Duryodhana’s eyes and ears came swarming out of the land like ants from a broken hill. They rushed to the City of the Elephant, all carrying the same tidings.
“Yudhisthira has ordered the attack!”
“Yudhisthira’s army is marching!”
“The Pandavas are coming.”
“The seven armies are on their way.”
In the sabha of the Kurus Duryodhana assembled his allies. The crown prince stood before the kings of the Earth clad in all his royal finery, with jeweled necklace and beringed fingers, a garland of yellow flowers around his neck, a sword hanging from his hip and a quiver strapped to his back. He held his great bow with gilt handle in his right hand and his razor-edged spear in his left. Beside him lay his enormous mace. It was hewn from the trunk of a babul tree and its round head encased with bronze. Iron thorns protruded from it, and each had been daubed with sandal paste.
“My cousin, Yudhisthira, has agreed to fight at last,” said Duryodhana. “He has been goaded to war by Arjuna and Bhima, who in their turn heed only the words of Krishna. When Krishna found that he could not make us cower with his threats, that he could not convince me to lay down my birthright with honeyed words, he instigated Yudhisthira to war. Now they are marching to Kurukshetra, and we will meet them there. Yudhisthira has seven grand armies, but we have eleven. Yudhisthira has Arjuna, Bhima, Satyaki, Dhrishtadyumna, and other champions at his side, but we have Bhishma, Drona, Karna, Shalya, Ashwatthaman, Bhurishravas, Jayadratha of Sindhu, Somadatta, the Trigartas, my brothers—the hundred ferocious sons of Dhritarashtra, and Kritavarman at the head of the entire Narayana Sena, all sworn to die for our cause if necessary. We have the lords of far distant lands, and we have secret weapons beyond the enemy’s scope to even imagine.
“Today we must prepare to meet the Pandavas and their allies. Each of you go to your people. Make sure your men are ready. See that they are well-fed, well-armed, and burning with courage. See that their weapons are sharp, and make sure the weapons are willing to spill blood in our names. The elephants and horses must all be prepared, see to it that they have adequate feed and armaments. Make ready the chariots. In but a few days we will meet Yudhisthira’s army and break them, for they are like the ocean but we are the mountains, and every wave at last breaks against stone.”
The kings applauded Duryodhana and chanted his name.
The sound echoed down the stone corridors of the ancient palace. It shook the leaves of the trees in the gardens and woke the dark denizens of the caves far beneath the city’s roots.
Duryodhana, Duryodhana, Duryodhana.
As on the day of his birth flocks of crows spiraled above Hastinapura and jackals cried.
Vidura, seated in morose silence in his bedchamber, leapt up at the sound of snakes slithering over the floor only to find the floor bare and his room empty. King Dhritarashtra thought he heard the stones of his palace shifting and breaking, and he cowered and covered his head, but nothing besides a little dust fell on him. Queen Gandhari, who had taken to her bed overcome by a sudden drowsiness, woke up to find that her blindfold had fallen from her eyes. The floor of her chamber was covered with black water and more and more came rushing in the door. The water was rising, lapping at the posts of her bed, but when she tried to scream no sound came from her mouth. She woke up again covered in sweat, and found the same familiar darkness all around her, her blindfold firmly tied over her eyes.
A servant sweeping the path that wound through the mango grove heard the yelping and baying of wild dogs. She was not yet old, but her knees and back ached and she knew she could not run very far. With as much alacrity as she could muster she scrambled up into one of the mango trees, reasoning that the dogs would not be able to climb after her. She heard them approaching, heard them rush beneath her in a torrent, heard their tumult recede quickly into silence, but she saw nothing.
She climbed back down, much more slowly than she had gone up, shaking her head at herself.
You must be losing your mind, Sauvali, she told herself.
She picked up her broom and began her sweeping again. The path was as she had left it, without even a paw print or a clump of hair as evidence of the phantom hounds.
“Mother.”
It was the voice of her son, the son who so rarely spoke to her, but she ignored it. Another figment of her addled mind, she supposed.
“Mother, can you hear me?”
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