“I’m going and that’s that,” said Chandra.
Chandra pretended not to see when Sameera signaled at her to soften her imperious tone, which was probably blowing her cover. Shota wisely didn’t even argue with her.
Just then, a dark shape broke through the surface. The turtle had returned, but now it was carrying a collapsed man on its back. Chandra gasped out a short breath like a sob and waded a few steps into the waters, right behind Shota and Billadev.
Hands scrambled for Veer when he reached the bank and laid him on the ground. They turned him and found a slim broken branch sticking out from underneath his ribs. He grimaced in pain but seemed conscious. Barely.
Shota crouched beside Veer and slipped the healing stone from his pocket. He glanced at Sameera and sent her a discreet signal.
Sameera nodded. She raised her voice, distracting the attention. “Who could that turtle be but an avatar of Vishnu? It has come to save and bless us.”
The rumor caught and circulated, devotees all too willing to accept the improbable explanation as a divine miracle, leaving Veer relatively alone with his companions.
Shota grabbed the stick and pulled it out. Veer began bleeding briskly, but it slowed under the influence of the healing stone.
“They are coming back. Quickly,” whispered Chandra. Shota slipped the stone back into his pocket.
Shota halted when Veer grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “The plan,” he gasped. “Cancel it. I know where the key piece is,” he said and lost consciousness.
Shota watched Veer’s bloodless face with a worried look.
“I can send a message to my brother about the change in plans,” said Matangi, who was hovering nearby. She seemed pleased about the change.
“Go,” said Chandra, interpreting Shota’s torn expression as he watched Matangi walk away. “I shall be with him.” She cradled Veer’s head in her lap and smoothed his brow.
Chapter 27: The Weather Mage
A short distance from the temple city, near the monolith, a thatched hut was set on fire in the early hours of dawn. Smoke stained the pure bright rays of the sun as it rose above the horizon.
Two people seemed to have survived the fire, an elderly man and a man still in his prime. They sat outside, watching the burning building.
He felt no anguish. That is what he had lost this time. Not a great loss, thought the young man, as he watched that emotion painted grotesquely on the other man’s face.
Bleached white teeth rose like tombstones from the gums of the elderly man’s gaping mouth as he bawled his heart out. His paralyzed legs were useless, although, he made futile attempts to reach the crying baby in the burning thatched house.
The noisy cry cut off abruptly, and the wizard appreciated the quiet, for it also stifled the elderly man’s yells for help. He now lay quietly sobbing, hunched over, looking like a skin-covered skeleton.
The wizard, Maayavi, now in the body of the young man, didn’t understand why the man was crying over the apparent death of his grandson.
Intellectually, he understood that people cried when someone they loved died, but he felt nothing. And that was how he knew what he had lost.
Each time he re-formed his body from this false death, he felt the loss of an emotion. He didn’t know why and with each transformation, the why of it became less important.
The storm he had caused yesterday had resulted in an incredible use of power. It had burned his previous body so badly that he had died in agony early this afternoon.
Luckily, a man, a goatherd by appearance, was passing by and found him covered in blood. He had taken him to a solitary home here, up on the slopes of the hill.
Maayavi stood up and flexed his fingers to make a fist, appreciating the bunch of substantial muscle in his arm. It was good not to be in pain and to have control of a strong and healthy body. He already knew the goatherd had passably handsome features, which would be a bonus. At least his vanity was intact.
He had burned his previous body, setting the thatched hut on fire, but there was no way he could hide the traces of magic on it. It was not the kind that washed away easily. But unless a person knew what to look for, they wouldn’t find it.
Maayavi should know; he had been doing this for years now and no one had caught him or even suspected his involvement. But then, everybody thought he was dead.
The elderly man gazed with rheumy eyes as Maayavi carefully cleaned the most important possession he had; far more important than his four-skulled magical staff leaning against a stone.
A bone dagger.
Years ago, shortly after his physical death, Maayavi had to break into his ownsamadhior grave to acquire this femur bone, fashioning it into a sharp dagger by whittling and scraping itdown, inscribing the bone with powerful spells to help make the transfer of souls into other bodies easy.
