After the dance of the kuravai and the wild revelry, a grand feast was held for the assembled guests. Vallavarayan found no pleasure in the banquet. His body was weary; his mind, unsettled. Yet, his friend Kandhamaran, seated beside him, took great pride in pointing out the other guests, naming each one with a sense of importance.

Apart from the Pazhuvettaraiyars and the Sambuvaraiyars, there was Mazhavarayar, the lord of Mazhapadi; Perunilakizhar of Kunrathur; the Pallavarayar of the Three Crowns; the Dangling Kalingarayar; Vanangamudi Munaiyarayar; Devasenathipathi Poovarayar; the Fearless Singamutharaiyar; the Twin-Parasol Rajaliyar; the Perunila Velar of Kollimalai—these and others, Kandhamaran whispered into his friend’s ear, discreetly pointing them out so that none else would notice. These dignitaries were no ordinary men; nor was it easy to gather them all in one place.

Most of them were minor kings in their own right, or men who, by their valorous deeds, had earned the honor due to such rulers. In those days, the title of “Raja” or “King” had evolved into “Arai­yar,” a term of respect and authority.

Not only minor kings, but also those who were their equals in distinction, were addressed by the title “Araiyar.” It was customary to append the name of their region or town to this title.

In those days, to be called a minor king did not mean one inherited the title and lived in the comforts of a palace, indulging in luxury. Only those who stood at the forefront of the battlefield, ready to fight, and who could defend and preserve their royal rights through their own valor, could maintain their sovereignty. Thus, each of them bore the scars and fame of many a battle. Now, all these men ruled their respective domains under the supreme authority of Sundara Chola Chakravarthi of Pazhayarai. Some among them also held high offices in the Chola imperial government.

To see so many eminent dignitaries of the Chola Empire gathered in one place should have filled Vallavarayan with just pride. Yet, no such joy arose in his heart. “Why have so many people gathered here?”—this thought arose in his mind again and again. All sorts of vague doubts surged and tossed within him.

With such confusion in his heart, Vallavaraiyan went to the place that Kandhamaaran had specially arranged for him. Since many guests had arrived, all that Vallavaraiyan had been allotted in that vast palace was an open pavilion in a corner of the upper floor.

“You are very tired; so lie down and sleep peacefully. After I have attended to the other guests, I will come and sleep beside you,” Kandhamaaran had said, and then left.

*

No sooner had Vandiyathevan lain down than his eyes began to spin with drowsiness. Very soon, the goddess of sleep claimed him. But what use was that? The mind—ah, that mind!—even the goddess of sleep cannot keep it in check. Though the body lies motionless and the eyes are closed, the thoughts etched deep within the mind transform into dreams. In that dream world, countless events and experiences arise—meaningless, incongruent, and strange.

From somewhere far away, the sound of a jackal’s howl reached him. One jackal became ten, ten became a hundred, and together they howled in unison! Howling, they drew nearer and nearer to Vandiyathevan. In the pitch darkness, the eyes of those jackals glowed like tiny embers as they approached him. He turned to flee in the opposite direction. But there, too, ten, a hundred, a thousand hunting dogs rushed at him in a pack, barking ferociously. The eyes of those hounds shone like sparks of fire.

Caught between the jackals and the hunting dogs, Vandiyathevan trembled, wondering what his fate would be. Just then, he saw a temple ahead. He dashed towards it and slipped inside through the open door, bolting it behind him. Turning around, he saw that it was a Kali temple. From behind the statue of Kali, with her mouth agape in a terrifying snarl, a priest emerged. In his hand was a fearsome chopping sword.

“You have come? Come, then!” said the priest, advancing closer and closer and closer.

“What is the history of the royal lineage into which you were born? For how many years have your ancestors ruled? Speak the truth,” the priest demanded.

“The Vallavaraiyars of the Vanar clan ruled for three hundred years; in my father’s time, we lost the kingdom to the Vaidhumba kings,” replied Vandiyathevan.

“In that case, you are not a worthy sacrifice! Flee at once!” declared the priest.

Suddenly, in the place of Goddess Kali, Lord Kannan (Krishna) appeared. In Kannan’s presence, two women entered, garlands in their hands, singing the hymns of Andal and dancing. As Vallavaraiyan watched this scene in rapture, from behind him came the song, “We have seen, we have seen, we have seen, we have seen the beloved of our eyes!” He turned to look. The singer was none other than Azhwarkadiyan Nambi.

No! It was only Azhwarkadiyan’s head that was singing! That head alone was placed upon the sacrificial altar!

Unable to bear the sight, Vallavaraiyan turned away and bumped into a pillar. The dream shattered; his eyes opened. Yet, he was confronted by a scene that seemed to bind dream and reality together.

Directly opposite the place where he lay, above the encircling wall of Kadambur Palace, a head was visible. It was indeed the head of Azhwarkadiyan Nambi. This time, it was no dream, nor was it a mere illusion. For, no matter how long he looked, the head remained there. It was not just a head; it was clear that a body was attached behind it. For Azhwarkadiyan’s hands were gripping the edge of the wall.

Moreover, he was peering intently down into the inner courtyard of the wall. What was he observing so carefully?… Surely, there must be some secret plot afoot. Azhwarkadiyan could not have come there with good intentions. He must have come with some wicked purpose, to carry out some evil