***Ch-51:

Mannat’s cart was halfway down the road when they caught up with Sardar’s carriage.

The two older men had folded down the top to fight summer wind with night’s cold, making it easier for Pandit, who had the sharpest set of eyes among the three, to recognize them.

Sardar sat solemnly in the back while Khargosh drove. They two sat quietly as the willow wind until they heard Pandit’s shouts and saw the approaching cart and the two boys standing in it.

Khargosh slowed the carriage after learning that it wasn’t the Sarpanch who was following them. They eventually found a spot off the road to rest the horses and to wait for the Sarpanch to pass-by, since only he had the way to bring them into the town after sundown. Pandit and Kaju watered the horses and fed them so they could continue the journey later.

Mannat was checking in on Bhadur when the old man, Sardar, called for him.

“How are you holding up?” Sardar asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know what is happening?”

“I do.” Mannat nodded. “Sarpanch enthusiastically filled me in on the details.”

Sardar let out a snort. Strange emotions glittered in his wise eyes. “Do you think he has anything to do with your father’s arrest?”

Mannat shook his head. “It’s not the Sarpanch.” He looked away. He hesitated whether to come clean to the old man or to keep his doubts to himself until he was sure about them.

The old man saw through him and grabbed his shoulder. “You can tell me anything you understand. Perhaps, I’ll be able to help you better if I know what you know.”

Mannat didn’t think anyone could help him. Not in this case. Not if he was right. Yet he told them the truth, or the part he knew about. It wasn’t about coming clean or needing help. It was about trust. They had rushed after the count’s carriage without worrying about their safety to help his father. To trust them with the truth was the least Mannat could do for them. He owed it to them.

“I don’t think it’s the count either,” Mannat said. “Was there a red-haired man among the soldiers?”

He got everyone’s attention. Even Khargosh came forward to have a listen. Pandit had been holding himself back. Now that Mannat was spilling the beans, he was at the front with his hands spread out for some food for his thoughts.

Sardar and Khargosh shared a glance before the former confirmed it. “The red-haired man was leading the soldiers. He was the one who went into the smithy while the soldiers stayed outside. Do you know him?”

Mannat exhaled a sigh, indistinguishable whether it was of relief or worry. “I think… he’s my uncle from my mother’s side.”

Pandit already knew it would be something like this, yet he was surprised to hear Mannat confirm his speculation. The other's surprise could be understood. Sardar did have this thought, but he hadn’t attached any strength to it, while Khargosh had had trouble believing the breath on the man. The red-haired man Mannat called his uncle was strong, unbelievably so. Khargosh had thought about rushing up to the soldiers to defend Raesh, but it had only taken a glance from the man to shut his thoughts down.

“You are not natives of this region are you?” Kaju asked apprehensively.

“Are you sure?” Sardar asked Mannat simultaneously. “I have known your parents for well over twenty years now. For you to say the soldier is your uncle means he has been looking for Raesh for that long.”

“Twenty years!” Pandit exclaimed. “Your uncle has been looking for your parents for twenty…”

Khargosh glared at his foolish son and Pandit hurriedly swallowed the rest of the words, biting his tongue in the process.

Mannat heard him groaning through sealed lips and busted a snort. Yes, his heart was still shivering in pain, but the ice was thawing. He was hurt but that didn’t mean he had to keep a cold voice and pretend everything was mysterious. There were friends around. They deserved to know the truth. Truth was that it was a family matter.

The Pandora’s Box was open and Mannat decided to tell them everything he knew. He told them his father’s love story, which Raesh had told him on a bright summer night a year ago. The story involved everything from his parent’s hot and hidden romance to the resistance of his mother’s parents. He told them about Raesh’s mother who was a slave at Noor’s home. He told them about his parent's love, and his grandfather’s resistance toward their marriage, which made Sardar frown hard since the story sounded too alike the situation involving Mannat and his granddaughter Sharmilla.

Mannat concluded the tale by telling them that in the end his grandmother, or his mother’s mother, helped his parents elope, which once again made the old man Sardar wonder whether Mannat was telling a story or giving him an ultimatum. Irrespective of Sardar’s thoughts, the thing about his father’s mother being a slave kept repeating in Mannat’s mind. It seemed important to him for some reason. Inexplicably, he had been ignoring a glaring issue hidden in his grandmother’s slave identity.

Mannat found Kaju staring at him. The retired sergeant had figured out what Mannat’s mind had been trying to tell him. His face had stiffened; an apologetic smile hung on his lips. He was regretting ever telling Mannat about the slaves.

Pandit noticed their eye contact but didn’t think much of it.

“Seems like the story you told us was true,” Mannat told Kaju. He suddenly felt fearless. It was the last pound of strength one gets before the confirmation of death rattles through one's feeble resistance. The realization had already sent his world down a crumbling spiral. What did it matter if the destruction happened a little faster?

“It’s no wonder my parents couldn’t give birth naturally and needed the Witch’s help,” Mannat said aloud. His words echoed in his ears like unshakable truths.

“What are you talking about?” Khargosh asked worriedly.

Sardar had fallen into worry.

“You can’t be sure about that, Mannat,” Kaju said haphazardly. “There are many kinds of salves. Most of them are products of border disputes. Sometimes the nobles turn the criminals into slaves to earn a buck. Not all of them are from the south!”

Quiet ensued as soon as the words fell. There were shocked expressions all around. Pandit was the least uncomfortable with it. It didn’t matter to him if his friend was a southern Demon, a northern light, or a pervert. Khargosh was personally intrigued, but his thoughts were difficult to read since he was usually cold and aloof.

However, Sardar was different.

Mannat sensed the storm that had sprouted in the old man’s mind. And it was growing turbulent, spreading, destroying every feeling and virtue it contacted.

The old man had seen the world. He knew how to add two things together and get nothing in return. His face fell. He couldn’t find the strength to keep a straight face. The implications of Mannat’s confession had both his heart and mind reeling. It couldn’t be true because there was no otherwise. He would lose his granddaughter otherwise. She was as stubborn as her father, who was a copy of him, and he was as stubborn as an ox.

If Raesh truly was a man from the south and Mannat was his son, then there was no future between him and Sharmilla. Sardar didn’t want to think about it, but he could help remember the sweet smile on his Child's face. She didn’t even know about this. He knew the boy hadn’t hidden anything from them either. However, he couldn’t leave things to fate. It would kill him to separate the two of them, again, but he would have to do it, and thinking about telling that innocent child about his decision alone made his legs shake.

Their eyes met and Mannat only saw pain and resentment in Sardar’s old wise eyes. However, the old man didn’t lose his mind. They only needed to find Raesh to ask him the truth. There was still a chance that Mannat’s speculation was wrong. As Sardar saw it, there was no need for him to jump the ship and end up in deep waters with no way back.

Sardar didn’t speak, yet Mannat understood his thoughts.

Mannat tried to speak when Sarpanch’s carriage rolled up behind them and stopped on the road.

The door slammed open. A plump man in white overalls jumped out and pointed the bottom end of his studded cane at them. He was not alone. Five men in black jumped from the carriage behind him. So did his thin assistant. Sarpanch was fuming inside for being fooled by a bunch of hay nippers. Yet he stood in front of them with a huge smile plastered on his face. The man knew how to keep appearances; even when there was no one there he cared about.

The Inquisitor must have offered enough to quench Sarpanch’s greed. Otherwise, Mannat didn’t believe the man had the politeness to ignore them for ditching him in the village and taking their own cart out to the town.

“You think you are funny, don’t you? Guess what?” Sarpanch pulled the token from this breast pocket. “I’m still the man with the key. I’m the only one who can bring you into the town. Fool me again and I’ll make sure you never get to see your father again! Do you believe me?” Sarpanch glared at Mannat. It only then did he notice the tension between the group.

“What’s with the long faces? Did someone die?” Sarpanch said sarcastically. “Anyways, I’m in charge now. And I say you have rested enough. Follow me if you want to enter the town, or you can lick the guard’s feet later and see if you can get a favor from them that way.”

Sarpanch went away as fast as he had come. He sat back in the carriage, snapped his fingers and his men rushed back to their positions. “Chop chop, don’t dawdle now. Eat while the food is fresh.” He said before his assistant closed the door behind him and the carriage started rolling toward the town.

The carriage disappeared into a pristine yellow glow of lantern light before even that grew faint and the whole thing faded into the long dark shadow covering the roads of the moonless night.

“Let’s go.” Kaju freed the horses from the tree and brought them to the vehicles. Pandit and Khargosh helped tie the horses to their place and soon they were on the road again.

A different kind of mood followed them. It wasn’t solemn, and complicated was too shallow a word to describe its emotional weight.

It was pitch black when they reached the town. The behemoth that was the town's outer wall was an invisible shadow on their consciousness in the dark world. The wall wasn’t clear in sight, but the dark visage that extended to the sky was awfully impossible to ignore, even on that soulless night.

Giant torches spewed flaming bright tongues at the closed giant front door of the town. There were a few such glow on the wall. They looked like ghosts floating in limbo.

The last time Mannat was there, it was a hot day and there were long lines of people, carriages, and animals waiting to enter the town. There had been beggars who could earn money with words, little sellers, selling things at exorbitant prices, families waiting in their carts, merchants fanning flames, and carriages rich and magnificent.

Now, there stood a handful of guards at the foot of the closed door. Sarpanch’s carriage stood beside them in wait. Mannat didn’t recognize any of the soldiers, which was understandable since the guards worked in shifts.

They stopped at the guard’s behest. The same guards saw checked their faces in the glow of the flames burning at their torches. Sarpanch’s identified them and the soldiers allowed them to enter the town. The soldiers didn’t question the reason behind their late arrival and saluted them on their way through the gate.

The token proved true.

While Pandit had the urge to salute back, he kept himself in check. Slowly, the three vehicles rolled into the town without hassle.

The town at night was a beast in slumber. The empty streets were devoid of life and excitement. Some lights gawked curiously from the west, but even their prodding inquiries couldn’t reveal the temper that had gone to sleep along with the town’s residents.

The Count's tall statue that had seemed so mysterious during Mannat’s first visit stood unremarkable covered in the night’s cold dark cloak. Stripped of its laughter and tenderness, the statue conveyed a grave countenance, representing the hard heart, the hidden side of its owner. It goes to say, everyone with a bit of power has tasted blood. The pickaxe in the statue's hand stood especially frightening in the night. It was no longer the color of metal but had picked up the redness of the flowers growing underneath it.

The three vehicles tiptoed their way through the empty streets toward the inner wall. The lantern light hanging from their fronts revealed the tender flesh of the sleeping town as they cleared their way up the jagged peaked road.

Mannat looked around at his companions and his surroundings — both sides appeared insecure to his nervous eyes. Perhaps, he or someone else should have taken it upon themselves to lighten the atmosphere surrounding them, because the nervousness of their immediate future was a cold fog surrounding them, obscuring the night and their hearts from each other.

“How many shops are there? I have run out of fingers, but the shops just carry on endlessly!” That was until Pandit’s agitation gave in to his curiosity.

“Yes,” Khargosh answered. The words came out stuck together, with defect, as if uttered through frozen lips. He followed them with a few well-wished coughs that were obnoxiously loud in the night on the empty streets, making him embarrassed.

“How do they even earn their keep? Do they even make anything?” Pandit looked back and forth, between the shops and his father, confusion and apprehension were clear in his wide eyes.

“Don’t compare the town to our village. Even ten villages together wouldn’t make up for the population of this town.” Khargosh licked his lips and continued gently this time. “Even with so many shops, I bet the owners must have no difficulty selling their produce.”

Their conversation was a warm spark that their group required and a reminder to Mannat of his first visit. The memory didn’t burn his façade, though it did cause him to open up his defenses. That was how he sensed Pandit’s rallied emotions and realized the young, tall boy was not worried about the town, but the girl who had left him and become a part of the sleeping monster. It was no wonder his eyes scanned every tailor shop that they passed by, trying to glue together hopeless clues that would point him in direction of his old beloved.

The realization hit Mannat hard, and made him solemn. He looked at the old man Sardar, who sat by the edge of his carriage, looking nowhere in particular with his head cast down. The old man had not moved since Kaju revealed Raesh’s southern roots.

They hadn’t met eyes together ever since and Mannat understood deep down that the thread tying them together in a relationship was slowly unraveling. It would break if his speculation proved true, separating them forever with no chance of reconciliation. A voice in his heart told him to look away, he was afraid to meet the old man’s eyes. Sardar’s silence was an answer in stone.

Perhaps, the past does repeat itself.

It was all coming to an end. The love Mannat believed to be eternal was crashing down on his head and he could not see a path that wouldn’t lead to pain for those left crushed by its weight.

“What kind of a wall is that?”

Mannat raised his head upon hearing Pandit’s curious voice.

“I don’t know.” Khargosh was as stubbed as Pandit in this matter. “Many people have wondered the same thing and no one has come out with a rational answer.”

“It’s to fight the monsters.” Mannat dropped the answer into the pond and caused a splash.

A few heads rolled toward him. Even Sardar moved slightly. Mannat sensed them all, their pique and curiosities.

“Are you talking about the same monsters that I know about?”

“Yes,” Mannat shared a glace with Pandit before turning toward the giant slope that was becoming apparent in the distance. “You can call the two walls the shield and the sword. The outer wall is to defend, while the inner one is to kill.”

“How many monsters are we talking about?” Pandit asked, his voice trembling with unknown emotions.

“Enough of them to overwhelm the whole world,”

Mannat’s answer sent a jolt down Pandit’s spine. His heart started racing, sending blood into his limbs.

Their conversation fell and a different kind of silence, one that was poignant and aware, took a seat among them.

The Sarpanch was waiting for them at the inner wall. He and his goons stood outside in straight sight of the soldiers who had their swords out, though pointed toward the ground. They were vigilant but lenient in their behavior.

Different from the soldiers of the outer walls, these soldiers were veterans at a glance. The soldiers stopped their cart and asked the group to come down and line up for inspection.

“What’s happening?” Khargosh asked.

The soldiers ignored him and asked the Sarpanch to identify the person required by the Count.

“Is he the one?” One of the soldiers pointed at Pandit.

“NO!” Sarpanch shouted in agitation and pointed at Mannat. “Him,”

“All right,” The man in black raised his torch to look at Mannat. He froze momentarily upon seeing the boy’s fire-burned visage.

Mannat had the same reaction. They knew eachother.

“It’s you,” The soldier blurted, earning a disciplined grunt from his senior. He instantly hid the knowing smile that had blossomed on his face and wore the uncaring façade.

He remembered Mannat clearly because he was thankful to the boy in some ways. Helping the boy had unintentionally helped him get promoted from a guard at the outer wall to a guard at the inner wall. He was still a guard, but his provision was greater as were his privileges. Last time the count’s left-hand man had personally received the boy. He now understood how much respect the count had given the boy and his father.

From the soft smile that Mannat gave him, the soldier knew the boy, who had grown leaps and bounds in a year, had recognized him too.

“Looks like you are doing great,” Mannat mumbled.

“It’s all thanks to you,” The soldier replied in a hushed voice.

“What’s happening out there?” An older soldier approached and stood beside Mannat and his friends. He picked his sword and pointed it toward him and the hunters stood still.

“Don’t frighten the boy,” The soldier told his senior. “He’s a guest of the count.”

“You know him?”

“Yes,”

The older soldier didn’t ask him how he knew, but nodded and addressed the others behind Mannat.

“Only the boy will go in. The rest of you, book an inn and wait for his return.”

“But we have the token,”

“The token only allows one visitor and one guest.” The sergeant answered calmly. He was as respectful to the group as a stranger is toward someone of his pedigree.

“Come on, fool. What are you waiting for?” Sarpanch taunted Mannat. “It will be midnight in an hour. Do you want to waste time meddling in affairs with no out? Or do you want to go see your father?”

The sarcastic tone of the voice was the last hammer on the hot situation.

“It’s all right,” Khargosh patted Mannat’s shoulder. “You go bring your father back. We’ll wait for you here,”

Mannat looked at him and the others.

Kaju nodded, while the old man only stared at him, his thoughts unknown. Sardar had a few words to say, but he kept them to himself for the time being and Mannat appreciated him for it.

“Where are you planning to say for the night?” Mannat asked them and upon receiving dazed stares told them about the inn without a sign where he usually stays with his father during their visits.

“We’ll take a look. You take care of yourself.” Khargosh said and they separated.

Mannat nodded and was about to turn when Pandit grabbed his arm. “Come back as soon as you can. There are people waiting for you. Don’t forget that.”

Mannat nodded. Then he and the Sarpanch followed a group of soldiers to the other side of the wall. The peaceful inner-city waited for them where they got into the soldier's carriage and rode onto the furnished marbled roads shaded by tall pine trees. The night hovered around them while the horse hooves tick-tocked toward the center of the inner city.

Slowly they made their way toward a shadow in the dark threaded with a thin path of fire. Atop which awaited a lie from the past to judge Mannat's fate.