Pattern
Days go by.
Rajesh had taken bloodguilt for Esmail, thus he had been isolated and fasting. Arjun wasn’t able to see much of him due to this ritual. It was a break, Arjun assumed, since Rajesh hadn’t called for his assistance and he didn’t serve anyone else. He found it interesting that Rajesh had taken the rite so seriously. It wasn’t required for one to completely seclude themselves when they took bloodguilt, they only needed to make it evident wherever they went. Whether Rajesh’s isolation was an act of shame or extreme respect…for once, Arjun couldn’t tell. Things like this didn’t tend to bother him but, this was different for some reason. In the weeks approaching the Oath, Rajesh had seemed to undergo a massive change within himself. He was incredibly distant and hollow, Arjun had hoped that it was a time of growth, but he wasn’t sure.
Things like this had never really happened before.
In all the time Arjun had known him, Rajesh had never let anything bring him down. He was completely opposite of his sister Mahvash, who always seemed to be brooding. The prince had never even taken his royal duties seriously. He was at heart, an intellectual, politics and superficial noble affairs didn’t matter to him.
Much less violence.
Arjun had guessed that this was the reason for Rajesh’s radical change. Real life had suddenly sprung on him, and not subtly. When a prince or princess is young, by royal tradition, they are considered holy. Association with those of a lower bloodline was not permitted until an appointed time, so as not to taint their purity before they attained “godhood”. During this time, they would be taught the ways of the kingdom and politics. Once older, they would then be introduced to life outside the palace. This hadn’t quite been the case with Rajesh. After Zaman’s death, Mahvash quickly ascended to power and Rajesh was on his own. His sister had then given Arjun to him as a servant, a companion to help make childhood sacredness a little less lonely.
Such was her mistake.
It was from Arjun that Rajesh had learned of the outside world at an early age. Over endless games of shirza, or long talks and child’s play through palace corridors; Rajesh developed the aversion to royal responsibility, and a thirst for knowledge of the world around him. Hopes and dreams wanted to break down those palace walls. Freedom was caged, but a friendship flourished.
Arjun sits on the small deck of his humble quarters. He lives on the eastern side of the valley that Vishal is nestled in. The city lies within the land’s embrace like some sleeping beast: its myriad of tiered and terraced buildings covered with the lush skin of flowering vines and moss. Hanging gardens adorn the grand palace that sits at the base of the towering, cloud-crowned mountains. Smooth waterfalls flow down through the city, feeding the river that continued out of the valley and into the surrounding plains.
Kishan just left for work in the fields, hopefully he wasn’t late as he usually was. He’d moved in a few months ago, after Arjun had turned 17 and found a room outside the choking palace walls. Arjun had been looking for someone to help pay for the small space for awhile. Even though he was employed by royalty, he didn’t like to accept that much pay from Rajesh, friendship was enough. He’d met Kishan down at the saraya, where he often played the tala drums with a few other boys for money. Kishan had traveled with a caravan from the Western Fringe to Vishal looking for work. Hearing that he needed a place to stay, Arjun had approached him and he agreed to live and help pay for the room if Arjun would find him a job. Hopefully he could keep it.
A cool breeze blows through the city, balancing the warm temperature. Arjun props his feet on the banister and sighs, it was nice to have a day like this. He decides he’s going to do something in the city, but he doesn’t know what. Perhaps he would go train with Bharat for awhile, now that Rajesh’s Oath is over the old man must surely have some free time for sparring… At that moment there is a sharp knock at the door. Sauntering past his bed, he picks up a robe and puts it on, it hangs sloppily from his shoulders, not at all matching the lungi he slept in. He notices Kishan’s cot, rumpled and messy as always.
“Arjun! Hey- oh, you wanna play at the saraya for awhile? It’s pretty bu-hke’?! What are you still doing in those clothes?? It’s nearly the end of First Cycle!” A boy exclaims as Arjun opens the screen door. His brown eyes are wide, framed by slightly girlish lashes; which was a common subject of jest among the other boys. He holds a suvit-a small single-stringed instrument- and bow in one hand. Arjun gives a childish smile, accompanied by a mock-shameful run of his hand through his dark brown hair. The other boy laughs.
“Dipak, I’ll be ready in a few moments, wait for me downstairs.” Arjun replies with a chuckle. Dipak shakes his head and snickers as he leaves the doorway. After changing into a simple beige lungi, he debates wearing an outer-robe while tying his silk russet sash. He leans over the small parapet outside his room, wondering what others are wearing on a day like this. Men and boys are dressed in casual lungis or loose-fitting kana robes as they go about their daily affairs. Arjun shrugs and grabs his tala drums as he leaves his berth. There isn’t anyone to impress today. Making his way to the lower floors of the complex, he greets fellow residents with an amiable smile. Sunlight seems to pervade every nook and cranny of the busy street as Dipak and Arjun walk shoulder-to-shoulder.
-
Inside the saraya, the din of conversation is almost deafening. Uprisings of laughter explode every so often. Men talk or cast lots on floor or table, heartily eating plates piled with meat and fruit. The younger crowd of boys and girls huddle- some together, some apart- in various circles throughout, flirting and laughing, leaning on cheap divans or piles of rugs and pillows. A few girls eye Arjun and Dipak for fleeting moments from behind veil or sari. Arjun doesn’t mind their notice of him, and meets their quaint interest with a soft smile.
“Basir! Kemal!” Dipak calls out to two boys setting up instruments on a small raised platform in a corner. A shaft of sunlight beams down on them from the opening in the cracked roof. Both boys nod their heads in greeting and sit down on the padded platform. Arjun clips Kemal’s head playfully and nudges Basir’s shoulder as he sits down cross-legged. Placing the tala in a comfortable position in front of him, Arjun looks at Dipak expectantly and then taps and few light rhythms.
“Dinhale’!” Dipak yells to the crowd, a few men answer back, raising their goblets. Arjun starts a lightning fast introductory rhythm, Dipak stabs a note on his suvit, the single string shudders, as if with ecstasy. Arjun slows down to a simpler beat and weaves hand-claps between each strike of his drums. He enunciates random syllables, thus defining the time cycle of the set. After a moment he pauses, his hands hang in the air in recoil from a drum strike. As attention is confirmed, Arjun smiles and launches into a complex beat. The other three begin playing their pieces, each of their melodies weaving in and out of each other. They’re separate, but still effloresce with mind-boggling coexistence.
After a few measures, a girl steps out onto the small clearing in front of the platform. She wears an orange sari hemmed with intricate patterns of gold thread. A silk veil covers the lower half of her face, only revealing intense light-brown eyes. She wears gold circlets on her ankles and wrists. She begins to dance slow, lithe movements at first, flicking her wrists to create a complementary rhythm to Arjun’s galloping beat. Her eyes seem to flicker as he smiles and picks up the pace. He doesn’t lose her. She still dances within the time cycle, every part of her body evoking the song of each instrument. Her hips punctuate the bass tala, her hands move like the suvit’s serpentine melody, the rest of her dances with the flute and govind. It was as if the music itself had created her, made her its embodiment. It seems like at any moment she may disappear. A sudden flurry of gold and orange, and her face is revealed. Whispers explode within the crowd. The girls brown hair is freed of her sari, and flows with her movements. Her face is perfect in its femininity, without flaw. Alluring lips hold a slight smile, her keen eyes goad Arjun on, yet slice across him like an assassin’s knife with each pirouette. Her dance cavorts playfully between elegance and tease; a spin of the sari around her, and her perfectly toned midriff is exposed but for a swift moment. Yet another twirl and the sweet punishment of mock-disapproval is seen in her enticing eyes. Arjun is slowly beginning to play outside of the defined time, heedless of his band members musical hints and suggestions. Instead he’s playing to the girl’s movements, creating an intricate pulsation of beats and cycles, hypnotized by every twirl and gyration. If women could indeed use magic to woo men and boys…
This girl would be the High Sorceress.
The three other boys slowly conclude their pieces one after the other, leaving Arjun and the mysterious girl to perform their strange duet. Arjun smiles and taps a fast rhythm on the high-pitched tala and stops, as if asking a question. The girl shakes the circlets in an answering rhythm. After a few more moments of spell-binding movements and syncopation, the girl performs a last pirouette and ends the song with an elegant pose. Silence hangs over the saraya, and time seems to stop. The girl simply puts her veil and sari back on and walks out of the establishment without a second glance. Arjun’s eyes follow her as she exits. He looks back at the audience, but finds no answers there, they’re just as dumbstruck. A few of the old men snicker and turn their attention back to their games, and the din slowly returns. A young boy dashes between tables and bodies up to the small platform.
“Arjun!” He calls with a small voice.
“Titu, what are you doing in these parts?” Arjun asks with a smile, the boy gestures and stands tip-toe as Arjun leans down to him.
“The Deva has called for you.” Titu whispers. Arjun nods and the little boy runs off into the crowd.
“Duty calls, friends.” Arjun says as he looks at the three others. They simply look at him as he gets up and begins to leave the stage, they’re still trying to figure out what happened a few moments ago.
“Wha-“ Kemal starts.
“We’ll do this again alright?” Arjun interrupts as he walks out of the saraya.
-
After having put his tala away and donning a loose robe, Arjun now walks through the main street of Vishal towards the palace. The sun still beams down on the lush city, making the river that flows down its middle sparkle and glisten. There’s a moderate crowd on the streets today, not as packed as it might be in the spring. The lazy eyes of old guru scan the people walking the streets, cooling themselves with cheap fans and proclaiming a blessing ever now and then.
Arjun wonders about the girl in the saraya. Who was she? He was surprised that he didn’t see some glimpse of her on the streets now, as he saunters through the aristocratic areas on his way to the palace. She couldn’t have been poor or middle class, no, by her sari she must be a noble. Maybe one of the merchant Houses? Arjun sighs. He tries to remember he face but can only remember parts. Every piece is so perfect and exquisite in itself, it seems impossible that they all formed a person. It’s useless, he knows he’ll never see her again. He normally wasn’t one to just fall in love, and by no means is he completely infatuated but…he wants to see her…to know her…
Again.
It was trivial to think of such things. Right now, Rajesh needed him for something. Arjun looks up the road to the palace square, it’s deserted, save for the solemn guardsmen. A warm wind blows, tousling Arjun’s hair and garments. He sees the guards eye him and then nod as he gets closer, he flows past them and enters the palace. Past the enclosing colonnade of pillars, the Throne Room is empty. Arjun makes his way around to the back of the throne where massive doors stand ajar with guards at the entrance. Arjun stops before them.
“The Deva has called me.”
The guards part their spears and Arjun passes. The corridor is empty; at the far end, scuffling feet of a retreating servant is heard. Arjun saunters through the main passageways, his steps completely silent. He passes by no one, it seems the palace is empty, but he knows better. At last, the doors of Rajesh’s room. Arjun raises his hand to knock, but stops. He was no stranger. A soft push, and he enters. No torches are lit inside, dim light filters in from the covered entrance to a outside porch. Arjun looks around the room and notices a figure near the luxurious divan. It is Rajesh, kneeling over a small desk. As Arjun makes his way to him, he picks up a small candle from a shelf. The prince is illuminated once Arjun settles and the candle is lit, he’s writing on a leaf of paper. Arjun watches him, still as he is. His friend is motionless except for his hand, which moves with deft grace as he inscribes the swirling, erudite script. After a few moments, the prince neatly rolls the parchment, and from the folds of his simple robe he retrieves a red-threaded circlet. Enclosing this around his message, he places it before Arjun without a glance.
“For House Sonal. The recipient is aware of its arrival.” He says in an empty tone. Arjun doesn’t move, but merely stares as the prince begins another letter.
“Brother,” Arjun says softly. A twitch in Rajesh’s hand, and a small mistake is seen in mid-sentence on the paper.
“…Are you well?” Arjun asks, his voice gives a faint echo in the chamber. A flicker of candlelight, and a flicker of hazel eyes from Rajesh’s fleeting glance.
“I’m fine.”
“Raj-“ Arjun starts, but his friend interrupts him.
“Please, not now. This message is important…”
“How long must this go on? Stop this-“ Arjun’s pleading voice reveals pain in Rajesh’s face, his friend slams a fist on the table, drops of ink spatter on the letter.
“I beg you, no more!” he looks up, a hint of helplessness is in his eyes “This will pass soon enough.”
After a moment of sad silence, Arjun takes the parchment and quietly exits Rajesh’s room. Along corridors and majestic colonnades, his face is a mask to the turmoil inside him.
-
Like almost all Noble Houses, House Sonal seems to be a small palace in itself. Servants scuttle in and out of hallways and chambers, carry clothing, food, and bland documents. Arjun saunters into the main hall of the House, his quiet presence peircing through the peaceful din. A old servant timidly approaches him, graciously bowing his head and respectfully clasping his hands together.
“I am Basir, how might I assist you, young man…?” the old man inquires, Arjun bows his head also and flashes a courteous smile.
“I am servant to the Deva,” Arjun starts, the servant’s eyes widen ever so slightly “, I have a message for the Noble…” his voice trails off, but the old man catches on smoothly.
“Yes, yes you do. Right this way.” The old man turns and walks towards a side passage, he seems to glide as his feet are shadowed within the folds of his simple robe. Arjun follows, trying not to look around him, for some reason he felt a familiar presence here…
The old man glides past small gardens and corridors, and at last he stops at an ornately painted screen door. After announcing his presence he opens it, Arjun quietly steps through the doorway and takes in his new surroundings. From alcove that the doorway is in, a long room stretches in front of him. Sunlight filters in from the patterned ceiling, causing intricate designs of shadow to fall on every surface. The smell of perfume and sweet incense fill his nostrils, and he realizes that this a room designated for the past-times of women-folk. Vases formed in the shape of birds explode from mouth and breast with fresh flowers of every shape and color. Elegant cascades of maroon silk frame windows overlooking a tranquil pond on one side. Divan’s and ottomans of matching colors furnish the room. Upon these lay the women. Arjun eyes glaze past their noble garments and demeanors to a woman who sat in the center of the room. She appears to be embroidering, and is half-heartedly engaged in a conversation with another noble woman.
“A servant of the Deva has arrived, Noble Radha.” The old man announces with a deep bow. The noblewoman’s pleasantly bland eyes, seem to sharpen as they look up. As if by mental command, all conversation in the room stops and all eyes fall upon the strapping brown-eyed, dark-haired young man with a parchment in his hand. The old servant backs out of the room and the hiss of the closing screen doors herald yet another awkward silence. The Noblewoman Radha smiles genuinely and gestures to the divan in front of her, mysteriously left empty.
“Please, sit down young man, might I have your name?”
First trap. Arjun bows and answers her, accompanying it with the most charming smile he could muster. He couldn’t appear to be uncomfortable around women, his actions could surely be twisted to somehow reflect on the prince. It was likely that none of these women knew precisely who he was, but now that they knew he was connected to royalty, he might be put on their list of people to watch, however humble he may seem.
As he sits, a few uninvolved conversations blossom around him and most of the women seem to go back to what they were doing. No doubt, one of them was within earshot and intended to pick out any information ripe for gossip. Arjun places the document on his lap and reaches for a grape at Radha’s gesture.
“How is the Deva, if I may ask? Did he really take bloodguilt?” She asks with general concern.
“He is well, his rite will be over in a short while.” Behind a mask of humility, a small wave of grief washes over Arjun.
“I’m sure loyalty displayed by servants such as yourself must surely help ease him in a time like this. So sad it is…” Radha says, she shakes her head with a sigh and threads a few more loops. Arjun bows his head and smiles graciously. She was cutting a little to close now, what was she trying to do? Break him in front of the others? He glances towards the window and catches the glimpse of a girl-
“Is there a message that concerns me?” Radha asks, her attention tuned to him once more. He nods and places the document on the ottoman before her. She gracefully puts her embroidering screen to the side and begins to open the letter. She reads its contents impassively, Arjun takes another grape. Rolling the message back up, the noblewoman places it within the folds of her robe.
“Well, thank you for delivering this, Arjun.” She says with a polite smile, Arjun nods and stands. As he bows and exits the room he makes sure no one sees him as he steals a sideways glance to the girl by the window.
The dancer.
Light falls on her perfect features, keen eyes like her mothers gaze down at a game board, delicate hands move a piece. Arjun’s perfectly-timed gaze is hidden, as planned, behind a flower-filled vase as he moves smoothly past it and out of the women’s quarters.
She’s the one.
-
At last, a breath of fresh air. Arjun had felt as though he was being strangled amongst those women. So many masks and superficiality…he hated that, but was often able to use it to his advantage remarkably well. He sighs, at least he was free now. Arjun promised to see Rajesh later, but the prince could plod in his self-inflicted sorrow for another hour or two, for now Arjun needed to clear his mind.
He walks along the streets in mid-afternoon to a middle-class quarter of town. Comfortably dressed men and women barter and shop around the vendors of a small market, adorable children gleefully chase each other, their laughs and shrieks carried away by the warm breeze. Arjun eases through the shifting crowd and makes his way to an alley. He stops at a door and knocks, after a few moments it opens and an old man is in veiw. His wizened face forms a greeting smile.
“Basu,” Arjun says with a smile and bow. The old man chuckles as he opens the door wider, letting Arjun walk in.
“It has been awhile, young one,” Bharat says as he shuffles past the boy and deeper into his house. Around Arjun is what seems to be a small office, a desk covered in papers is shoved in one corner, and bookshelves crammed with scrolls and parchments line the walls. Arjun walks into a dark doorway after the old man.
“How is your friend?” Bharat’s gruff voice asks as small windows are opened to the outside letting in shafts of light on the room. The space is surprisingly large: a low ceiling, a large main floor surrounded by a pool of water, and various weapons adorning the walls.
“He’s…fine…” Arjun replies as Bharat hands him isha cloth. He takes off his robe and allows the old man to wrap his torso with the fold armor, then takes the rest and wraps his forearms and legs. When he looks up, the old trainer is standing calmly, perfectly centered on the floors circular grooves and designs.
“How long have I been training you now?” Bharat asks
“Four years, basu. I believe I am… close to the end of the First Tide.” Arjun replies hesitantly, he feels as though something was about to happen.
“Really?… Only hand-to-hand and weapons combat…” The old man’s voice trails.
“Yes basu.”
Bharat ponders this for a moment.
“Well then, I suppose your graduation to the Second Tide of training is eminent, is it not?” He asks
“If you wish, basu.” Arjun bows respectfully. A long pause ensues, during which Bharat takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. After a few moments, the old man’s eyes flash open, his old face shows intense concentration.
“Then prepare yourself.” With those words, Bharat dashes forward with surprising speed, his body doubled over and low to the ground. Arjun quickly adopts a defensive stance, preparing for a low attack. But the old man suddenly launches upward, his left leg recoiled in preparation for a kick.
“AMIT-MUTAR!” His gruff voices yells with ferocity, he lashes out with his left leg but Arjun redirects it to the right, only to find his teacher spin and strike with the other leg. The Amit-Mutar. Endless Rain. A continuous stream of aerial attacks that are fast, unpredictable, and innumerable. Between desperate blocks, Arjun attempts to read his master’s movements and detect a pattern, but to no avail. Bharat’s aerial assault could rely on Arjun employing absorptive defense, which would entail that Arjun would simply brace himself as each attack came and wait for an opening. But Arjun knows he doesn’t have that kind of endurance. He has to meet or redirect every attack as it comes, which meant defending current strikes and predicting others all in the same movement.
The only detectable pattern so far in Bharat’s attack is to strike and recoil back up into the air.
Recoil.
As the old master jumps back to prepare a downward kick, Arjun comes to a realization. Bharat was making anything close to simply blocking impossible. With each attack that he made, wherever he struck was also the vaulting point for becoming air-born.
Arjun’s blocking is part of Bharat’s attack.
Realizing this, Arjun begins to rely strictly on redirecting Bharat’s attacks. Since it is the solid foundation that blocking provides for Bharat to use as a vaulting-point back into the air; redirection will cause Arjun to be in control of where the next possible attack will be, or cause Bharat to fall.
Predicting a downwards punch, Arjun raises his hand in defense. Bharat’s blow smack’s firmly into the boy’s palm, and Arjun pushes his hand downward, causing the old man’s body to flip forward. Wary of a possible kick down onto his head, Arjun rolls backward, avoiding his prediction. Bharat lands crouching low on his feet, and Arjun wastes no time in commencing an attack.
“Raghu-nulla.” Arjun says under his breathe as he launches himself forward, preparing to execute a succession of low attacks. But as he gets closer, he notices something. From behind Bharat, a fountain of water rises. Suddenly it thrusts forward, serpentine, towards Arjun. Shifting his plan he jumps up to avoid it, but like a curious living creature it cranes upward and surrounds his lower half in a wet embrace. It then freezes, leaving Arjun half-hanging in the air attached to a gracefully curved, frozen pillar of ice.
“Well done. You figured out the Amit-Mutar and had an attack to follow up with your analysis.” Bharat says as he stands and looks up into Arjun’s shocked eyes. Silence is abated only by Arjun’s panting.
“Basu…you’re a-“
“What you see here is the Damayanti-thirtha, ‘Subduing River’. Consider this an introduction to the Second Tide of the Nahar martial art style. Water-parakram.”
*sighs* agh I had a hard time with the ending of this chapter...had NO IDEA what to do lol, glad its finally done. ^_^