The Assassin's Song Read Online Free Page B

full moon had gone unheeded; the call of his Master, for surely there must have been one, was not heard.
    “Come back this evening,” the lady Priyanti said softly as he left. And he replied, “But I will!”
    As he reached his home, a window seemed to have opened in a corner of his mind to crack his composure. But the thought that lurked behind it he could not entertain. He longed to see her again. Even when he learned from his anxious servants that the previous night a disturbance had taken place in the coppersmiths' bazaar, where his followers lived and where he had boarded upon his arrival in the capital, he could think only of her. He spent an entire day dreaming of her, and waiting.
    Finally there came the hour to visit her.
    When he arrived at the gate of the house he was let in reluctantly. The young women displayed no familiarity, and even the girl who had spoken to him in his own language failed to acknowledge him. When he asked to see the mistress, the squat middle-aged woman who met him at the door was as different from his houri of the previous night as a hog from an antelope.
    He spent the night in an agony of remorse. He had lost his way in this strange land; like the weakest of mortals he had succumbed to the simplest of temptations; his link with his beloved Master was broken. In his meditations he could no longer see or hear him. It was as if a wall had come between them, which he could not surmount; all he could do was to beat his head against it and weep.
    The following day he went to the coppersmiths' bazaar and discovered that much of it had been burnt to the ground. There had been a riot, begun apparently during a quarrel over a cockfight or a game of dice, or someone playfully tying a bell to the backside of someone else, these being the pastimes of the humbler folk. But the quarrel had become communal. Some of his followers were killed, including his faithful interpreter and very first follower Arjun Dev.
    In despair and sorrow, Nur Fazal left the great metropolis and travelled all across the land, often by himself but also at times in the company of yogis and mendicants who had renounced all their possessions to seek the truth and sing the praises of God. He spent eleven months and eleven days thus, pining for a blessing, filling the folds of his turban with lines describing his pangs of separation from his Master. Finally a sign came in the voice of an ascetic outside the great temple of Dwarka, the birthplace of the god Krishna. The wall of separation came tumbling down as the Master spoke to him. Nur Fazal wept, embraced the feet of the ascetic. He returned to Patan, where he lived in his house and fulfilled his obligations to the court. He gave solace to the monarch, who had been overjoyed to see him again. And he gave solace to his followers, using now the medium of song to impart his spiritual message.
    But when he felt he had stayed long enough in the city, he asked for permission to leave.
    “My Lord—I have been spoilt by your kindness. The life of a court, gloriously stimulating and fulfilling as it is, is not for me. I must go. Let me take with me those who would follow me.”
    The raja replied: “Go. My spies tell me that a good number of your followers were killed?”
    Nur Fazal did not reply.
    “My other spies tell me also that you are a man of secrets. That you have escaped the ravages of the Mongol Hulagu in the west …”
    “My King, I am a peaceful man, as you must have observed. I have imparted of my knowledge freely; I have also given succour to your troubled mind.”
    “That you have, my friend.”
    “My Lord, I seek no worldly glory. You, my King, I wish well. If I can be of service to you or your kin, I shall be flattered and honoured.”
    The king leaned towards him. “Listen, Sufi. I would like you to read a dream. I am certain my dreams foretell much. I have a particular dream that worries me incessantly.”
    “Tell me your dream, Raja.”
    “There is a terrible