toward the distant hope of rain. The monsoon was late this season. The artificial lakes that fed the island’s complex irrigation system were almost empty. By this time of year, he should have seen the glint of water in the mightiest of them all—which, as he well knew, his subjects still dared to call by his father’s name: Paravana Samudra, the Sea of Paravana.
It had been completed only thirty years ago, after generations of toil. In happier days, young Prince Kalidasa had stood proudly beside his father when the great sluice gates were opened and the life-giving waters had poured out across the thirsty land. In all the kingdom, there was no lovelier sight than the gently rippling mirror of that immense, man-made lake when it reflected the domes and spires of Ranapura, City of Gold, the ancient capital which he had abandoned for his dream.
Once more the thunder rolled, but Kalidasa knew that its promise was false. Even here on the summit of Demon Rock, the air hung still and lifeless; there were none of the sudden, random gusts that heralded the onset of the monsoon. Before the rains came at last, famine might be added to his troubles.
“Majesty,” said the patient voice of the Chamberlain, “the envoys are about to leave. They wish to pay their respects.”
Ah yes, those two pale ambassadors from across the western ocean! He would be sorry to see them go, for they had brought news, in their abominable Taprobani, of many wonders—though none, they were willing to admit, that equaled this fortress-palace in the sky.
Kalidasa turned his back upon the white-capped mountain and the parched, shimmering landscape and began to descend the granite steps to the audience chamber. Behind him, the Chamberlain and his aides bore gifts of ivory and gems for the tall, proud men who were waiting to say farewell. Soon they would carry the treasures of Taprobane across the sea, to a city younger by centuries than Ranapura; and perhaps, for a little while, divert the brooding thoughts of the Emperor Hadrian.
His robes a flare of orange against the white plaster of the temple walls, the Mahanayake Thero walked slowly to the northern parapet. Far below lay the checkerboard of paddy fields stretching from horizon to horizon, the dark lines of irrigation channels, the blue gleam of the Paravana Samudra—and, beyond that inland sea, the sacred domes of Ranapura floating like ghostly bubbles, impossibly huge when one realized their true distance. For thirty years he had watched that ever-changing panorama, but he knew that he would never grasp all the details of its fleeting complexity. Colors, boundaries altered with every season—indeed, with every passing cloud. On the day that he, too, passed, thought Bodhidharma, he would still see something new.
Only one thing jarred in all this exquisitely patterned landscape. Tiny though it appeared from this altitude, the gray boulder of Demon Rock seemed an alien intruder. Legend had it that Yakkagala was a fragment of the herb-bearing Himalayan peak that the monkey god Hanuman had dropped as he hastily carried both medicine and mountain to his injured comrades when the battles of the Ramayana were over.
From this distance, it was impossible, of course, to see any details of Kalidasa’s folly, except for a faint line that hinted at the outer rampart of the pleasure gardens. Yet once it had been experienced, such was the impact of Demon Rock that it was impossible to forget it. The Mahanayake Thero could see in imagination, as clearly as if he stood between them, the immense lion’s claws protruding from the sheer face of the cliff, while overhead loomed the battlements upon which, it was easy to believe, the accursed King still walked….
Thunder crashed down from above, rising swiftly to such a crescendo of power that it seemed to shake the mountain itself. In a continuous, sustained concussion it raced across the sky, dwindling away into the east. For long seconds, echoes rolled around the rim of the horizon.
No one could mistake this as any herald of the coming rains. They were not scheduled for another three weeks, and Monsoon Control was never in error by more than twenty-four hours. When the reverberations had died away, the High Priest turned to his companion.
“So much for designated re-entry corridors,” he said, with slightly more annoyance than an exponent of the Dharma should permit himself. “Did we get a meter reading?”
The younger monk spoke briefly into his wrist microphone, and waited for a reply.
“Yes—it peaked at