Shishupal saw no harm in confiding in him. ‘Danta hasn’t been seen since he got wasted at the Old Hog.’

‘Ah, inebriation. Most imprudent. Eklavvya deplores its effects.’

‘Are you heading to your camp?’ Shishupal asked, moving aside to let him pass.

‘Eklavvya is, Lord Shishupal, but it is that way.’ He pointed in precisely the opposite direction to which the other camps stood. Eklavvya seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Valkas are bawdy people to be around, especially when drunk. Best left in a far corner at night. Why don’t you come see for yourself? Allow Eklavvya the pleasure of your company.’

Shishupal agreed. It would be just as well to confirm that his brother had not strayed into the Valka camp. And this unusual boy was a refreshing change from the dark conversational alleys Lady Rasha had driven him through.

II

‘The Valkas have their funerals when they cross their first year of life,’ Eklavvya answered.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Shishupal took a step back. While he had little interest in things holy, he admitted to some curiosity as to why the Valkas left their dead *to rot on the battlefield. But when he had asked Eklavvya the question, he had not expected this answer.

‘The life of a Valka is one of peril. Most forestfolk end in the stomach of an iron jaw during mating season or on the riverbed in a flood. Souls cannot enter the afterlife without a funeral song, and there can be no funeral song without a body to hear it. So, our shoulder-men carve magic into the trunks of trees, weave nourishing baskets and bury every baby, once they have passed their first summer, by the roots of a tree, for half a day. If the baby survives, the Valkas know his soul has been blessed by the Forest Spirits to walk into the afterlife once he dies. If not, it is known that the Spirits have claimed the child’s song. It is then left buried, and in this manner receives a conventional funeral. So, you see, when grown Valkas die on battlefields, their souls have already received a funeral song in infancy. The body that remains is a shell, a gift to the crows.’

Shishupal must’ve looked horror-struck, for Eklavvya explained, ‘It must appear strange to an outsider. Eklavvya remembers* how the Imperial Army took it upon itself to burn the fallen Valkas after the Battle of Goverdhun, only to be met with sniggers from the forestfolk.’

This boy was in that damn battle too! Shishupal felt suddenly sad, for he knew what the Battle of Goverdhun had been. A merciless massacre of innocents. Shishupal could only hope Eklavvya had not witnessed first-hand the horrors committed by the Yaksha. Should I ask him about the Yaksha? No…those scenes of horror must have twisted a knife in the boy’s soul. Best not reopen wounds.