Love burrowed a hole. Tenderness scampered up a tree. Pity dove to the bottom of a lake. Charity, ruing its short legs, scuttled through the grass. Tolerance and mercy and kindness flapped frantic wings through the lowering sky.
A great soul, the Wind’s. Enormous, now, in its coil. With a great emptiness at the center where room had been made. Into the vacuum rushed hatred and rage, fury and fire. Bitterness brought wet weight; cruelty gave energy to the brew. Vengeance gathered the storm.
Monsoon season was very near.
The monsoon, like the Wind, was many things to many people. Different at different times. A thing of many faces.
Kindly faces, in the main. One face was the boon to seamen, in their thousands, bearing cargoes across the sea. Another was the face of life itself, for peasants in their millions, raising crops in the rain which it brought.
But the monsoon had other faces. There was the face that shattered coasts, flooded plains, and slew in the millions.
It was said, and truly, that India was the land created by the monsoon. Perhaps it was for that reason—what man can know?—that the Indian vision of God took such a different form than the vision which gripped the Occident.
The stiff-minded Occident, where God was but the Creator. Yet even the Occident knew of the seasons, and its Preacher penetrated their meaning.
India, where God danced destruction as well, singing, in his terrible great joy: I am become death, destroyer of worlds.
For all things, there is a time. For all things, there is a season.
In the palace of the Vile One, that season came.
Monsoon.
For all its incredible speed, the rush was not heard by the Malwa at the table until the Wind was almost upon them. The mahamimamsa never heard it at all, so engrossed was he in poring over the difficult text. One moment he was thinking, the next he was not. The fist which crushed the back of his skull ended all thought forever.
The priest heard, began to turn, began to gape as he saw his companion die. Then gasped, gagged—tried to choke, but could not manage the deed. The Wind’s right hand had been a fist to the torturer. The torturer done, the hand spread wide. The edge of the hand between thumb and finger smashed into the priest’s throat like a sledge.
The priest was almost dead already, from a snapped spine as well as a collapsed windpipe, but the Wind was in full fury now. The monsoon, by its nature, heaps havoc onto ruin. The terrible hands did their work. The left seized the priest’s hair, positioned him; the right, iron palm-heel to the fore, shattered his nose and drove the broken bone into the brain. All in an instant.
The Wind raged across the domed hall, down a corridor.
The end of that short corridor ended in another. Down the left, a short distance, stood the door to the princess’ suite. Before that door stood three mahamimamsa. (He had only stationed two; three were too many for the narrow space, simply impeding each other.)
The Wind raced down the corridor. The time for silent wafting was over. A guard had but to look around the bend. (He had stationed one of his two guards at the bend itself, always watching the hall; the Wind had despaired here also.)
For all the fury of the Wind’s coming, there was little noise. The Wind’s feet, in their manner of racing, had been a part—small part—of the reason his soul had been given another name, among many. A panther’s paws do not slap the ground, clapping their loud and clumsy way, when the panther springs on its prey.
Still, there was a bit of noise. The torturer standing closest to the corridor frowned. What—? More out of boredom than any real alarm, the mahamimamsa moved toward the bend. His companions saw him go, thought little of it. They had heard nothing, themselves. Assumed the tedium had driven him into idle motion.
The Wind blew around the bend. Idleness disappeared. Boredom and tedium vanished. The torturers regretted their sudden absence deeply, much as a man agonizes over a treasure lost because he had not recognized its worth.