Chapter 9: Thresya

It was at the Vihaya ports that I met Thresya. Because the King kept me distant, besides being a bit of a recluse himself after the assasination attempt, I had a lot of free time. I spent it exploring the corners of the small kingdom. Before the Cheras were blessed with the prann, Vihaya had once held dominion over most of southern Hind, including the Cheras. Now, it was but a small kingdom, perhaps a hundred miles across, and a three day trek on horseback from one end to the other. Most of the kingdom was arable land, lush green in the monsoon months, and filled with farmers ekeing out a livelihood from the farms. The Vihaya blood had so intermingled with the Cheras since they had been conquered that both races looked much alike, and everybody had a sprinkling of the prann. I did spend quite a bit of time with the simple-minded farmers, and watching the rice fields sprout, turn green, and then a golden brown, and then working with them to join the yearly harvest. Most of Vihaya was like that: simple, hard-working, and for a tourist like me, a perfect place to rest and relax.

The ports were different. There were two, one astride the main Kahya river, and the other alongside one of the tributaries. The Kahya port was, by some accident of fate, the smaller of the two, despite being more centrally located. I was careful never to go more than a day’s travel from the capital since the King might call for me anytime, and going off to Kahya was stretching those self-imposed limits. Nevertheless, I finally bedded down for the night, in a small inn alongside the main harbour, and slept. Only to be rudely awakened by ship horns and shipmaster’s calls early the next morning.

I cursed my choice of an inn—there were surely better ones farther away from the port—and strode down the stairs to the dining room. I saw her immediately, and was noticed slender legs wrapped around a close-fitting skirt, and beautiful black hair. She turned, and smiled.

“You are the new boarder aren’t you?” She asked, still smiling.

“Yes, miss. My name is Utore.” and I folded my hands in greeting, as was the custom here amongst men.

“And a polite one too!” she added, and then instructed me to sit while she fetched me breakfast. She came back with a ladle of rice cake and some sugary treats, and sat across me, watching me eat. I was awkward and self-conscious, but I was also smitten, and not an idiot. What was a safe question to ask?

“What’s your name, miss?” I asked quitely, between swallows of the cake, and she smiled.

“I was wondering when you’d open your mouth!” she laughed, and it was as if I had been holding on to the prann, and the world had stopped moving around us.

“My name is Thresya,” she said, and when she noticed my puzzled expression, for Thresya was an unusual name for these parts, she added, “and before you ask, I am an Abrahamite.”