He worried about Duryodhan, but Shakuni had told him with a shrug that the Prince would recover. ‘Some diseases can only be cured by time,’ he had said. Karna could only hope that he was right. He had nurtured a flicker of hope when he had seen Duryodhan conduct himself with the charm and grace of a future King at the feasts.

But as the Hastina retinue walked to the last of the grand banquets before the day of the Swayamvar, with Duryodhan walking alone, five paces ahead, shoulders hunched and defeated, Karna felt a great sense of unease. Had he made an error of judgment? He began to walk towards Duryodhan, but wrinkled hands grabbed his arm.

‘Leave him be,’ Shakuni said, utterly unconcerned someone might overhear. ‘Asking him about his wellbeing will only reopen his wounds. Many and wondrous are the things this night holds. For a Resht to be invited to such an event…’ he frowning as the high harper’s song of chivalry filled the night, ‘is an honour as rare as summer snow. Try not to fret, and stay away from the Prince.’

Karna nodded weakly and allowed himself to be ushered by Sudama to the banquet tables. Today’s event was hosted on a grand terrace, the size of a Resht colony. But it still looked packed with dignitaries. It might have had something to do with the whispers that the Princess would finally make an appearance tonight. Clearly none of the suitors wished to miss that. The rich and the powerful of the realm were all here, dressed in their finest, on their best behaviour. Attendants in orange and green livery, with rows of golden buttons valued at Karna’s annual wage, held the curtains of different sections of the terrace open.

‘Uncle, look!’ Sudama squealed in delight.

The banquet tables with their gold-trimmed linen cloths, were forty feet end to end. Acharyas and women from the Fourth Order, learned in the Seven Gourmet Sighs, stood at attention in their ceremonial robes, holding multi-coloured rosaries, each grain a symbol of their mastery of the one of the Seven Sighs.

Karna’s stomach growled in anticipation. The smell of chicken marinated in yoghurt and spices, being baked in the searing heat of a clay oven, tickled his nose. Sudama followed the trail like a hound, to a seating section where the Royals sat on low golden chairs. Some had already begun partaking of the sumptuous feast: stews simmering in spices and butter, rice scattered with dried fruits and vark-covered nuts, fresh baked flatbreads, including corn and millet rotis cooked with buttermilk. There was also roasted pheasants adorned with their own gilded tail feathers, and partridges stuffed with nuts and raisins, which simmered in copper pots of saffron-spiced butter. Nearby, there was a whole lamb, slow-roasted over applewood for three nights and flavoured with cardamom, ginger, saffron and cinnamon, complete with a pomegranate in its mouth. Attendants passed with bowls of finely ground gram flour for guests to dip their fingers into, to cleanse them of grease, and brass bowls of scented water to rinse their hands when they were done.