‘You have been loyal to me for decades, Kanakhala,’ said Daksha. ‘Remember your vows and you will live. You can continue to be prime minister. But if you break them, not only will you be given the death sentence, you will also be damned by the Parmatma.’

Kanakhala couldn’t utter a word. She knew that the prime ministerial oath also said that if she betrayed her liege, no funeral ceremonies would be conducted for her. According to ancient superstitions, this was a fate worse than death. Without funeral rituals, her soul would not be able to cross the mythical Vaitarni River to Pitralok, the land of one’s ancestors. The onward journey of her soul, either towards liberation or to return to earth in another body, would be interrupted. She would exist in the land of the living as a Pishach, a ghost.

‘Remember your vows and do your duty,’ said Daksha. ‘Focus on the conference.’

Kanakhala stood quietly on the terrace outside her home-office. She loved the sound of trickling water from the small fountain in the centre of the chamber. This sound was wafting gently towards her, all the way to the open balcony. It kept her mind focused and calm. She looked up; the sun was already on its way down.

She took a deep breath and looked towards the street. The soldiers weren’t even trying to hide. Kanakhala did not feel any anger towards the men who kept watch outside her house. They were good soldiers. They were simply following orders given to them by their commander.

Kanakhala knew it was pointless to try and send a message to Lothal and warn the Neelkanth. She was sure Vidyunmali would have positioned expert archers along the route to bring down any bird courier. Furthermore, it was very possible that the Neelkanth’s convoy had already left Lothal. Her only recourse was Parvateshwar. If Lord Bhrigu and he managed to reach Devagiri in time, this travesty that her Emperor and Brigadier Vidyunmali were planning could be stopped. But getting a message to Karachapa wouldn’t be easy.

Kanakhala looked at the small message in her hand. She had personally addressed it to the Neelkanth. She rolled the message tightly and slipped it into a small canister attached to a pigeon’s leg. She shut the canister, closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Forgive me, noble bird. Your sacrifice will aid a greater cause. Om Brahmaye Namah.’

Then she threw the bird into the air.