Page 63 of The Legend of Meneka
In Rambha’s place stands Indra, tall and magnificent. His crown is so bright, I blink rapidly, dazed.
Shorn of his illusion, all his power smashes into me, and I crumple to my knees. The skies still rain, and the air grows heavy, making it hard to breathe.
“My—my lord,” I whimper, confused and horrified.
It was never Rambha. I was speaking to Indra himself.
Lord Indra, who is the king of all the devas, ruler of Amaravati and swarga.
Lord Indra, who is storm lord, battle king, the destroyer of a thousand demons.
Lord Indra, who has never looked as furious as he does now, and who points his vajra, the sizzling lightning bolt, straight at my heart.
The vajra spits, sparks of fury burning off it. In Indra’s contemptuous eyes, there is not a single hint of the drunken lord I saw last.
“Beg for mercy, child,” he says coldly, the vajra thrumming in his hand. “And give me Kaushika.”
CHAPTER 23
Iam stunned. I am terrified. I can’t think.
The vajra hisses by my neck, the heat of it burning my skin.
It blinds me, and I close my eyes, but tears slide down my cheek.Drip, drip, I hear them, or perhaps it is the torrential rain echoing in my ears. It all sounds like a terrified keening.
My mind feels fuzzy. It was Indra all along. Of course it was. The way my thoughts blurred. The way my tongue slipped. It was because of his aura and power. I should have seen it before. Why is he here instead of Rambha? Was it him earlier too? Does Rambha know the lord is impersonating her? What happened in Amaravati to account for this deception? To require it?
These thoughts form and die in my mind like mortal lives.
I start to shiver. The rain is a hailstorm of arrows, each drop sharp on my skin. It is Indra’s wrath, too powerful. Surely every realm must sense it. My trickle of tears becomes a downpour. I hear a choked sound, and it is coming from my own throat. I realize I am sobbing.
The vajra twitches and vibrates in anger, sparks searing my cheek. I am already on my knees. My hands are already folded in prayer, begging for mercy. Indra does not repeat himself, but his command screams in my ears, and the words fold around my tongue, both a plea for mercy and the information he has asked for. Kaushika’s whereabouts. Kaushika’s plans. When he will attack, and in what manner.
I do not know the answers to these questions, but I see what Indra will do if he finds out. Images of Kaushika, Anirudh, Romasha, Kalyani, and all the other mortals flicker in my head, their bodies charredby lightning. My own exile looms, seconds away. I open my mouth to beg again, to ask for mercy and forgiveness.
Yet instead of the plea, a single word escapes me. “No.”
It is soft and tremulous. For a second, I think that I did not utter it. Rain thunders around me, soaking me but leaving no mark on the lord. I wonder if maybe Indra has not heard. I wonder what possessed me to say this. I wonder if it will be my last word.
Then Indra shifts in a rain-filled blur of light. The vajra cuts into my throat, scorching my skin.
“What did you say?” he snarls.
I touch the vajra with one hand, and pain shoots through my body, burning. It is like touching the lord himself. A part of me is shocked at what I am doing. WhatamI doing?
Still, the fingers of my other hand quickly form the rune for strength. With terrible effort, I push the heavy lightning bolt aside enough to move it a few inches away from my neck.
I stumble to my feet and stand. Streaks of mud cover me. In my clothes from the hermitage, I look nothing like an apsara. Disgust curls Indra’s lips as he studies me, and fury shines in his eyes. I am humiliated to be seen like this, but the brave, foolish, shocking word resounds over us.No.No, I cannot let you do this.
I don’t repeat it. I take a few steps back, my fingers already carving other runes I learned at the hermitage. The rune for understanding, for patience, for forgiveness. They form and disappear, but their qualities pour into me and color the damp air around us. Indra watches me perform this mortal magic, and my cheeks heat in shame. I had hoped for the runes to affect him too, but he is a deva and I am unpracticed in prana magic. If I want to appease him, this is not the way.
I recall what Rambha did once.
Immediately, I change the movements of my fingers from carvingrunes into forming dance sigils. “My lord, please,” I begin. “I didn’t use the right words. If I only knew I was talking to you—”
An illusion forms from the tips of my fingers, and even as I make it, I know it is not going to be enough. Rambha—therealRambha—is Indra’s beloved apsara. Who knows what illusion she showed him? My fingers twist desperately, and an image of Indra’s throne room forms. Maybe if I remind him of the palace he loves, he will calm himself. But terror makes my hands shake, and the illusion flickers without my permission. It changes into the apsaras’ grove, then flickers again to become the buildings and homes of Amaravati, to the rock pools, the devas’ harem, the hermitage.
“Please, my lord,” I say as the image changes rapidly, uncontrolled. “I only meant—”
