Chapter Text
Reliefs of Paidamma Talli, the Goddess of Agriculture, Hunting, Hearth and Home, decorate most buildings in the Kingdom of Malayadripuri. The Goddess is always depicted surrounded by livestock, her heavy breasts leaking milk, her hair decorated with a golden wreath of barley. A bow lies on her lap, flowers bloom at her feet and a tender green pumpkin vine twists itself around her ankle. She has an expression of benign nobility, her arms outstretched and bountiful.
Worship me , she seems to say, and I will fulfil all your desires .
Looking at the cast gilt-bronze panel in his room at the Guild, Rama frowns. It doesn’t matter how hard the desperate peasants of his homeland beseech her, any harvest the poor soil yields is immediately seized to offer as a tribute to the Gond Empire, leaving them with a pittance.
By the time the next sowing season comes round, peasant families are nearly always a member or two short, dead of hunger or the bitter cold.
Rama’s own parents had died when he was a mere infant, his father hanging from the rafters after realizing he couldn’t support his wife or their baby through the winter. His mother had followed shortly after.
Paidamma Talli is a symbol of their compliance to the Gonds, a gesture of their submissiveness to the Gond Emperor.
Rama hates the very sight of her.
+
“We have been summoned for an audience with the Prince,” Venkateshwarulu, his partner-mage at the Guild whispers to him as they sit down for breakfast, magically charming open the letter that was just delivered.
“Does it mention why?” Rama asks him, cutting his steamed tapioca into careful pieces.
“None at all. Just that it is a matter of great importance and secrecy.”
“It always is,” Rama sighs.
“Ugh,” Venkateshwarulu complains, frowning at his pongal, “this is horrendous. I do wish we get a more acceptable cook sometime soon. Even the servants at home eat better meals.”
Rama shrugs and eats his breakfast silently. Venkateshwarulu is the only child of one of the few noble families of Malayadripuri and has grown up in the lap of luxury, but Rama has subsisted on Ragi slop and rancid khichdi in the orphanage. Even if he had survived into adulthood, he would have been nothing more than yet another landless laborer, toiling all day during the season for a bit of grain and a corner to sleep in.
His magic had saved him from that life.
+
Rama braids his long hair carefully, tying it off with a piece of black string. His angavastram is lying on the bed behind him, along with the ceremonial staff presented to him on his graduation. He preferred the rougher, mahogany staff he had crafted himself, though the ceremonial one was better at focusing his magic. Its fault lay in the fact that it was far too delicate to wield in a real battle.
Rama takes one last look at himself before draping the angavastram on, an uncomfortable navy blue silk one with a large zari border. There’s gold filigree work throughout and he hates how he looks in it, another pompous, empty headed nobleman, living off the blood and tears of the desperately poor souls under them.
He remembers the day he left the orphanage clearly. He had been with Gayatri that morning and they were playing cops and robbers. He had almost caught up to her when she started screaming- high, shrill, screams that reverberated down the stone corridor and brought out one of the attendants, a cane in his hand, ready to thrash the offending child. He had stopped short as well and gaped at the ring of purple-green fire surrounding Gayatri, a fire no one could extinguish. Rama himself had fallen backwards in his fear, eyes fixed on the noxious looking flames. Someone had run to fetch the local mage’s assistant — a thin, wiry young man with pince-nez on his nose and a pinched expression.
“It’s not real fire,” he had announced, stepping closer to the terrified Gayatri, his pince-nez illuminated by the eerie flames, highlighting his sunken cheeks.
Rama had known they weren’t real, though for the life of him he couldn’t explain why.
“Then what is it?” the orphanage head had asked him, her tone wary.
“An illusion. Take them away, boy,” he had snapped at Rama, thwacking the prone boy’s back with his staff.
Rama had trembled, weeping. He tried to will the fire away, but couldn’t.
Huffing a disgusted sigh, the man had chanted a counter spell.
“He has potential,” he had said, “my master would like to have him at the Academy. If he’s no good we’ll send him back, but otherwise he will stay there.”
Of course no one had objected, and at the tender age of ten Rama had found himself inside the walls of the Academy, bound to be a servant of the Prince ever after.
It was only years later that he had found out that anyone who found and sent a child with magic to the Academy would be rewarded a hefty amount. He had always wondered what price he fetched.
“Rama?” Venkateshwarulu knocks at the door, “it is time to go.”
“Very well,” Rama says and steps out into the cold.
+
The portrait of Anandalakshmi, the legendary crown princess of Malayadripuri, smiles down at them as they enter the Prince’s private sitting room. There are three other men already present. One of them Rama knows well enough — Krouncha, minister of state and one of Prince Viraata Shourya’s right hand men. The other two he only knows by sight — Ravisimha and Udghata, both members of the royal guard. They were both accomplished warriors, but as a mage he had very little to do with them.
“Your Grace,” Venkateshwarulu says as he and Rama bow deeply.
“You are late,” Viraata Shourya states coldly, “but no matter. Venkateshwarulu, charm the doors and windows. Rama,” he says as Venkateshwarulu hurries to do his bidding, “we have summoned you both here on a matter of great importance. Would you be so kind as to read this document aloud?”
“Yes, my lord,” Rama says, taking it from him.
The letter is from Tamaramandalam, the capital city of Gond. It has the red tiger seal and sign of Komaram Bheem, the Emperor of Gond, and is addressed to Governor Abhaya Samaragiri of Malayadripuri, their official contact with the Empire.
Rama is well aware that Viraata Shourya is only a demoted King, his title but a courtesy one, all the power rests with Governor Samaragiri. Malayadripuri is but a vassal kingdom to the Gond Empire, and it has been for hundreds of years.
“Double the tribute?” Rama stutters as he reaches the offending line. Behind him, Venkateshwarulu utters a shocked gasp.
“That will be all,” Viraata Shourya says, taking the letter from Rama’s lifeless fingers, “I am sure it has dawned upon you that this is a very... unreasonable request.”
“Our people will starve,” Rama says, “we cannot survive this.”
“Can we talk to the Governor?” Venkateshwarulu asks.
“We have tried appealing to Governor Samaragiri. He refuses to intercede,” Krouncha says, his face impassive.
“Your Grace, can we send an ambassador to Tamaramandalam to request - ” Rama starts to say, but is cut off by Krouncha’s booming voice.
“And have that attempt fail as well, like the innumerable times we’ve sent desperate messages before? This is hardly the first preposterous demand the Gonds have made.”
“I...” Rama says, looking at the red seal with disgust, “what do we do then, Your Grace?”
“I have thought long and hard about this,” Viraata Shourya booms, “my first and only concern is for the people of our kingdom. We owe no loyalty to the Gonds. They are barbaric people who do not care for our suffering. You all know very well that our peaceful kingdom was attacked, our people enslaved, our land captured, all because the ancestor of the current Emperor wanted her .” He waves at the portrait of Anandalakshmi.
Rama knows of the legend. How the beautiful princess was kidnapped in the night by men who claimed to be ambassadors from the Gonds over two thousand years ago. How her broken-hearted father sent his army to rescue her, hoping to find her before they escaped. They did not expect the entire might of the Gond army stationed at the border and were utterly routed in less than a fortnight.
“Since we lost the war, we have been little but slaves to the Empire,” Viraata Shourya hisses, “generations of Emperors have come and gone and Malayadripuri is being bled out drop by drop by each one of them. We need to gain our freedom once again.”
“But Your Grace, we cannot afford a war,” Venkateshwarulu says, his face pale.
“We are not going to go to war,” Viraata Shourya states, “the four of you are going to travel to Tamaramandalam within this week. You will seek employment within the royal palace, gain their trust. Once you achieve this, on my signal, you must assassinate Komaram Bheem.”