The Immortal Bind Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my Mother, watching over me from the celestial realms,

  and to my Father watching over me on earth.

  With love and gratitude for this life and all your guidance.

  EPIGRAPH

  A person consists of desires, and as is his desire, so is

  his will; and as is his will, so is his deed; and whatever

  deed he does, that he will reap.

  — Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 7th century BCE

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  List of Characters

  The Eyes of Karma

  London

  Ten Thousand Miles Away

  Aengla Land, North Sea Empire

  Ten Hundred Years to Now

  Scottish Highlands

  The Great Witch of Balwearie

  Four Hundred-odd Years Later

  Pornic, France

  Clear and Present Danger

  Somnath, India

  21st Century Fake

  Foreshadowed

  In Flight to India

  Samsari

  The Unknown Woman

  The Chairs

  Excerpt from The Storyteller’s Muse

  About the Author

  Also by Traci Harding

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Immortal Bind was born of a film script entitled Chairs that I wrote before I penned my first novel. Back then, many people worked very hard towards seeing this epic story realised as a feature film, and although we never got there, it has never been forgotten. I have been asked numerous times since why I never penned Chairs as a novel. As this story was the first to embody my interest in the esoteric mysteries, history and fantasy, it seems only fitting that after writing nineteen books in the same vein, the story that started it all will be reborn as book number twenty. The Mayans believe in twenty-year cycles, so The Immortal Bind is a full circle moment for me.

  This was without question my mother’s favourite story, and I regret that she will never get to read this version. Yet, I suspect her spirit is behind the new ending to this tale, which I never did get quite right in the film script.

  I want to thank all my family and friends for all their support over the years, along with Selwa Anthony Management and my team at HarperCollins Publishers who do a fabulous job of producing my books for you all to enjoy.

  I also want to say how grateful I am to all my readers, who keep buying my books, reviewing them and recommending them to others — you have no idea how much I appreciate all your support and encouragement — I am truly blessed.

  I hope you enjoy this new adventure! Namaskar.

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Present Day

  Jon Trustler — Artist

  Simon Dobbs — Jon’s Agent

  Sara Dash — Fashion Designer

  Liz Whitely — Sara’s Business Partner

  Robert Baxter — Sara’s Fiancé

  Willie-Jay Perilli — Sara’s BFF

  Tyrell — Willie’s Bodyguard

  Selene Love — Antique Jeweller

  Richard and Connie Brooks — Property Owners

  The Old Woman

  East Anglia

  Tianna Marchard — Heiress of Marchard Imports & Docks

  Lady Rosalind Marchard — Guardian of Tianna

  Edwin Ryder of Huntingdon — Tianna’s betrothed

  Thorkell — Jarl of East Anglia

  Thomas de Moray — King’s Messenger

  The Wanderer

  Dasa

  Scottish Highlands

  Maggie Munro — Healer

  Luke Hamilton — Messenger for the Commission

  Stephen Douglas — Soldier of the Commission

  Angus Mackenzie — Rival of Clan Munro

  Alexander Bayne — Brother of the Baron of Tulloch

  Margaret Aitken — The Great Witch of Balwearie

  Jon Cowper — The Minister

  Maccon — The Wolf

  The Old Woman

  Pornic, France

  Marquis Clement Alexandre de Brie — Baron de Pornic

  Isabelle de Brie — Niece of the Marquis

  Jacques Delafonse — Master of the Horse, Pornic

  Pirate/Captain Gaspard Lachance (Blackheart)

  Marianna Paquet — Maid to Isabelle

  Chisomo — Slave of Captain Lachance

  Monsieur Bernard — House Steward, Pornic

  The Old Woman

  Somnath, India

  Devi Chanda — Akashvani of the Devadasi

  Bhimdev I of the Solanki Dynasty — Raj of Gujarat

  Raja Bhaskara — Younger son of Raj

  Raja Karandev — Older son of Raj

  Devi Lochana — Great Mother of the Devadesa

  Vasudahara — Vishayapathi of Somnath Patan

  Damodara — Nadu of Somnath Patan

  Jagdish — Gramapathi of Somnath

  THE EYES OF KARMA

  It is difficult to pinpoint where this story actually began. No tale truly has a start or an end — there is always that which went before, and more that shall follow after. Even birth is not the beginning, nor conception, for there are myriad lives and incarnations that preceded this, along with the forgotten karma that is carried forth from those experiences. Not all these lives are in human form as there are many paths a soul might take in an attempt to nullify the effects of past deeds and disentangle from the reincarnation cycle of the earthly realms that the Hindu and the Buddhist call Samsara. Sometimes it is not even our own actions that keep us embedded in the life, death, rebirth cycle. Yet we are glamoured by our entanglements with others — our desires and passions fate us to return for another round of experience.

  However, if this story was to be traced all the way back to the beginning, then it would take us to an ancient temple on the western coast of Gujarat, India. This holy temple, one of many shrines erected to honour the Lord Shiva, was destroyed and rebuilt several times over by Islamic kings and Hindu kings respectively.

  In one of this temple’s Hindu incarnations, there stood a large statue of the Lord Shiva, ‘The Supreme Being’, who, among his many attributes, is the dispenser of karmic law and justice. The eyes of the statue were inset with two large and very rare lilac diamonds, together known as the Eyes of Karma. Devoted Shaivites who paid homage at the temple would offer gifts to the grand effigy in the hope they would learn how to free themselves from the cycles of samsara and join the enlightened in the realm of Brahman. When an oracle of the temple gazed into the Eyes of Karma on behalf of an earnest querent, the oracle would be granted visions of lives past and upon learning of the querent’s misdeeds, would relate the cause of their current woes. Thus, the querent could, through right action, attempt to counteract their past wrongs and nullify, or at least lessen, their karmic debt.

  In the statue’s forehead above the Eyes of Karma, was a third eye, inset with a larger white diamond, known as the Eye of Wisdom. For where the right and left eyes of Shiva represented the Lord’s activity in the physical realm, his third eye was focused on the spiritual realm, and had the power to annihilate evil. Wrong-doers of the Hindu faith feared the Lord’s third eye, and thus wisdom protected the holy secrets of karma from abuse by the uninitiated. Above the large sandalwood gates at the entrance to the temple was inscribed an additional warning in the form of a curse.

  Whosoever should defy the Eye of Wisdom

  to misuse or displace the Eyes of Karma,

  his lifetime shall not exist on earth.

  He shall be miserable and persecuted.

  He will witness karma’s downward spiral

  as his curse preys upon others unaware.

&nbs
p; Until the eyes of the great Transformer

  again reside in Somnath.

  Late in the tenth century, the temple was raided by Afghans from across the Thar Desert; they were Muslims and, unperturbed by the curse, they destroyed the Hindu place of worship. Whether the Afghans took the treasures as spoils, the oracles of the temple secreted them away, or a third party seized the opportunity to steal the treasures during the chaos, is unknown. What became of the Eye of Wisdom is also unclear, but the Eyes of Karma resurfaced in Byzantium decades later, which is where I had the misfortune of being glamoured by their allure. As I was a famed oracle they must have seemed the ideal gift for me, and at the time no one knew the beautiful jewels carried a hefty curse. This was a fact that would take me the rest of that lifetime to deduce, by which time my fate was sealed by the wheels of harmful karma I had already set in motion.

  LONDON

  A storm raged outside the tall windows of the studio, battering the glass with frequent bursts of wind and rain. Even seated beneath the skylight, Jon was having difficulty seeing the effect of his brush strokes upon the canvas — although the almost constant flash of lightning was helping. As determined as he was to stay entranced in his creation, the natural daylight was diminishing rapidly and Jon was forced to lay down his brush to go switch a light on.

  He returned to sit before the canvas resting on its easel and smiled, pleased with how the piece was progressing. It was unusual for him to paint a portrait, especially one of a fictitious subject — the other pieces he’d painted for his forthcoming exhibition were far more avant-garde. The unknown woman taking form on his canvas was very beautiful. If she were of flesh and blood, Jon considered he’d rather fancy her.

  ‘You’ve come rather a long way since yesterday,’ he commented. ‘Although from whence you came is something of a mystery—’

  ‘Are you chatting to the timbers again, Trustler?’

  Jon’s attention was diverted to the entrance of the studio where his agent, Simon Dobbs, now stood, appearing concerned. ‘I think you need to get out more . . . mingle with some living matter for a change.’

  The volume of the storm was such that Jon hadn’t heard his agent enter the building — Simon had his own key to Jon’s apartment as the studio was located on the third and top floor of the city terrace and this arrangement saved disturbing Jon from his work to answer the door located two flights of stairs below.

  Simon looked every bit the stylish man about town in his expensive designer suit and shoes, his slicked-back blond hair and twinkling blue eyes.

  ‘I’m surprised you braved coming out in this deluge; you’ll ruin your pretty threads.’ Jon felt fortunate to have such representation as his ripped old jeans and paint-splattered sweatshirt weren’t going to impress anyone.

  ‘The suit is fine.’ Simon turned about to model it. ‘The coat I left downstairs is going to need a good dry-clean though.’ He placed his briefcase aside on a chair ahead of approaching his client. ‘On the subject of mingling—’

  ‘Ah.’ Jon raised a finger to caution against proceeding. ‘I detest that subject.’

  ‘But you’re turning thirty this week,’ Simon appealed. ‘You can’t just let a milestone like that slip by unheralded.’

  ‘Just watch me,’ Jon said. ‘This exhibition is less than a month away. The last thing I need right now is a party.’

  ‘The last thing . . . really?’ Simon screwed up his nose, unconvinced.

  ‘It’s your job to head off distractions,’ Jon insisted, picking paint off his hands so that he didn’t have to observe his friend’s disappointment. ‘So it will prove to your advantage not to create any.’ Not wanting to hear any more on the matter, Jon headed for the sink to wash the paint splatter off properly.

  He realised Simon meant well — his agent was a social creature and although he, like Jon, was still a bachelor at thirty, Simon never lacked for female company or a date. Jon, on the other hand, rarely dated, preferring to nurture his craft, which was a solitary art that left little time or scope for a serious relationship. As difficult as it was for Simon to understand, Jon rather enjoyed his own company, and was becoming more and more reclusive as the years rolled on.

  ‘This piece is rather left of centre for you, isn’t it, Jon?’

  Jon continued scrubbing his hands with a rag, as he wandered back to find Simon staring at the portrait.

  ‘You’re not turning conventional on me, I hope . . . abstract pays much better.’

  ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’ Jon admired his work anew from beside his agent.

  ‘I guess so.’ Simon eyed the good-looking blonde. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ The statement came out sounding rather more intrigued than Jon would have liked, and looking to his agent, he found that Simon’s concerned expression had returned. ‘It’s just a painting.’

  ‘But why a portrait?’

  That was actually a good question. ‘I just felt like painting it.’ He blew it off as a creative whim; which was exactly what it was. ‘I don’t question my muses, I just go where they lead.’

  Simon, who did not have a creative bone in his entire body, was clearly still perplexed.

  ‘It’s not a concern,’ Jon concluded — he liked the work and really wasn’t interested in anyone else’s thoughts. ‘I’m sure you didn’t brave that storm just to check on my progress.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Simon slapped his hands together, glad of a change in subject. ‘I’ve just come from a meeting with the general manager of the gallery, and she is so impressed with the works you’ve completed thus far. I can’t tell you how excited they are to be hosting this event . . .’

  When Simon began talking promotion, Jon’s mind tuned out. He really did appreciate all Simon’s efforts on his behalf, but he paid him to take care of the business side of things because Jon didn’t have the slightest interest in it. His sights had drifted back to the half-finished portrait, which he found far more fascinating.

  * * *

  As Liz emerged from the bathroom, having soaked off the day’s chill in a hot bath, she was drawn to the view from her twelfth floor hotel room window, which afforded a stunning outlook of the city still being lashed by the storm. ‘Now I remember why I relocated to Australia.’

  She towel-dried her long auburn hair, while considering herself lucky not to be one of the poor unfortunates still braving the weather on the street down below. She tossed the towel aside to retrieve a cigarette from her gold case, which she lit with the matching lighter, and took a deep, satisfying drag. After savouring the moment, Liz exhaled the smoke, and collapsed into a chair.

  This was just to be a fleeting visit to London to shop for fabrics, visit a few potential buyers, and check out the latest and greatest at fashion week. But the plan had changed somewhat in the past few days, and her business partner was going to be both ecstatic and devastated when she informed her of the altered agenda.

  ‘Well, there’s no point delaying.’ She placed her cigarette in the ashtray and opened her laptop to video chat with her partner, Sara Dash, back in Oz.

  It must have been 2 a.m. in Australia, so Liz was rather surprised to find that Sara was still online. Her partner took a while to answer and was a little bleary-eyed when she did. ‘Hey Liz.’

  ‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’

  ‘Nope, I’m still up . . . trying to get this range ready by our deadline.’ Sara pulled her long fair hair back into a ponytail and bound it up with a band. ‘You’ve landed more clients than I ever dreamed possible! With the wedding and all, I can’t keep up.’ She yawned in conclusion. ‘It’s a good thing Willie is making my dress.’ As she rubbed her eyes, Liz noted the dark liquid dripping from her partner’s finger.

  ‘Sara . . . is that blood?’

  ‘Oh yeah . . .’ She reached off-screen and grabbed a tissue to bind it with. ‘I nearly sewed it into a garment . . . oops.’

  ‘Well, I think you need to hire yourself some help, my girl
. Retro Chic magazine want to do a full spread on Dashing Design this month to coincide with the release of the label in London. Do you believe it?’

  Sara squealed when she heard the news. ‘Oh my God! How on earth did you swing that?’

  ‘A little expensive bubbly goes a long way,’ Liz joked. ‘But seriously, I didn’t have to do much, the portfolio of the clothes we put together is doing all the hard work for me. Everybody loves your kind of retro, romantic, steampunk flavour . . . it makes for great photographs.’

  ‘Well hopefully it makes for great sales as well.’ Sara bit her lip — Liz was the confidence in this partnership.

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind that it will.’ Liz poured herself a straight Scotch from the mini-bar. ‘There’s just one problem.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sara’s excitement waned as Liz took a swig of her Scotch.

  ‘This means I’m going to have to be here in London taking care of business, instead of being a bridesmaid at your wedding.’

  Sara groaned and collapsed onto the desk. She didn’t have many close female friends, most of the kindred spirits she’d met through her love of avant-garde fashion were gay men.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sara. I know the timing is awful, but we need the publicity now.’

  ‘I know we do.’ Sara held up both hands in resignation, then slapped them onto her face to hide her pained expression. ‘Not to worry, I’ll figure something out.’

  ‘You could always ask Willie to take my place.’

  Sara burst out laughing at the suggestion. ‘Amusing idea . . . but I rather doubt Robert would see the humour.’

  ‘You can ask whomever you want,’ Liz encouraged, hating how conservative Sara’s betrothed was; actually Liz couldn’t stand him, period. ‘No man has the right to dictate to a woman on her wedding day.’

  There was a knock at Liz’s door. ‘Room service.’

  ‘One moment.’ Liz called in response, overjoyed, as she was absolutely starving. ‘That’s my dinner, so I should leave you to it. But come Monday I shall be back in Sydney for a couple of days, so we’ll talk more then. Goodbye, my sweet.’ Liz blew her a kiss. ‘Get some sleep. And give my regards to Willie.’