The People of the Black Circle

The king of vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared.

• Their clamor was a faint echo in the gold- domed chamber where Bhunda Chand struggled on the velvet-cushioned dais.
• Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him.
• He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine.