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Sometimes Keyi imitated her, since she wanted to live a long life too.
When the servants’ hands stopped pestering Keyi, she stood in front of Manthara and announced, “I’m done!”
She twirled, feeling pretty despite the fact that she wanted to be a boy like her brother.
Her long hair was braided and full of flowers. She wore bangles, anklets, earrings, and necklaces. The gown was silky and blue, like her eyes.
“Finally, you look like a princess,” Manthara said. She flicked her hand to the servants, shooing them out.
“When I’m a horse,” Keyi said, lifting her palms up, “I can’t be a princess.”
She threw herself on the bed and started jumping up and down, crushing the flowers in her hair, destroying the work of the servants. Her jewelry tinkled and her dress wrinkled.
Manthara gave her a long look and then sat down, putting her cane away. Keyi hadn’t forgotten the topic, and neither had Manthara. When Keyi got tired of jumping like a horse, she went and put her head on Manthara’s lap.
“My needy little cat,” Manthara said, stroking Keyi’s head. “Your hair has grown so long.”
“Just like the tail of a horse.”
“Enough horse talk! I have to breath the stink of it day and night.”
Keyi wanted to say that horses didn’t stink, but instead she said, “Why can’t you be my mother, Manthara?”
“You are too young to understand these things.”
“It would be so much easier if you were my mother. Then there would be no secrets.
Dukhi wouldn’t say, ‘Poooor princess,’ and make faces at me.”
“You talked to the twins?” Manthara wasn’t happy. “If you keep talking like this, your father will come to know, and this will be very bad for all of us.”
Keyi thought of her father’s shout in the morning. How frightened Yuddha had become.
She didn’t want Father to shout like that at her.
“I will tell you the truth,” Manthara said, and Keyi held her breath. “If you promise to keep it a secret. You cannot tell Sukhi and Dukhi. You cannot tell your brother. You cannot tell anyone. Do you promise?”
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“Promise.”
“Very well, then. Your mother is an evil witch, and she wants to harm you.”
Keyi started shaking her head.
“She is the one who comes into your dreams at night and frightens you.”
“No!”
“Yes! She sneaks her way into your heart and fills it with terror. That’s why you wake up screaming. Your mother is in there, banging on your chest. Every time she comes, she takes a piece of your heart with her.”
“Why?”
“She eats it.”
“No!”
“Yes! She sits in there and tears at your heart. You have to banish her, or you will have no heart left at all.”
“How do I banish her?”
“Instead of screaming and whining and waking up the whole palace every night, you have to be a brave girl. If you scream, she knows that she has won. You have to be very silent.
You have to tell her to go away.”
Keyi nodded. “I will tell her it’s my heart!”
“Good.”
“Mothers are supposed to be nice.”
“Even dams kick their newborn foals sometimes, don’t they? It’s lucky that your father discovered your mother was the heart-eating witch.”
“Father knows?”
“Oh, yes. Else you would have no heart by now. Neither would your brother.”
“We would all be heartless! Father saved us in time?”
“Yes. You must be very grateful to him. Most of all, you must never ever tell anyone that you know the truth.”
Keyi promised. And yet as time went by, Manthara told the princess many versions of the truth. Soon enough, Keyi did not know what was a secret and what was a fantasy. But she did know this: Even if she didn’t have a mother, she had Manthara, and that was more than enough.
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chapter 3
The Dead King’s Prophecy
King Dasharatha, the emperor of the world, king of Ayodhya, lord of men, left Earth behind. He and his troops, all mortals, were summoned to fight in the battle of the immortals. Dasharatha had won his first such battle when he was barely on the brink of manhood, gaining his name, which meant “Ten Chariots.”
There had been many great warriors in the Sun dynasty, but none who had claimed Dasharatha’s skill on a chariot. He was so swift that his arrows came at the enemy from ten directions. Above and beyond, the people of Earth trusted in his military skill. But in all his wars, Dasharatha had not yet come face to face with the legendary blood-drinker king, Ravana.
Like every other king in Dasharatha’s line, Dasharatha was eager to be the one to fulfill King Anaranya’s prophecy. Dying at Ravana’s feet, Anaranya had promised that a son of the Sun dynasty would be Ravana’s destruction. Dasharatha wanted to be that man. At least that had been his ambition when he was younger. Dasharatha had ruled the Earth for over thirty years. When he ascended the throne, he had been so pure, bent on doing everything right, keeping all his promises, being a faultless king. But he had learned on a moonless night, when he was only fifteen, that sincerity and pure intentions were not enough. There was no such thing as
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a faultless life. Thus far, however, Dasharatha had won every battle. But even then, he was only a man. Quite possibly, he would not survive the day.
This time the summons was unusually urgent. Ravana’s pet son, Indrajit, was gathering his dark forces against the gods. Dasharatha was transported within seconds from his throne up into the battlefield. He was outfitted with great haste by ethereal beings that moved so fast he saw no hands, no substantial form. Moments later, his army materialized behind him, transported in the same instant manner. He saw some of his men double over and retch, unused to traveling at the speed of mind. From long experience, Dasharatha knew he had only minutes to organize his troops, and without hesitation he moved out among his men, calling out to the commanders of each section. Then he turned to face the enemy.
The horizon was black with blood-drinkers. The shining ones on Dasha ratha’s side floated above the ground, emanating golden light; the enemy seemed to emerge from the darkest of hells. Dasharatha was still not immune to their dreadful forms, which obscured gender and age. Their deformities and behaviors made them appear like rabid dogs, when in truth many of them possessed superhuman powers and intelligence. Like parasites, they preyed on human flesh and blood. They were man-eaters, night stalkers, and blood-drinkers, predators of all things good and uplifting. The light and the dark, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the terrifying were never so starkly illuminated. Dasharatha, who had survived many immortal battles, felt the terror grow among his troops. This twilight zone, where the two armies faced each other, was unknown to them; there was no sun or moon here, no day or night, no point of reference.
The blood-drinkers chanted hissing prayers, invoking their king, with his ten heads.
Dasharatha clutched his bow tightly in his left hand, flexing his fingers around it. His right hand needed to be nimble and swift, to place arrow after arrow on the bowstring. The task of an archer’s right hand was the most demanding. It had to pull, aim, release a million times.
He let his bow rest on his shoulder and pressed his hands palm to palm at his chest, praying they would not fail him today. His work on Earth was not done, and if he died, the Sun dynasty would end. He was the only living king in his line. But the future did not exist here.
Nothing existed but this war between the gods and the blood-drinkers. Still, Anaranya’s ancient prophecy gave Dasharatha courage. This battle could not be his last for Ravana was still alive, waiting to be killed by a son of the Sun dynasty. Though Ravana’s name was in the air, the demon king himself had not appeared in a battle for hundreds of Earth years. In his last battle, he had defeated Yama, lord of death, proving himself truly above all law. The best Dasharatha could do was fight alongside the shining gods and demolish Ravana’s spawn, with their blood-red eyes, fangs, and flaming red hair.
Indra, the king of the gods, and the commander of the armies, rode past Dasharatha on his many-tusked white elephant. Indrajit was Indra’s archenemy, a blood-drinker so lethal that he was known as “Conqueror of Indra.”
Indra lifted his hand in blessing to Dasharatha, who pressed his hands together in supplication. Ravana had ten pairs of eyes, but Indra had many, many more; his whole body was covered in eyes, seeing every direction. He shone with immortal beauty and power.
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“On my signal, the conchs will blow,” Indra called. “The moment the sound of the conch shells erupt, charge immediately. That’s what the enemy will do.”
Dasharatha understood that the blood-drinkers followed the rules of warfare, though only barely. They would not wait for the sound to resonate, bringing victory to the strong.
Blood-drinkers could not be allowed free range again on Earth or the higher planets. They had to be returned to Rasatala, the planet below Earth, where they belonged.
Dasharatha lifted his bow in the air, rallying his troops. Pumping his bow in the air to their cheers, he was grateful for every single moment of his training. It was in his first battle that he had earned his name. Today, he would be glad to fight with the power of one. He was not an old man yet, though previous battles had left their scars. His right arm did not obey his lightning commands like it used to. But every warrior counted today. The gods were badly outnumbered. Ravana’s clan had only grown over the years.
As the demonic chants and celestial hymns reached a crescendo, a battle of sounds, Dasharatha touched each of the weapons secured along the chariot. The unbreakable, heavenly metal of his armor gave him strength. The flag on top of his chariot was emblazoned with a sun, the sigil of the Sun dynasty. Wherever he was on the battlefield, his men would take courage from this blazing sun. Whether he lived to tell it, Dasharatha would be com-memorated in the history of the worlds.
Dasharatha sought the end of the blackness, seeing instead millions of red eyes. Their chants crept under his skin and into his mind. As the red eyes began hypnotizing him, the sound of the conch shells broke his trance. A hundred thousand screams followed. Charge!
Dasharatha called out too, baring his teeth, urging his four steeds fearlessly into the war zone. The battle began. Light and darkness collided. Metal on metal, magic on magic, the cry of war followed by the cry of death. Unnatural colors and sounds hit Dasharatha’s eyes, as painful to him as arrows through his body. When the enemy forces pushed them back, Dasharatha felt a wave of sickness but pressed forward. He tightened his hold on his composure and then his weapons. His arrows never wavered. His hand was intent: Pull. Aim.
Release. When his earthly quiver would have been empty, the heavenly one was brimming.
He fired with relentless vigor. As he killed, he kept up a steady stream of words, punctuating every physical movement with a verbal counterpart.
“I am the king of Earth. The son of the Sun dynasty. The last living heir. I will demolish darkness. Uphold justice. Give my life!”
Again and again, he repeated the words. He wasted no mercy arrows on half-dead blood-drinkers, leaving them to the death they deserved. Would these creatures be allowed on Earth? To prey on innocent men, women, and children?
Never!
Dasharatha’s resolve pushed away the effects of the dark chants; everything around him shone with clarity. He could see his men fighting at the far edges of the battleground. He could see the light emanating from the shining gods as they flew above him. He was prepared to die to protect the Earth. And yet he fought to live.
“I will live!” he shouted, releasing his arrow.
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He moved with impossible speed. All his words dried up. He expanded his focus to include not one target at a time, but two, then five, and finally ten. He lost track of time, place, and identity, forgetting his earlier declarations. He was one with the war. If it won, he won. He operated without thought or feeling, repeating the same mechanisms over and over again.
A cloud of darkness descended on them, Indrajit’s magic. It suffocated the natural light emanating from the shining ones. Dasharatha could not even see the tip of his arrow, it was so dense. The sounds of chaos ensued. This was no longer a war but a slaughter. Dasharatha released his arrow without a moment’s hesitation. He did not need eyes to find his target, only his keen hearing. He had paid the price for this skill, a crime he carried always in his consciousness. Nevertheless, this ability served him well. He aimed at targets he could only hear, knowing his aim was tried and true.
The black fog lifted, pushed away by high-pitched and clear sound vibrations. The celestial singers retreated, their work done. With satisfaction, Dasharatha saw the path of dead blood-drinkers he had created despite the darkness. Streams of blood painted the wheels of his chariot red. And then a large blood-drinker landed in front of Dasharatha. “I am Subahu,” he declared. “Son of Tataka.”
Drops of sweat stung Dasharatha’s eyes. He vaguely recognized both the name and that face, then fired his arrow. Subahu turned into a deer and the arrow zoomed past him. The next moment, he resumed his grotesque form.
“Release my brother!” he bellowed.
Dasharatha eyes narrowed. He did not understand Subahu’s demand and sent another volley of arrows toward him. Subahu shape-changed with an impressive speed that Dasharatha had never seen. Dasharatha fired at a lion, an antelope, a boar, a gazelle, even a tiny black bird. Every time Subahu became himself, he shouted, “Release my brother!”
Some of Dasharatha’s arrows hit their mark. One of Subahu’s arms was pinned to his side, crippling his animal forms. Subahu flew up and landed on one of Dasharatha’s horses, sinking his fangs into it. The animal whinnied loudly, running faster; the chariot began to totter. Dasharatha grabbed his sword, cutting the dying animal loose. It toppled to the ground behind them. Subahu clung to the side of the chariot, snarling.
Dasharatha shot him in the eye, the arrow penetrating his skull. Subahu lost his grip and fell off the chariot. Dasharatha gained control of the remaining horses and turned the chariot back to face Subahu. The blood-drinker was on his feet, hurling a javelin at Dasharatha.
It grazed his arm. He threw down his bow and grabbed a sword. Subahu clung to the chariot, growing in strength the more blood flowed, his own or Dasharatha’s.
“Release Marichi!” he snarled. “My brother will destroy you!”
He lunged at Dasharatha’s sword and used it to pull himself into the chariot. Blood squirted from both his hands. Laughing loudly, he waved his hands at Dasharatha, splash-ing him with blood. The drinker was too close, and that’s when Dasharatha realized whom he resembled, the oldest prisoner in Ayodhya, whose name was unknown. The pieces fell into place, and the moment this took was all Subahu needed to slash at Dasharatha. The tip 29
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of the blade cut into Dasharatha’s cheek. He parried immediately, aiming at Subahu’s face.
The arrow was still in his skull, the one eye blind. As they circled each other in the narrow confines of the chariot, Dasharatha could smell Subahu’s putrid breath. Subahu was skilled, despite having only one hand and one eye to use.
Suddenly, a giant vulture swooped down, brewing up strong winds in his wake.
Dasharatha’s heart leaped. It was Jatayu, king of vultures.
With a piercing cry, the vulture sank his talons into Subahu’s back and rose into the air, the blood-drinker dangling helplessly in his claws. Flashes of animal forms were visible, but Jatayu’s sharp beak pecked at his skull, and Subahu was unable to complete any transformation. Dasharatha roared his appreciation. Friends for life were made in this field of death.
Subahu fell to the ground, his limbs twitching. Dasharatha would never release Ayodhya’s oldest prisoner, presumably Subahu’s brother. Jatayu flew up and away, the bond of friendship resonating between him and Dasharatha.
Dasharatha took charge of his chariot just in time to stave off a pack of ten or twenty translucent blood-drinkers who pounced on him. But they were nowhere near Subahu’s league, and Dasharatha had no difficulty in sending them to the land of Yama. The chariot flew onward and the battle continued. A distant part of Dasharatha tracked time and noted that two days passed, then four. They did not cease at night to rest, for there were no nights here. Neither blood-drinkers nor gods showed any sign of tiring. Mortal men did not have the same resilience, but Dasharatha knew that his brave men fought past all known limits.
Far away, in the middle of the battlefield, Dasharatha saw the opposition of light and dark rising above ground, high into the sky. Indra was at the helm of light, battling an invisible force that pushed forth the darkness. With a blinding crack of lightning, Indra broke the darkness apart. A single blood-drinker with flowing black hair hovered in the air before Indra. It had to be Indrajit. Indra wielded his lightning bolt again, but Indrajit was gone. Not dead but defeated, for the next moment, the invisible Indrajit issued a command to retreat.
For a moment, Dasharatha felt his bow verily tugged out of his hand. He tightened his grip. The enemy withdrew their remaining forces, crawling backward, weapons raised. The blood-drinkers disappeared into the void, as if they had never been there. The dark light slowly receded.
Dasharatha stood stunned. He was alive. They had won. He could scarcely believe it. The ensuing silence was eerie. Dasharatha dropped his numb arms to his sides and let his prized bow fall to the floor of his chariot. Only then did he realize he was standing on a chariot and that his horses were nearly dead of exhaustion. A light breeze swept over them. An ethereal being, transparent and soothing, surrounded him. As he crumbled to the chariot floor, he or she caught him and swept him up and away.
