The cold season passed into memory. The white fog which had clung to the backs of the rivers lifted earlier and the morning air was clear and fresh in the nose. The smoke of hearth fires that hung above the villages also faded, their warmth no longer needed, replaced by the vaster heat of the North-traveling Sun. The snakes in the Earth, the deer in the forests, the fish in the rivers, the people in the villages and cities—all felt their blood, cold or warm, thrill to the returning light. All knew that soon the heat would become unbearable and they would long for blue-black rain clouds to spool out from the mountains, but for the moment they rejoiced to feel the Sun’s touch so close again. Planting songs echoed off the hills; newborn calfs, slick with their mothers’ juices, tottered about looking for an udder; the rivers carried the snowmelt from high Himalaya down to the plains in hasty gurgling torrents.
The only creature who did not feel the dance of the new season in his belly was Duryodhana, crown prince of Kuru. He sat in the sabha of his ancestors brooding like an unseasonal monsoon cloud. For the better part of a year his eyes and ears had ranged throughout the kingdoms of the world, looking and listening for any trace of his enemies, the sons of Kunti, and none had found the slightest clue. The year was almost gone and soon the agreement would be fulfilled. His cousins would have spent twelve years in exile, and evaded discovery for one more year in disguise. When the pact had been made thirteen years had seemed a long time, a luxurious stretch of long months without his cousins troubling the integrity of his patrimony. Now it seemed only yesterday that his uncle Shakuni had sat across the dicing mat from Yudhisthira winning the Pandava’s riches from under his nose. Duryodhana remembered the intoxicating sense of power that had filled him that day, like oil in a lamp, swelling the wick of his confidence, burning bright in his brain. Now the lamp was almost dry. The taste of victory had faded from his tongue. Even the memory of his Vaishnava sacrifice, the plow made of the tribute gold of all the Earth’s rulers, could not gladden him. If his cousins succeeded in evading detection they would fulfill the pact; they would be free to return and claim his lands, the lands he had ruled for almost thirteen years without trouble.
The blind king’s son pressed his fingertips into his forehead and groaned. He was tired, tired of anger and greed, and yet he couldn’t give them up. Loathing had become his life blood.
“Brother,” a voice called out in the great hall.
Duryodhana lifted his hands from his face and saw his brother Dushasana and his friend Karna walking down the hall toward him. A little ways behind them came a large, broad-bellied man dressed in fine dark silks. Duryodhana recognized Susharman, patriarch of the Trigartas, the ruling family of a small but prosperous neighboring kingdom. Beside the king walked a fourth man, small and slight-bodied, his clothes dusty with travel and rough sleeping.
“Hail Duryodhana!” called Susharman, pressing his palms together.
“Welcome, lord of the Trigartas,” said the Kaurava. “Why do you grace the hall of my ancestors today?”
“I come with good news,” said Susharman. “Your spy here came to my house and asked me to return here with him. His tidings bode well for us all, I think.”
Duryodhana felt a surge of excitement sing in his veins.
“You have found the Pandavas?” he asked the spy.
The small man shook his head and lifted his hands, palms open, as if to show Duryodhana that he was not carrying that particular piece of good news. The blind king’s son felt his rising joy turn to bile in the back of his mouth.
“What then?” he asked venomously. “What can be good news besides that?”
“My lord,” said the spy, “I have gone West as far as the salt water and found no trace of the Pandavas. I spent weeks in Dwaraka listening for them, but they are nowhere to be found in that city. I have searched in forests, in cities, in mountain towns and remote villages, in the ashrams of saints, and no sign have I heard or seen. But on my return journey I gleaned one piece of pleasant news. Kichaka, the champion of the Matsyas, who for years now has harried your borderlands and raided your villages, is dead.”
Duryodhana forced a twisted smile.
“That is a little good news, yes,” he said. “That man has been a growing annoyance for too long now. How did he die? What champion cut him down? Was it you, Susharman?”
The king of the Trigartas bowed his head.
“I would have enjoyed putting an arrow through that one’s neck,” he said, “but I had not that good fortune.”
“No-one knows who killed him,” said the spy. “My contact in Virata told me that his body was found in the gardens of the palace at dawn. It was almost unrecognizable; some horrible force had pushed his head, arms, and legs into his trunk like the limbs of a turtle. He was a ball of mangled flesh, not a man. The rumor is that he was punished by gandharvas for some transgression.”
“May the heavens deal so with all my enemies,” said Duryodhana. “That is good. But what of my cousins? I need to know where they are. The year of our agreement is almost expired. All else is meaningless until they are found.”
“Don’t lose heart,” said Karna. “There is a little time yet. Send out better men, sharper eyes and ears. Send them out in disguise to prosperous cities, to sacred fords, to farms and mines. Search in the mountain caves and the hidden woods, and in the villages no king owns.”
Dhushasana grinned, his teeth flashing under his groomed mustache.
“My brother,” he said, “you’ve spent almost a year doing just that. Your most loyal and perceptive spies have already combed the Earth in search of Kunti’s sons; they have vanished like the morning dew. Perhaps they have gone across the ocean. Or, more likely, they are already dead. Think, could men like them, used to palace life, really survive twelve years in the forest? Leopards or tigers will have eaten them by now, or they will have been trampled by stampeding elephants, or they’ll have starved for want of good food. Rule your kingdom, brother, and let them go from your mind. The bones of the Kaunteyas are hosting ants by now.”
“Don’t speak of what you don’t know, Dushasana.”
The voice was that of Drona, the teacher. He had entered the hall unnoticed, accompanied by Bhishma. The two tough old men stood side by side, their faces cold and impassive. They were, as ever, entirely different and yet utterly alike. Bhishma was tall, refined, slim, his smooth face haloed by a mane of soft snow-white hair. Drona was shorter, broad and sturdy, and his long gray beard hung draped over his shoulder. They shared the same smoldering eyes, the same iron core.
“The sons of Kunti are not dead,” Drona continued. “Such men don’t die of hunger, or under the feet of wild elephants. Yudhisthira’s foundation is truth, and his strict dharma protects him. His brothers are devoted to him, and he to them. Trust me, my pupil, they are still alive.”
Bhishma stroked his beard and nodded.
“I agree with Drona,” said the invincible old man. “The Pandavas have not perished. I sense their presence still on this red Earth. They will be hiding in one of the world’s great cities, living in disguise like hot embers under ash. Listen to me, Duryodhana: the kingdom where Yudhisthira lives will be prosperous and peaceful. The people there will be free from jealousy, anger, grief, and fear. The sacrifices will be properly conducted, each ritual according to tradition, and the cows will be well-fed and give sweet milk abundantly. The grain will be plentiful there, the fruit juicy, the flowers will waft a good smell, the wind will touch the skin pleasantly. When a man of dharma lives in a kingdom all the beings there cannot help but prosper. Send your eyes and ears to the richest kingdoms, to the cities of good fortune. That is where you will find King Dharma and his brothers.”
“You always praise Yudhisthira, grandfather,” said Duryodhana through clenched teeth. “Even now that he has been a beggar for almost thirteen years, still you insist on calling him King Dharma and singing his praises. If dharma protects so well then how could he lose his kingdom in the first place? Does a man of dharma stake his family on a roll of the dice?”
Bhishma shook his snow-maned head.
“I spoke only the truth as I see it, my son,” he said. “I have no wish to insult you. All my words are for your benefit, if you will hear them.”
Duryodhana passed a hand over his face and grimaced.
King Susharman cleared his throat and said,
“Lords of the Earth, I can see the severity of the situation. Those sons of Pandu are warlike men, impetuous, and fierce like tigers. When the terms of their exile are complete they will return to claim the lands that were taken from them—“
“Fairly won!” Duryodhana interrupted. “Fairly won! My kingdom is my own.”
“Yes, it is so,” said Susharman placatingly. “But they will return for the portion that was theirs all the same. Men who have tasted power do not easily forget. Now is the time for you to secure your position. Though Yudhisthira has been absent from politics for thirteen—”
“Not yet! Not yet thirteen years,” Dushasana cut in.
“—for nigh on thirteen years,” Susharman continued, “He will emerge with allies. There are many noble families who still favor Pandu’s sons. I do not believe they will return to your lands alone to beg for a piece; they will come with an army at their backs. Now is the time to make gifts to your allies and assure their loyalty, to make sure your treasuries and armories are well stocked, and to crush your enemies before they can join the Pandava cause.”
Duryodhana stared at the floor, his wide forehead furrowed with concentration.
“Are the kings of the world so fickle?” he muttered. “Not long ago Karna made them all bow before the name of House Kuru, before my name. And yet it seems barely a season passes before they begin to plot against me again, before House Matsya begins raiding my land, before they forget me and go back to Yudhisthira.”
He shook his head and growled.
“What say you, Gurudev?” he asked. “And you, grandfather?”
Drona and Bhishma glanced at one another, then the patriarch said,
“Though I hope it never comes to battle between you and your cousins, I hear the good sense in Susharman’s counsel. Peace is more assured, I deem, if both parties negotiate from a position of strength.”
“Bhishma is wise,” said Susharman. “Hear me, my friend. I have a proposal that will profit both our houses. Kichaka, the Matsya champion, is dead. For years his warriors have attacked my kingdom, stolen my people’s cattle, robbed our gold and chariots. I know that the Matsyas have been an annoyance to you, but to me they have been a plague. Now their army will be incapacitated by the sudden loss of their commander. Let us gather up a force of Kuru and Trigarta warriors and ride to Matsya. With a single blow we can crush Virata, our mutual enemy, and greatly enrich ourselves on the gold and cows Kichaka’s men have stolen. We will make off with thousands of cows, and once Virata surrenders we can dictate peace on our terms and bring his lands and men under your control. Your army, your stables, and your treasury will swell, and you will stamp out an enemy on your borders before Yudhisthira has an opportunity to court him. The time is ripe, lord of the Earth. The fish is hooked—it’s time for a fatal blow.”
Duryodhana looked up and smiled at the Trigarta king.
“With our armies combined the Matsyas don’t stand a chance,” Susharman went on, seeing that he had caught the Kuru prince’s attention. “We can attack Matsya from several directions at once. I will lead my armies from the East, cutting through the dry land to the city of Virata, while your force can advance from the North-East.”
“An excellent plan!” said Karna, his face blazing with bright hunger. “The horses need exercise, the bows must be stretched and the arrows sharpened. Let’s whet our blade on the stone of Virata!”
Duryodhana stood up laughing.
“At last some blood is moving in this palace again,” he said. “Let my cousins go the way of the wind. I have my brothers, and you, Karna, closer than a brother. With you and Drona and Bhishma at my side the world comes to me like a feast on a platter. Dushasana, order the chariots made ready. Go, Susharman, and muster your own men. We will ride on Matsya tomorrow itself!”
The Kuru prince rounded on his elders and glared at them defiantly.
“Will you ride with us?”
Drona and Bhishma both bowed their heads.
“We live off your generosity,” said Drona. “We must follow you.”
Duryodhana clapped his hands together.
“Spring is here!” he roared. “Let us go hunting!”
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