The Star-Touched Queen

by Roshani Chokshi

  “If you wanted me to know your plan all along, why bother with sending a tutor for me? Why not get rid of all the distractions?”

  “Your mind is playing tricks on you, Mayavati,” said my father curtly. “There was no tutor assigned to you yesterday. I know because I made sure of it. Take the potion during the ceremony. I have faith in your judgment, daughter.”

  With that, he left. A heavy thudding sound rang in my ears. Of course there had been no tutor. I had truly lost my mind. I circled the room, my eyes darting over walls and corners. Escape was impossible. My doors were bolted. My windows barred with iron. Light entered the room slowly, like a predator stalking me, cornering me with the truth that there was no escape left but one—death.

  * * *

  The sound of water sloshing up beaten copper basins and the muffled chime of heavy jewels woke me. Fragrant myrrh, rose oil and the starch of brocade silks drifted through the gap in my door. One by one the attendants filled the room, their heads bowed and arms laden.

  The moment I saw them, fury shot through me. Fury that I had thought better of my father … that escape was out of reach. But most of all fury at myself, for thinking that I was meant for more than this. Fury at my dreams for promising a life lived.

  Quickly and quietly, the attendants scrubbed me with turmeric. If they saw my red-rimmed eyes or mussed hair, they made no comment. They bathed my limbs in milk and nettle, applied henna in intricate designs of mango blossoms and flowers, threaded golden ornaments through my waist-length hair. I bit my lip when they plunged amethyst earrings through my lobes and cuffed my wrists with bangles. They looked just like shackles.

  When I stood, the attendants tightly wound a sari around my body. It was red, like the wedding saris worn by all the half-sisters before me. A bitter smile crossed my face. Red was supposed to ward off death on happy occasions.

  In quick, methodical succession, the guards emptied my room of its things. Too soon, all that remained was my empty bed and the small nightstand. Over and over, my eyes returned to the small purple vial now tucked in the space between my wrist and bangles. It was cool against my skin.

  I walked around the room—memorizing corners, touching edges. Above and around me, gossamer curtains wavered, bright green tiles twinkled and the golden concentric circles of the ceiling gleamed.

  The door quaked.

  “Princess, we must leave,” called the guards.

  I wished I could sink into the ground or disappear into the ether like my assailant. Now the door was opening, shadows leaking inside and, still, I was here. I cast a glance at the pillar of Narasimha in my room, wishing it would spring free and protect me. But in the end, it stayed silent as stone.

  “Come, Princess,” said a guard, leading me by the elbow in a less-than-gentle grip.

  A final fragment of sunshine spilled across my foot before the door closed with a resounding thud. Silence pressed against me, pushing me forward.

  As I walked, none of the harem women moved to embrace me. None whispered the customary blessings of fertility and love into my ears. From the shadows, Mother Shastri watched me coldly. Their daughters stood in the shadow of another pillar, their expressions unreadable. Only Gauri ran to me, led by a reluctant Mother Dhina.

  “When are you coming back?” she asked, beaming.

  I paused, on the verge of embracing Gauri, when I felt the vial of poison pressing against my wrist, staying my hand. An image flashed in my mind—foreign soldiers breaking through the harem walls. Stealing Gauri. Or worse.

  Numbly, I unclasped my mother’s necklace and slipped it into Gauri’s palm.

  “I don’t know. But will you look after this for me until I return?”

  Gauri took the necklace reverently and nodded. I straightened my back, resolution knotting my stomach. I would do as Father asked. Not for him, but for Gauri. For Bharata. Before I walked away, Mother Dhina caught my arm. Her face was tight, kohl pooled in the puffy skin around her eyes. She looked like she was fighting the urge to speak. But in the end, her words won out:

  “Keep some secrets to yourself, girl,” she said quietly.

  Not to worry, I wanted to say. Soon, only the ground will know my secrets.

  * * *

  After that, time moved far too quickly. All too soon, I was crossing from the grounds to the Raja’s welcoming hall. Any time I wanted to wait, to pause, to touch anything, the guards pulled me forward. Even the sun had renounced me, disappearing behind the clouds and withholding its warmth. A numb furor sucked the air.

  Marigolds and roses adorned the entrance to the Raja’s welcoming hall, and bright petals carpeted the path. Inside, the din of men’s voices and the cloying smell of betel nut hit me instantly. Through my veil, I could see the suitors and their attendants. Some stood short, others stretched tall. Some wore crowns of horns, others diadems of gold. All fifteen wore garlands of red carnations.

  In front of each suitor lay a clawed basin filled with fire. Behind them, the pillars of the Raja’s hall bloomed into coronets of marble and vines of emerald. I glanced at the ceiling, palms sweating at the sight of the narrow rafters. How many times had I spied from that very spot?

  Officially speaking, this was my first time inside the hall. Though it looked small from above, down here the chamber swelled in size.

  The court notary handed me a garland of white blossoms. Whoever I chose to place the white garland upon would be my husband, if only for a moment.

  “Noble visitors,” the Raja said in his booming voice, “I give you my daughter, the Princess Mayavati. May her choices in life be filled with honor and grace.”

  As he spoke, anger flickered on the suitors’ faces and their personal guards clutched their weapons. The Raja’s words from last night rang true. No matter which of the fifteen I chose, the others would see the rejection as an affront. I glanced at my father. My strand of sapphires was gone from his neck. I was already dead to him.

  One by one, the court archivist read the suitors’ names, and one by one, each prince or Raja threw a handful of rice into the fire before him.

  “The Prince of Karusha,” announced the court archivist.

  An old man with a silvery mustache stepped forward.

  “The Raja of Gandhara.”

  A boy who looked hardly thirteen years of age stepped nervously into the middle of the two rows and bowed.

  “The Emperor of Odra.”

  A middle-aged man with a henna-stained beard inclined his head.

  The archivist continued rattling off the names of foreign princes and rajas until I counted exactly fifteen. My breath gathered and I held it for as long as I could, not wanting to waste a single exhale.

  “Now the time has arrived for the Princess Mayavati to make her choice,” said the archivist, rolling up the parchment. “As tradition dictates, she shall make this choice alone.”

  The archivist blew a small horn and I bit back a cry. Sweat beaded along my temples, mingling with the tinny scent of incense and henna. As the suitors and their guards filed out of the room, the Raja gave a tight nod in my direction.

  Soon I was alone. Already, the fire in the basins had begun to shrink. I had mere minutes left. Slats of sunshine broke through the gauzy curtains. I walked, dream-like, to stand in the streak of light.

  What would the suitors think when they saw my body sprawled on the floor? I imagined their expressions turning from horror to dread, their eyes wild when they realized the deception. Would they fight where I lay? Trample my body like the instrument it was? Or would someone move me aside, my duty done, my life spent?

  The horoscope loomed in my thoughts. Perhaps it had been right all this time. A marriage that partnered me with death. My wedding, sham though it was, would bring more than just my end. I breathed deeply and a calm spiraled through me.

  This was my final taste: a helix of air, smacking of burnt things and bright leaves. I pulled the vial from my bangles, fingers shaking.

  This was my last sight: purl
ing fire and windows that soared out of reach. I raised the vial to my lips. My chest was tight, silk clinging damply to my back, my legs.

  This was my last sound: the cadence of a heart still beating.

  “May Gauri live a long life,” I mouthed.

  The poison trickled thickly from the rim and I tilted my head back, eyes on the verge of shutting—

  And then: a shatter.

  My eyes opened to empty hands clutching nothing.

  Spilled poison seeped into the rug and shards of glass glinted on the floor, but all of that was obscured by the shadow of a stranger.

  “There’s no need for that,” said the stranger.

  He wiped his hands on the front of his charcoal kurta, his face partially obscured by a sable hood studded with small diamonds. All I could see was his tapered jaw, the serpentine curve of his smile and the straight bridge of his nose. Like the suitors, he wore a garland of red flowers. And yet, all of that I could have forgotten.

  Except his voice …

  It drilled through the gloaming of my thoughts, pulled at me in the same way the mysterious intruder’s voice had tugged. But where the woman’s voice brought fury, this was different. The hollow inside me shifted, humming a reply in melted song. I could have been verse made flesh or compressed moonlight. Anything other than who I was now.

  A second passed before I spoke. By then, the stranger’s lips had bent into a grin.

  “Who are you?”

  “One of your suitors,” he said, not missing a beat. He adjusted his garland.

  I backed away, body tensing. I had never seen him before. I knew that with utmost certainty. Did he mean to harm me?

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “And that wasn’t a thank you,” he said. “Before you scold me for interrupting your martyrdom, you should look outside. Particularly at the chariots.”

  I stole a glance at the door to the antechamber. The suitors and attendants would return at any moment. Keeping my distance from the stranger, I focused on the underside of the chariots and froze. What I had mistaken for wheel spokes were spears covered in gold paint. And hiding beneath the false chariots were soldiers. Hundreds of soldiers. I backed away from the window, heart beating wildly. How many men were hidden beneath the carriages? Worse, how many soldiers had Bharata unwittingly admitted? The neighboring kings could have snuck in half their militias through the open gates. I scanned the chariots. My father’s army easily outnumbered them, but the suitors had the advantage of surprise.

  I wheeled around. “Did you plan this attack?”

  “No.”

  Grabbing a sharp pin from my hair, I held it toward him like a blade.

  “Then why won’t you tell me your name?”

  He bowed. “I’m the Raja of Akaran. But you may call me Amar.”

  Akaran? I had never heard of such a place and I had extensively studied the geography of Bharata’s surrounding kingdoms. Before I could say anything, Amar snatched the pin from my hand.

  “You may threaten me later. For now, your concern should be the men outside. They know of your father’s plan for a siege and they’ve come prepared.”

  My lips parted. “But how did you know—”

  “My own spies informed me.”

  “Does the Raja know?” I thought of Gauri playing in her room, completely unaware of danger.

  “Yes.”

  A flurry of questions rose to my mind. “But—?”

  “I sent my messenger to alert him.”

  “I have to get to the harem. My sister isn’t safe.”

  Picking up the ends of my sari, I turned toward the door, but then a rumble shuddered through the kingdom. The chariots had overturned. I could picture the soldiers beneath the wheels—unfurling from those crouched positions like nightmares made flesh. Thunderous footfall pounded the earth, gates creaked open and screaming ripped through the air.

  “I have to go,” I said, my voice rising. “I have to warn them.”

  Amar grabbed my arm.

  “It’s too late for that,” he said. “They’re already fighting.”

  I paused, straining to hear anything other than blood rushing in my ears. Distantly, I heard iron against iron, the sound of clashing shields, and the roar of screams pitted against each other. Outside the window, the chariots lay overturned, split open like hollow shells.

  “There’s no time,” he said, releasing his grip on my arm. “The Raja himself asked me to deliver you from this.”

  “He did?”

  Amar nodded. Outside, the sounds of fighting grew closer and the parapets of the harem gleamed impassively.

  “The women will be fine. Those generals only want one war. They won’t attack your sisters. If they do, they’ll have to answer to the kingdoms of their betrothed. As we speak, soldiers are guarding the harem.” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Who will guard you if you stay behind?”

  I had no answer, stunned by what was happening outside the window.

  “We must go,” he insisted.

  If I stayed, I would die anyway. But if I went, at least I could live …

  A flutter of hope beat soft wings in my chest. How long had I wanted to escape these walls? And now, on the brink of drowning that hope with poison, it was here. The past seventeen years could have been breath held solely for this moment. Something caught inside me, as sharp as a wound. I almost didn’t recognize the feeling—it was relief. Incandescent and glittering relief. Giddiness swept through me, leaving my hands trembling.

  “Well?” pressed Amar. “Are we going or not?”

  We? I looked him over. The garland of red carnations hung limply around his neck. He held out his hand like a casual invitation, indifferent to the tumult outside the chambers. How could I trust him? What if he sold me to the enemies? He had no reason to protect me … unless I meant something to him.

  Something else guided my hands. Images flashing sideways—a different hand, a samite curtain. I was convinced that we owned this single moment, this sphere of breath, this heartbeat shared like a secret. I don’t know what possessed me, but I took the white garland and threw it around his neck.

  I stared at my hands, not quite believing what they’d done:

  With one throw, I had married him. Amar lifted the garland of white flowers and grinned. “I hoped you’d choose me.”

  The right corner of his lips curled faster than the left. It was such a small movement, but I couldn’t look away from it. His smile was disjointed, like he was out of practice.

  The doors of the chamber burst open. The fighting that was already churning in the halls now pooled into the inner sanctum. Guards and enemy soldiers spilled inside with spears raised.

  The smell of burning rice filled the room, acrid and bitter. I grabbed the edges of my sari, feet pounding against the silk of the floor. My run was frenzied. Blind. In the adjacent hall, I tripped over abandoned swords and shields, slipping over puddles far too warm and far too red to be water or oil. My heartbeat roared in my ears, pushing out the sounds of fists connecting with flesh and the echoing trill of locked swords. All the fatigue, ache and grief lifted from me, dissolving in the air. Energy snaked through my bones. A fierce, almost painful desire to live pushed me toward the door, taunting me with the promise of the sun searing my skin, of clear air rushing into my lungs.

  A soldier’s hand grasped for me, but Amar pulled me away. Arrows zoomed past, but each time one came near, he would whirl me out of the way. Amar never shouted. He didn’t even speak. He moved fluidly, dodging javelins, always a few steps behind me, a living shield. His hood never budged and revealed nothing more than the bottom half of his face.

  The doors began to open, creaking like broken bones. Blinding light spilled into the room. I squinted against the brightness, but my feet never stopped. Hot, dry air filled my lungs and left them aching. The second I slowed, I felt a cool hand on my wrist—

  “My mount is this way,” said Amar, pulling me away from the road.


  I was too out of breath to protest as his hands circled my waist and lifted me onto the richly outfitted saddle of a water buffalo. The moment I found my grip, Amar leapt onto the animal’s back and, with a sharp whistle, sent dust flying around us. The water buffalo charged through the jungle. Sounds bled one into the other—crashing iron to thundering hooves, gurgling fountains to colliding branches.

  At first, I sat still, not wanting to disturb a thing in case this was a death-dream, some final taunt of escape. But then I saw the jungle arcing above me. My nose filled with the musk of damp, alive things. The numb evanesced.

  I was free.

  7

  THE NIGHT BAZAAR

  I tilted my head back, letting the wind sting my eyes. Every now and then, my hand crept to my heart, reassuring me that there was a heartbeat. Freedom was bittersweet. I would never spend another afternoon drawing beside Gauri. I would never lose hours in the honeycomb rooms of Bharata’s archives. The future was blank and the weight of everything unknown left me dizzy and grounded.

  We rode beneath a canopy of golden trees. I glanced behind me. We had long since left the road and no ghost of its existence loomed on the horizon. The jungle had swallowed it whole.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “The main road leads to all of the major kingdoms.”

  “Not all of them,” said Amar.

  The water buffalo ambled toward a cave matted with black vines. Compressed earth formed the walls, and veins of quartz ran through the cave.

  “To get to Akaran, we must first go through the Night Bazaar.”

  I nearly choked. Maybe there was such a thing as magic, but the Night Bazaar was fantasy. Its provenance lay in childhood, in dreams. Amar was teasing me. I raised an eyebrow, thinking back to Yudhistira’s bullying incident and the cloud of bees that chased him into a puddle.

  “Just because I was raised behind thick walls does not make me—”

  The dark tunnel gave way to light.

  A divided sky illuminated an unearthly city. To the left, the moon bathed small shops and twisting plants in a pearly light. To the right, the sun beamed and soft sunshine fell over strange trees shaped like human limbs and animals. The sky, ever divided by day and night, blended into a spectrum of rainbow.