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Chapter Six

The road to the north was merciless. Mountains rose like jagged teeth, their peaks shrouded in mist and snow. Valleys sank into shadows where rivers, swollen and angry, clawed their way through stone. Wind screamed down the ridges with icy teeth, biting into flesh no cloth could defend against.

For the first time, Nagashala’s arguments faltered.

His cotton robe clung wet against his skin, offering no warmth against the breath of winter. At night, when the frost crept into their bones, he envied Ilanag, who slept wrapped in a thick hide cloak that Ilucci had stitched together. He watched as Ilucci herself huddled beneath leather blankets, unbothered by the cold, her breath rising in calm rhythm. His pride burned, but his body shivered.

One evening, after a long day’s march through sleet and stinging wind, they took shelter in a shallow cave. Their last horse had stumbled and died on the rocks, leaving them with only what they could carry. Nagashala’s fingers were numb, his lips blue, when Ilucci pressed a piece of hide into his hands.

“Wear it,” she said simply.

“I told you—” he began, but she cut him off.

“Pride does not warm you. Philosophy does not keep you alive.” Her eyes softened then. “Nagashala, the world is larger than any one creed. The earth gives cotton in one land, wool in another, skins in another. Civilization is not cloth or leather—it is survival. It is men and women living to see another dawn.”

Her words struck him more deeply than any debate could. He took the hide reluctantly, wrapping it around his shoulders. Warmth seeped into his frozen skin, and for the first time in days, he slept without shivering.

But the land’s cruelty was not yet finished.

In the forests of Gandhara, they were ambushed. Bandits swept down upon them like vultures, seizing what little they carried. Their last mule was driven away, their food and cloth torn from them. Nagashala fought fiercely, but a blow to the head sent him sprawling. When the bandits fled, they left the three travelers bloodied, bruised, and with nothing but rags.

It was then that the monks came.

Draped in saffron robes, they found the beaten wanderers and lifted them gently, binding wounds, washing blood away with cool water. They carried them to Takshashila, the city of knowledge, where scholars gathered like bees around a hive of wisdom.

There, Nagashala was received by a woman unlike any he had met before. She was young, yet her eyes carried the calm of centuries. Her name was Adeera. She wore the saffron robe of a monk, but her smile was a flame—warm, unwavering, impossible to forget.

For days she tended their wounds with patience. To Nagashala, her presence was both comfort and danger, for every word she spoke seemed to reach into his heart.

“You are far from home,” she told him one evening as the lanterns glowed in the monastery courtyard. “But you are not alone. The world is wide, Nagashala. Wider than kings, wider than wars. Have you ever thought of China? Of lands beyond even these mountains? There, too, men seek wisdom.”

Her voice stirred something restless in him. China. Another horizon, another promise.

But as he looked at her, with her saffron robe glowing against the dusk, he felt the stirrings of another desire, one he dared not name.

Chapter Seven

Takshashila was a city of learning, a place where voices from many lands mingled in courtyards lined with stone pillars. Scrolls were read by the light of oil lamps, and debates thundered louder than drums in the halls of scholars. Here, Nagashala found knowledge — but he also found turmoil.

Adeera walked among the monks like a flame in saffron. Her laughter, soft yet unbroken, lit even the dimmest corners of the monastery. She moved with a grace that seemed untouched by sorrow, yet her eyes carried depths Nagashala could not fathom.

She spoke often to him, not in lectures but in conversations beneath the shade of trees or beside the steps where lotus blossoms floated in carved stone pools.

“Your people,” she said one morning, “the Telanga tribes, they are remembered far from here. Traders in distant lands speak of them. Strength is not only in weapons, Nagashala. It is in art, in the way a people carry their memory across seas and mountains. Do not forget that.”

Her words wrapped around him like incense smoke, subtle yet impossible to escape. He admired her wisdom, but what unsettled him was the warmth that stirred beneath it. Each time she laughed, a strange ache rose in his chest. Each time her eyes met his, he felt exposed, as though she saw not only his thoughts but his hidden longings.

Ilucci noticed. She said nothing, but in her silence was a heaviness, as though she sensed a rival presence entering the fragile bond they had begun to weave. Ilanag, ever observant, shook his head in quiet disapproval but kept his peace.

One evening, as the sun melted into crimson on the horizon, Nagashala sat alone with Adeera. The monastery bells had stilled, and only the sound of birds returning to their nests filled the air. Adeera broke the silence.

“You are searching,” she said softly.

Nagashala blinked. “For what?”

“For meaning. For a place where your heart can rest. You think it lies in kingdoms, or in proving your pride. But what if it lies in letting go? What if it lies in service, in wisdom that outlives you?”

Her voice trembled at the edge of persuasion. For a moment he saw her not as a monk but as a woman, her face illuminated by the dying sun, her eyes luminous with feeling unspoken. His heart pounded.

He looked away, struggling to breathe. She is a monk, he reminded himself. And I… I am bound by my father’s words, by my own path.

But the heart was deaf to warnings.

That night, as the cold wind blew through the monastery corridors, Nagashala dreamed. He dreamed of Adeera, her hand in his, her smile guiding him through a forest aflame. He awoke in a sweat, ashamed yet unable to shake the image.

Adeera, for her part, seemed untouched. She greeted him the next morning with the same serenity, her laughter as pure as before. Yet Nagashala felt the pull grow stronger, like a tide he could not resist.

In the midst of this, a familiar figure returned: Anandabuddha, the teacher they had once followed. But he was changed. Age had bowed his back, and sorrow had clouded his eyes.

“Children,” he said, when they bowed before him, “Sri Parvata has fallen. The halls of wisdom there are silent. Kings wage war, and the monks are slain. The world darkens. We must go east, to China, where the scriptures may yet be saved. Come with me. Help preserve what is greater than kingdoms.”

His words fell like thunder on Nagashala’s restless heart. On one side was the wisdom of his old teacher, calling him to duty beyond self. On the other was Adeera — wisdom clothed in beauty, peace shadowed by desire.

The choice pressed upon him like a weight of stone.

Chapter Eight

The caravan moved slowly, twelve donkeys laden with scrolls and manuscripts swaying under their burdens. Alongside them walked monks in saffron, their eyes fixed on the horizon, their lips murmuring prayers that rose and fell like the tide. At the head strode Anandabuddha, staff in hand, his frame frail but his spirit unyielding.

Nagashala, Ilucci, Ilanag, and Adeera followed. Behind them lay Takshashila, wounded but alive. Ahead stretched the long road to Tibet, to the lands of China where, Anandabuddha promised, the words of the Buddha would find a new home.

The journey tested them more than any before. High passes cut through mountains where winds screamed like demons. Frost crept into their bones, and snow blinded their eyes. Nights were cruel, the stars sharp as ice, and the ground offered no comfort.

Yet through it all, the manuscripts remained sacred. Wrapped in cloth, bound in leather, they were treated as living beings. When storms threatened to scatter them, the monks formed a circle around the donkeys, their bodies a shield against the fury of the sky.

One evening, as the caravan camped by a frozen stream, Anandabuddha summoned Nagashala to his side. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, though exhaustion lined his face.

“Nagashala,” he said gently, “I see the storm in you. You walk with us, yet your heart is divided. Tell me—do you long for the throne of kings, or the robe of a monk? Do you seek wisdom, or the warmth of love?”

Nagashala’s throat tightened. Images rose before him — his father’s stern face, warning against palaces; his mother, fierce and proud, vanishing in search of vengeance; Ilucci, strong and defiant, her hands stained with the dyes of her craft; Adeera, her saffron robe glowing in the twilight, her smile kindling fire in his chest.

“I do not know,” he admitted at last. “When I listen to you, I long for wisdom. When I am with Adeera, I long for her. And when I think of my father, I long to prove myself worthy of his name. My heart is pulled in every direction.”

Anandabuddha placed a frail hand on his shoulder. “That is the way of the world. Desire tugs at us like rivers branching in many streams. But remember—kingship fades, beauty fades, even the body fades. Only truth endures. If you must choose, choose what outlives you.”

The words sank deep, yet they did not bring peace. Instead, they churned within Nagashala, feeding the storm.

Ilucci, meanwhile, found her own path in the caravan. Among the scrolls was a manuscript written in the old Pisachi tongue of her ancestors—the Brihatkatha of Gunadhya. Her eyes widened when she saw it, her fingers trembling as she traced the letters. Anandabuddha noticed her awe and smiled.

“You know this tongue,” he said. “Then you must carry it forward. In China, these stories will find new life. Will you lend your hands to this work?”

Ilucci bowed her head. “Gladly. It will be my honor.”

In her acceptance, Nagashala saw something that unsettled him: she had found a calling greater than their quarrels. She would carry the voice of her ancestors across mountains and into another world.

And Adeera? Adeera walked beside him each day, her presence steady, her laughter like a spark in the snow. The monks whispered that she lingered too close, that her eyes strayed too often. Anandabuddha heard their concerns and watched in silence, his gaze heavy upon them both.

One night, as the fire crackled low, Adeera leaned close and whispered, “Nagashala, if you would walk beside me, I would not turn away.”

The words seared him more deeply than any flame.

Between the scriptures, the oaths of his father, the pull of Ilucci’s defiance, and Adeera’s dangerous affection, Nagashala felt the world tilt beneath his feet. The caravan pressed eastward, but within him, the real journey had only just begun.

Chapter Nine

China was unlike anything Nagashala had ever known. The cities rose with walls of stone so high they seemed to scrape the clouds. Markets bustled with colors, silks shimmering like rivers, spices filling the air with unfamiliar scents. The people moved in ordered rhythm, their language a music of tones and cadences that took months for the caravan to grasp.

To the monks, it was a new frontier of the spirit. To Nagashala, it was both wonder and temptation.

Anandabuddha was welcomed with reverence. The scrolls he carried were treated as treasures, placed in halls of learning where scholars gathered like bees. For the first time in many months, there was peace—space to breathe, to heal, to reflect.

Ilucci found her place swiftly. With eager determination, she learned the new tongue and began to translate the old Pisachi tales into Chinese. To her, it was like weaving threads between ages, ensuring that the voice of her ancestors would echo in distant lands. Each day her eyes glowed with pride, her laughter ringing as she worked late into the night.

Nagashala watched her from afar, admiration swelling within him. Yet he could not bridge the distance between them. Their bond, once close, now seemed veiled in shadows—ever since Adeera’s presence had entered his heart.

Adeera too had changed in this new land. The language came to her with ease, and soon she was speaking fluently with Chinese monks, her saffron robe marking her as both student and teacher. She shone with a radiance that drew others to her, but it was Nagashala she lingered near.

The whispers grew louder. The monks muttered that Adeera’s gaze followed him too closely, that her laughter softened only when he was near. Finally, Anandabuddha himself summoned Nagashala.

They sat alone in a quiet courtyard, lanterns swaying in the night breeze. The old master’s eyes glimmered with both kindness and sorrow.

“Nagashala,” he began, “when I first met you, you were a wanderer seeking meaning. I thought your heart would grow into the robe of a monk. But now I see hesitation. Tell me truly—what is it that you desire?”

Nagashala lowered his head. “Bhante, my heart is torn. When I listen to your words, I wish to give myself to the path. When I see Adeera, I feel another calling—one of fire, of life shared, of bonds unbroken. And when I remember my father, I think of thrones, of duty to my people.”

Anandabuddha’s gaze deepened, piercing. “You cannot walk three roads at once, my son. The robe demands sacrifice. The throne demands sacrifice. Even love, too, demands sacrifice. Whatever you choose, something will be left behind.”

Nagashala clenched his fists. The words were truth, yet they cut him open.

That night, as moonlight washed over tiled roofs and distant bells tolled, Adeera approached him.

“I heard,” she said softly, “that Anandabuddha spoke to you.”

He nodded.

Her eyes lingered on him, luminous in the pale light. “If you chose the robe, I would not stop you. But if you chose me, Nagashala…” Her voice faltered. “…I would not resist. I have walked long in the path of detachment, but when I see you, I feel the weight of another truth: that compassion and love need not be enemies.”

Her hand trembled as it brushed against his. The world seemed to hold its breath.

For a moment, Nagashala thought of seizing that hand, of abandoning robes and scrolls, of forging a life of love in a foreign land. But then Ilucci’s voice echoed in his memory—the challenge she had given him, the pride she carried of her lineage. He thought of his father, warning him of palaces and monks alike. He thought of his mother, fierce and lost.

And he drew back.

Adeera’s eyes widened, hurt flashing across her face before she turned away into the shadows.

Nagashala stood alone under the moon, torn between three worlds—duty, love, and faith—and knowing that whichever path he chose, part of him would be lost forever.

Chapter Ten

The years in China passed like seasons flowing into one another. The manuscripts were copied, translated, and spread among eager disciples. Anandabuddha, though frail, lived long enough to see his work bear fruit. When he finally passed, the monks lit a thousand lamps in his honor, their glow reaching the heavens.

But for Nagashala, peace was fleeting. News from the west traveled slowly but relentlessly: kingdoms had risen and fallen, wars had carved scars across his homeland. Traders spoke of a woman-warrior queen who ruled fiercely, her armies sweeping like fire across the plains. She was called Nagaputri by some, Nagaputri by others. To Nagashala, the name was a knife—it was his mother.

Restlessness grew in him. The scrolls, the lessons, the calm courtyards of China could not silence the call of blood. One night he told Ilucci and Ilanag, “We must go back. Our land bleeds, and my mother walks a path of war. I cannot stay here while my name, my people, are twisted into tales of fear.”

Ilucci’s face was unreadable. She had grown into her work, her translations admired by Chinese scholars. To leave meant abandoning the recognition she had earned. Yet she saw the fire in his eyes and knew he would not stay. With quiet resolve she said, “Then I will go with you. For your struggle is mine, too.”

Ilanag, though weary of endless wandering, nodded as well. “The soil of home still calls me. I will return.”

But Adeera remained silent. When at last she spoke, her words trembled. “If you leave, you walk away from what could have been. I cannot follow you into war, Nagashala. My vows are here, my path is here. Yet my heart…” She faltered, then turned away. “Go, if you must.”

The parting cut deep, but Nagashala did not falter.

Their journey westward was harder than the path that had once brought them east. Storms raged across the steppes, rivers swallowed men whole, and bandits prowled like wolves. Yet at last, after years of exile, the mountains gave way to the familiar plains of Bharatavarsha.

What they found was not the land they had left. Villages smoldered from raids, temples lay in ruin, and armies marched under banners dripping with serpent emblems. Nagaputri had indeed risen—and she was none other than Nagaputri, Nagashala’s mother.

Her court was fierce, unlike any they had known. Women warriors rode at her side, their armor gleaming, their eyes sharp. Songs were sung of her victories, of kings who had fallen before her blade. To her followers she was a goddess, to her enemies a terror.

When Nagashala entered her hall, silence fell. The queen, tall and unyielding, gazed upon him with eyes that burned. For a heartbeat he saw not a queen but the mother who had once cradled him. Then the vision vanished, replaced by the warrior who had forsaken home for vengeance.

“My son,” she said at last, her voice cold. “You return, but not as the heir I sought. You have wandered, wasted years with monks and traders, while I carved an empire from ashes. Tell me—what have you brought me? Scrolls? Sermons? Or the strength to rule?”

Nagashala’s heart quaked. This was the woman he had longed to find, and yet she stood before him a stranger. Ilucci’s hand tightened around his, as if to remind him of the path he had walked, the truths he had seen.

He raised his head. “Mother, I bring not armies but wisdom. Not thrones, but the knowledge that thrones crumble. I have seen empires rise and fall, and only art, only memory, endures. If you would build a kingdom, let it not be of swords, but of stories. Let it be of what will outlive us.”

The hall trembled with murmurs. Some scoffed, others looked thoughtful. Nagaputri’s face hardened, unreadable.

“You speak as your father did,” she said at last, bitterly. “And he died with nothing.”

“But he lives in me,” Nagashala replied. “And through me, he will not be forgotten.”

The silence that followed was heavier than steel. The queen’s eyes glittered, torn between rage and sorrow. At last she turned her face away. “Do as you will, son. But know this: the world remembers not words, but power. If you are wrong, history itself will erase you.”

Nagashala bowed, though his heart ached. He had returned, but not to the mother he remembered. The land was burning, and his place in its story was yet unwritten.

Chapter Eleven

The days in his mother’s court were heavy with tension. Nagashala could feel the pull of two worlds colliding: the world of his lineage, steeped in war and vengeance, and the world he had glimpsed through wanderings, steeped in memory and art.

The Nagaputri ruled fiercely. Each morning drums thundered as her warriors rode out to raid neighboring lands, returning at night with spoils and prisoners. Songs of conquest echoed through the halls, but beneath the triumph, Nagashala sensed an unease, a fragility — as if the empire his mother built was a fire that burned too hot, destined to consume itself.

Ilanag, ever the gentler spirit, found no place in this court of steel. He walked among the common folk, tending to the wounded, listening to their sorrows. One evening he told Nagashala quietly, “This is not a kingdom, brother. It is a storm. And storms pass, leaving only ruins.”

Nagashala knew he was right.

Ilucci, meanwhile, did not shrink. She entered the workshops of the court, where artisans worked under the queen’s command, and there she made her presence known. She spoke of the old crafts, of skins and dyes, of the Ajanta and Ellora caves where art outlasted kings. Soon her voice spread among the women of the court, many of whom had been widowed or orphaned by war. To them, Ilucci’s words were a lifeline — a reminder that there was more to life than conquest.

This did not escape the queen’s notice.

One night, as torches flickered in the great hall, Nagaputri summoned her son and Ilucci. Her gaze was sharp as a blade.

“You challenge me,” she said. “Not with armies, but with whispers. You would turn my people from war to weaving, from conquest to crafts. Tell me, Nagashala — do you believe the world will remember skins and dyes when it trembles before swords?”

Nagashala met her eyes, steady and unflinching. “Yes, Mother. I have walked lands where thrones have crumbled, where kings’ names are dust. But I have seen walls painted centuries ago still breathing, stories told long after their tellers died. You ask what the world remembers? It remembers art. It remembers stories. Not the wars, but the voices that survived them.”

The queen’s face darkened, but her silence betrayed doubt. The hall murmured, her warriors restless, her artisans emboldened. For the first time, her certainty cracked.

That night, Nagashala dreamt of his father. Nagapala stood at the edge of a dark river, his voice calm yet commanding. “You have walked far, my son. You have seen kingdoms, monks, mothers, lovers. Now choose. Will you follow the sword, or the story?”

Nagashala woke with his answer.

At dawn, he stood before the court. “I am Nagashala, son of Nagapala and Nagaputri. I am heir to blood and to exile. But I will not rule by sword. I will rule by story. I will guard not thrones, but memory. If the world must know me, let it be as a wanderer, a keeper of tales, a servant of art.”

His words fell like a stone into still water. Some laughed, some jeered, but many listened. The artisans cheered softly. Ilanag wept with pride. Ilucci’s eyes shone with tears.

And the queen — Nagaputri — turned her face away, hiding what might have been sorrow, or perhaps relief.

Nagashala did not wait for her blessing. With Ilucci and Ilanag beside him, he left the court. Not as a prince, not as a monk, not as a conqueror, but as a storyteller. Together they wandered once more, carrying with them scrolls, skins, and memories — weaving them into songs that crossed mountains and seas.