathize with the alleged victims. They had only suffered from too much attention. Ravana was well known as a seducer and wom-anizer. No doubt half of those “victims” had secretly enjoyed it. They wouldn’t die from being deprived a little now. Indeed, if Manthara had been king, she would have disposed of the problem by sending them on to the land of Yama. It was not such a terrible place. What was the fuss all about? Even Kaikeyi had acted horrified when Manthara suggested a gift of flowers. It was the first time Manthara had displayed her knowledge of the plants in front of Kaikeyi, but still, Kaikeyi’s horror was like a child’s—as if Kaikeyi hadn’t killed people with her bare hands.
Speaking of Kaikeyi, when Manthara opened her eyes, her first waking thought went to the young queen. Then to her deformity. The curvature in her back had become stiff through the night. Once Manthara climbed out of her bed, it took a concerted effort to raise her head up. When she raised her face to look at the sky or, in this case, the domed white ceilings, an army of fire ants attacked her neck. Sighing, she let her head drop, seeing but not seeing the marble floor with its inlaid mosaic patterns. Yes, she lived in privileged quarters close to Kaikeyi, and every day she wore fine silks and costly jewels, but what did such things matter when her body was so detestable and withered? The only part of herself she valued was her mind. She had always been a notch sharper than everyone else. This was especially true once she came to Ayodhya; the maids here were dull-witted. It was as if Kausalya purposefully employed imbeciles so that she could herself appear more intelligent. Manthara had never heard anyone in Ayodhya say anything she didn’t already know. Manthara had heard the reports of how close to death the king had been. A javelin through the heart, they said.
It was a miracle he survived. Manthara wouldn’t call it that. She wasn’t sure she believed in miracles at all. It was Kaikeyi, the brave warrior-queen, who had saved the king with her skills on a chariot. Kaikeyi would have unprecedented power over the king now, having saved his life. Only Manthara could see this. Painfully intelligent, that’s what she was.
Without looking, she grabbed a long piece of cloth and threw it around the lump of her body, stopping only to inspect that she was covered and decorous. Years of wear made the heavy silk sari fall nicely in place around her body, colorful and flowing. She did not have the habit of looking in the mirror. In fact she had the habit of not looking. She knew what she would see there: an old hag with gray hair, a painting of someone she actually didn’t know.
Especially today, her mind felt exuberant and sharp, awaiting the meeting with the one person she loved. Her body, as usual, struggled to keep up with her.
Today she would finally reunite with Kaikeyi, who would be released from her quaran-tine. The young queen had already been back several days from the battle but, Manthara was told, “in no condition to meet anyone.” It had taken all Manthara’s self-control not to lift up her cane and beat the guards on their arrogant heads. How dare they stop her from seeing Kaikeyi! The Ayodhyans treated her as a common servant when she was all but the girl’s mother. Like a real mother, Manthara had survived sleepless nights and nursed the baby girl 136
