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beneath a doorway and found herself in the main hall. It was empty, eerily silent. "Dad?"

    Someone stepped out from behind one of the plaster columns: a tall man, in uniform. As he came forward into the light, with the gun at the ready, Jaya saw a handsome, melan-choly face, noted the elegant curve of nose and cheek. A northerner, probably of the kshatriya caste, a warrior. And an aristocrat.
    "Well," the man said, in a soft, cultured voice. "So you're the cause of all the fuss." Casually, he raised the gun and fired. Jaya found herself flat on the floor, with her scream echoing down the hall. It was a moment before she realized that she hadn't been hit. The man fired again, sending a bullet rico-cheting away from the stone floor, a few feet from her head. It deafened her. She stared numbly up at him as he prowled down the aisle to stand over her. His eyes were a pale, startling blue. He was fumbling with his belt and she thought, Oh, God, no . Her fear must have been plain in her face, because his eyes widened with distasteful surprise.
    "You?" he said. His face froze with disdain. "A dalit ? Do you know who I am?" He unfastened the new ammunition clip from the belt and slid it up into his gun.
    "Well, good-bye," he told her, and the muzzle of the gun fell within an inch of her eyes. There was a loud, sharp crack. She thought for a second that the gun had gone off, but it was only the bang of the door against the wall. She heard her fa-ther's voice, shouting, and then the deafening blast of the gun. The hall caved in, disintegrating in a shower of plaster, flower petals, and fire. Jaya's assailant was sent sprawling across her, and his weight knocked the breath from her body. He swore, struggling, and then collapsed.
    Someone was dragging her out and up, pulling her across her father's body to the door.
    "No! My dad's hurt!"
    "He's dead." The hand around her wrist was like the paw of a bear; she recognized the big man from the afternoon's rally. Kamal was waiting in what remained of the hallway, looking more worried than ever; it almost made her laugh. Between them, they half carried her to the shattered wall of the compound, where an ATV was waiting. The driver was slumped over the wheel with a red, wet hole in his head; Kamal hauled him out.
    "Get in. Quickly!"
    She looked back as the ATV bounced down the track. The compound was blazing. Sparks sailed up into the night sky like souls flung from the wheel. Kamal said urgently, "Keep your head down. Satyajit, where are the others?"
    The big man mumbled a reply. Jaya whispered, "Who was he? That man?"
    Kamal crammed his turban more firmly onto his head and twisted in the seat to look at her, saying, "His name is Amir Anand. He's a colonel in the provincial militia, but his family are aristocrats. People call him the butcher-prince. Among other things. Don't worry-—we'll get you out of here." He turned back to the wheel, and they sped down the road.
    Someone was saying in a high thin voice, "Oh, God. Oh, God, it's over. It's over." With a distant sense of amazement, Jaya realized that the voice was hers. Kamal's hand left the steering wheel and fumbled for her own.
    "But Jaya…"he said. His fingers tightened around hers, and she looked down to see her mother's ring between their interlocked fingers. "Jaya, it's just begun."
    THE IAKSASA
    1

    't4ranasi
    taya struggled up from the pillows and reached for her water jug, angry with herself for once more falling into le doze of memory. / can't afford the past — it's the future rat matters. I've got to get out of here . Her mouth was still illed with the memory of ash and death. Kamal had IS been right. It had been only the beginning. After that had come the years of fighting and love and rebellion and sickness, the life that led her here to yet another role, this time as case study. From oracle to goddess, from terrorist to fugi-tive, from jackal to patient.
    My people have many names , thought Jaya, and all of them mean the