Usually in life, we tend to be stubborn. Especially about our opinions. Rishi Shukra wasn’t any different. With knowledge spanning multitudes, and an even more vast patience, he was truly a learned man. He moved with purpose, and never spoke an unnecessary word.
It was not his nature, but his habits that made him remarkable, and he believed it was the same for everybody else. No amount of grand heritage could conquer a solid education. Those were the exact, brave but not careless, words he had spoken in the court of Vajraditya, King of Magadh, a mere six years ago.
His words could’ve easily been interpreted as a jab at the state of Magadh, a formerly well known meritocracy, now plagued with rampant nepotism. But Vajraditya wasn’t the type to make rash decisions over bruised egos. Having grown up around golden pillars and silver tongues, Rishi Shukra’s bluntness intrigued him. Intrigued, not impressed.
He read the Rishi’s words as a naïve sort of ignorance of the reality of the world. Which was an arrogant thought for a King to have regarding a Sage, but in some ways Vajraditya deserved to be arrogant.
He was, with absolutely no exaggeration, a political mastermind. Having been the youngest Prince of a war torn Magadh, the son of an idealistic and foolish King, his journey to the throne had been quite the feat. Taking over a court with the roots of corruption running thick and deep, he was all but set up for failure.
And yet, somehow, Magadh was thriving.
Vajraditya had looked at Rishi Shukra with a slightly raised eyebrow, followed by a very subtle and short-lived smirk. There was no sign in his expression that he had taken any offense to the Rishi’s words, and yet Rishi Shukra felt discomfort.
“This great education of yours… It stands above all bloodlines, does it?” His voice was low, but his tone was still casual, almost playful.
The question was rhetorical, so the Rishi didn’t respond.
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The King’s eyes floated along the edges of his court, looking past the nervous, scheming ministers, past the emotionless guards and just at the wealth that hung off his palace walls.
“Then take my son, and any other children you find potential in. Impart your great education to them… I’ll give you seven years. After which I shall conduct an impartial test. And whichever one of those children win, will be declared as my heir.”, after a brief pause, “You shall receive the great honour of educating the heir to the throne.”
But it was no honour.
The King had effectively shifted all the responsibility and threats that came with picking the heir, onto Rishi Shukra. The devious eyes of the court, that were otherwise centred on overthrowing the King, and pulling power towards themselves were now looking towards the Rishi. Plans, no schemes, were already forming, and the fight for power would, no doubt, bite into the sanctity of Rishi Shukra’s education.
But Rishi Shukra wasn’t the only victim of the King’s games. A few feet to the King’s left was a delicately adorned throne, on which sat a pale woman. The Queen, Arundhati, sat up straight, in spite of the gaudy jewellery that weighed on her. Her hands were shaking, in fury. She was much less adept at disguising her emotions than her husband.
Vajraditya had destabilized her only claim to power by all but nullifying her son’s right to the throne of Magadh. Not only that, but he would send her son away from the capital, away from her, to go live at a damned Ashram in the damned woods.
There was no love lost between the King and Queen, but they had developed a respectable rapport over the decades, such that the Queen had felt secure in her position in court. She had felt no need to get involved in the petty politics of the court, and had focused all her love and attention towards her single child, knowing, that when the time came, he would be her means to power and stability.
And yet she hadn’t taken into consideration her husband’s impulsive and quite frankly, selfish tendencies.
She looked at the Rishi, biting down the string of curses that threatened to come out. He looked older, more tired, than he had when he’d entered the court, only few hours prior. She felt no empathy. The Rishi had, after all, dug his own grave.
That was six years ago.
Today, Rishi Shukra sat in front of his young, barely adult disciples- four contenders for the Magadh throne. He was unable to decide if the future of Magadh was to be bright or bloody. He was unable to decide if he regretted accepting the King’s challenge or not. Was he capable of protecting the fates of his disciples?
Hiding his worries behind a greying beard, he began his lecture.