Legend Of Rajah Amajaloma

The day before Amaja died, she went to the court of the gods to speak with their highest priest. When she came near his chamber, his guards checked her for magic, weapons, and poisons, and reminded her to bow when she entered. So she did. The chamber was decorated richly with velvet tapestries, silk veils, and rubies inlaid with gold foil along the ceiling and walls. The high priest lay reclined on a sofa, eating and reading.

“Your Grace,” Amaja purred as she bowed.

“Please, Amaja,” the priest beckoned, putting aside his meat and wiping his paw on his beard. “You are a daughter to me.”

“I am most blessed,” Amaja replied. She did not feel blessed, at least not any more. She had been sent on dozens of missions to kill untold titans. The meaning of her life weighed on her. But she betrayed none of this.

“The plan is laid,” the high priest said plainly. “You travel to the marble court of the primordial titans tomorrow at dawn.”

“I am ready,” Amaja said as demurely as possible.

“You shall be hailed as a martyr,” the high priest purred, and placed his paw on her softly. “I say this before all the gods. You shall be awarded nine times your merit in divine power.”

Amaja was skeptical. The gods had been paying her to assassinate titans, these gods’ own parents. And what had the titans done? Launched a few idle wars? earlier, she had checked up on the gods’ past deeds. One spirit, named the Child of Pavatu, had told her a terrible legend. When the multiverse was created, the gods had asked Pavatu’s father and his six siblings to toil on their behalf, promising them a great reward. But their reward was annihilation for eternity, their souls snuffed out—just as Amaja had been trained to do against the titans.

“The gods are most glorious and righteous,” Amaja said. Then she added in her sincerest purr, “I look forward to my martyrdom in the court of the titans, and by the grace of the gods they will spot me only when it is too late, and I shall kill them all. My family also rejoices at my martyrdom. Yet, My Grace, I hope and pray the gods will care for them.”

“Say no more,” the high priest said, adding a motion with his paws to indicate all would be taken care of.

“They will celebrate in the fields of heaven on the upper side of the River Styx and in the deserts of hell on the lower side of the River Styx. Your family will be thanked by generations.”

“Most generous,” Amaja added.

“Now,” the high priest asked. “What do you wish for your family, my dear Amajaloma? As soon as the titans are counted as at least twelve and one dead—which surely you shall achieve by the might of the gods with ease—then I shall grant your family any reward you please. The gods have commissioned me to speak in their name.” He smiled with pride.

“They are most kind and wise,” Amaja answered. She took a scroll from under her under her robe. The high priest betrayed a stray thought of surprise.

“Within this scroll,” she explained, “My family asks that upon my death, in reward for obedient service, the gods sign thusly: that the souls of my people, the rakshasa, shall forevermore be bound to our world the gods have generously created.” She knew what this really meant. The gods had a penchant for ripping apart the souls of anyone or anything they did not like. Yes, they awarded power to her in order to devourer titan souls. But for some years now, she had come to fear that the gods might tear apart her people too.

The high priest eyed her. They were both rakshasa. But he was a traitor in her eyes, a sniveling dog that drooled and crawled on his belly. But like all rakshasa, he knew pacts quite well.

“This contract can only take effect,” the high priest reminded her, “after you martyr yourself to destroy the titan council.”

“Then I shall experience true and glorious martyrdom,” she replied, then added in a whisper, “It shall be not only for the gods, but for my own people.”

The high priest smiled with pleasure. As she had foreseen, his weakness was her strength.

“Truly, your name shall be known for nine thousand times nine thousand years,” the priest replied. Amaja expected, when the gods learned of this pact, they would shred her soul and throw it into the Outer Darkness. The high priest returned to his sofa and took a gold-tipped quill and a small well of ink.

After they each signed the pact, she left the priest to his rugs, veils, and gold foil. She wondered if the gods’ ever-present spies had already learned of the pact. Would they exact revenge on the high priest too? Who knew? In the meantime, she had this day for herself. She went out into a lovely garden. The sun was warm. The giant flowers grew gems as big as her paws. A mist-like rain fell even as the sun shined. It rained just enough to produce a rainbow but not enough to sour the day, her last day before she died.

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