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“We need to understand exactly how this happened and prevent it from occurring ever again. The Earth will never be safe,” Dasharatha said in anger, “until Ravana and every single one of his blood-drinkers have been exterminated.”
No one said anything. There seemed to be nothing to say to soften that truth. Dasha ratha looked at Rama again. “We will continue this discussion once Vasishta is here. He knows the most about the wards around Ayodhya. I thought no blood-drinker or enemy could walk through them.” The king named several others whose presence was required at the meeting.
“I will return my son to his room.”
As Dasharatha walked out with his arm around Rama’s shoulders, he turned to his son.
“How did you know, Rama, that it wasn’t Vasishta? He had the rest of us fooled.”
There it was: Bharata’s apology, but in Father’s voice.
“His eyes,” Rama said at once. “His eyes were nothing like Vasishta’s. He couldn’t hide his real eyes. They looked wild and dangerous.”
“He must have known it too,” Father said, sounding mollified. “That’s why he refused 273
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to look me in the eye. I did not insist on looking into his, thinking he was perhaps preoccupied with his own affairs. That was my mistake. Look what it cost us. Nineteen lives. And that vile blood-drinker Marichi is out in the world again. Creatures of that nature don’t deserve freedom.”
“Father . . .” Rama gathered his thoughts. “If blood-drinkers can take any shape, is looking into their eyes enough? What if you don’t get close enough to really see their eyes? The pretender Vasishta was a flawless imitation.”
Father took a deep breath. “I’m calling all our best sources together,” he said. “I will find the answer to this question.”
Rama was stunned when he realized that Father did not know the answer. This meant that he couldn’t blindly rely on his father’s judgment. He had to rely on his own.
Arriving at Rama’s rooms, the king turned away, returning to his duties. Lakshmana was still sleeping, but Rama found no solace in the idea of sleep and the oblivion it would bring.
Father blamed himself for the deaths in the city, Rama could see it. He couldn’t think what to say to appease his father. Was that burden the price you paid to be king? Seven Ayodhyan children were dead. Rama could have been one of them had he not been a prince.
Lakshmana stirred and opened his sleepy eyes, looking at Rama who was fully dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Where have you been?”
Rama told him everything. Lakshmana sat up, his eyes and hair wild.
“One day, I won’t be just ten anymore,” Rama said. “Then I will avenge their deaths.”
“And I will help you,” Lakshmana said, putting his hands on his hips. “We’ll hunt them all the way to the land of Yama.”
Rama sat up straighter. He took his brother’s words seriously. Lakshmana would help him. Together they would be very, very strong. They would have to be. Just a prayer by Ravana had the power to influence snakelike chains. Ravana’s power was all around them, and Marichi had managed to escape because of it. Rama had a feeling that he had just encountered his true archenemy.
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chapter 30
Bharata’s Resolution
In the weeks that followed, Rama couldn’t stop himself from looking carefully at every person who crossed his path. He had to be sure it was not a stranger in guise of a known person, or more precisely said, a blood-drinker impostor. As he looked in earnest this way and that, Rama made another discovery altogether. He couldn’t help but notice how startled many people were by his solemn gaze; one person would shy away, another would open and blossom. Rama was fascinated by this discovery; his eyes were powerful. The eyes of others held power too, and sometimes secrets. Father encouraged him to keep looking in this new way, but also to emanate kindness and compassion, for even the most honest person might shy away from an intrusive gaze.
Even if Rama hadn’t been observing everyone around him closely, he would have noticed that Bharata was not himself. He was acting like usual, smiling, joking with them, going on walks with Shatrugna, doing everything expected of him. But he did not feel happy. And in their last test with Vasishta, Bharata had answered many questions wrong. That was not like him. Rama was not the only one to notice this, of course. Especially around Vasishta, Bharata became almost sullen, certainly withdrawn. Rama scrutinized Vasishta with extra care too, relieved to see his teacher’s patient eyes looking back at him.
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Their schooling continued, now focused on all there was to know about blood-drinkers.
The lessons took place in the royal library, a place full of scrolls, maps, and books with the strangest scripts. It was by far the most fascinating room in the whole palace. The princes kept searching for secret trapdoors. There had to be one behind a book or painting somewhere. Vasishta always sat on a simple grass mat, while the princes were allowed to choose their own seats. There were pillows and plush seats, but it wasn’t seemly to sit above your teacher, so the princes sat on the floor too. After Bharata’s poor performance on the test, Vasishta called the boys close, asking them to sit cross-legged next to him.
“The teacher-student relationship is wholly dependent on trust. I can see that it’s lacking between us now, though it’s not the fault of anyone present. Let us make a secret password that only we know. I will whisper it into your ear. You may not share it with anyone, not even your brothers.”
He leaned toward Bharata first, whispering into his ear. Bharata’s eyes lit up; he liked his secret word.
When it was Rama’s turn, Vasishta whispered, “Vishnu.”
Rama had always been drawn to Vishnu’s legends; he liked his password too.
“If you ever suspect that I am not myself, ask me to whisper the secret word into your ear,” Vasishta concluded.
“Or run for your weapons as fast as you can,” Lakshmana suggested.
“I’m afraid that they run a lot faster than you do,” Vasishta replied.
“Not faster than an arrow,” Rama said.
Vasishta smiled. “Perhaps you are right. But I assure you that you will not meet another blood-drinker within Ayodhya’s walls. We have reinforced the protection around the parameters of the city. And by this I mean the magic wards set in place by mantra. These vibrations are stronger than any gross matter can be. They automatically repel blood-drinkers and any other creature harboring evil intent. No outsider can ever breach it. Hence, Ayodhya’s name,
‘the Indestructible.’ We are protected.”
“Then how did the blood-drinker disguised as you find his way in?” Rama asked.
“This was the question we all asked after the event. It should not have been possible.
After carefully searching the parameters with my mind, I found one weak spot in the vibrations on the south side of Ayodhya. Only someone extremely tiny and terribly perceptive could have found his way in. We believe now that this weak spot was created before any of you were born, in a tragic incident when two children were murdered beyond Ayodhya’s walls. When the grieving father brought their bodies to me, hoping I would save them, he also unwittingly brought with him the powerful taint of the one who murdered his children.”
Rama held his breath, noticing his brothers did too.
“We believe it was Ravana himself,” Vasishta revealed. “Your father saw a phantom spirit of Ravana in the place where the children were found dead. Your father can give you a firsthand account of those events. We never suspected, however, that it would lead to this. The impostor who took advantage of this nearly imperceptible weakness in our wards had to be 276
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very powerful too. We already know the pretender possessed extraordinary skills, shape-shifting through many forms, and fooling everyone within Ayodhya.”
“Rama wasn’t fooled,” Bharata interjected.
“Rama was quick to recognize something was wrong, yes. I’m sure he will be even faster the next time he sees a shape-shifter in action,” Vasishta said.
“But the impersonator achieved his goal and is running free with Ayodhya’s former prisoner. That would not have happened if I, or any of the priests, saw him. He chose you, Bharata, because he knew that as a prince, you would know more than most grown men. And yet you are still a child. You do not have the faculties of a grown man yet. The blood-drinker knew this. His choice to approach you to extract the information he needed was a calculated move.
Even if you were fully grown, however, he may have fooled you. Warriors like you are trained as masters in the physical realms. By necessity, they are not attuned to these subtle forces. I, as a priest, can see someone’s true skin under their disguise, be it physical or emotional. But that is a power that few possess.”
Bharata looked at Rama again, but said nothing this time.
“But how did the impostor know about the weakening in the protective ward?”
Rama asked. “What if it was Ravana himself?”
Vasishta chuckled softly. “I know this incident may seem like a great adventure to you boys. But I’m afraid that Ravana is roused into action only if there is a beautiful woman in the picture.”
Rama frowned, and Lakshmana did too. What did girls have to do with it?
Vasishta chuckled some more. “When you’re grown, you might come to understand this. But to answer your question, Rama. I traced dark words to Marichi’s cell. After millennia as a prisoner, he learned about the wards somehow, and with magic of his own, he spent years sending sound barbs against it, weakening it just enough to let his friend slip in and set him free.”
“How did they escape from the wards on their way out?”
“This has never happened before, as I said. The protective spell was built as a shield. It only prevented enemies from entering. Once inside, there was nothing in place to stop them. I have made changes to it. Now it works more like a magnetic field that irresistibly pulls inimical beings to it. The next time a blood-drinker gets close to Ayodhya, he or she will be pulled into the magnetic vibration and find no way to escape.”
“The next time we have a blood-drinker prisoner,” Lakshmana said, “we should surround his cell and the whole prison with those mantras.”
“With every spell there is in the whole world,” Shatrugna said.
Vasishta nodded, but said, “Indefinite imprisonment is not an advisable punishment. I advised your father, and his father before him, to slay the prisoner. Blood-drinkers are vengeful by nature. Keeping one of them imprisoned so long could only 277
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pave the path toward sure vengeance. Now that Marichi is on the loose, I’m afraid we can expect that he will find a way to have his revenge.”
“I will send my arrow into his heart,” Rama warned. This was his promise to the Ayodhyans who had been killed.
“I’m afraid a blood-drinker’s revenge is not like a warrior’s revenge, Prince Rama,” their teacher said. “You will not see it coming until it’s too late. They don’t extract their vengeance in blood, as you would do, but in suffering and terror. That is their pleasure.”
Thereafter, they were taught everything that Ayodhya knew about blood-drinkers: their abilities, their magic, and the ways in which humans had protected themselves from them. The princes learned that there were different gradients of blood-drinkers. Some were night stalkers and could come out only at night. These creatures, also called night crawlers, lived in holes below the Earth or in caves. Their eyes were light pink and functioned only in darkness. Even moonlight hurt them. Their skin was whiter than white, so translucent that all their veins and organs were visible through the skin. The sun weakened them, and in this sense, they were the natural enemies of the Sun dynasty. Others were day walkers but needed blood to live. A common feature of the day walkers was their deformities, for they had refused to die when their bodies wanted to. They had spawned a species that were distinctive for their hideous forms, having extra limbs, eyes in their necks—if they had necks.
Vasishta described at least ten different forms: some had animal heads, others many arms, or a gaping mouth on their stomach. He concluded by saying that not even imagination could encompass the vast variety of deformed creatures.
“Is that why we shun human beings who are deformed?” Rama asked. “Because they might be related to blood-drinkers?”
“That is very good thinking on your part, Rama,” Vasishta answered. “I wish you were right, that the reasons were as simple as that.”
The princes looked at one another. Things were never simple, they’d learned.
Vasishta looked to the sky, so the boys knew it was complex even for Vasishta.
“Rama has brought us to another topic,” Vasishta finally said. “First, I want to inform you that not every society on Earth shuns those with physical imperfections. Kekaya is an example of that. Your grandfather, Bharata, has been a pioneer in protecting the deformed.
Making Manthara, a hunchback, the caretaker of the princess, is an example of that.”
Lakshmana made a face at this, but ducked behind Shatrugna so only Rama might see it. Manthara was the most evil person Rama and Lakshmana knew. Of course, she doted on Bha rata and Shatrugna. But that made her enmity all the more apparent, since it was so selective.
“But Ashvapati is not the first and only to speak up on this,” Vasishta said as though he hadn’t noticed Lakshmana’s gesture. Rama was sure he had, since Vasishta knew everything and more. “Remember that our standard, and by that I mean Ayodhya’s standard, is subjective. A horse has its standards and a lion another.”
“Who decides what the standard is, then?” Shatrugna asked, followed by Rama, 278
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who asked, “Isn’t it unfair to make someone inauspicious because of the body they are born in?”
Vasishta smiled. “We will spend only a few more minutes on this. Then we must return to the topic at hand: blood-drinkers. Shatrugna, in one sense, it’s the king who decides, but he is also the spokesperson and decision maker of his people. I’m afraid that from the beginning of time, the practice has been of shunning. Some tribes sacrifice the child at birth if any of its limbs are deformed.
“And Rama, you are right. It is unfair. In a karmic sense, the soul has attracted the right body for its present life. He or she is living with the consequences of previous deeds. Humans would do the crippled a kindness by treating them with compassion and dignity. But that is not the way of humankind.”
Vasishta firmly returned them to the topic at hand. Rama found that he preferred the blood-drinker topic. The other one left a bad feeling in the pit of his belly. It was all the more confusing to him because Manthara, the one deformed person he knew, was really mean.
He didn’t think one led to the other, but in Manthara’s case it had.
Rama focused on Vasishta’s voice. Marichi had been one of the more advanced kinds; he had not been visibly reduced by his years without blood and exposed to the sun. Marichi had shown uncommon patience and strategy. He had never displayed his powers. The highest among them were kin to the gods themselves and lived as long as the gods, immortal compared to a short human life. They were master magicians and so beautiful that people of all races fell under their spell. There had even been a race of humans who had offered themselves as blood slaves to the topmost blood-drinkers, considering it an honor to sacrifice their blood.
The princes were fascinated.
“What all the blood-drinkers have in common is their fangs,” Shatrugna said.
“Yes, but fangs in different sizes,” Lakshmana said.
“If they hide in another body,” Rama said, “you wouldn’t be able to see their fangs.”
Bharata said nothing. He had spoken very little throughout the day.
As the sun began to set, Vasishta stood and said, “Enough for today. We will continue tomorrow.”
The princes stood up and touched Vasishta’s feet, thanking him for the day’s lessons.
As soon as Vasishta had gone, Bharata left them without a word. Rama and the twins stopped speaking.
“Bharata!” Shatrugna called.
“He wants to be alone,” Rama said, catching Shatrugna’s hand.
Shatrugna continued looking at the empty doorway. “But what happened?” he asked.
“He left without warning.”
“What if he is ill?” Lakshmana asked.
“Yes, we’d better go see,” Shatrugna said. “Or tell Mother.”
The three of them hurried from the hall.
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Rama had another feeling about Bharata’s sudden departure. Since Marichi’s escape, Rama had been furtively watching Bharata. If his brother was sick, he had been so for days.
The brothers found Bharata in his room, standing by the window. When Bharata heard them enter, he quickly went to the bed trying to avoid them.
“Are you sick?” Shatrugna asked, reaching to touch Bharata’s forehead, as their mothers would have done.
“Maybe,” Bharata said. He didn’t look at any of them.
“I’m going to get Mother,” Shatrugna said, even though Bharata said, “Don’t!”
Rama and Lakshmana sat down on each side of Bharata’s bed.
“I don’t think you are sick,” Rama said softly.
Bharata pulled his legs to his chest, clasping his arms around them, and put his forehead on his knees. “I wish I could hide from you.” His words were muffled.
“Are you angry with me, then?” Rama said. His throat became tight.
“Nooo,” Bharata moaned. “I’m angry with . . . myself.”
“Why?” Rama dared to move closer to his brother. Lakshmana stayed on the edge of the bed.
Bharata was quiet for a long moment, and then he burst out with the words: “Because I can’t be like you!”
Rama and Lakshmana looked at each other.
“What do you mean?” Lakshmana asked, moving closer too.
