Kesin Bihaan Shalimindi heard the clink of a coin in the tin cup, but he didn't see it. His eyes were on the purple sky that arched over a city made of leaves and that dropped pearls like rain from above, and the people shaped of twisted vines who mingled their tendrils in a slow courtship. He felt the Qaragarh morning sun warm his body, which sat on the steps of the Eldathsashastr Temple, one knee pulled to his chest, but the world he was viewing looked humid and dusky. Its vine people wound their steps around his line of sight, but he was not there for them to see. It was a beautiful place, very tranquil.
In the other land, the land his body sat firmly in, the noise of passing people–their conversations and haggling and chatter about last night's ground quake–jangled against the stillness of the other land around him, making it hard for him to focus on his exploration. His guru had cautioned him against performing his viewings in such busy places, for the very distractions he was experiencing. Bihaan thought that it might sharpen his focus, help him separate himself from one realm as he peered into another. Each drop of a coin in his cup threatened to pull him back into himself. Perhaps if he shifted his vision to a less quiet realm, his home reality would be less jarring.
Bihaan opened himself, stretched his eyes, and found the place of the water. A realm of endless seas, wind driven waves, and perpetual thunderstorms, its turmoil deafened the hubbub of the Qaragarh streets and the endless chiseling of stone for its restoration. It was a dreadful, awesome place where the might of nature could not be described as dominating, for there was nothing else for it to dominate. The power of the elements, the ineffable and terrible majesty of their oneness, left him gaping and dumbstruck at his insignificance. Untouched by the waters and the winds, he lost himself in its magnificence and singularity. Nothing marked the passing of time except the crack of lightning, and Bihaan might have sat gazing at the scene for minutes or years.
Such transport brought him closer to the unity of existence. It was harder to see the connectedness in his own realm, where difference and variation seemed to separate life into an infinite variety of being. But that was the challenge of a Kesin–to see through the guise of the particulation of reality into its wholeness. No, he corrected himself, to see that particulation was an expression of the wholeness of reality. For he particularly liked the specific sweetness of basan ladoo that he might buy in the bazaar with one of the coins tossed into his cup. Each particular, like those delicious doughy balls with cashews, should be appreciated for its uniqueness, for they, collectively, contributed to the wonder of existence.
The ladoo made Bihaan think of particulars, things that did not exist in the realm that held Suristhinam. With a shift, he went searching for such experiences, as he opened himself to the other planes that existed around him, unnoticed except to those trained as the Kesin were. He gazed upon a city made of brass, surrounded on the shore by a fiery sea. Great domes reflected the dancing flames, and dragons floated lazily on the updrafts of the raging fires. Then a land where winged creatures harvested dew in the false dawn of two suns. Then he was surrounded by a vast savannah in the midst of a battle between raging hairy beasts with metal horns. A red sky, then a yellow sky filled with floating forests, then a cavern with endlessly dripping water, then amid the stars in the nothingness of the heavens, then in a dark land with thatched roofs where hope had seemed to die away. All while rooted, trancelike, on the steps of the Eldathsashastr Temple.
They couldn't see what he saw, the people who passed by the Temple. They saw only a young man, his face painted blue and white with the marks of Pradan, sitting on the temple steps, lost in his journey. At times he would jerk in reaction to the scenes he saw. Wrapped in rumpled robes of deep blue and brown, barefooted, his long hair in thin tight braids wound in a haphazard pile atop his head, he seemed to those who did not know of the Kesin to be a youth who had fallen into misfortune, passively begging for alms. Those who knew saw both a seeker and a madman, for who but the mad would venture beyond the bounds of this world into lands so strange and dangerous that they might break the mind?
Bihaan saw a hairy, yellow fruit hanging from a limb as he shifted his sight to a different land and he reached out to grasp it. But he wasn't there, and his hand wasn't there to grasp. He laughed aloud to think of a passerby at the Temple seeing him reach out a hand to clutch at the empty Qaragarh air in front of him, and then laughed to think of being seen laughing at seemingly nothing.
One day, he would be able to grasp the fruit. One day, it would be not just his sight but his body that would take in those particularized lands. He still had much to learn before he would be capable of such journeys.
Saying farewell to the elusive hairy, yellow fruit, Bihaan looked beyond that realm to another. It was a dim region of near void, but for vast pockets of existence scattered like distant stars throughout the blackness. No land was there for him to sit upon, were he to be actually there. Wisps of mist wafted around him like fog, obscuring his view. The space around him didn't feel so much empty as it did absent, as if non-existence had filled up the space between the bubble lands.
A great whirling mass of air snaked through the non-existence, defying it with its swirling, tumultuous winds, and Bihaan followed its train with his eyes. The dark cyclone howled and keened around a brightly shining spot in the gloom. A huge shard of brilliant diamond pierced the nothingness, tall as a mountain, ringed at its center by platforms of life, trees, buildings, people. Majestic and luminous, the structure shone like a floating beacon in the sea of the ethereum, and Bihaan marveled at its beauty. More than by the naturalistic sublimeness of the storm world he had watched earlier, this mystic wonder took his breath away.
"Will you tell my future, then?"
The words struck Bihaan like a blow, pulling him away from his trance. He struggled to regain his focus.
"Hello? Hello there?" the voice spoke again to his sitting body in Qaragarh. "Do you tell my fortune now?"
Bihaan heard his tin cup being rattled and the few coins in it clanking against the sides. With a jerk, he shifted out of that wonderful and terrible plane into his own. A young man–about his own age–was standing before him, shaking his tin cup to get his attention. He wore an azure sherwani, plain but elegant, buttoned up to his throat and sandals that looked new. The neck of the sitar strapped over his shoulder peeked up over his shaggy hair under the pagri wrapped around his head. He was smiling expectantly through a beard that had not yet found its full growth, and his eyes were the color of jade.
"You idiot!" Bihaan snapped at the young man, snatching the cup from him.
"Sorry?" the youth tilted his head.
"You interrupted me. What were you thinking?"
"I thought you were supposed to tell me my future," he said innocently. "Did I do it wrong? Oh Great Swami…"
"I'm not a fortune teller," Bihaan scowled at the youth.
"Oh, I see." The young man considered. "It's just that, I was told that the Kesin have the sight. That's what I was told, anyway."
"We don't see the future," Bihaan explained as if to a child, "we see into other realms."
"Ah!" the youth nodded. "Indeed. I see. Or rather, I don't see, that is," widening his eyes exaggeratedly, "but I understand."
Bihaan gathered his robes around him and started to get up. The elegant and proper man had broken his trance and he wanted to leave the energy it had created behind him.
"It's just that," the polite youth explained, "you see, I put a coin in your cup."
Bihaan peered at the small collection of coppers in his tin. "Thanks." That would come in handy for something to eat, even if it had cost him his trance.
"Yes, well, you're welcome, but you see," the youth went on, falling in behind Bihaan, who started away, "I put a coin in your cup because I thought you would tell me my future."
"I don't tell futures."
"To be sure, yes, I see now. But you see, I rather wonder if I should get it back now. The coin, that is."
Bihaan stopped, incredulous, his mouth agape. He had never been asked to return alms before.
"You probably didn't see that coming," the youth said conspiratorially. "Perhaps if you could see the future."
Shaking his head at the effrontery of it all, Bihaan resumed his path down the street toward the bazaar. "Charity is a virtue," he said over his shoulder.
"Quite so." The young man hurried his steps to catch up. "It's just that I don't have many coins and I'm not sure how long I'll be stuck here." The youth looked around at the street and people with a sniff of disdain. "I was hoping you could tell me how I might return home."
"Just go." He meant go home but go away would work as well. His stomach rumbled and he wanted to find some food.
"That's the thing. Let's just step over here," the youth said, taking Bihaan's arm to guide him a few steps down the street.
Startled by the youth's touch, Bihaan started to pull away when a large stone fell from above to thud into the dirt street, right where he had been standing only seconds before. He looked up at the abashed workers on the roof of the building. "That was lucky."
"Was it?" the youth asked quizzically. "Surely." He went on as if nothing had happened, "You see, my home is quite far…"
"Take the Door," Bihaan pointed south to the Vermillion Serai, entering the crowded and bustling aisles of the bazaar.
"...and I'm not sure of the way. Oh, yes, the Door, but I'm afraid it does not go to my home. Would it be a dreadful bother if I stay with you for a tick while I sort things out? I am rather down on my luck at the moment, I'm afraid."
Bihaan eyed the expensive sitar and the spotless sherwani and then pointed down to his own bare, dirty feet.
"Oh, indeed," the youth nodded his head in understanding. "Where shall I go, I wonder? Where are you going?"
"To get some food." Bihaan shook his head at the near-deadly fallen stone before turning back towards the bazaar.
"Splendid!" the young man said, trailing just behind him. "I'm famished. How terribly rude of me, I haven't introduced myself. Mohimukta Janesh Uthaleenadee, at your service" he said with a slight bow of his head. "And I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of…?" he paused, but Bihaan didn't return the favor of offering his own name. "Well, I'm sure it will come to you at some point. Do be a kind fellow and tell me when you recall your name so I know who to thank."
Bihaan tried to ignore Mohimukta, but the ne'er-do-well simply followed and rambled on.
"My father brought me to Qaragarh to meet a woman he wanted him to marry. Dreadful young woman," he shuddered. "I cannot conceive how it's possible for any one person to be so utterly disagreeable, can you? My father was outraged by my polite rejection of the odious creature and he abandoned me here. Since I have no relations in this region, I'm rather without means. Try the one with the scarlet canopy in the corner," he advised Bihaan, who had stopped at a kebab stall. "Yes, that will do."
Was there no escaping this chattering bird? More to put some distance between them than anything else, Bihaan crossed the path to hand a coin to a woman at the stall for some roasted vegetables on a skewer.
"What I mean is," Mohimukta said, stepping quickly to follow him, "I'm not sure where to go. Where do you sleep at night?"
Bihaan turned back to Mohimukta to answer and saw smoke and flames billowing out of the kebab stall he had just left. "How did you…?"
"Silly me," Mohimukta said, "you probably travel to whatever realm you want to sleep in. I imagine there are any number of bowers of otherworldly repose, where pillows are made of starlight and choruses of apsaras sing you to sleep."
"I don't travel yet," Bihaan corrected him absently, watching the stall keeper trying to smother the cooking fire with a blanket. "Did you…?"
"Are you quite certain you're a Kesin?"
"Kesin Bihaan!" a young woman called out to him, dashing into the bazaar, her sari fluttering behind her like wings.
"See," he said to the young man, pointing to the woman. "She knows I'm a Kesin."
"Yes," Mohimukta conceded drolly, "because you wear the robes. But not everything in the world is as it might appear."
"Kesin." The breathless woman came to a stop before him and held out a small piece of paper. "Hijra Bahuchara sent me to give this to you."
Bihaan took the paper and read it. Please come to the gharana this morning. There's something I need you to see. Why would Bahuchara be beckoning him? They hadn't spoken in about a month, when he had run into her near the temple. Then, as before, he had warned her about her efforts, advice she had probably ignored and gone ahead and tried anyway. That woman was determined to succeed, even if it meant disaster, as far as Bihaan was concerned. And now she needed his help?
"How should I answer?" the woman prodded after waiting in silence for barely a moment. She shifted from foot to foot as if ready to race back to the gharana.
"Tell her I'll come in a moment. After I've…" he looked around, spotting the dandy behind him, "...finished with this one."
"Ok," the woman waved as she sped away, "janipradan!"
Before Bihaan could slip the note into his pouch, Mohimukta's hand lifted it from his fingers. "Oh delightful," he smiled, "perhaps there will be a spot of repast of which we might partake."
Aanandamay Gharana was not the oldest hijra gharana in Suristhanam. That honor belonged to Vibhor Gharana in Jharoda, home of the ancient temple of Ardhanari. Nor had Aanadamay been central to Tayyib imperial power. That had been Jaaldathi Gharana in the imperial capital of Serpatta, but it–like the rest of the city–was now in ruins, its hijra having fled to Aanadamay, Vibhor, and Vinodee in Churapoor, or to wherever else they could find safety. As Qaragarh had grown from just a fort on the newly forged caravan route to the Northern Plateau centuries ago, it had attracted people from both the north and south to become a city in its own right, and Aanandamay had grown alongside it. But for much of its history, the city–and the gharana–consisted of mostly transient folk. For Bahuchara, Aanandamay Gharana was home and the women were her sisters.
As she walked with the other girls and women from their morning rites at the Temple of Ardhanari Entwined at the back of the Aanandamay compound, she watched one brushed back the loose hair from another's face, or return the toothless smile of an ancient auntie, or laugh at the banter of a gaggle of rustling silks and rouged cheeks. Maan Khayr fell in beside her as they returned to the main building and leaned close. "Are you sure this isn't your doing?"
Bahuchara shook her head at the matronly headmistress of Aanandamay. "No, I've never heard of anything like this among the fey. And Qaragarh is not one of my sites. I couldn't have caused a breach in the boundaries here. I don't even know if it is a planar breach."
"But the ground quaking," Khayr went on, "and the waters of the Jabazeb Stepwell. They seem to be something…elemental." Her voice dropped to a disapproving whisper. "Are you certain you did not surge?"
"Not on this scale," Bahuchara hastily assured Khayr, who had expressed strong doubts about Bahuchara's experiment before. "I've sent for Kesin Bihaan so we can look into it. Until we know what it is, I promise you I will refrain from my research activities," she assured her. She didn't want to give Maam any more reason to prohibit her work than the leader already had. "I swear by Iwa and His Utterance Our Mother Ardhanari."
Maam Khayr's peer over the rim of her glasses served as a warning that the young sister should make certain to hold to her word, despite the spoken vow.
"I mean it," Bahuchara assured Maam. "This time," and she really did.
Because if what she was doing was causing the ground to shake, she needed to start over, and that would require a whole new approach. She had come so far and felt like she was on the verge of a breakthrough. The dance she had conceived, pulling together bits of steps and movements long forgotten to create something new and powerful, drawing into each movement the power her swirling magic, was to be a revelation, unlike anything ever seen among the hijra. When the first quake hit a few days before, she'd thought nothing of it and only continued refining the precision of her performance. But then a second quake and now a third, each growing stronger as her perfection drew nearer.
Hijra were not just delightful entertainers who blessed babies and weddings. That was the face–the gorgeous, glamorous face, she added in her thoughts–that they showed to the rest of the world. They were mysterious and enchanted conduits for the goddess Ardhanari and her swirling, chaotic accord. Very few, a handful really, outside the hijra knew that their true purpose was to bring wonder and harmony and productive disruption into the world by drawing on the riotous magic imbued in them by the Uttered Ardhanari and channeling that power according to their individual artistic visions. If the people knew, they would quail, because they had grown too attached to their world. But they would see her perform her glorious dance one day, and then they would marvel, for they would be closer to the divine.
But not if they were dead. Not if her dance were quaking buildings to the ground atop them.
Perhaps it was the kalindi shape of the arms after the four spins, she found herself wondering. One of the ancient texts did say that kalindi had an effect on stone, if used in conjunction with certain other movements. Eager to look at the text again, Bahuchara split from the group entering the hall to head to her studio, but Maam called out to her.
"See to the Gayakutan before you decide whether to break your promise so quickly."
She had been contemplating it, hadn't she? Well, nothing could be accomplished without daring, but at least she had the grace to appear abashed as she changed direction to another building.
Morning sunlight streamed through the open shutters of the room she entered. The room was comfortably appointed, with even a spray of flowering mint in a brass vase. The Gayakutan must have picked those from the gharana grounds for his companion. He–his name was Vikrim, wasn't it?–sat crossed legged on a thick Zehni rug with his back straight against a wall, watching the woman asleep in the bed. His large, bare chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of inner thought, but his wide mouth and bared lower tusks cracked in a soft smile when she entered.
"Janipradan," he murmured.
"Be at peace," she answered, "janipradan."
The sleeping woman's short-cropped hair hung back from her thin, weather-worn face, and the arms on top of the coverlet carried the lean muscle of one practiced in weapons but driven by a fire that dried her up. Even asleep, she looked fierce and deadly, and yet fragile at the same time, like a dried twig covered with thorns. The stack of well-worn leather clothing by the bed testified to the woman's dangerous trade.
"Has she woken yet?" Bahuchara whispered to Vikrim. What was the woman's name? Ruqaiya, wasn't it? He shook his head a bit. "You should get some rest and eat something," she advised him. "Even a great haathee like you needs sleep and food."
Vikrim chuckled despite himself. "Elephants are loyal to their family, you know. After she wakes, I will rest."
She itched to get to her studio, but his dedication to his friend humbled her. She would sit with him for a bit, and then she would go tinker with the kalindi form. Drawing her silken skirts in front of her, Bahuchara settled on the rug next to him. "I met a Gayakutan hijra in Jharoda a few years ago," she said to distract the gentle giant. "At Vibhor Gharana. Her name was Tanupani. A towering woman with a step that could crush rock. Her jaw tusks were tipped with gold filigree and the chain of the nath from her nose to her ear was as thick as my finger. Skin like the ash of burned cedar and a scar from her neck to her hair-dusted bosom."
Vikrim huffed admiringly. "She sounds beautiful."
"She was…is; she's still at Vibhor, as far as I know. Terrifying woman, but she gave the best hugs. And when she danced? Electrifying! And I mean that literally–she specialized in lightning."
That brought a barking laugh to the somber Gayakutan for a moment.
"Keep it down," the sleeping woman barked from the bed.
She was stirring, and Vikrim bounded to her side, Bahuchara just a step behind. Ruqaiya stretched and opened her eyes and then started, realizing that she didn't know where she was. Her hand went to her jaw.
"You hit me!" she barked.
"You told me to!"
Ruqaiya sat bolt upright, the memories coming back to her. "Where am I? What happened?" Her eyes ricocheted around the room, gathering bits of information–her clothes and weapons folded and stacked on a table, the flowers in the vase, a woman she didn't know leaning over her, clean linens, a bed. Understanding dawning, she shuddered at the remembrance of evil's touch upon her. Ruqaiya grabbed her head. "It's gone," she said in relief. "You fixed it."
Bahuchara tried to ease Ruqaiya back down with gentle hands but the woman brushed her away.
"We can go home now."
Only as Ruqaiya pushed aside the covers did she realize her state of undress, and she reached for a blanket to cover herself. Vikrim blushed–that was the color of a Gayakutan blush, wasn't it?–and turned his head as Bahuchara again tried to calm the woman. She handed Ruqaiya a shirt as she explained, "It's not as simple as that, merijaan, why don't you sit down on…"
"It's gone, I can't feel them anymore. You cured me," Ruqaiya went on, pulling the shirt over her head. "Vikrim, don't be so modest," she chided her companion. "Are we near the Hall of Doors? Oh, and thanks," she added offhandedly to Bahuchara, slipping on her leather breeches.
"We didn't cure you," Bahuchara raised her voice to try to break through the woman's focus on getting out.
"They're gone," Ruqaiya corrected her. "Look."
Bahuchara wasn't sure how Ruqaiya was doing it; she didn't understand the arcane methods the hunters used to sense undead and aberrations. But she knew Ruqaiya was reaching out somehow, her face grimly clenched and yet somehow peaceful, almost angelic.
"There," Ruqaiya shrugged, coming out of her trance, "no ghûls, nothing." She started gathering her weapons and checked her satchel. "Ready, Vikrim?"
"Ruqaiya…"
"Let's go…"
"Will you sit down!" Bahuchara snapped. She didn't like losing her studied composure; it felt so common to her. Nevertheless, this woman drove her to distraction, and she was grateful her tone pulled Ruqaiya up short. Bahuchara gathered herself and straightened her back. "You do not feel them because you are in this place," she explained quickly to forestall any interruption from Ruqaiya. "The moment you leave these walls, the vileness will assault you again. You are the same as you were when your companion brought you here. It's only the protective power of Ardhanari surrounding the gharana that keeps out their horridness. But go, then," she waved dismissively, sitting indifferently on the bed, "if that is what you want. The Vermillion Serai is south of here across the river."
Bahuchara watched through lowered eyes as Ruqaiya struggled to comprehend what she had said. The woman's shoulders slowly drooped.
"Vikrim, is that true?"
"I think so," he answered with a glance at Bahuchara, who nodded.
"That devi cursed me?"
"Ganraala Devi blessed you," he tried to clarify.
"That dog!" Ruqaiya threw her satchel across the room and it clanged against the wall before falling to the ground. "She cursed me!" she raged. "I'll feel them all the time, everywhere! Won't I?! It'll kill me! I can't…" she realized in horror, "I can't ever leave here!"
She sank to the floor, but Bahuchara didn't move to comfort her. Instead, she discreetly ran her hands through a series of mudras in her lap, a nervous habit. This was not her business. The kalindi was on her mind.
So she was startled to hear a quick sob from Ruqaiya, whose back was to her.
"Darling," she cooed, "use it. Do not be used by it. The planes are filled with women and men and beings who see you as nothing more than a tool or a way to make coin, and they care not a whit about you. Never let yourself be used. Yours is the only purpose that matters."
She waited until Ruqaiya's straightened back told her that her words had been heard before she rose from her seat on the bed. "You both can stay as long as you'd like," she told Vikrim with a comforting hand on his meaty arm. On her way out, she lifted Ruqaiya's head with an elegant, ringed finger to find a face set in stoic determination. "Yours," she stressed, "is the only purpose that matters."
She had her own purpose to attend to, as did each of the hijra, and she sought it in the seclusion of her studio. Down the corridors of the haveli, Bahuchara passed rooms where other women practiced and perfected their craft, to the occasional curse or bang or shriek of surprise or burst of flame. The door closing behind her kept out those distractions, and she was alone at last with her craft. Not really alone, though, for she was reflected from the mirrors covering all four of the walls, and always when she danced her magic here, she was accompanied by four other versions of herself. A table covered in parchments and scrolls was pressed against the far wall, with a pair of chairs. It was there she did her research. The rest of the space was bare except for the power she filled it with.
Stretching her limbs, she banished Vikrim from her mind. Ruqaiya clung on a bit, with her fierce, grim features, but it wasn't her, really, Bahuchara couldn't let go of. It was the young woman Ruqaiya reminded her of–Laksha. They had the same woundedness and severity in their eyes, and in Laksha, that disappointment had been directed at her. For the first time in many years, Bahuchara had felt some regret when she spoke with Laksha the night before. Not for her decision to become hijra, no, never that. But for leaving all of her past behind, even those who had depended on her in the den, like Laksha. She'd believed then it was the only way to escape and begin anew, that there was no other option. But what if that had not been true?
She began midway through the dance, sweep of the rounded left arm, hands in the breka mudra, right knee rising to the waist, bend left, eyes saachi to the right. She could have gone back for Laksha and the others, once her transformation had been completed. Eyes to rolling river, anaaja steps with the heel, head square, arms rapidly completing a ranpudreeda repetition, her power beginning to rise as her steps drew upon the raw magic inside her. And risk losing what she had gained if Salim captured her? Flowing in a sinuous kurzmed with her hips, half turned away, the veil of the plane beginning to shimmer around her like a curtain of dust motes caught in the light. The others were not her responsibility, any more than she was theirs. Lemanahi to the front, eyes circling slowly, hands together in the dhaprala, the kalindi just a few moments away as the curtain brightened, and things not of this plane became visible like pale reflections beyond it. No one had taken care of her, she'd had to do it herself! Four spins, her skirt flaring out to almost touch the curtain of light she had conjured around her, before moving into the complicated kalindi, her senses poised to notice any rumbling of the earth beneath her feet. Why should Laksha resent her for not getting out herself, like she had? First step of the kalindi…
Knock, knock, knock on the door.
"Cloudbreaker's hairy ass!" she roared at the interruption, and power surged outward from her as she stamped her dance to a stop, the glittering veil dispersing as if blown away by a gust of wind, the motes extinguished.
Bahuchara threw open the door to her studio to find Sumitra, a young hijra, squatting down and picking up the thick carpet of her hair that had fallen from her now bald head to the ground. A sympathetic laugh pierced Bahuchara's fury at being disturbed. "I'm so sorry, Sumitra," she struggled to school her face. "Don't worry, dear, it will grow back by tomorrow."
"Stupid messenger duty," the girl pouted, her glorious hair strands dripping through her fingers. "I found Kesin Bihaan. He'll be in the garden."
Bahuchara had completely forgotten about Bihaan. She pulled her dupatta over her head and closed her studio door behind her, eager to learn if he had any insight that might save her dance.
She spied Bihaan in the garden by his blue and brown rumpled robes, with his piled, braided hair interwoven with bits of ribbon and amulets. There was a young, handsome man with him, dressed formally, a stark contrast to the Kesin. He wore an elegant sherwani with a fine, crested pagri on his head.
"Janipradan," she bowed her head to Bihaan. "Thank you for coming so quickly. And you have brought a friend?" she inquired.
Bihaan scowled. "He followed me. He keeps following me."
"Mohimukta Janesh Uthaleenadee," the young man said, bowing low, "most beautiful one."
Well, he certainly did have manners. "Janipradan, Mohimukta. I need to speak with Bihaan."
"Of course, of course," Mohimukta said, but he didn't step away.
"Alone," she stressed.
"Indeed," Mohimukta bowed, "by all means. Go right ahead."
She waited for Mohimukta to leave them, but he just stood there. So she slipped her arm in Bihaan's and started walking. "What is this? He's handsome."
"Yes. Don't encourage him. He put a copper in my cup and asked me to tell his fortune."
"You don't practice divination," she laughed.
"That's what I tried to tell him," said Bihaan, exasperated. "But he's been following me ever since." To prove his point, he looked back over his shoulder to find Mohimukta walking a few steps behind them. "Just ignore him. I try to."
She flared her pointed, golden fingernails in the air. "Do you want me to…"
"No," Bihaan stopped her quickly. "He seems harmless. He's just so polite I can't tell him off. And handsome."
Bahuchara shrugged in resignation. "I need to know where you've been."
"At the Eldathsashastr Temple, mostly, and the bazaar."
"No, I mean I need to know where you've been," she clarified.
They came to a bench in the garden and took a seat. Birds flitted above them from tree to tree under the blue, warm sky. Mohimukta stood a few paces away, waiting absently with a smile for them both.
"What are you after?" he prodded her. "I've seen many places."
She collected herself to find the right words. "In the places you've seen, have you noticed anything…unusual?"
He barked a laugh. "They're all unusual."
"They're distinct," she corrected him. "Have you seen anything that might account for the ground quakes?"
"You think you might have parted a veil between the planes?" He knit his brow. "Isn't that the point?"
"Yes, but not like this," she defended herself. "Not indiscriminately. My plan is measured and mapped."
"If you succeed, the Kesin will have nowhere to go anymore."
"If I succeed, you will already be there," she said grandly. "I need to know if I have caused some kind of damage."
Bihaan nodded his understanding. "And you want me to look."
"If you would," Bahuchara urged him.
"Where?"
"Here, at Qaragarh. But everywhere here."
"It will take a little while."
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" She started to rise.
"No, stay. You're not here anyway."
She watched Bihaan focus his eyes on nothing and everything and center himself to enter his trance state. He had explained the process to her before, so she knew that what she was asking for was easier than seeing into places distant. All he needed to do was to see around where he already was. For those other realms were not far away–they were not a place he needed to travel to. They were all around him. The realms were not layers stacked one on top of the other, they coexisted in the same space, like various spices in a dish. Each was distinct, though mingled with the others into an ineffable whole. He simply had to adjust his gaze to see into each of the realms that mingled together around him.
Where there was a Qaragarh in this realm, there was a dark forest in another, filled with gloom and despair. Or a lake of lava. Or a city of woven buildings, reaching up into a violet sky. There were realms where colors seemed animated, or where nothing at all seemed to exist. In the realm of the fey, Qaragarh became a city of diamond, shining so bright under its sun that it was blinding. All around them were creatures of legend, roads of air, oceans of melted silver, demon hordes and angelic feathers drifting from the sky. Bihaan wanted to travel to those places. Bahuchara wanted to bring those places into the same space as this one. That was what her dance was meant to achieve–a localized collapsing of the planes into one, a region in which they all coexisted together.
"There's nothing," Bihaan's voice broke into her thoughts. "No sign of an incursion or a rupture in the area. All seems as normal everywhere as normal might seem there."
"Then what is it?" she mused.
Bihaan held out an open palm expectantly. "I have to eat," he explained to her disparaging gaze.
Bahuchara dropped a silver coin into his hand. "Lunch will be served shortly," she said, rising off the bench. "Why don't you join us?"
"Of course, of course," Mohimukta answered, stepping forward to join them. "Ever so kind of you to invite us."
"And bring your handsome friend," Bahuchara added with a wink.
It was a relief that her plane dance was not damaging the area. There must be some other cause of the quaking, something mundane, though she couldn't rule out the possibility that the Radiant Citadel and its delegates were somehow involved. Who knew to what ends they might go to manipulate the empire back into Concord? If it were true, it seemed an unnecessary bit of awfulness for little in return. What could the Concordants want with Suristhanam? Its chickpeas? Vargit leather? Better for people to take care of themselves. Either way the empire went, Bahuchara was unconcerned. The work she was doing on behalf of the Uttered Ardhanari was more important.
So back to her studio she went, feeling better about the kalindi movement. She still hadn't figured out the final piece of the performance that would achieve her desired effect, though. The studio's door was ajar when she arrived and inside she found…
"Fazil?"
He was just as she remembered him the last time she saw him eight years ago. Lithe and powerful in a frame just smaller than hers, with bronze skin and bright eyes the color of molten gold. His dark hair hung in a braid down his back, unlike the close cropping favored by the Ribhus elves. Peaked, thin eyebrows were the only hair on his sun-weathered face. He would have made a lovely woman.
Fazil was dressed in the leather uniform of the shamsherbaz, with an emblem she recognized as belonging to the famed Puruzam Company of Amir Tordain al-Malletfist. He was also filthy with dust and smelled of horse and sweat.
The long look he gave her was probing. "I'm looking for…" He struggled to recall the name. "Bahuchara."
"I'm Bahuchara," she said too quickly. What was he doing here after all this time? She glanced over his shoulder to the reflection of herself in the mirror on the opposite wall to see how she looked. Fazil had never seen Bahuchara before, only the young man she had once been. Silly, vain woman, she scolded herself.
He searched her face. "Do you remember me?"
"Yes." She tilted her head quizzically. "Do you remember me?"
He shifted his eyes away from her. "I remember Suraj."
So.
"Why are you here, Fazil?" Bahuchara folded her arms across her chest in disappointment. "It's obviously urgent, look at you. You've been in the field and you haven't even…is that…" she looked closer at his clothing. "Is that blood?"
He stepped to leave. "This was a mistake."
"No, you came here for something," she stopped him. She spread her arms wide to let him take all of her in. "Don't let my stunning beauty steal your tongue."
"It's because of…" he gestured at her, "of this that I came to you."
"Because I'm a woman now?"
"Because you know people now. Important people," he clarified awkwardly.
"And here I thought you simply missed your old friend who you used to play pachis with at the tea shop," she pouted. "I have a set, if you'd like a game."
"I have no time for games."
Fazil wouldn't meet her gaze, looking instead just above her head, and she realized that he would never have come to her unless he were in dire need. It pained her heart.
She directed him to sit at one of the chairs by her desk as she settled herself, arranging her skirt to its best advantage. He seemed harder than the man she had found refuge with so long ago, something as simple as moments of pachis and tea making her life then briefly bearable. Fazil would even slip the young Suraj a coin or two so Salim wouldn't suspect he'd been loafing.
But now there was something fervent in his eyes that hadn't been there before. The intensity of an unspoken purpose fairly radiated from him. "What happened to you?"
Fazil ignored her question and pulled a folded packet of parchment from his jacket but didn't open it or hand it to her. "How close can you get to Empress Firuzeh?"
She hadn't expected a question like that. He burned with a fervor that made her guarded and her first instinct was to protect Firuzeh. From what, she didn't yet know but Fazil's intentions seemed urgent. "Just tell me," she redirected him.
So he told her, about the intelligence they had received from Amir Sameer about the hobgoblins, about Amir Tordain sending them to Hope's Gorge and the ambush that had killed the rest of his company, of the devil-masked hobgoblin who had forced this missive on him.
"An Iron Shadow," she supplied. "They're elite spies and assassins for the Iheshat rulers. You're lucky to be alive."
Fazil spat on the floor. "I will kill him if I see him again."
Bahuchara looked from the spit on her dance floor to Fazil. "Darling," she drolled, "I dance here." She held out her hand, and he placed the folded note in it as if releasing a weight. It was a hobgoblin script, she was unsurprised to see, so she, too, couldn't read it.
"And you have no idea what it says? Or what it's about?" she pressed.
Fazil shook his head. "Someone knew my company would be there that night. And that Iron Shadow knew to write a letter that could be delivered back to Qaragarh. I came here straight from the mountains. I couldn't go to Tordain or Sameer and I have no way to reach the empress. I don't know who to trust."
"But you trust me," Bahuchara mused, leaning forward, forcing him to meet her flashing eyes.
He glanced up and matched her gaze with his, "I trust Suraj," then looked away.
"Suraj is weak."
"Suraj was kind. You are…"
"Useful," she finished for him. "Hmm," she observed with a purse of her lips. It was pointless to look again at the missive, since she couldn't read it. "Let's see what it says," she said, rising and shaking out her arms.
Fazil tried to snatch the letter. "It's not for us."
"What if it isn't for Firuzeh but about Firuzeh? We need to know who to deliver this to."
Fazil watched as she spread her arms wide and began the form of the dance to invoke Ardhanari. Her head tilted just so, gazing at an angle at the ceiling, as her arms swept and twirled, her waist bent, and the bottom of her skirt shifted with the placement of her left foot. Hypnotized at first, Fazil looked away, as was proper for the faithful.
Bahuchara noticed the averted gaze, aware that certain tariqas of the Muwahhid were uncomfortable with sorcerous ways. She should have asked if he'd like to leave before she began. But she considered it fair trade for his coldness towards her. Fortunately, the dance for the spell was brief. When she looked again at the dirty paper, she could understand the words, and she read it aloud to Fazil:
You are betrayed. Even now, the Khaar is hiding in the peaks you call Nandali Ghatta, and your cities will soon face the onslaught of the Iheshat. I am among those who do not wish this war with your people, but we cannot stop it. Bloodshed will come to both of us, but neither of us will achieve victory. The Khaar will throw our bodies to their deaths for another's ends, one who walks among you but conspires with our King Nabgrev. I do not know his name, but his guards bear the mark of the tiger. Beware him. Kill him. We are not allies, you and I, and we will gladly kill your people if you are foolish enough to come for us. But I will not let my clan be victims of a human's ambitions.
"Crescent Tigers," Fazil scowled when she had finished reading. "Sameer bin-Nabeel. In the name of Iwa, I will strike him down and seek retribution among his bones for the Puruzam." He pushed himself from his chair and pulled his sword from its scabbard.
Bahuchara folded the letter. "Fazil, darling, you're dead. You were supposed to die with the rest. They'll attack you on sight. Stay here and I'll go to the fort at once."
A voice from the door stopped her. "Not just yet."
Bahuchara turned to see Laksha standing just inside. She must have slipped in while they were both focused on the letter. Laksha had always been the best at moving stealthily. Bahuchara was surprised to see her, given how their last meeting had ended.
"I know you," Laksha said to Fazil.
Fazil nodded. "You are Laksha, yes?"
Bahuchara arched her eyebrow. "Her you recognize?" Laksha, wearing a plain brown hijab instead of the colors of the kitabkhana, ignored the comment. She held her left hand close to her chest and Bahuchara could see blood staining the fabric. "You're hurt. Why is everyone covered in blood?"
She took a step away from the injured girl, while Fazil eased his way closer. "Let me see," he said, easing her arm away from her chest.
"It's okay," Laksha resisted.
It was not okay. The deep gash slitting her palm began to bleed again when Fazil pried her fingers open. "Be still a moment," he instructed her as he placed his own palm atop hers, even as she winced.
Bahuchara realized the muttering coming from him was a prayer, his head bowed over the hands, a light glow emanating from their joined hands. Laksha shuddered in surprise then settled with a look of wonder in her eyes. When Fazil slipped his hand away, Laksha's hand was still blooded, but the gash had closed.
"How did you…"
"It was Iwa," Fazil answered the unfinished question. "I am but his instrument. He has blessed me with purpose and power."
Bahuchara examined the hand, risking her silks to get closer. Not even a scar. "You are indeed blessed," she appraised. "Mujahid Fazil."
Laksha moved her fingers, shaped them into what Bahuchara knew to be a prarthana mudra–the hand, she recalled. The girl was testing Fazil's healing and nodded approvingly. "Thank you."
"Have you…" Bahuchara tried to recover from the jumble of events happening in her studio. "Are you here to talk to me? I was just…"
Laksha unslung the bag from her shoulder and pulled out a golden rod about the length of her arm. Its two ends were shaped like claws balled into spheres, and it was covered in engraving and gemstones. She thunked the remarkable item on Bahuchara's desk. "Do you know what this is?"
Bahuchara marveled at the costly artifact. "No, but I want it," she breathed.
"It's a vajra," Fazil said. "It was a weapon of the ancient Muwahhid. They have long since been lost or destroyed."
"Not this one," Laksha said, "and Sameer bin-Nabeel had it in his home in the fort. Salim wanted me to steal it for him."
Bahuchara dropped to her seat. "Why? How did you get in and out of Sameer's mahal? Is that how you got hurt?" she added. "You're thieving again?"
"It's not just any…what did you say? Vajra." She had purposefully ignored Bahuchara's last question. "I saw it in a painting in an old manuscript. This is the Vajra of Gurkani Tayyib."