"No sword, corpse-washer," hissed Nahusha, one hand seizing him by the throat with a strength Tamar had not imagined. "No sword-but this."
Nahusha snatched a dagger from beneath his breastplate. Tamar fought to twist away from the glinting blade. With all his might, he wrestled free of Nahusha's grasp and stumbled back. Before he regained his balance, his legs were suddenly knocked from under him. He fell to the ground as blurred shapes hurtled past. He heard Nahusha cry out, and he flung up his arms against the dagger thrust.
32. To the Snow Mountains
It was too late. Tamar could do nothing to stop them. The once-caged animals attacked their tormentor from every side. The wolves flung themselves on Nahusha, one at his throat, the other sinking fangs into his upraised arm. The boar, whose onrush had knocked Tamar to the ground, charged ahead, savaging Nahusha with his tusks. The lion and tiger clawed Nahusha to his knees, while the wolves snarled and set their jaws tighter. The creatures, Tamar saw, all bore marks of the lash or branding iron; half starved though they were, their fury had given them strength to take revenge on their captor.
Nahusha screamed in rage and pain as the animals swarmed over him. For an instant, he kicked free; but, as he tried to stand, he stumbled over the brink of the pit, clutched at empty air, and plummeted onto the piercing spikes at the bottom.
Tamar jumped to his feet. The animals scattered to freedom. The tiger wheeled, fixed glowing eyes a moment on Tamar, then sprang.
The striped body vaulted past him. Mirri had ridden up on Soma-Nandi, and the tiger made straight for them. The girl barely had time to slide off Soma-Nandi's back as the pair of tigers rushed together, rubbing heads, licking each others ears, rolling on the ground as playfully as kittens, and rumbling out loving purrs.
"This is Sunda, my mate." Soma-Nandi paused a moment from the joyful reunion. "I kept searching for him after I left you. When the Bandar-loka spread word that you needed help, I came as quickly as I could." She turned melting eyes on Sunda. "I never lost hope of finding you."
"Nor did I," said Sunda. "Even so, without the Bandar-loka I'd still be in Nahusha's cage."
Mirri had gone to the edge of the pit. She glanced down, then turned abruptly away. "He'll keep no more prisoners animals or anyone else."
Kirin and Skanda had entered Ranapura when Tamar, Mirri, and the tigers galloped back. The cheering townsfolk had flung open the gates in welcome. Nahusha's shattered forces had fled or begged to surrender. Broken chariots and weapons still littered the field; stragglers wandered where the battle lines once stretched. Darshan was shouting for his troops to form orderly ranks. Arvati and her relatives had already gone in a triumphant procession through the city, but Tamar sighted Hashkat in the midst of the commotion. The monkey had tossed aside his warrior's gear and was cavorting gleefully. Tamar jumped down from Gayatri and made his way to embrace him. Adi-Kavi elbowed through the crowd, with Rajaswami and Jamba-Van behind him.
"It was all I could do to hold him back." Adi-Kavi chuckled. "Brahmana or not, he'd have run into the thick of it."
"I was quite carried away." Rajaswami tried his best to sound apologetic. "My goodness, I don't know what came over me. And you, dear boy, you're undamaged? Excellent. All went as our dear gopi planned. And look who's come to join us," he added, as Jamba-Van laid an affectionate paw on the acharya's shoulder. "What a pleasure to meet again, even in these disruptive circumstances."
"I never foresaw a day when I'd leave my ashrama," the bear said, "but when I heard my dear collague was in danger, I had to come here myself Now that I've learned what happened to all of you." Jamba-Van bristled and growled at the recollection "I only wish I'd come sooner."
"Here's someone who wants to thank your Bandar-loka," Mirri said as she brought Sunda to Hashkat's side. "When they unbolted the cages."
"What, another tiger?" broke in Garuda, who had flapped down to perch on Jagati's back. "Isn't one enough already? Two? Shmaa! You expect me to put up with both of them?"
"Skanda and Kirin were looking for you," Adi-Kavi told Tamar. "How you'll find them in all this lot, I can't imagine. The whole city's turned out to celebrate."
"I have one thing to do first." Tamar swung astride Gayatri; before Mirri could question him, he made his way over the crowded field, heading toward the river. He went to the shmashana.
The burning ground was empty. The door of the hut stood open. He called out. No answer came. He dismounted and walked across the stretch of rubble. The wooden stake and the chain were gone. He stepped across the threshold and peered into the shadows of the room, bare except for a straw mat and a few pieces of earthenware.
Footsteps scraped the gravel behind him. He turned, about to speak. A bent-backed old man, tangled beard falling to his waist, stared at him with surprise and discomfort.
"The chandala who lived here," Tamar began. "Where has he gone? I must find him."
The old man shuffled back a few paces and put up his hands to keep Tamar at a distance. "Come no farther," he warned in a cracked voice. "You should not be in this place."
"Yes, I should. The chandala was my friend. Grandsire, tell me what became of him." The man blinked his clouded eyes. "Tell?" He cupped a hand to his ear. "What?"
"All you know. Did warriors come and take him away? Did he escape? Save himself? Where is he now?"
The old man frowned and shook his head. Tamar repeated his questions. "Grandsire, do you understand me? There was a young man, as well. On a chain. Did the chandala speak of him?"
"Young man? No. Only me. I know nothing. I mind my own business. I do my work."
"When did you come here?" Tamar pressed. "How long ago?"
"Long?" The man was growing unhappy in Tamar's presence. "Long ago? When? Why do you ask? Go, leave me in peace. This is a place for the dead, not the living." The old man clamped shut his toothless jaws, shuffled into the hut, and closed the door. Tamar followed, but stopped at the threshold. He stood some while. Finally, he went back to Ranapura.
The townsfolk had begun decorating the streets with banners and garlands, in memory of Ashwara and in celebration of their freedom. Tamar understood that Kirin had been welcomed and acclaimed king. He made his way quickly to the palace. Mirri was waiting in the courtyard.
"The chandala said he'd take care of himself," Mirri replied, when Tamar told what had happened. "I'm sure he's all right. We'll try to find out later. Come, Kirin expects you at his durbar."
She led him, still troubled, to the great audience chamber. He had never seen a durbar such as this. Monkeys perched in every nook and cranny, under the eaves of the high ceiling or on the crossbeams. Arvati and several of her relatives towered over the kshatriyas thronging the hall. Beside her crouched Soma-Nandi and Sunda. Garuda and Akka were aloft, amid the Bandar-loka. Paying not much mind to anything else, Rajaswami and the bear were deep in conversation.
Taking on the duties of royal crier, Adi-Kavi called out their names and beckoned Mirri and Tamar to join Hashkat, Skanda, and Darshan flanking Kirin's throne.
"Namaste." Kirin rose and pressed his palms together as Tamar and Mirri approached. His brow was even more deeply furrowed now; his face was heavy with sorrow. "King of Sundari, you have well kept your promise to our brother, and have done far better than your word. And you," he said, turning to Mirri, "with the help of all these forest creatures, you have given us our victory. We thank and honor you.
"Even so, I do not rejoice," Kirin went on. "Ashwara should be in my place. I take this throne in the shadow of grief for him; and I vow, for all present to witness, that I will rule as he would have done.
"King of Sundari and you, worthy gopi, your rewards shall be as great as your service to our cause."
"Reward? For keeping a promise?" Tamar broke in. "I claim none." "Neither do I," Mirri added. "We don't ask anything for what we'd have done anyway."
"I offer it nonetheless," Kirin said. "The greatest treasure one kingdom can bestow on another: friendship and peace between my rea
lm and yours."
"I do likewise," said Skanda. "King Rudra gave his life for Ashwara's sake, and I owe a duty to his people. Rudra's kshatriyas want me to be king of Chandragar. That's something I never expected, but a high honor," for a moment there was the trace of his boyish grin "and, yes, of course, I'll accept. So, I ask that you, in turn, accept my own vow of peace."
"That, gladly," Tamar said. "I do have one question," Rajaswami put in, when Kirin declared the durbar at an end. "I suppose it's too much to hope, but has anyone noticed an umbrella lying about? No? Ah, well, since everything else turned out so happily, one should be willing to make a small sacrifice."
They rested, for the next several days, in the Ranapura Palace. Skanda then left for Chandragar; and, one after the other, Soma-Nandi and Sunda, Arvati and her kindred, exchanged fond farewells with Tamar and Mirri. Jamba-Van, last to take his leave, did so with reluctance.
"My dear colleague, we part once again," the bear said as Rajaswami embraced him, "but my best hope is that you will someday find your way back to my ashrama. I have refined my views on the shape of infinity and would be glad for your opinion."
"I have refined my views on a number of things," said Rajaswami, "and would eagerly discuss them."
"Majesty, when you left Sundari," Darshan later said to Tamar, "I laid your sandals on your throne to betoken that you are still our king."
"Am I?" Tamar broke in. He had, with Darshan, gone to the rooftop terrace. Beyond Ranapura rose the heights of the Snow Mountains. "Should a king know fear? As I did? In battle, I was terrified."
"Lad, so was I. Who isn't, if truth be told? You faced it down; no more can be asked. A man who claims to be fearless is an idiot or a liar."
"Even a kshatriya? When I rode with Skanda, I spared a man's life and told Skanda I'd killed him. Nahusha at the end, would it have been my hand that slew him? I'll never know."
"Better a king who holds back from bloodshed than one who relishes it," Darshan said. "Enough, enough, lad. Come home. You see what this dream of yours has cost you already. Give it up; only more ill can come of it."
"Once, I might have done so," Tamar said. "I even tried to throw away my ring. I couldn't." He shook his head. "Tomorrow, we'll go into the mountains. As must."
"For the sake of a promise you made? Or didn't make?" Darshan burst out. "That's more than even a king's honor demands."
"This is for my own sake and by my own choice," Tamar said. "You think I only dreamed? That may well be. But I'll never be at peace until I'm sure one way or the other. Mirri understood that better than I did.
"You, old friend, go back to Sundari. Rule well. Love my people; do the best for them. This is my last command to you."
33. The Traveler
Next morning, on the field at Ranapura, Tamar rode through the ranks of his kshatriyas, honoring them, saying his thanks and farewells. At the end, he put his arms around Gayatri's neck, taking loving leave of her and Jagati. As Adi-Kavi warned that the high passes would be too difficult and dangerous for the horses, Darshan promised to take the steeds with him.
"They'll be fondly tended," the old warrior said. "They'll wait for you, lad, as I will." With a show of gruffness, he added, "Not happily or patiently."
"You, too, wait for me," Hashkat told Akka. "If I wore sandals, you could put them on my throne-if I had a throne. In any case, you keep an eye on the Bandar-loka while I'm tramping through the mountains."
"Who's tramping?" Garuda squawked. "Shmaa! What about me?"
"Fly, you malingering bird. What else?" Hashkat retorted. "You and Akka did well enough going to Sundari."
"Oh, yes, so I did," Garuda said sourly. "If you don't count being skewered with arrows and lurking in holes in the ground. But I'm not up to flying, let alone tramping."
"Of course you're not." Mirri hid a smile. "You'll stay with me until you get your strength back."
"Faker," muttered Hashkat, while Garuda, cooing happily, flapped to Mirri's shoulder. "Next, he'll want his meals served on a platter."
Kirin had generously outfitted them with warm cloaks and stout boots, as well as stores of food, tents of coarse canvas, and other gear. Rajaswami insisted on carrying as much as his frail bones allowed; the others divided the burdens among themselves. By the time they reached the foothills overlooking Ranapura, Tamar realized why Adi-Kavi had warned against taking the horses. There were no paths, and the rocky outcroppings were too treacherous for even the most surefooted pack animals.
"Something puzzles me," Tamar said, as they gained the first heights. "How did Jaya travel to Sundari?" He pointed toward Kumeru and Sumeru. "No sign of a road, no trail, no footpath. Yet he had elephants, chariots, horses."
"Don't ask me," Garuda said. "I don't recognize any of this. Perhaps I've forgotten; it was so long ago."
"He might have taken a different way," Mirri said. "There could be a dozen roads out of the valley, for all you know, circling around in some other direction."
"If he ever came to Sundari in the first place."
"That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out."
Adi-Kavi was calling them. The suta had picked a sheltered spot amid the wind-twisted trees and was lashing together the panels of the tent. Tamar glanced back a moment over the distance they had covered, the stretches of shale and gravel, the stunted vegetation. Black against the setting sun, the bare branches shuddered in the sharp breeze. He blinked and looked again. Far below, a dark shape skirted a ravine, then, within the instant, vanished amid the trees.
Tamar shaded his eyes, waiting to see if the shadow would reappear. Nothing moved. He watched a little longer. It was, he decided, a trick of the light. He went to help pitch the tent and thought no more about it. Two days later, he saw it again.
They had been following the high ridges overlooking the Sabla. Tamar, at first, hoped to find easier ground along the river itself but, as Adi-Kavi pointed out, the walls of the gorge were too sheer, the iron-dark cliffs falling straight to the water's edge. The suta was confident they would soon reach the slopes leading into the valley; and so they pressed on, keeping the winding blue and white current always in sight. That afternoon, Adi-Kavi had chosen to halt in a rocky cavern where wind and weather had eaten away a domed chamber; in the middle, a pool of clear, drinkable water.
They had begun hauling in their gear when Tamar again saw the dark figure appear and disappear behind a distant tumble of boulders. This time, he was sure it was no trick of the light. This time, he was sure it was a man.
He called Mirri and the others and pointed to where he had glimpsed the figure. By then, it was gone. Even the sharp-eyed Adi-Kavi could make out no sign of it.
"You're certain it wasn't a mountain creature of some sort?" Mirri said. "A stray animal? Too bad you didn't have a better look."
"What creature would be fool enough to roam around in this desolation?" said Hashkat. "Not one of the Bandar-loka, I can tell you."
"As long as whoever or whatever it is keeps a polite distance," put in Rajaswami, "I shouldn't be too concerned. He'll go his way, we'll go ours."
Tamar was not satisfied. "If he's following us, I want to know why. Stay in the cave, all of you. I'll go and find out."
"It'll be dark before you get back," Mirri reminded him. She turned to Garuda, perched on a pile of gear. "Can you fly there and see? It's no distance-for an eagle. You'll take a quick glance around and be here again in time for your food."
Garuda grumbled and muttered; but, finally, with a toss of his beak, he flew where Tamar pointed. While Tamar and Mirri hauled gear and provisions into the cave, Rajaswami bustled about laying blankets and lighting lamps. Hashkat and Adi-Kavi had set off to find dry twigs and bits of moss for a cook fire. By the time the monkey and the suta were back, the shadows had deepened and pellets of snow whirled over the ridges.
Tamar paced uneasily. Garuda had been gone overlong. Mirri, too, was anxious. They were ready to throw on their cloaks and search for the bird when he swooped in
to the cave.
"I saw! I saw!" Garuda crowed. His feathers were crusted with sleet, an icicle hung from the tip of his beak, but he squawked jubilantly as he landed on the earthen floor. "It was marvelous!"
"I knew you'd find out." Mirri tried to calm the excited bird, who was clucking with gleeful self-satisfaction. "Tell us."
"Shmaa! Wonderful. I flew like-like an eagle!" Garuda cackled proudly. "Soaring, diving."
"Leave off, you puffed-up chicken," Hashkat cried. "What did you see?"
"A man? An animal?" Tamar knelt beside Garuda. "Did you have a clear look?"
"Eh? Oh, that." Garuda shrugged his wings. "No, not a trace of anything or anybody. A waste of my valuable time. I gave up searching. But then, since I was already in the air, I thought: Why not fly just a little farther, toward the valley. And there it was. Mahapura!
"Just as I remembered-or, I'm starting to remember. Beautiful! The tall towers, the eight gates-we're nearly there; I'll finish my errand after all this time. Oh, I hope King Jaya forgives me for taking so long. But I didn't fail him. I'll put the ruby in his hand." Garuda broke off and cast a beady eye on Tamar. "The ruby-you've got it safely put away, don't you? Yes? Well, let me see it," he went on, as Tamar took the gem from beneath his garments and held it in front of the bird. "You'll still carry it the rest of the way for me. We've come this far, I'm taking no chances on dropping it again. I just want to look and admire."
"Gloat is what you mean," said Hashkat, as Tamar set down the ruby.
"Call it what you please." Garuda squatted on top of the stone as if about to hatch an egg. "The gem's been tossed around enough. I want it to be with me a little while. I find it very comforting. Do you mind?"
"Enjoy yourself," said Mirri, while Garuda crooned and rocked back and forth. "Sit on it as long as you want. You have a right to be pleased."
"So there truly is a palace," Tamar began, "truly a King Jaya." A heavyset figure was standing in the mouth of the cave. Tamar got hastily to his feet. The man was wrapped in a cloak of animal skins, a fur cap pressed over a hedge of black hair. Frozen droplets glittered in his beard; snow crusted his heavy boots.