PROLOGUE
DECEMBER 7, 1895
HEREIN LIES THE FAITHFUL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF my last sixty days, by Kartik, brother of Amar, loyal son of the Rakshana, and of the strange visitation I received that has left me wary on this cold English night. To begin at the beginning, I must go back to the middle days of October, after the misfortune that occurred.
It was growing colder when I left the woods behind the Spence Academy for Young Ladies. I'd received a letter by falcon from the Rakshana. My presence was required immediately in London. I was to keep off the main roads and be certain I was not followed. For several miles, I traveled under cover of the Gypsy caravan. The rest of the way I made on foot, alone, shielded by trees or the broad cape of night.
The second night, exhausted by my travels, half dead with cold and hunger--for I had finished my meager portion of meat two days prior--my mind made strange by isolation, the woods began to play tricks on me. In my weakened state, every whippoorwill became a haunt; each twig broken under a fawn's hooves a threat from the unquiet souls of barbarians slaughtered centuries before.
By the light of the fire, I read several passages from my only book, a copy of The Odyssey, hoping to gain courage from the trials of that hero. For I no longer felt brave or certain of anything. Finally, I drifted into sleep and dreams.
It was not a restful sleep. I dreamed of grass gone black as kindling. I was in a place of stone and ash. A lone tree stood outlined against a bloodred moon. And far below, a vast army of unearthly beings clamored for war. Above the din, I heard my brother, Amar, screeching out a warning:"Do not fail me, brother. Do not trust . . ." But here the dream changed. She was there, bending over me, her golden red curls a halo against the bright sky.
"Your destiny is joined to mine," she whispered. She leaned close; her lips hovered near my own. I could feel the slightest heat from them. I woke quickly, but there was nothing, save the smoldering ash from my campfire and the night sounds of small animals scurrying for cover. When I arrived in London I was half starved and unsure where to go next. The Rakshana had not given me instruction as to where to find them; that was not their way. They always found me. As I stumbled among the crowds of Covent Garden, the smell of eel pie, hot and salty, nearly drove me mad with hunger. I was about to risk stealing one when I spotted him. A man stood against a wall, smoking a cigar. He was not remarkable: of medium height and build, wearing a dark suit and hat, the morning's newspaper folded neatly under his left arm. He sported a well-groomed mustache, and along his cheek was a wicked smile of a scar. I waited for him to look away so that I could lift the pie without consequence. I feigned interest in a pair of street performers. One juggled knives while the other charmed the crowd. A third man, I knew, would be slipping about, relieving people of their wallets. I looked toward the wall again, and the man was gone.
Now was the time to strike. Keeping my hand hidden beneath the cover of my cloak, I reached toward the pile of steaming buns. The hot pie was barely in my grasp when the man from the wall sidled up to me.
"The Eastern Star is hard to find," he said in a low but cheery voice. It was only then that I noted the pin on his lapel--a small sword emblazoned with a skull. The symbol of the Rakshana.
I answered excitedly with the words I knew he expected, "But it shines brightly for those who seek it."
We clasped right hands then, placing the left over the fist as brothers of the Rakshana.
"Welcome, novitiate, we've been waiting for you." He leaned forward to whisper in my ear."You have much to account for."
I cannot say exactly what happened next. The last sight I remember was of the meat pie woman pocketing coins. I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head, and the world swirled into blackness.
When I came to, I found myself in a dank, dark room, blinking against the sudden light of many tall candles arranged in a circle
around me. My escorts had vanished. My head ached like the devil, and now awake, my terror was sharpened against the whetstone of the unknown. Where was I? Who was that man? If he was Rakshana, why the club on the head? I kept my ears open, listening for sounds, voices, some clue as to where I was.
"Kartik, brother of Amar, initiate of the brotherhood of the Rakshana . . ."The voice, deep and powerful, came from somewhere above me. I could see nothing but the candles, and behind that, utter darkness.
"Kartik," the voice repeated, most definitely wanting an answer.
"Yes,'' I croaked, when I could find my voice.
"Let the tribunal begin."
The room began to take shape in the dark. Twelve feet or more above the floor was a railing running the circumference of the circular room. Behind the railing, I could just make out the ominous deep purple robes of the highest ranks of the Rakshana. These were not the brothers who had trained me my whole life, but the powerful men who lived and ruled in the shadows. For such a tribunal to take place, I had either done something very good--or very bad.