The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) Read Free

meal.
    No
answer had been forthcoming.
    And now
he was given a clay bowl instead.
    With the
luck his village had been having, if word got out that he had provided the last
meal before the Buddha had become violently ill they would be destroyed for
certain.
    “But
what of my question? What is the Buddha’s advice?”
    Ananda
motioned toward the bowl. “The Buddha says, ‘Trust in what you see.’ Now go, we
must prepare for the passing.”
    Cunda
and his son, Asita, were ushered out by guards and found themselves on the
street, the sun having set only minutes before. Word of the Buddha’s illness
had obviously spread, a large crowd already gathering around the home where the
Buddha was staying as a guest.
    “Is he
okay?” asked one.
    “What
have you heard?” demanded another, grabbing Cunda’s arm. The clay bowl fell
from his hands as his arm was torn away by the man demanding information.
    Asita caught
it, tucking it under his arm and grabbing his father, leading them away from
the crowd.
    “I-I’ve
heard nothing,” he said, shame in the lie already gripping his chest.
    “I heard
he became sick after eating!” shouted a woman, her voice laced with anger. “Somebody
must have poisoned him!”
    Asita
tugged on Cunda’s arm harder as he navigated them through the growing crowd as
quickly as he could. Cunda continued to shake, his mind shutting down as the
shouts grew, his heart fluttering in his chest as fear gripped him, his stride
slowing.
    “Come
on!” hissed his son, squeezing his arm sharply, the pinch snapping him back to
reality. “We have to get out of here before it’s too late!”
    Cunda
nodded, his surroundings coming back into focus as he picked up his pace,
following his son through to the edge of the crowd toward a group of houses
that led to their camp outside the village.
    “That’s
him there!” shouted someone. Cunda looked over his shoulder and nearly soiled
himself as the entire throng turned toward him, someone pointing. “He’s the one
who brought the meal!”
    “He
poisoned him!”
    “He
killed the Buddha!”
    Asita
and Cunda both broke into a sprint, the younger Asita quicker off the mark,
darting between two houses, a narrow alleyway extending almost a dozen houses
from the main village square they had just come from. They ran as fast as
Cunda’s older legs could carry them, Asita continually slowing down to urge him
forward, but Cunda was gripped in fear. He glanced over his shoulder once more
as the crowd tried to shove its way through the narrow opening at the beginning
of the alley.
    And he
tripped.
    His left
shoulder hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his body. Powerful hands
had him in their grasp quickly, pulling him back to his feet as the crowd
surged like ants over an obstacle, a flash flood of humanity on a previously
dry riverbed.
    Cunda
drew his sword.
    “Go!” he
yelled to his son. “I will hold them off.”
    “No, we
will fight them together!” His son drew his own sword.
    “No,
there is only room for one to fight, and you must survive. Take the bowl and
tell our village what the Buddha said. Seek the wisdom in his words.”
    “But,
Father, I can’t leave you!”
    The
first of the bloodthirsty crowd was almost upon them. “You must! If we both
die, the Buddha’s words will be for nothing. Our village must be saved, and
after today, you are its leader!”
    He swung
his sword hard, sweeping across the breadth of the alleyway, removing the head
of one man, cleaving halfway through another.
    “Go, my
son! Now!” he shouted as he swung again at the leading edge of the crowd,
suddenly slowed, pushed forward by the surge of flesh behind them. He raised
the sword over his head and swung down, a startled man’s head splitting like a
log, his blood spurting over the man beside him who screamed in fear, pushing
back against the crowd-surge that would have him challenge the now recovered
Cunda.
    Cunda
stole a glance behind him to see his son, halfway