He knew his grandfather was very sick, and suddenly Saleem was scared of him. He smelled wrong, and his eyebrows were thick, like hairy caterpillars, with stray hairs growing out like feelers.
When he was within a few feet, his grandfather’s arm snaked out and grabbed him, pulling him close. The musty smell of death overwhelmed him, and Saleem coughed.
“I need to tell you a story, Saleem. I am dying. It is important for you to know what this means.”
“Why are you dying, Grandfather?”
“My heart is broken, young Saleem. It has a hole that cannot be fixed. So it slows and doesn’t push the blood through my body. Feel how cold my hands are, how blue my nails.”
He touched the boy’s forehead, and Saleem jumped. It was like setting a large cube of ice against his skin.
“Shall I add more w
ood to the fire, then? Will it help warm you?”
The old man shook his shaggy head. “It will not work. Now listen to me, and listen well. You are about to be given a secret so important you can never share it with another soul. Do you understand what I mean when I say a secret?”
“I can’t tell anyone, or I’ll die.”
A spark of humor showed in the old man’s eyes, and Saleem briefly saw the man he remembered, peeking out from the gathering black. He smiled, pleased to make his grandfather happy, and said, “Tell me, Grandfather. I will never tell a soul.”
“Good, Saleem, good. I must whisper these words to you. Come closer.”
Saleem bent his head, and his grandfather spoke, his old-man breath foul and hot on his face. “You are of a long line of men whose one job in this life is to guard a most ancient and valuable secret. See the box on the table there? Fetch it to me.”
The rosewood box was small and brown, with an intricate lock. “Where is the key, Grandfather?”
“I will show you. Bring me the box and the small knife lying beside it.”
Saleem did as he was asked. His grandfather took the box in one feeble hand, set it on his lap. His fingers were gnarled, but he cut his thumb surely with the ivory-handled knife. The blood welled from the wound, and instead of wiping it away, he laid his thumb against the latch of the box. Saleem heard a deep clicking noise, and the latch sprang free.
His voice shook. “Blood? Blood opens the box?”
His grandfather smiled. “Not any blood, Saleem. Our blood. The blood of the Lion. We are the descendants of the Lion of Punjab, and it is our line which was given this great gift. We, and we alone, are the guardians of the stone.”
He lifted the top of the box, and within lay a crystal-clear rock, slightly misshapen, not quite an oval, and the size of his grandfather’s fist. It didn’t look grand or exciting, and Saleem was disappointed.
“This is your destiny, Saleem. It is one part of the most ancient diamond in the world. Once, our ancestors possessed a great stone, given to Krishna himself by Surya, the sun god. He who owned the stone had the power of the world in his hands. This power could not be bought, it could only be given, or”—his voice hardened—“taken by force.”
He took the stone from the box, held it up. The flames reflected off the diamond, and Saleem looked into its depth. He could swear he saw marauders riding horses, heard their screams as the dust rose beneath their hooves, heard the steel swords clashing and clanging.
Saleem jumped back, but his grandfather’s hand was hard on his arm, and he pulled him close again. He smiled. “The stone speaks to you, Saleem, for you are the rightful descendent.
“Look. Now you will see the effect it has on me. Holding the stone makes me young again, heals my broken heart.”
Saleem stared. Gone was the old man, and in his place was another, younger man bursting with health.
“Grandfather, what has happened?”
His grandfather didn’t answer him. He set the stone back in the box, and the din died down. The latch clicked shut of its own accord.
Then he said, “Without its brothers, it won’t heal me for more than a moment.” Saleem watched him drain of life again and become once more gray and slack and smell of death.
“This is only one piece of the original stone. The most secret piece, one no one knows of except the carriers of the stone’s blood. You are a carrier, Saleem, and with my death, it falls to your father, and to you. You must fulfill your destiny, Saleem. You must unite the three stones.”
“If you had the three stones, Grandfather, would you be well and young again? Would you never die?”
“Do not think like that, Saleem. Each man’s life must have a beginning and an end.”