Chapter 25
Late Spring, 1237 – Suitengu’s Torch
Prateet Dalai was no ordinary fisherman. In the village of Vadavannur, a moonless night like this would never find the other fisherman out on the streets. It had been different long ago. In the distant past, the village of Vadavannur would play host to music and dancing in the cool evenings, when everyone would congregate outdoors to smoke and drink and dance and love and gossip and talk about the latest catch. Parades of visitors and noblemen would come to their shores to enjoy the blessings of the sea. But then the Ruhmalites came and brought death with them, killing every man, woman, and child in the village. Only those who had been out on the boats at the time were spared. Now, the men and women of Vadavannur stayed inside at night and watched the jungle carefully. If they spoke of it at all, it was to speak in hushed tones of the glories of the distant past and the ghosts of ancient kings that walked the broken stone roadway into the sultry darkness. Each year the stories of the past grew fewer, glories forgotten. They knew little of true fear any more.
Prateet Dalai was not like them. His family had lived in Second City for generations, far more urbane and sophisticated than these simple villagers. His parents were poor, and life was difficult growing up in a land decimated by the cultists of Kali-ma there in the city. Poor, but they survived. When the strangers came, they adapted. They lived through the chaos of the conquerors and the purges. The strangers went insane, slaughtering each other and anyone within reach in the streets. But then came the Dark Naga, sweeping all before them. It was too much. Prateet’s father fled to this tiny fishing village, far from the strangers and their deadly blades and the city’s madness. It was hard to adapt once again to a new craft, but it was peaceful. These villagers were frightened of ghosts and memories. But not Prateet. He had faced true fear and was never afraid. He still had family in Second City. He remembered how his father’s cousin Sadhu always smiled when he handed him a sweet roll. He hoped they were well. He hoped Sadhu smiled still.
It cost much lamp oil to mend nets at night. But a fisherman who could do so could reach the fishing grounds first and bring back the biggest catch. Prateet found the great lighthouse more than sufficient to give him light for mending his nets. So each night he would carry one of his nets into the the Lighthouse’s glow to mend for several hours before returning home to sleep. He did not venture near the strangers who guarded the lighthouse, of course. They were more trouble than they were worth. But they did not bother him or his nets.
The other fishermen were too superstitious to follow. Each night his travels would take him up to the foot of the stone steps, that overgrown, grim pathway that climbed into the mountains. The villagers said death came from that road, that there lay the ghosts of the maharajah and the Ivory Court. It was there that the people of Ivinda were slaughtered by the cultists and from there that the terrors of Kali-Ma emerged. That was a long time ago, and Prateet had seen the Dark Naga in Second City. The steps held little terror for him.
Still, the jungle was very quiet tonight, and the road was dark. Prateet was climbing the small ridge that led to the base of the steps, and the dark jungle cliffs loomed over him with the weight of time and story. Even the insects chose not to sing. I am no superstitious bumpkin, he told himself, and pushed on.
He reached the stone tiles of the base, the path up a crack leading further into darkness. Around him were shrines to appease the angry spirits and warnings to venture no further, but his path went back down into the village of Vadavannur. Prateet was no village fool…he reached the center and turned to look up the path into the mountains.
At first, it was a glimmer, but it quickly grew brighter and brighter as he watched until it became like its own silver star. As the light grew closer, Prateet’s jaw dropped as the truth was revealed. What he had thought a star was a woman, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her sari of white and gold shone like the moonlight on the crest of an ocean wave. Her slender waist was encircled with gold and jewels, and gold and jewels ornamented her wrists and ankles. A fine white veil disguised her face and hid her eyes, but he could see her ruby lips and the delicate ring and chain that ran from her nose up behind the snowy veil which covered hair of purest white. In one hand, she carried a silver lantern, the source of her light. On her back, she carried a pair of swords, though they were hard to make out in the darkness.
He was more amazed than frightened, involuntarily taking a step towards her. “Lady...” he offered, not sure what to call her. “Are you of earth or of heaven?”
Those lovely lips curled in a small, sad smile. “Bound to earth, I bear a message from heaven.” She spoke in perfect Ivindi. “I offer story and memory to your people. All I ask in exchange is help delivering that message. The samurai must not know. Please take me to your headman.”
Prateet pressed his hands together and bowed. “Follow me, Lady.” Ghost of the Maharajahs or Spirit of the Wind or mortal woman, Prateet was not afraid. He was not like other men.
Late Spring, 1237 – Suitengu’s Torch
Prateet Dalai was no ordinary fisherman. In the village of Vadavannur, a moonless night like this would never find the other fisherman out on the streets. It had been different long ago. In the distant past, the village of Vadavannur would play host to music and dancing in the cool evenings, when everyone would congregate outdoors to smoke and drink and dance and love and gossip and talk about the latest catch. Parades of visitors and noblemen would come to their shores to enjoy the blessings of the sea. But then the Ruhmalites came and brought death with them, killing every man, woman, and child in the village. Only those who had been out on the boats at the time were spared. Now, the men and women of Vadavannur stayed inside at night and watched the jungle carefully. If they spoke of it at all, it was to speak in hushed tones of the glories of the distant past and the ghosts of ancient kings that walked the broken stone roadway into the sultry darkness. Each year the stories of the past grew fewer, glories forgotten. They knew little of true fear any more.
Prateet Dalai was not like them. His family had lived in Second City for generations, far more urbane and sophisticated than these simple villagers. His parents were poor, and life was difficult growing up in a land decimated by the cultists of Kali-ma there in the city. Poor, but they survived. When the strangers came, they adapted. They lived through the chaos of the conquerors and the purges. The strangers went insane, slaughtering each other and anyone within reach in the streets. But then came the Dark Naga, sweeping all before them. It was too much. Prateet’s father fled to this tiny fishing village, far from the strangers and their deadly blades and the city’s madness. It was hard to adapt once again to a new craft, but it was peaceful. These villagers were frightened of ghosts and memories. But not Prateet. He had faced true fear and was never afraid. He still had family in Second City. He remembered how his father’s cousin Sadhu always smiled when he handed him a sweet roll. He hoped they were well. He hoped Sadhu smiled still.
It cost much lamp oil to mend nets at night. But a fisherman who could do so could reach the fishing grounds first and bring back the biggest catch. Prateet found the great lighthouse more than sufficient to give him light for mending his nets. So each night he would carry one of his nets into the the Lighthouse’s glow to mend for several hours before returning home to sleep. He did not venture near the strangers who guarded the lighthouse, of course. They were more trouble than they were worth. But they did not bother him or his nets.
The other fishermen were too superstitious to follow. Each night his travels would take him up to the foot of the stone steps, that overgrown, grim pathway that climbed into the mountains. The villagers said death came from that road, that there lay the ghosts of the maharajah and the Ivory Court. It was there that the people of Ivinda were slaughtered by the cultists and from there that the terrors of Kali-Ma emerged. That was a long time ago, and Prateet had seen the Dark Naga in Second City. The steps held little terror for him.
Still, the jungle was very quiet tonight, and the road was dark. Prateet was climbing the small ridge that led to the base of the steps, and the dark jungle cliffs loomed over him with the weight of time and story. Even the insects chose not to sing. I am no superstitious bumpkin, he told himself, and pushed on.
He reached the stone tiles of the base, the path up a crack leading further into darkness. Around him were shrines to appease the angry spirits and warnings to venture no further, but his path went back down into the village of Vadavannur. Prateet was no village fool…he reached the center and turned to look up the path into the mountains.
At first, it was a glimmer, but it quickly grew brighter and brighter as he watched until it became like its own silver star. As the light grew closer, Prateet’s jaw dropped as the truth was revealed. What he had thought a star was a woman, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her sari of white and gold shone like the moonlight on the crest of an ocean wave. Her slender waist was encircled with gold and jewels, and gold and jewels ornamented her wrists and ankles. A fine white veil disguised her face and hid her eyes, but he could see her ruby lips and the delicate ring and chain that ran from her nose up behind the snowy veil which covered hair of purest white. In one hand, she carried a silver lantern, the source of her light. On her back, she carried a pair of swords, though they were hard to make out in the darkness.
He was more amazed than frightened, involuntarily taking a step towards her. “Lady...” he offered, not sure what to call her. “Are you of earth or of heaven?”
Those lovely lips curled in a small, sad smile. “Bound to earth, I bear a message from heaven.” She spoke in perfect Ivindi. “I offer story and memory to your people. All I ask in exchange is help delivering that message. The samurai must not know. Please take me to your headman.”
Prateet pressed his hands together and bowed. “Follow me, Lady.” Ghost of the Maharajahs or Spirit of the Wind or mortal woman, Prateet was not afraid. He was not like other men.
