South of Dahod, the Dasyu camp
The words remained with Bhima long after the woman had finished speaking.
An old debt from Kasahrada.
He sat in the same place where he had been listening to her, his hands resting loosely upon his knees, while Arnoraja remained beside him in silence. Outside the small structure, the camp had already returned to the ordinary rhythm of its morning. Someone was splitting wood somewhere beyond the wall, the sound of an axe striking a block of timber carrying clearly through the trees. A child shouted at another near the edge of the settlement before being silenced by what sounded like an irritated mother, and somewhere farther away a horse stamped against the earth. It was an oddly normal collection of sounds for a place that, only a short while ago, Bhima had expected to find filled with men waiting for an opportunity to demand gold from him, a captured king.
Instead, he had found people who wanted something far more difficult to give.
Recognition.
