She was dressed in all her royal finery – a green and yellow fabric stitched together to wrap her up like she were a silkworm. The heavy gold pendant hung off her neck and dragged it down like it was a millstone. Her mind went back, for one fleeting second, to that day eight years ago when she had come to Parashurama’s hermitage, dressed just like this. ‘Which kingdom do you come from, child?’ she asked softly. ‘My lady, I come from the city of Anga, which resides on the shore of the Eastern Sea.’ ‘That is quite some distance.’ ‘My need is pressing, my lady,’ she said, bowing low. ‘We shall come to it, my dear. But first, tell me your name.’ ‘They call me Anjasi, after the river.’ Amba nodded at the attendant waiting outside. When he entered, she said to both of them, ‘You will need to cast away your clothes and dress in garments that we shall give you.’ ‘Yes, my lady.’ ‘Every spring, we keep the rite of fertility. All four of my priestesses take part in it.
