“Precisely,” said Gupta. “There’s all kinds of hidey-holes dotted about. There are places where you can jump and find yourself buried beneath the earth. There are pools of glass that you can swim through and find lost monsters with no names. In Akaran, things just are.”
“Could I see these places?”
“Eventually,” said Gupta. “But all things must wait. For the right time, for the moment when—” His eyes suddenly bulged as he clawed at his throat.
The moon, I thought. Gupta must be bound into silence by it too.
“I apologize,” he gasped. “I—”
“I know,” I cut in. My hands balled into fists in my lap. I felt helpless. I could feel magic coating the air around me. It felt like starlight and a swoop in my stomach, something heatless and bright and extraordinary. And yet I couldn’t know it. A mere turn of the moon, I reminded myself.
“But, Maya,” said Gupta, leaning forward. His eyes gleamed. “Be careful not to follow the sounds of the palace. It is a tricky thing. It will test you. It is fine to explore. The doors that cannot open to you will not do so.”
He pulled aside one flap of his jacket where a thousand keys—of horn and bone, metal and pearl—jangled.
“Look around,” he said. “Akaran is a land that is, by nature, easily accessible.”
He stood up, pointing to the barren expanse around us. It hadn’t changed. Not a single cloud drifted across its sky. No bird trailed its shadow on the ground. A world draped in silence.
“There are places behind our doors that must never be opened. Cunning, dark things. They can sense an invitation by something as small as another person’s breath in the same room.”
I shivered. “The most minor acts can herald destruction?”
“Well, only if you get behind the doors,” he said, patting the jacket flap. “Those places are locked away. I doubt you’ll ever find them. But you shouldn’t go looking either. Sometimes the palace sings and murmurs. Bored and tricky thing.”
Gupta glanced at the scrolls on the table and his face paled. “Amar!” he exclaimed suddenly. “We must go. He won’t forgive me if I don’t take you to the throne room in time.”
When Amar wasn’t there in the morning, I assumed he’d left Akaran entirely. The thought of seeing him again sent a rush of heat to my cheeks. I looked at my lap, tamping down my eagerness. I’d seen enough of the harem women begging for scraps of the Raja’s attention that my mind revolted against it.
“Is that where he is?”
Gupta nodded. “Yes, he’s waiting for you.”
Waiting. For me. I smiled to myself as Gupta led me through the empty corridors. Doors of all shapes and sizes dotted the halls, some of them carved and inlaid with ivory and gems, others plain slabs of dark wood. Rich rugs sprawled out beneath my feet, softer than silk and festooned with more detail and beauty than all of Bharata’s paintings combined.
All along the hallway, hundreds of mirrors caught the light, but as I stood before them they did not twin my image. One mirror boasted a plain wooden frame, splintered at the edges. When I looked through it, I saw the sands of a desert piddling out beneath an ochre sun. Another mirror studded with sapphire showed the reflection of a glittering port city, heavy boats with ivory prows gently rocking on a gray sea.
Mirror after mirror … giving way to countries spiked with spires, turrets bursting with small ivy flowers, cities awash in color, and a thousand skies painted in vespertine violets of anxious nightfall waiting for stars, dawns just barely blooming pink and orange with new light, afternoons presiding over sleeping towns … it was all here. I could have stared through those mirrors for hours if Gupta hadn’t kept marching forward.
“You see?” said Gupta smugly. “Lovely, aren’t they?”
“And you can get to any of these places?” I breathed.
“Oh yes.”
“Could I go?”
“Soon enough.”
We passed the mirrors, and the corridor gave way to a stone archway.
“May I ask you something?” I said suddenly.
“You may, but I cannot guarantee I can answer it.”
“Why does the Raja of Akaran hide his face? Is he … disfigured?”
“So many of us hide behind our glazed words and practiced expressions. Amar is not like that. His expression leaves no room for mistake. Around you, let us say his expression would make his feelings too obvious. Give him time.”
Gupta threw open a pair of doors. “This is the throne room,” he said, quickly blocking my path. “Gaze lightly. This kingdom is magnificent, but its power is old and runs deep and will not hesitate to test you.”
I nodded uncertainly before walking past him, my eyes widening as I took in the stark and imposing room. But what stole my breath was the tapestry covering the wall beside the dais. On the left wall, obsidian threads shimmered, forming a tempestuous ocean streaked with foamy white waves; rose-gold filaments arced into a bulbous lotus and silken veins stretched into gnarled orchards.
Across the tapestry’s middle stretched a terrible seam, rent apart on either side like the scalloped edges of a flesh wound. Something about the tear struck me, I could feel the rip inside me, forcing me to glance down and lightly tap my wrist to make sure that it was flesh that met my fingers and not a thousand threads. The tapestry stretched far beyond the walls of the throne room. I could feel it like a cloak around my heart.
“We’ll meet again in the evening,” said Gupta.
“Anything else I should know before you leave?”
Gupta grinned. “Amar is terrible at flattery.”
I smiled, but I couldn’t help but wonder who had been the last person he had attempted to flatter. The thought bothered me.
“I was never wooed by courtly speech anyway.”
As Gupta closed the door behind him I heard a soft laugh by my side.
“Is that so?”
Amar.
I turned to face him, my gaze tracing the emerald robes that matched my sari perfectly. Like yesterday, he wore a hood that left only the lower half of his face in view. I looked at him, and even if it was only a moment, he eclipsed the staggering pull of the tapestry.
“I’m not swayed by flattery,” I said. “I think a woman could feel insulted by a compliment. But I suppose that depends on the delivery.”
“I think it depends on the sincerity. If you tell a woman she sings beautifully when she knows the sound of her voice might as well drop a slab of stone on the person next to her, then a compliment would be insulting.”
I crossed my arms. “She could think you’re blinded by love.”
“Or deafened.”
“You seem quite learned in the art of giving compliments,” I countered. “Do you give them often?”
“No. Gupta was telling the truth. I’ve forgotten how to pay courtly compliments,” said Amar. “For instance, etiquette demands I tell you that you look lovely and compliment your demure. But that wouldn’t be the truth.”
Heat rose to my cheeks and I narrowed my eyes. “What, then, would be the truth?”
“The truth,” said Amar, taking a step closer to me, “is that you look neither lovely nor demure. You look like edges and thunderstorms. And I would not have you any other way.”
My breath gathered in a tight knot and I looked away, only to catch sight of the tapestry. The threads throbbed behind my eyes, sharp as any headache. My vision blurred, swallowing the room around me. I blinked rapidly, squinting at the threads.
All I could see were that all the threads were out of place. Some had either skipped a stitch or poked out altogether. I walked toward the tapestry in a daze, my hands outstretched.
I could feel the tapestry’s pull, sharp as hunger, dry as thirst. Nothing would sate or slake me. All I wanted was to adjust the threads, tuck them back into place. There was an order, a pattern, like a stitching trick. I could feel it like a word balancing on the tip of my tongue and all I had to do was—
Amar’s ha
nd closed around my wrist. He moved before me, blocking the tapestry.
“Stop!”
I blinked, my head woolly. His hands were around my shoulders, drawing me to a wobbly stand.
“Did I fall?”
“That sounds ungraceful,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. He was trying to joke with me, to ward off whatever happened as though it were nothing. But his hands were tight at my shoulders and there was the slightest tremble in his fingers.
“A graceful tumble, then?” I suggested, stepping out of the circle of his arms.
I didn’t need any help keeping myself upright.
“I should’ve explained the tapestry before showing it to you. It can be overwhelming.”
Amar led me to the throne and I sank into it wearily. There was a new ache tethered inside my bones. In the haze, the pressure of Amar’s hand against my arm was warm, comforting even. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the warm pulse in his fingers.
When I finally felt strong enough to speak, I opened my eyes to find Amar’s face mere inches from mine. I could count the immaculate stitching of his emerald hood, the stubble along his chin and the veins raised along his hand. His eyes, as always, lay hidden. But he was so close that if I wanted, and I did, I might be able to peek—
Amar jerked backward, his jaw tightening. “The tapestry is how we keep the borders between the Otherworld and human realms safe.”
He walked to the tapestry and ran his hands over the flickering threads. “Each of these threads is a person.”
“The threads represent people?” I repeated, sure I had misheard him. “And the entire tapestry…?”
“It’s what keeps everything in order.”
“Everything?” My brows drew together. “As in—”
“As in the movements of fate.”
“Fate is in the purview of the stars,” I quipped, not without some bitterness. I had been fed that line my whole life. It was hard to forget my blind jailers in the sky, shackling me to a fate I didn’t even believe. Not that it changed anyone else’s mind.
“Fate and order are entirely different. And one cannot rely on stars for order. Some of the threads represent the people who have fallen accidentally into the Otherworld,” said Amar, pointing at a darkened section near the corner. “Our task is deciding which people should be allowed in, and which ones shouldn’t.”
“Why not just keep everyone out?”
“Some people are bound to fall into the Otherworld. Their fate is fixed. All we can do is move between its fixed rules and change what we can to maintain a balance. Let me show you,” he said. I rose to my feet, masking a sigh of relief that my legs wouldn’t give out from under me.
“Touch the thread.”
10
THE BOY WITH TWO THREADS
The thick silver thread resonated warmly against my fingers. I felt a tug inside my body. The next time I opened my eyes, a forest filled with tall pines vaulted above us, their shadows crisscrossing the earth in black nets. Sweet, smoky resin filled my lungs. In the distance, the fading sun silhouetted the leaves a bloody red. My heart sank. The sight of trees usually filled me with happiness. But these trees were different. Their tragedy was tangible.
“Where are we?”
I was still trying to find my bearings in the strange woods. Amar stood by my side, his hands clasped behind his back. He raised a finger to his lips, nodding toward the outlines of two people in the forest—a mother and son. The mother’s hair fell about her shoulders and sweat gleamed on her brow. She looked feverish. Beside her, the boy jumped along the leaves and kicked over rocks.
“Is the silver thread hers? Can they see us?”
“Yes, the silver thread belongs to the mother. And no, they can’t. This is simply the projection of the thread. Nothing we do here affects them.”
He picked up a rock and hurtled it against the tree. But no sooner had he thrown it into the air than it reappeared by his feet.
“This moment in time is fixed.”
“Fixed? So it’s already happened?”
“In a way, everything has already happened and every option has already run its course. But those multiple fates are contained in the tapestry. Our challenge is selecting the best fate to maintain a balance of peace and letting the other outcomes fall away. Time runs differently in Akaran.”
“But if we can’t change anything about this moment, then why are we here?”
Amar held a finger to his lips and pointed at the woman.
She was leaning against a pair of twisted trees. With their outstretched limbs and arched trunks, the trees reminded me of someone in the act of falling. I looked at the other trees and a shiver ran down my spine. Each of the trees looked … human. And they were all in various shapes of collapse—mossy knolls for braced knees, spindly twigs for overextended arms, the language of a fall.
“What do you see?”
I tore away my gaze. “The tree reminded me of something.”
“A person?”
“But that’s—”
“—exactly what they are,” finished Amar. “This is a twilight grove, a place where the lines between the Otherworld and human realm are blurred.”
“What happened to all those people?” I asked, looking at the trees in new horror.
“They got stuck in the Otherworld.”
“Did they ever leave?”
“In a way. But by the time they were freed, they were no longer the same people and they could never return to the life they left behind.”
I watched the little boy pluck a handful of flowers for his mother.
“Then why are we here? Clearly, the mother shouldn’t leave her child behind.” My jaw clenched, my thoughts flitting to the mother I never knew, but had always wanted. Instinctively, my hand flew to my throat, fingers searching for the sapphire necklace. I kept forgetting it was gone. “Why does this need any more discussion?” I bit out.
“I’ll show you.”
Amar held out his hand. I looked once more at the little boy before slipping my hand in his. The moment we touched, the forest sank away, replaced once more with the throne room. This time I was prepared for the dizziness and I ground my heels into the floor to keep from swaying. Amar pulled at a dark green thread next to the silver one.
“This belongs to the boy.”
I looked at the thread; it was split at the end, diverging into two frays that entwined with different spectrums of color.
“Two outcomes?”
“Two fates. Let me show you the first one.”
Amar took my hand in his. I blinked once, and we were back inside the forest. But this time, the boy was alone. My heart ached just looking at him. He stood barefoot in the woods, his hands at his sides and his eyes glistening. Tears had left wet tracks along his cheeks and he wiped his eyes.
“Amma?” cried the boy.
“No,” I said, steeling my voice. “I don’t like this outcome at all.”
Amar’s hand steadied me. “Don’t be impulsive.”
Scolded, I forced myself to stare at the impassive outline of Amar’s hooded face, my cheeks flushing. It was the closest I could get to staring him in the eye, trying to show him that I wasn’t faint of heart. That I could, even if it hurt, witness this.
“The boy has two paths before him. Both are great in their own way. And both depend on when his mother enters the Otherworld.” Amar pointed to a white flag waving near the horizon. “Do you recognize that sigil?”
I scrutinized the flag—a red crocodile against a white background. It was the symbol of the Ujijain Empire.
“Yes.”
“The Emperor will come this way. He will see the boy and raise him as his own. He will be a hero among his people, a warrior both cunning and compassionate.”
As Amar spoke, my eyes fluttered shut. I breathed deeply and saw everything come to pass. I saw the boy training, his eyes battle hardened. I saw him grow strong, settle disputes between neighbors, win the affection of his countr
ymen. I saw how each night he peered at the moon, his handsome face drawn. His mother’s loss clung to him, a constant memory to live with kindness, with love. The vision sped up. I watched the boy age, listened to him tirelessly advocate for his country to choose peace instead of war. But all the while, the war dragged on.
Bodies piled up in the Ujijain Empire and my heart clenched. It was not just Ujijain that suffered. On the fallen soldiers, I recognized Bharata’s crest—a lion and an eagle, both with one eye closed. My people were dying at the cost of this slow reconciliation. Only when he lay on his deathbed, his hands pallid and wrinkled, did peace heal the fractured empire. I watched his final smile fade, his eyes still gleaming hopefully before the vision faded.
When I opened my eyes, my cheeks were wet with tears.
“Was what I saw real?”
“Yes and no,” said Amar softly. “It’s a fate hanging in the ether, merely an option and a thread that’s already run its course.”
“And this outcome of”—I hesitated, remembering the people strewn on the battlefields, the ones bearing my father’s symbol—“… peace … only happens if his mother slips into the Otherworld?”
“Not if. When.”
“When?” I echoed.
Amar lifted my hand and spun me in a quick circle. I blinked and found myself facing an entirely different landscape. Before me lay a village razed to the ground. I recognized the landscape; I had seen it in the tomes of the palace archives a hundred times. This was part of Bharata’s territory. Unattended fires dotted the horizon. My hand flew to my nose, but nothing softened the stench of war. A sharp sound caught my attention and I turned to see the same boy, now grown up, pushing his horse at a breakneck speed over the burning land, rallying the surviving villagers together and spearing Ujijain’s flag into the charred soil.
The vision sped up. Bharata was no more. Hammers were taken to its parapets. Sledges to its ancient monuments. It was like my father’s reign had never existed. Everything had been swallowed up by the grown boy and the blazing war. Yet … even with my father’s legacy completely erased, there was one thing I noticed: no bodies.
The scores of dead from the previous vision were gone. They had survived. Revulsion twisted in my stomach. I saw the choice before me, only it didn’t feel like a choice at all. Either way I looked, it was an execution. No matter what, Bharata would pay the price.
The Star-Touched Queen Page 8
