Page 4 of The Legend of Meneka
“They haven’t returned. I fear Kaushika has killed them.”
My curiosity turns to horror. Killing an apsara is nearly impossible. We are immortals. Only desperate hate and powerful magic can annihilate us. How has Kaushika done this?Why?
Rambha hugs me again. “I am glad to see you safe.”
This time I notice how her body shakes. Sundari and Magadhi were Rambha’s friends, part of her own cohort. Nanda used to train me, her laughter often raucous when I created a particularly titillating illusion. Rambha must have been their handler, too, on those fateful missions; she often dealt with such elite apsaras. What must it have been like for her to wait and wait for a message, and then finally report to Indra she lost his most prized weapons? No wonder my delay has disconcerted her. A sharp guilt pangs through me. Her worry radiates toward me like a flame’s heat.
I straighten and squeeze her hand.
I will make the delay worth it. For her, and for Amaravati.
“Take me to the lord, Rambha. Perhaps news of my success will cheer him up.” My voice is more confident than I am, but I do not back down. “It is time for my boon.”
CHAPTER 2
Indra’s throne room puts Queen Tara’s to shame. It is the heart of his palace, a pulsing that mimics his own rhythm, making me sweat at its alien intimacy. As soon as we enter, the room’s aura assaults me. The scents of ghee, jaggery, and camphor ooze through the air, silent reminders of prayer and opulence, power and abundance. Hundreds of glorious artifacts hang on the walls, both from the mortal and immortal realms. Paintings of the lord being worshiped. Murals with dancers in sensuous, alluring poses. Tapestries in fine filigree that change pictures as one moves past them. Intoxication pounds my veins to behold them, like I have drunk too much soma.
Magic here is thick and dense. Shafts of golden dust crisscross like light pouring from the ceiling. The ceiling itself imitates a night sky. Stars shimmer like a million fat gems, yet creeping at the edges are storm clouds, roiling and dark.
A slight coldness permeates the air, making me want to rub away the gooseflesh erupting on my arms. It would be an uncultured move, more suited to a wide-eyed mortal visiting swarga than one of Indra’s immortal apsaras. Yet even Rambha, who must surely come to the throne room more often than any other dancer, takes a deep breath. She grits her teeth tight, then relaxes slowly. My contrived confidence from a few minutes ago seems childish. If Rambha herself is so anxious to see Indra, how will I ever make my request to him?
I try to mirror her, but the closer we move toward the throne, the more I become aware of myself in an awkward, clumsy way. Rambha’stactics will not work for me. It is not simply a breath that relaxes her; it is her devotion to Indra. The lord seizes all the grace in this chamber. There is none left for any of us, not unless we reflect to him a piece of his own majesty. Rambha exists in his radiance, separate and secure in her love. I try to hold on to myself, reminding myself that I am just as devoted to Indra in my own way, that his granting of my boon tonight will only cement it for everyone, but I cannot help my nervousness. My eyes dart everywhere. The floor that seems to be moving. The shifting statues. The gleaming pillars. The darkening sky.
Finally, they land on the deva king.
Lord Indra does not lean back in his usual indolent way. Instead, his feet tap the floor, and a scowl mars his handsome, chiseled face. Jewels glitter on him from head to toe, garnets deeper than blood around his neck, sapphires bluer than the ocean clasped on his wrists, moonstone pearls that wreathe his fingers. His dhoti is azure, the delicate weaving on the embroidery resembling violent clouds veering into sudden calm, before glossing back into darkness—a reflection of his tempestuous mood. His ornate gold crown gleams in a splinter of dawn.
All immortals have a recognizable aura, shining like a halo. Indra’s aura is so radiant that the auras of the devas surrounding him look dark by comparison. It covers him from head to toe, its incandescent light reaching far beyond his person. Golden dust swirls sensuously around his fingertips like an affectionate pet.
He is so beautiful that I can barely stand to look at him. I glimpse him only in instances, my eyes scurrying to the other devas, benevolent Surya of the sun, burly Vayu of the wind, sharp Agni of the fire.
In one hand, Indra toys with his vajra, the lightning bolt that is his greatest weapon, which crackles with electricity and anger, its glittering edges sharp enough to only be a blur of light. In his other hand, a crystal cup magically refills with ruby-red wine even as he drains it. Ican tell at a glance the lord is drunk again. Another pang of anxiety makes my heart jump.
Rambha stiffens and stops in her tracks. Her beautiful eyes go wide, and she whispers, alarmed, “Shachi.”
I don’t understand immediately; I am too taken with beholding the lord himself. Then my eyes follow Rambha’s, and I notice standing among the devas is another figure. Goddess Shachi. Indra’s wife and consort, the queen of the devis.
I stumble to a stop. Now that I study her, I cannot imagine how I overlooked her. I have not seen her in years, but she has never looked as resplendent—or as angry.
Her entire being is electrified. Her skin is a golden brown, so shiny that she mirrors the light of her own aura, a seemingly endless spiral of golden glow. Her eyes glint with calculation and intelligence, and she tilts her pointed chin up, staring at Indra down her small, narrow nose. The fiery red sari she wears curls around her luscious curves, sparking with what looks like Agni’s fire, except cooler, contained. Like Indra’s clothes, Shachi’s sari shifts in color, one moment a volcanic orange, then a rosy pink, then the first blush of dawn, until it is a fiery red again. Beside her full bloom, Rambha is merely a budding flower. Compared to her, I am just a seed.
Shachi draws herself up to full height. Her aura sharpens, just for an instant obscuring all the other deities.
“You may be the king of devas,” she says tightly to her husband, “but do not forget, lord, that I command the devis. The apsaras are my charge.”
Indra scowls. “I cannot give up my greatest weapons, not even for you, Queen. You may care for them, but swarga ismyheaven. Not yours. As long as I sit on this throne, the dancers are mine.”
The goddess’s eyes flash. “You invite your own doom,” she proclaims. A flash of light—I hear my own shallow gasp—
She is gone.
Lord Indra blinks and sits up. His fingers tighten around his wine cup as silence echoes in the wake of her departure. “It is all because of this damned boy,” he says to no one in particular. “The missing apsaras have created this rebellion from the queen.”
The devas who are Indra’s counselors murmur soothing words, too soft for me to catch, but the lord slams his wine cup on his throne and it shatters.
“We don’tknowanything about him,” he snarls. “None of my spies have brought back anything of use. Amaravati is in danger.Iam in danger. The Vajrayudh is approaching. Don’t tell me I have nothing to worry about!”
The devas exchange looks. Agni’s fingertips spark with fire. Surya’s golden eyes gleam brighter in irritation. Vayu, who loves chaos, allows a brisk smile to flutter across his lips. Yet none of them say anything.
