Betrothed. The other two did not hear Karna’s indrawn gulp. Kala is Mati! Princess of Kalinga! Duryodhan’s bride. The revelation sliced through him like a knife, the pain more intense than the poisoned quarrel had been.

Mati nudged Duryodhan lovingly. ‘At least it’s a story I won’t have to shy away from telling over dinner. The mighty, valiant Karna saved from certain death by a puny damsel! Let me find a bard to believe it first.’ She eyed Karna, her eyes full of glowering hate. ‘Too bad you didn’t give your real name when we met, Lord Karna. Could have saved you a lot of embarrassment. Now the whole world will be privy to your shame if you tell the tale.’

Karna said nothing. He could not.

‘Don’t let her get under your skin, my friend. No one in their right mind would call the Black Swan a puny damsel,’ Duryodhan scoffed.

Karna felt like a punch drunk fighter who’d long given up but whom Fate insisted on tossing back again and again into the ring till the water clock was empty. ‘You’re the Black Swan?’ he finally managed to utter. The one Prakar Mardin had spoken of.

Mati bowed. ‘In person. But now you must rest. The Prince and I have much to catch up on. He has not left your side since you were brought in.’ She narrowed her eyes again. ‘If I had known you were the Karna, I would have left you where I found you’ she laughed, but there was no humour in her eyes.

‘Rest now, Karna. Father has summoned us back to Hastina. We leave on the morrow. We will handle things here when you are better. For now,’ Duryodhan pressed his shoulder, ‘I’m glad you are safe.’

‘Let us not count our ships before they are in harbour,’ Mati advised. ‘Allow him to regain his strength and spirits. Wisdom will no doubt follow.’ Mati dragged the Prince out of the room.

‘By Vayu’s Beard, Mati! The arrow did not puncture his skull. He just needs rest...’ Duryodhan’s voice faded away.

The chamber spun around Karna. He crashed back onto the palette. With an ache in his heart to match the pain in his body, he turned to look at the words inked on his wrist. Abhimaan. Pride and honour. Two things he had just lost.

Masha’s Auguries

Masha lay content and comfortable on a bed of grass. A large butterfly with wings of deepest blue traced with black, alighted on the bare shoulders of her lover. The wings shimmered in the soft sunlight. She watched as the delicate creature unfurled a coiled black tongue to taste the blood oozing from his shoulder. She lifted a lazy hand to shoo off the butterfly, wanting nothing to mar his perfection. The butterfly softly raised itself and landed in Masha’s thick hair, a glistening ornament.