Read Online Shattered: The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Seven by Kevin Hearne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin Hearne
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has been invaded or inhabited by a rakshasa?”
“Correct. That is why your father is still somewhat limited.”
“But there are already hundreds of victims, you said.”
“Yes. He calls more rakshasas every day. Grows stronger every day.”
“Gods, all those people. How long before you can get Durga involved?”
“I am practicing austerities and making offerings. When she will appear is of course up to her. But I am confident she will come. This raksoyuj is ruining dharma, and the devi will wish to restore balance.”
“She’ll show up in the middle of Thanjavur on a lion and she’ll have extra arms and everything?”
“I imagine she would prefer to manifest out of sight of the general population. We should attempt to draw your father out to a rural area.”
“Fine. Can we go now? Take me to someone sick on the edge of the city. I can’t stand doing nothing.”
Laksha nods. “Yes, we can go.” She pats the folds of fabric draped over each hip and then gives an embarrassed smile at my raised eyebrows. “Still have my knives. It is a nervous thing—I always check before I go out, even though I know they are still there. I need a couple more things.” She grabs sticks of incense and small jars of unguents and two miniature gongs with mallets, and all of those disappear into the folds of her sari. I begin to think she might have pocket dimensions in there.
My clothes aren’t completely dry, but neither are they dripping wet. I shiver at the chill and resign myself to getting cold and wet again, bidding farewell to the robe as a brief interlude of warmth and comfort. Laksha gives me an extra umbrella and we step back into the rain, Orlaith trotting along beside us.
Laksha leads us in silence through the rain. Water pounds our umbrellas and sluices underneath our feet as we follow a sinuous path through the city. We continue on muddy trails along the ridges of rice paddies to a sad collection of hovels that struggle to live up to the name of
shelter
but completely own the word
ramshackle
. The people who live here work too hard for too little comfort.
Laksha knocks and a tired, worried woman opens the door, blessing us with a whiff of incense before the rain sweeps it down to the ground. Moans of pain arise from the darkness behind her, only a hint of candlelight ameliorating the gloom. Her eyes take in Laksha and they widen somewhat before she bows and clasps her hands and a stream of musical language bubbles forth from her lips. Laksha responds, gestures briefly to me, and then the woman opens the door wide and steps aside, inviting us to enter.
The modest living area stretches unbroken into the kitchen on the back wall. A battered couch that was once orange hunches against the wall to our left, hoping we won’t notice it, and two doors to our right probably lead to a small bedroom and a smaller bathroom. The moans are coming from one of them.
I ask Orlaith to wait on the floor by the couch, and we follow the woman to the bedroom. A teenage boy writhes there on the sheets, his brow clammy and his breathing labored. Incense battles with the stench of illness, and the storm pounds the roof.
Laksha puts her hand to the boy’s forehead, and he twitches. She holds it there for a few seconds and then moves her hand to the center of his bare chest, over his heart. Nodding, she glances at the rain-spattered window and withdraws. “The storm is good. It dampens the spirit like it would dampen mine. And the noise is annoying. We need to increase both the water and the noise.”
“I understand how noise can be a nuisance, but what does the rain outside have to do with anything?” I ask.
“The rakshasa in this form,” she says, pointing to the boy, “is a thing of the air—or, more properly, the ether. It drowns in water. We need to get him into a bath.” She turns and speaks in Tamil to the woman—presumably the boy’s mother—explaining what needs to be done. Together, we lift the poor thing
“Correct. That is why your father is still somewhat limited.”
“But there are already hundreds of victims, you said.”
“Yes. He calls more rakshasas every day. Grows stronger every day.”
“Gods, all those people. How long before you can get Durga involved?”
“I am practicing austerities and making offerings. When she will appear is of course up to her. But I am confident she will come. This raksoyuj is ruining dharma, and the devi will wish to restore balance.”
“She’ll show up in the middle of Thanjavur on a lion and she’ll have extra arms and everything?”
“I imagine she would prefer to manifest out of sight of the general population. We should attempt to draw your father out to a rural area.”
“Fine. Can we go now? Take me to someone sick on the edge of the city. I can’t stand doing nothing.”
Laksha nods. “Yes, we can go.” She pats the folds of fabric draped over each hip and then gives an embarrassed smile at my raised eyebrows. “Still have my knives. It is a nervous thing—I always check before I go out, even though I know they are still there. I need a couple more things.” She grabs sticks of incense and small jars of unguents and two miniature gongs with mallets, and all of those disappear into the folds of her sari. I begin to think she might have pocket dimensions in there.
My clothes aren’t completely dry, but neither are they dripping wet. I shiver at the chill and resign myself to getting cold and wet again, bidding farewell to the robe as a brief interlude of warmth and comfort. Laksha gives me an extra umbrella and we step back into the rain, Orlaith trotting along beside us.
Laksha leads us in silence through the rain. Water pounds our umbrellas and sluices underneath our feet as we follow a sinuous path through the city. We continue on muddy trails along the ridges of rice paddies to a sad collection of hovels that struggle to live up to the name of
shelter
but completely own the word
ramshackle
. The people who live here work too hard for too little comfort.
Laksha knocks and a tired, worried woman opens the door, blessing us with a whiff of incense before the rain sweeps it down to the ground. Moans of pain arise from the darkness behind her, only a hint of candlelight ameliorating the gloom. Her eyes take in Laksha and they widen somewhat before she bows and clasps her hands and a stream of musical language bubbles forth from her lips. Laksha responds, gestures briefly to me, and then the woman opens the door wide and steps aside, inviting us to enter.
The modest living area stretches unbroken into the kitchen on the back wall. A battered couch that was once orange hunches against the wall to our left, hoping we won’t notice it, and two doors to our right probably lead to a small bedroom and a smaller bathroom. The moans are coming from one of them.
I ask Orlaith to wait on the floor by the couch, and we follow the woman to the bedroom. A teenage boy writhes there on the sheets, his brow clammy and his breathing labored. Incense battles with the stench of illness, and the storm pounds the roof.
Laksha puts her hand to the boy’s forehead, and he twitches. She holds it there for a few seconds and then moves her hand to the center of his bare chest, over his heart. Nodding, she glances at the rain-spattered window and withdraws. “The storm is good. It dampens the spirit like it would dampen mine. And the noise is annoying. We need to increase both the water and the noise.”
“I understand how noise can be a nuisance, but what does the rain outside have to do with anything?” I ask.
“The rakshasa in this form,” she says, pointing to the boy, “is a thing of the air—or, more properly, the ether. It drowns in water. We need to get him into a bath.” She turns and speaks in Tamil to the woman—presumably the boy’s mother—explaining what needs to be done. Together, we lift the poor thing
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