Lakshmana squinted at me. “I thought you knew.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he do that? How do you know this?” The desperation poured out of me without warning, and I had to stop myself from alarming Lakshmana further.
“See? Rama has even gotten to you.” Lakshmana sat up again and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are his mother and you have done a great deal for the kingdom. But at the ashram, he asked Sage Vamadeva many questions I hardly knew Rama had. The sage said he thinks it shameful for women to be out in the open, believes that women are weak and foolish and will ruin Kosala. And Rama cares very much about what Sage Vamadeva has to say, and the opinions of those the sage introduced to Rama while we were there. They do not like you, which leaves Rama most conflicted.”
“When did you learn so much about this?” I whispered.
“Those two years we were on our own were illuminating. Rama has always been kind to me, and he is my brother. In some ways, he is very wise. I do not want you to think I hate him or find only fault with him. But even the people we love can be flawed, no?”
“Yes,” I said, voice thick with unshed tears. Lakshmana lay back down and I took the opportunity to dash a hand across my eyes. I had missed everything important about my sons.
“He is not ready to be king,” Lakshmana said. He paused to gauge my reaction, and I motioned for him to continue. “Not yet. He will be a great ruler only for some. He is good to me and Bharata and Shatrugna, and to even the lowest of manservants. He listens to their opinions, respects them, and he will do great things for the men of the kingdom. His rule will be excellent for many people.”
“But not all of them,” I finished. And then we both fell silent.
Of all the rumors I have heard about me, the ones involving Lakshmana are some of the most laughable. Many people seem to believe our journey together was the time when he recognized my wickedness and realized he needed to protect Rama from my evil. But it is perhaps the least true out of all the varied theories, because by the end of our trip, Lakshmana found me quite fragile and in need of protection.
By the following day, he had recovered much of his energy. I gave the letter I had written to Hirav, with instructions to send it as quickly as possible and then ride hard for Bhojakata, and then we departed.
Over the course of our journey, I came to one conclusion: Rama could not take the throne until he became more secure in his bearing, able to sort through the clamor around him. I worried in particular about the two years he had spent learning under Sage Vamadeva. How long would it take to undo? But that problem was not insurmountable. After all, Rama wanted to please those around him. There was nothing strange about that. Hadn’t I wanted to do the same? I had grown out of it in time and realized I could not stand to allow others to suffer when it was in my power to help. Rama would see that too, and learn the difference between whims and needs.
The forests grew darker as we approached Janasthana, the sounds of birds more haunting than melodic, and the nights a little blacker, with fewer stars scattered across the skies.
After our adventure in Shishir’s grove, we were far more careful. Our conversations grew quieter and less frequent as we contemplated our surroundings with a wary eye. We alternated sleeping, so that someone could always keep watch on the encroaching shadows.
On the final day of our journey, we were exhausted to our bones. When it was my turn to sleep, I passed into unconsciousness in a blink.
I awoke to a brightness behind my lids. For a moment, I thought it was simply daylight, and that I had woken naturally.
But as I opened my eyes, a bright flame burned itself into my vision. I pushed myself to my feet, blinking rapidly as the image before me clarified itself into a man holding a burning branch toward me, just as I had done to Shishir not so long ago.
No, not a man.
The lips of his bull head pulled back into a grotesque smile. “You do not look like a trader, woman.”
“Who are you?” I demanded. Over his shoulder, I saw Lakshmana slumped against a rock, almost unnaturally still, chest moving in shallow motions. “Lakshmana!” I shouted, but he did not stir. “What have you done to my son?”
“You must be Radnyi Kaikeyi,” he said, stepping closer. Behind me stretched the dark forest, no safer than what lay before me. I stood my ground.
“How do you know who I am?”
“I have been waiting for you.”
A sharp prick of fear slipped down my spine. Shishir had been waiting for me too. “Who are you?”
He extended the burning branch, and I watched the flames lick up his hand but leave no mark. My blood ran cold. I had thought him a rakshasa, a fearsome monster indeed, but such powers seemed beyond a mere rakshasa’s control. My mind rapidly sorted through all the information I had heard about the demonic presence that plagued Janasthana. He commanded an army. He commanded real magic.
This was no mere rakshasa—this was an asura. A being whose powers rivaled those of the gods, who fought the gods for control. I was about to die.
“Pity,” said the asura, tilting his head and blinking slowly at me. “I thought you might know.”
I stumbled back under the canopy of trees and he followed, letting his weapon drop casually to the ground. The brush lit up immediately, and the fire snaked its way toward me faster than I could move.
I glanced around for water, for damp earth, for anything to save me. The flames circled around me, and I coughed once, twice, struggling to stay on my feet. I was dimly aware of the hem of my dhoti catching, and I beat uselessly at it with my hands. Hysterical panic built up in my throat.
“Goodbye, Radnyi—”
His voice cut off with a gurgle. I looked up to find a sword protruding from the asura’s chest.
“Ma!” Lakshmana shouted. A moment later, he came barreling through the circle of flames, a cloth wrapped around his mouth. He lifted me up and rushed back through, dropping me before falling to his knees. I rolled for a moment on the ground, trying to catch my breath as waves of agony suffused my burned skin.
After a moment, I managed to turn my head. The fire was dying down. Lakshmana was standing above a pool of orange blood. The body of the asura was gone.
“What happened?” he asked, coughing.
“I don’t know,” I gasped out. Lakshmana helped me to my feet, and I limped toward our camp at the edge of the road, now a hundred paces away. I did not remember traveling so far into the forest.
Lakshmana sat me down and brought me water, lifting it to my mouth as though I were a child.
“The—rakshasa, he woke me up.” There was no point in scaring Lakshmana further with my guess as to its true nature. “He had put you to sleep, I think. He said he had been waiting for me.”
Lakshmana understood remarkably quickly. “It was a trap?”
I nodded. “We must make haste for Janasthana.”
“If it was a trap, does he not want us to go there? Should we not turn around?”
“I do not believe we could outrun him in the other direction.” My throat hurt fiercely, each word the thorn of a rose.
“Can you ride?” Lakshmana was already saddling our horses.
“What other choice do I have?”
I slipped in and out of a haze of pain until we reached the city. The midday sun beat against my wounds with a throbbing ferocity. The gate was closed and barred, but at our cry, a guard immediately appeared.
“What is your business here?” he demanded.
Lakshmana looked at me. “I’m here to visit my mother,” I said, my voice a raspy whisper. “This is my son, her grandson.”
The sun was at the guard’s back, so I could not tell what he was doing. After a moment, he disappeared. Another guard, or perhaps the same one, emerged from the bottom of the watchtower moments later.
“Who is your mother?”
“Kekaya,” I answered. My mouth was painfully dry. I coughed and fumbled for my waterskin, lifting it to my lips with shaking hands.