We Shall Be Monsters, page 33
“Your Highness, what are you doing?” the boy danava asked of Advaith, bewilderment in his voice. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Divya,” she said, annoyed that he didn’t ask her outright.
The girl danava smiled, showing off curved fangs. “Hello, Divya. Thank you for looking after them.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Vaan, do you know how to swim?” Advaith demanded.
The boy danava, Vaan, blinked. “No?”
Advaith made a despairing sound, lifting his arms out of the water. “I have to teach you too! Come on, all of you get in.”
The girl danava laughed, and Vaan rolled his eyes at Advaith’s theatrics. “Unfortunately, we can’t,” he said. “Lord Dukha is waiting.”
Advaith and Tav froze.
“I forgot,” Advaith whispered.
“We can still make it,” Tav said, hoisting himself out of the lake. “I’m sure he won’t be mad. Time passes differently here anyway.”
Divya tried not to show her disappointment that they were leaving so soon. After Tav pulled his kurta back on, he lingered at her side, eyes flitting between her forehead, her shoulder, her chin.
“You said you could show me more of Patala,” he said at last. “If we come back in a few days…?”
She beamed, awash in that now-familiar heat. “Yes! We’ll meet here.” She would wait all day for them if she had to. “What do you want to see first?”
* * *
When she told Bijul about her new friends, the nagi paused. Bijul didn’t usually pause, her every movement calm, sinuous, purposeful.
“They feel like their energies did,” Divya went on, buzzing with anticipation. “But different also. And so different from each other!”
Bijul gave a soft sigh and put a steady hand on Divya’s shoulder.
“I am glad you’re having fun,” the nagi said, “but remember that their powers are unique. Their dharma is unique. They will often find themselves at the center of conflict. Please…be careful.”
Divya nodded eagerly, thinking this was an easy promise to keep.
Chapter Thirty
Divya quickly learned that Tav and Advaith weren’t merely the asura and the deva—they were also royalty, which in Martya was considered important and rare.
But it was easy to forget when she was in their company, jostling and laughing and traveling through Patala’s realms together. They gaped at the towering mountains of gold in Vitala, the residents adorned with gleaming bits of gilded jewelry and armor. Divya helped them sneak close enough to see the wide, wending river that snaked through the whole realm, its surface rippling due to the winds that constantly swept through the valleys.
Much later, she took them to Talatala, where the famed demon architect, Mahit, had constructed vast, magnificent palaces, which largely stood empty. After building Lord Dukha’s palace in Bali, he had been given an entire realm to do with as he pleased. Sometimes those from other realms came to stay, but the architect was content with his solitude and never-ending supply of materials.
“It’s even bigger than the palace in Malhir,” Advaith breathed as they trooped through one of the abandoned citadels. Advaith’s danava aides had come with them, the girl—Sezal—ogling, and Vaan quietly impressed. “I wonder what Baa-Ji would make of this?”
Tav turned from where he’d been peering through a latticed window to make a face at his brother. “What, do you want to live here instead?”
Vaan perked up, as if intrigued by the idea.
Advaith’s laugh echoed brightly off the walls. “It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I like Patala.”
“I hate to ruin your plans, but Mahit is very territorial of his work,” Divya said. “He gives petitioners extravagant tasks and only grants them permission to live here if they prove themselves worthy.”
Tav shuffled away from the window. “Does that mean we shouldn’t be here?”
Divya flapped a hand at him. “He doesn’t mind looking. How else would others admire his art?”
“I’m sure they would love to have you in Bali, though,” Sezal said, Vaan nodding at her side. “If you really wanted to stay here.”
“But the whole point would be having a palace to myself!” Advaith complained. “I’m the asura. Surely that’s enough of a reason?”
“You have two palaces back home,” Tav argued.
Every time they met, Divya took them somewhere wondrous and new, more than happy to show off her home to those who would appreciate it. From how they spoke of Martya, she gathered that most humans lived in fear of rakshasas, even those who went out of their way to help humans. It made no sense to her. She could tell it bothered Advaith too, and they sometimes shared a commiserating look.
One day, almost a year after their first meeting, they were exploring a market in Mahatala—where many of the nagas lived—when Divya heard the telltale lilt of a storyteller.
She dropped the bracelet she was examining, ignoring the vendor’s irritated hiss, to turn and grab each brother by an arm. Despite their confusion, they allowed her to drag them through the throng of nagas toward the storyteller.
“This’ll be a treat,” she said as they joined the crowd, pushing their way to the front.
A space had been cleared for the storyteller under an awning strung with bells and flower garlands. She was a nagi with a hood spackled in emerald, her upper half wrapped in a finely embroidered uttariya. Beside her stood a danava, silent and stern-faced, with curved horns and skin so dark it was nearly black.
The nagi spread out her arms. “It begins, as we all did, with the ocean.”
The crowd instantly hushed. Even the bustle of the street dimmed in respect for the storyteller’s voice, clear and ringing across the multicolored pathways of the market. Those around Divya sighed and settled.
“When the planes burned as mere specks within the cosmos’s eye, there were bridges tentatively linking them, feats of great and subtle power. The earth was one—rich soil, strong roots, vulnerable flora. It connected Martya with Svarga, light and growth. From this connection came the great yaksha deities.”
Tav’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. Divya was sure he’d heard of the yakshas’ origins before, but storytellers were famed for a reason: They cast their words as spells, creating tapestries out of history and myth and legend.
The danava beside the storyteller moved their hands. Danavas were skilled in illusion, and as the storyteller spoke, images formed before the crowd.
“The Elephant, for wisdom and luck. The Serpent, for guardianship and grievances. And the Tortoise, for stability and health.” The storyteller gestured to the image of each god with a graceful flourish. “Together, they worked to ensure Martya’s development and foundation. Once they were satisfied, they blessed the soil so it would continue their work and retreated to Svarga to oversee their heavenly duties.”
The danava spun another illusion, and with it came a sudden crashing sound that made Divya startle. Water filled the small clearing, rushing over the crowd’s tails and shins and splashing up against the nearest buildings. Some cried out while others laughed. Divya clung to Tav, worried the water would rise higher.
“And then there was the ocean,” the nagi went on. “A great, churning bed of restless water and teeming life, dark and deep and dignified. It was from within these depths the first rakshasa was formed, a being of no discernible name or race. Some claim he was born in the shape of a snake, and that the slitted pupils in his eyes give this away.”
Advaith drew in a breath. When Divya glanced at him, he was smiling, completely enraptured with the story.
“No matter his form, he was a being with immense power. But unlike the yaksha deities, he was completely alone. He writhed and suffered under the crushing water, in the dark, while the cosmic energy within him turned dark as well. He had no place to direct it, and so it turned inward, festering, until it became a toxin to himself and to others.”
Blackness spread through the water. Tentacle-like tendrils wrapped around the nagas’ tails and around Divya’s ankle, making her shriek. Tav reassuringly patted the hand that was crushing his.
“This toxin came to be known as halahala,” the storyteller said, “and that was what the progenitor rakshasa was called before he chose his own name. The yaksha deities, learning of Halahala’s predicament, grew worried and sought to help him. They wove the energies of Svarga through a celestial loom until it produced the substance known as amrita. The immortal nectar.”
With a twitch of the danava’s fingers, the water receded. A beautiful glass jar containing a silvery-blue liquid now wove before the storyteller. Divya’s mouth watered at the sight of it; it certainly looked good enough to drink.
“They could not travel to Halahala themselves, so to deliver it, they recruited a physician who understood the cosmic energies. This physician became the founder of Ayurveda, a medicinal practice celebrated within Martya. With his vast knowledge, he was able to enter the ocean and help Halahala consume the nectar.
“After the ingestion of amrita, the toxin within Halahala was put to rest, settling into a power that was both dark and heady, as destructive and beautiful as the ocean itself. With this power, he was able to open the way to the third and final plane, Patala, where he took up residence. Brahimada, the Universal Divide, was finally complete.” She nodded to the danava, who produced a new image of an intricately wrought throne of gold and starry obsidian. “The tormented being known as Halahala chose the name Dukha, and he has ruled Patala ever since.”
Advaith’s smile had grown a little bigger. Divya wondered what the demon lord was like. She herself had never laid eyes on him, and Advaith wasn’t allowed to share what they discussed.
“As thanks to the yaksha deities for rescuing him from his isolation, he allied with them to oversee Martya, which was ruled by humans.” The storyteller’s amber eyes landed on Tav and Advaith with a subtle smirk. “But this was not all that resulted from that fateful drinking of amrita.”
The next image was of two balls of light, one blue and one red. Divya gasped, remembering that day in the judgment chamber with Bijul.
“The meeting of halahala and amrita produced new threads of cosmic energy, eager to be stitched within the tapestry between worlds. From halahala being touched by life came chaos, and from amrita being touched by darkness came healing. Each spun into new forms, as bright and hungry as stars. Those energies became the first asura and deva.”
On either side of Divya, Tav and Advaith shifted awkwardly. The storyteller’s smirk grew.
“The asura fell to the patronage of the demon lord; the deva, to the yaksha deities. But it was only when they worked together that they could accomplish feats of greatness. At last, Martya had guardians of its own. The asura and deva worked in harmony, and the human race flourished.
“Martya’s soil was so potent that lesser yakshas had grown to care for the land, the water, and the skies. The yaksha deities, out of an abundance of fondness, shared amrita with them so that some could join the deities in the heavens. Svarga prospered with these celestial beings while Patala remained empty. The demon lord, wanting subjects of his own, petitioned the asura and deva to help him. But they learned that the celestial loom the yaksha deities had used to create their nectar of immortality had been destroyed, as they no longer had need of it.”
The danava formed an image of two faceless human forms, one blue and one red, facing each other. “And so the asura and deva worked together to determine how to produce amrita themselves. They labored tirelessly, unceasingly, until their combined efforts came to fruition.” Another bottle of the silvery-blue liquid appeared between the figures. “Yet despite their powers, the asura and deva are, unfortunately, only human, and susceptible to human vices.”
The figures’ positions changed. One held the trishul; the other, the sudarshana chakra. It seemed as if they were about to fight each other. Divya frowned while Tav and Advaith shifted again.
“The asura and deva fought over the nectar of immortality.” The storyteller shook her head. “And when they clashed, it was reminiscent of the dark churning power of the ocean, and toxin spread from below their feet in black ribbons of disease. Halahala existed once more, and it threatened all of Martya even as it gave birth to the rakshasas.
“The yaksha deities sent the celestial physician to put a stop to their fighting. He took the amrita they had produced and poured it over the halahala. It was through this pool of blended toxin and nectar that the nagas were born, waterlogged and immortal.”
A pool of that silvery liquid spread before them, and the ghostly shapes of nagas crawled out of its depths. The crowd murmured and smiled.
“And so the demon lord got his wish, and the nagas and other rakshasas took residence in Patala under his rule. But the asura and deva had committed a grievous wrong, betraying one another in their greed. Since it was the asura who had struck first, the yaksha deities, sorrowful, enacted justice by taking the asura’s life.”
Advaith tensed. Tav reached across Divya to grab his wrist.
“Not long after, the deva succumbed to heartache and died as well. The deities decreed that a new asura and deva would be born to carry out the incomplete dharma of the first. And so it is the fate of the asura and deva to be eternally reborn in different avatars until they can provide proper penance for their greatest sin.”
The blue and red figures returned, standing side by side.
“Some say they are always born as twins, perpetually bound together. Some say that when the celestial physician spilled the amrita, the asura stole a drop, giving them a hint of immortality.”
She spread her hands again, and the illusion fell away.
“But this we know for certain: That we are forever bound to the water, and to the asura, and to the demon lord. That we have both halahala and amrita to thank for our lives. That the planes cannot exist without both darkness and light.”
Her tone gave clear indication that the story was finished. The crowd cheered and tossed gems toward the nagi, who humbly inclined her head in thanks.
Advaith had begun to tremble. Divya took his other hand, dismayed by the expression on his face. She was so used to his smiles and laughter that the reverse was alarming.
“It was a long time ago, Adi,” Tav whispered. “It was the first asura and deva. Since then, they’ve all worked peacefully together. We’re not like that.”
Advaith and Tav shared one of their silent conversations, the kind that Divya found herself oddly jealous of. Eventually, Advaith sighed and nodded.
“I know,” he murmured. “I just…didn’t like hearing about it. Even the thought…” He gently extracted his hands and reached toward his mouth. “Do you think it’s true that the asura had a drop of amrita? What does a hint of immortality mean?”
Tav shook his head. “I don’t know. We could ask the storyteller. Or you can ask Lord Dukha when you see him next.”
Advaith dropped his hand, but his face remained clouded. “Maybe I will.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Ever since the day with the storyteller, there were small, unexpected moments when Advaith grew quiet. He was still the same boisterous Advaith, ready to laugh at the drop of a pin and often teasing his brother and Vaan (with Divya’s help on most occasions). But Divya noticed times when he would simply stare off, his mouth a flat line and a divot between his brows.
Over the next few years, Tav was often requested both in Svarga and Martya for matters pertaining to injured yakshas and failing crops. Meanwhile, Advaith’s missions tended to be more in the vein of settling disputes, such as the eternal feud between the nagas and the garudas. While the dakini elders taught Divya how to use her dagger and all the ways in which to apply her third eye (though they claimed she was too unfocused to properly perceive with it), both of the princes were trained in combat and learned how to use their legendary weapons.
She watched Tav summon his sudarshana chakra with a mantra, a blue light in the shape of the weapon that solidified into metal. It consisted of a long stock with a large golden disk at the end, its edges ridged in sharp points like the fangs of a beast. There was a hole in the middle of the sun-shaped disk, and all along the inner perimeter was a ring of small gems, with a pearl at their apex.
He swung it like a lance. The disk at the top detached and spun forward in a violent blur, chopping a tree in half. It then obediently spun back around to reattach to the stock.
Divya clapped. “I feel bad for the tree, but you’re getting better!”
Tav scratched his head with a sheepish smile. “I’d rather stick with my sword, but…”
Divya had seen him wield a sword as well, and he was impressively swift and precise with it. The focus he got in his eyes when he trained made that familiar warmth well in her chest and stomach.
More and more, it had just been her and Tav. Advaith was always busy, and whenever the two visited Patala, he had to report to Lord Dukha first thing. After, he barely hung around.
“It’s because he’s the crown prince,” Tav had explained when Divya expressed her annoyance. “He has more responsibilities than I do.”
“You’re both princes.”
“Yes, but he’s the one set to inherit everything.”
Human politics were so baffling. “What about you, then?”
He’d shrugged and turned his face away. “Well, no one knows I exist, so—”
“Wait.” She’d grabbed him by the shoulders. “No one knows you exist?”
“No one in our country, I mean. When we do missions, we cover our faces. Baa-Ji…” He’d paused. “It’s just easier this way.”
