Saleem was eight when his father took him to visit his grandfather one last time before the old man was expected to die. At his request, Saleem was left alone in the study for an audience with the dying Lion.
The fire was the only light in the room. His grandfather’s chair sat squarely before the fire, close enough for the old man to warm his bones. There was nothing wrong with his hearing. The moment the servants softly closed the door behind them, he commanded, “Come here to me, boy.”
Saleem edged forward. His grandfather had changed so much since their last visit. The man who’d held him on his knee and hugged him close was gone, replaced by this ancient gray thing sitting too close to the fire.
He knew his grandfather was very sick, and suddenly Saleem was scared of him. He smelled wrong, and his eyebrows were thick, like hairy caterpillars, with stray hairs growing out like feelers.
When he was within a few feet, his grandfather’s arm snaked out and grabbed him, pulling him close. The musty smell of death overwhelmed him, and Saleem coughed.
“I need to tell you a story, Saleem. I am dying. It is important for you to know what this means.”
“Why are you dying, Grandfather?”
“My heart is broken, young Saleem. It has a hole that cannot be fixed. So it slows and doesn’t push the blood through my body. Feel how cold my hands are, how blue my nails.”
He touched the boy’s forehead, and Saleem jumped. It was like setting a large cube of ice against his skin.
“Shall I add more wood to the fire, then? Will it help warm you?”
The old man shook his shaggy head. “It will not work. Now listen to me, and listen well. You are about to be given a secret so important you can never share it with another soul. Do you understand what I mean when I say a secret?”
“I can’t tell anyone, or I’ll die.”
A spark of humor showed in the old man’s eyes, and Saleem briefly saw the man he remembered, peeking out from the gathering black. He smiled, pleased to make his grandfather happy, and said, “Tell me, Grandfather. I will never tell a soul.”
“Good, Saleem, good. I must whisper these words to you. Come closer.”
Saleem bent his head, and his grandfather spoke, his old-man breath foul and hot on his face. “You are of a long line of men whose one job in this life is to guard a most ancient and valuable secret. See the box on the table there? Fetch it to me.”
The rosewood box was small and brown, with an intricate lock. “Where is the key, Grandfather?”
“I will show you. Bring me the box and the small knife lying beside it.”
Saleem did as he was asked. His grandfather took the box in one feeble hand, set it on his lap. His fingers were gnarled, but he cut his thumb surely with the ivory-handled knife. The blood welled from the wound, and instead of wiping it away, he laid his thumb against the latch of the box. Saleem heard a deep clicking noise, and the latch sprang free.
His voice shook. “Blood? Blood opens the box?”
His grandfather smiled. “Not any blood, Saleem. Our blood. The blood of the Lion. We are the descendants of the Lion of Punjab, and it is our line which was given this great gift. We, and we alone, are the guardians of the stone.”
He lifted the top of the box, and within lay a crystal-clear rock, slightly misshapen, not quite an oval, and the size of his grandfather’s fist. It didn’t look grand or exciting, and Saleem was disappointed.
“This is your destiny, Saleem. It is one part of the most ancient diamond in the world. Once, our ancestors possessed a great stone, given to Krishna himself by Surya, the sun god. He who owned the stone had the power of the world in his hands. This power could not be bought, it could only be given, or”—his voice hardened—“taken by force.”