The Lost Kingdom Of Tosali

Of the kingdom of Tosali, little is remembered with certainty. What records remain are fragmentary, scattered across old songs, broken tablets, and the fading memories of elders who lived long after its passing. Even its beginning lies in shadows, though most agree it was founded by a king called Nrusingha Dev. He raised its capital at Swarnavali, a city said to have gleamed with towers of gold and stone, though none can say whether that was truth or poetic fancy.

Nrusingha Dev prospered through trade with kingdoms across the south-eastern seas, and it is whispered that he refused to bend the knee to the erstwhile mighty empire of Samratya. A battle followed. Tosali prevailed, but the king himself was struck down.

His son, Aditya Dev, still young, then wore the crown. Chroniclers describe him as beloved of his people, wise beyond his years, though whether this is truth or later invention is uncertain. Records tell of his marriage to Queen Charuvaki, whose legendary beauty and grace are still whispered of in fragments of verse.

Their union became a tale of such renown that a festival of love was supposedly celebrated on their wedding. Some claim that the king himself cast off old rites to institute new ones, though whether this was done from devotion or from pride is a matter left unspoken in most records. It is perhaps best not to examine too closely how those new practices differed from the ways of the other kingdoms, or how far the young king’s reforms strayed from what was once considered proper. Suffice it to say that under his rule Tosali prospered, though not without some dissent.

Decades later, when Charuvaki died, Aditya Dev’s grief moved him to commission a great temple in Swarnavali, in the late queen’s memory. Travelers spoke of artisans drawn from distant lands, and of a monument so grand that it rivalled the palaces of the gods. When it was consecrated, on the day of the royal wedding’s anniversary, the people celebrated in the temple premises and along the riverbanks, offering songs of love until dawn. It is still doubtful whether these rites were entirely pious, or whether they veered into other expressions.

What followed, a few years later, is shrouded in greater mystery. Swarnavali fell in a single night to the returning might of Samratya. Some speak of betrayal from within, of priests and nobles who had long despised the king’s new ways and threw open the gates that led to a massacre. The truth is clouded, and perhaps best left so.

It is said that Aditya Dev, along with a few surviving citizens, escaped into the jungles of the Vindhya Hills, which lay to their west, and are now part of our north-western provinces. There, they were granted shelter by certain tribes that have long since vanished. Some say that Aditya Dev bore grievous wounds and soon perished. Others say that he was struck down upon the very steps of the temple he built. All agree that he died with no heir, and thus the line of Tosali ended.

The Samratya army that seized Swarnavali fared no better. Within months, they were found lifeless, though no enemy had come against them. Some speak of pestilence, others of poisoned wells. The common tales, however, insist the spirits of the slaughtered citizens rose from the earth, shrieking for vengeance, and that no invader left the city alive.

Attempts to reclaim Swarnavali in the years that followed ended in silence. The city passed into overgrown ruin, its stones entwined with jungle, its name hushed in fear of a curse. Whole expeditions were swallowed by the city and surrounding forests, never to return.

As for King Aditya Dev, it is recorded that his last wish was to have his ashes scattered in the river beside the temple, so that he might rest eternally with his beloved queen. Yet that wish was never fulfilled. His ashes and the sword he bore in all his battles were brought to Kouranya. Here they have lain ever since in the palace dungeon, sealed and forgotten by all but a few custodians of the chronicle.

Thus ended Tosali, a kingdom whose light burned brightly for but a little while, and whose memory now lingers only in mystery and silence.

- Page 847 of the Chronicles of Kouranya

***

Heather closed the heavy manuscript with a muted thud, its brittle pages sighing as though weary of being disturbed. The Chronicles rested on the desk between her and her son, its ink faded by centuries yet still carrying the weight of half-whispered history. Dust motes drifted in the shafts of pale afternoon light that slanted through the high windows of the royal archive, settling like ghosts over rows of forgotten ledgers and rolled parchments.

Heather Beckett and her son Jonathan had been in Kouranya for two months now, archaeologists in the service of the East India Company. Once a proud kingdom, Kouranya had recently bowed to Company rule with the quiet inevitability of a dynasty ending without an heir. For the Company, its palaces and temples were not shrines of memory but storehouses to be emptied. Heather and Jonathan were sent to catalogue what riches might be prised and what treasures could be ferried to Company headquarters at Calcutta.

The work had almost been completed until, a few days before their intended departure, Jonathan stumbled upon a forgotten trunk deep within the archive’s vaults. Inside, lay a sword of curious workmanship, its steel dulled with age yet carrying a presence that made Jonathan hesitate before touching it. Alongside it rested a sealed clay urn, heavy and cold. The palace historian, an elderly man of tribal ancestry, whose eyes seemed always wary of saying too much, claimed the relics to be the sword and ashes of Aditya Dev, the last king of Tosali.

At Heather’s insistence, the historian had brought them old documents from the restricted shelves, scraps of vellum, crumbling scrolls, and the battered chronicle Heather had just finished reading aloud. The tale of Tosali lingered in the air long after the words were spoken.

“What else do we know of this lost kingdom?” Jonathan asked, breaking the silence.

“Not much, Master Beckett,” the historian replied, voice low, as though reluctant to disturb the hush of the archive.

“Its story is an old wound, best left closed. From my tribal forebears, I learned that it once lay behind the hills and forests to the east. What befell it is… unclear. The less said, the better.”

He hesitated, then began to rummage through a chest of rolled parchments. After a pause, he withdrew a worn map, its edges eaten by time.

Pointing a bony finger towards a faded mark near the eastern coast beyond Kouranya, he said, “Here. This was once Tosali’s domain. After every disastrous expedition sent there, the world wisely let it be forgotten.”

“Some places,” he added with a faint, almost fearful glance at the sealed urn, “do not wish to be found again.”

***

Later that night, Heather and Jonathan sat in the soft glow of lantern light on their balcony, the day’s heat finally broken by a drifting summer breeze. From below, came the faint murmur of the palace gardens, crickets in chorus, the rustle of palm leaves, and the sweet breath of jasmine carried upward. Their quarters were among the grander chambers of the palace, a larger bedroom for Heather, and a smaller study for Jonathan. This balcony had become their quiet refuge after long days in the dust of archives.

Heather leaned back into the cushions of her chair, watching her son across the low table. Jonathan sat half-turned to the gardens, bare-chested in the heat, trousers loose at his hips. At twenty, he had grown into himself, his frame tall and solid, his face touched by the kind of handsomeness that arrived suddenly, without warning. She felt a warm pride swell in her chest, how quickly the boy she had raised after her husband’s passing had become a man others turned their heads to admire.

Yet tonight he seemed far away, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the starlit trees.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” she asked gently.

His fingers drifted absently through his blond hair. “Tosali,” he murmured.

Heather smiled faintly. “What about it?”

“Do you think we should go find the lost city? It’s there, just beyond the hills. Waiting.”

His brown eyes flickered to her, restless with ideas. “And we have the map.”

She hesitated, considering. “It does sound tempting,” she admitted.

Jonathan leaned forward, his voice softening, almost reverent. “I can’t stop thinking about the king’s last wish. Separated from his true love all these years, his ashes locked away in a jar. It feels wrong. We should take him to Swarnavali. Scatter him there, like he wanted. Let him rest.”

Heather studied him. His expression was distant, dreamlike, as though he were speaking not only of Aditya Dev but of something that stirred within himself.

She forced a lightness into her tone. “My son, the romantic!” she teased, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Jonathan. The journey may not be so simple.”

“Why?” He grinned. “Afraid the place might be haunted?”

“Rubbish. I’ve never believed in such tales,” she said, though she felt a chill she could not quite explain.

“Very well. I’ll speak to Lieutenant Jones about the matter. We’ll see what can be arranged.”

Minutes passed in companionable silence. Then Jonathan stretched, his broad shoulders catching the lantern glow, and gave a lazy yawn.

“Go to bed, dear,” Heather said softly. “You must be tired.”

He smiled, his eyes lingering on her face. “I can think of better ways to spend the night than sleeping. Especially when I have such a beautiful woman to sit with.”

Heather felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks. “You need to find young ladies your own age,” she scolded lightly, though her voice wavered.

“There’s only one lady I’m interested in,” he said, almost under his breath. His gaze held hers, steady, unflinching.

Her heartbeat quickened. She turned her face away, staring into the garden shadows. “Jonathan…”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “You promised you would not bring that up again.”

Pain touched her words, though whether from his longing or her own conflicted stirring, she could not say.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly, a crooked smile softening his tone. “I only meant to compliment your beauty. Nothing more.”

She exhaled, forcing herself to meet his gaze again. His boyish charm still disarmed her, even when she wished it wouldn’t.

“Well,” she said, smiling faintly, “I am truly flattered. Now, enough of this. To bed with you. Rest while you can.”

Jonathan rose reluctantly, but not before letting his hand linger on the back of her chair a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he slipped inside, leaving Heather alone with the night, her pulse still unsteady as the breeze carried the scent of jasmine through the dark.

***

Heather lay awake in her bed, staring at the carved ceiling above her. The palace was quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves in the gardens and the distant call of a night bird. Sleep would not come.

Her mind wandered, as it often did in such hours, back across the years. She was forty now, though it felt to her that whole lifetimes had passed since she had first come to India, fifteen years earlier with her husband Thomas. They had been young then, full of plans and purpose, a happy family in this strange land. Just two years later, came the fever, swift and merciless. Within a fortnight, Thomas was gone.

Heather had been hollowed by that loss. The thought of returning to England, to the empty places they had shared together, was unbearable. India, with its endless landscapes and unfamiliar languages, had become her refuge. Archaeology and history gave her work, something to pour herself into, something to keep her moving forward.

She had never sought companionship and neither had she remarried, although her beauty and youth attracted a lot of suitors. She had maintained cordial relations with everyone but had firmly declined any amorous advancements. Her one true love had been Thomas and his loss had shattered her. Many of her admirers and potential suitors had been decent men, but none could take the place of Thomas in her heart.

Through all of it, Jonathan had been at her side. At first, a boy needing guidance, then an eager student, and now a man in his own right. She had raised him, taught him, and trusted him. Over the years, their bond had deepened until they knew one another’s moods as easily as the turning of a page. He could make her laugh when grief threatened to consume her, and she, in turn, was the anchor to his restless energy.

But of late, something had shifted. Jonathan was no longer simply the boy she had once raised. He carried himself with a man’s assurance, protective of her in ways Thomas once had been. And as the years passed, the resemblance between the two grew uncanny. At moments, when Jonathan stood in half-light, she caught her breath, for it was Thomas’s shoulders, Thomas’s smile, Thomas’s way of looking at her with warmth and certainty. It was disarming, and at times, unsettling.

She knew, too, of the feelings Jonathan harboured. She could see it his eyes and his mannerisms, that it wasn’t simply some infatuation or fantasy, but serious romantic love. Of course, there were passionate desires as well. Sharing tents during archaeological expeditions, she was aware of his nightly activities, when he relieved his physical urges. On many such nights, she had heard him softly cry out for her when he pleasured himself, thinking her to be asleep. She knew that both his heart and body ached for her.

It felt good to be desired by a man, after being alone for so many years. She had started seeing him in a new light and thinking about him as possibly something more than her son. These new emotions and feelings towards Jonathan, though exhilarating, were at odds with the memories of her late husband and kept her awake at night.

To admit it felt like a betrayal of Thomas. To deny it was to dismiss the strange comfort Jonathan’s presence brought her. She turned restlessly, pressing her face into the pillow, her heart aching with contradictions. The night stretched on, heavy with memories and emotions she could neither embrace nor cast aside.

And then there was the matter of Jonathan’s confession.

***

Five days later, Heather and Jonathan set out from Kouranya in search of Swarnavali. Two sturdy horses and provisions had been arranged for them by Lt. Jones, who had waved them off with the faint amusement of one indulging scholars.

The clay jar of King Aditya Dev’s ashes was carefully stowed in Heather’s luggage, peeking out of the saddlebag. Jonathan carried the ancient map in oilskin, eager eyes fixed on the fading ink that promised a road east through hills and forest.

At the gates, the palace historian awaited them. His narrow frame seemed smaller in the morning light, yet his eyes were fixed sharply upon the urn. He bowed, then spoke in a tone meant for their ears alone.

“Madam Beckett,” he said softly, “some doors are not meant to be opened once they have been sealed. The chronicles tell what they can, but much was never written, or perhaps… never permitted to be written. What befell Swarnavali lies in that silence. I would advise you to leave it undisturbed.”

Jonathan gave a polite but dismissive smile. “With respect, sir, every ruin is said to be cursed. Tales grow in the telling.”

The old man’s gaze turned on him. “And yet some tales do not grow, they remain unchanged, as though the dead themselves are careful to keep them true.”

His voice lowered further. “Ask yourself why no expedition ever returned. Not one. Men have been lost forever within those jungles.”

Heather frowned slightly. “You believe the stories of spirits?”

“My tribal ancestors did,” he whispered. “I believe that there are places where the earth remembers too well. Places where grief and sorrow feed on the living. If you carry him back, Madam, if you return the king to what he lost, there’s no telling what you may find.”

Heather shifted uneasily in her saddle, but Jonathan only laughed lightly, though the sound rang hollow. “We’ve faced storms and deserts and worse. What’s a jungle to us?”

The historian lowered his eyes, his hand tightening on his staff. “I have said enough. Perhaps too much. If you go, then go with your eyes open. And do not be surprised if something in the dark opens its eyes as well.”

He stepped back, allowing their horses to pass beneath the arch of the gate. The walls of Kouranya receded behind them, and the road east stretched away into the green hills.

***

It had been in Gwalior, during the final week of their excavation. The dig had ended triumphantly, the team gathering that evening to toast their success with food and wine beneath a sky turning to copper. Heather had drunk little, yet as the laughter of colleagues carried through the camp, she felt the familiar weight pressing in.

That night, the absence of Thomas was a wound suddenly opened again. She had slipped away from the firelight, wandering towards the quiet edge of the site until she found a flat rock overlooking the darkening fields. Alone at last, her composure broke. She sat with her face in her hands, weeping softly, the ache of years rushing back.

After some minutes, she heard steady footsteps behind her. Jonathan. She didn’t look up as he sat down beside her. His presence was wordless comfort, as always, he said nothing, only slipped his arm gently around her shoulders. She leaned into him, letting his strength steady her trembling frame. For a long while, they stayed that way, silent except for her sobs.

Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. His voice was quiet, strained.

“How long will you be this way?”

She lifted her head, startled by the question. “It’s nothing, dear. Silly old me. I just miss your father so much.”

“I know,” he said, and...