Haimavati
The amphitheater, the epicenter of hosting the Fest in Madhyakshetra, was choked with sumptuous décor and bustled with noisy crowds.
A river of people flocked into the building, wading in a single direction. Their heads up and gazing wide-eyed at the gigantic urn placed at the center of the stage. Haimavati smiled mirthlessly. It was ironic how these people who had been chastising her for siding with Almourah and agreeing to marry a younger man had accepted the wedding invitation and were now geared up to go more ballistic on her. Why wouldn't they, it's more entertaining to be a ratifying self-righteous hypercritic, than to have an empathetic sense.
Perhaps it was only her children who stayed back home and did not dare participate in this act of barbarity. She wondered where Endira and Bhagwad were sitting. And would Kshaturya sneak in to convince her to accept his dishonorable bidding?
The gigantic pot-like urn, remarkably tall as a lofty hill, was plunged into wildfire hell. Grisly black smoke swirled up and clouded in the sky. Strange runes were carved around the metal surface, the runes representing the luminous stars and the cosmic legendary collision. The result of this was refined, elegant tiny stars carved below in the form of colorful asterisks.
The stage was double tired and the members of the Panchayat, the finely dressed nobles had arranged themselves in the tire below. Haimavati had hardly ever seen them half so well attended. They were busy examining the burning urn-pointing fingers at the runes, occasionally bending over to participate in the discussions, faces tense, and making several hand gestures.
Haimavati, in her traditional red and gold classic wedding attire and accessorized with heavy jewelry, was stifled by the suffocating heat. She was alone in her personal bridal chamber, with the fireflies flitting in and out of the window. She sat on the chair and gazed outside at the crowding theatre and public gallery. She then held her concentration on the Great Throne and the scepter placed behind the urn, in between the group of nobles. In about a few moments the throne shall be acquired by Lady Chandrika. Haima's blood began to run cold. An image of her rival holding the scepter and kissing the top of it conjured up in her mind.
A servant walked by, knocked on the door, and answered Haima's inquisitive gaze with a nod. Haima sighed, got up from the chair, and made a way towards the door. Her mind fogged up with clouds of worry. It was time to make reforms for a better future.
She crossed the corridor, ignoring the many heads turning towards her. Vague gales of sardonic laughter came wafting through. Disapproving murmurs scattered around, all coming down to – "Women such as her are good as dead" or "A mage and a queen aside, she's first and foremost only a woman from slums, what do you expect?" Heart constricted, she headed down the stairs surrounded by closed wards. Let them talk.
The amphitheater sprang to life with a far-off bellow of Lady Chandrika. "On this special day," she announced. "I give to you in the presence of the Panchayat and all these witnesses my pledge to revolutionize the country and to stay by your side as your faithful Queen in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, as well as through the good times and the bad. My youngest son here..."
Haima bristled despite the efforts and hurried down the stairs. She chose not to listen to the announcement anymore. Lady Chandrika's voice gave her an unbearable itch and sweat. A decade earlier a wedding as such was considered illegal, the unison that was clearly based on a criminal act- harassment and blackmailing. This made her realize how easy it was to change the law, how easily Lady Chandrika had manipulated the members of Panchayat who once had worked under her late husband and refused to accept her as their queen in command. Cajolery. That was the only skill Haima had never been able to develop well for herself, even though the country had an otherwise opinion. Cajolery is part of politicking, she finally brought herself to accept the fact. After all, you catch more flies with honey.
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(Book 6) Hayden Mackay and The Third-Eye of the Pancharatna
Fantasy"Mrs. Zutshi, how different was Zarina Khan from you? She was a clairvoyant, that makes her a witch too, right?" "Mages have their own history, Hayden. They have categories too. Since the time of Lady Chandrika's authority over the sections of the p...
