A Crown of Wishes

by Roshani Chokshi

  A final bite.

  I bit down. Hard.

  I would die here. And all of this—the magic and adventure, the terror and the hope—would be for nothing. I would be forgotten. My name would turn to ash in people’s mouths. My efforts would not scratch a line into history. I would die here, not even remembering what I was chasing after anymore.

  The wall opened.

  I used to think fear either numbed or nudged. Now I knew fear did neither. Fear was a key that fit every person’s hollow spaces—those things that kept us cold at night and that place where we retreated when no one was looking—and all it could do was unlock what was already there. Fear unlocked flames within me. I stepped through the wall and fear fell from my skin. One by one, the diners’ heads were all facing me. Had they been facing my way before? Or somewhere else? I couldn’t remember.

  At the other side of the table, Vikram blinked. But still he said nothing. No warning sparked his eyes. No expression passed over his face. Behind him, a ruby glistened in the dim light. The final half of the key. If I went around the table, one of the six diners might reach out. Or all six. Jumping straight across was the least distance and maybe Vikram would snap out of whatever frozen enchantment had gripped him and be able to fight.

  I had swung my legs onto the table, preparing to jump, when Vikram’s head jolted back. His eyes widened in horror:

  “No!”

  The table shuddered. The diners woke. Slowly, the diners lifted their pale hands. The silk dropped from their faces. Their expressions turned empty and devouring. A low, guttural moan escaped their throats. I froze. They were all that was left when fear devoured a person, the stringy indigestible remains of bitterness and cravings.

  At once, the table lengthened, stretching out like an arena. The diners clambered forward, pushing themselves onto the table on their ragged elbows. I ran, dodging the swipe of an emaciated hand. Vikram stood up in his chair, his lips pale and his eyes ringed white with terror. The ruby behind him dimmed and flared.

  “Behind you!” I screamed. “Get the ruby!”

  He ignored it. One of the diners lurched onto the table-turned-arena. It stood, tall and dark, dripping hunger. It loped toward me, its movements disjointed and horrific. It didn’t run. It didn’t have to. If it caught up to us, there would be no escape. The other eleven joined it.

  Vikram ran to help me, and I tossed him one of the daggers. The diners encircled us. A mass of loping, fragmented bodies. They sniffed the air with noseless faces, the slashes of their mouths flung wide and gaping. They lunged. We parried, working seamlessly to stab, swerve out of the way, duck beneath their arms. The diners closed on us, some of them swatting at the air as if they could claw us out of existence. Hunger poured out of them. If I felt nauseous before, it was nothing compared to this. Their dried-out tongues reached out to taste what had long been denied: the world. Its nuances, colors like flavors dancing across the tongue. The taste of a kiss on someone’s lips. Spice and air. Our breaths came in rushed, fast gasps. The ruby danced far out of reach. The diners advanced. Slower this time. As if they were preparing to savor the meal.

  “Jump?” croaked Vikram.

  “Together,” I said.

  He held out his hand, and I grabbed it tightly. Vikram scrabbled at the wall. The ruby came loose. Beneath us, the floor disappeared. His fingers slipped from mine. I prepared for a long fall, a terrible crash. But the endlessness sucked in its breath and made fools of us. We slammed into the floor. Vikram teetered backward and I caught him around the arm.

  The diners had disappeared.

  The silence had too.

  Vikram slipped his hand into mine. His face looked pinched and I wondered what horrors and trials had kept him riveted to his seat, unable to move. We held on to each other. Our breath rasping. Hands shaking. The first trial had left me dizzy with victory. But this trial had wrung out my spirit. I looked up to find Kubera standing before us, clapping.

  “Well done!” he said. “Excellent performance, contestants.”

  Not moving his arm from around my waist, Vikram threw the ruby at Kubera’s feet.

  Kubera smiled. “You have brought me an excellent treasure.”

  Our two trials required us to break free of fear and conquer desire. When Kubera told us that we were to find the key to immortality, I imagined something grand and coveted. Something that would make kings fall to their knees and even the gods would hide jealously. What we ended up with was everything and nothing like what I expected. Kubera took the ruby gently, reverently. He clasped both palms over the stone and when he opened his hands, a scarlet bird flew into the darkness. A story.

  This was the key to immortality.

  The thing that made kings quiver and deities distrustful:

  Nothing but a tale.

  34

  A WHIFF OF SACRED

  VIKRAM

  Vikram had never been pious. He believed in the stories because he needed to, because he had to hope that if there was one place where he belonged it was in some celestial framework. He needed to know he wasn’t some hiccup of fate. But for the first time, he felt a rush of something holy. There was a whiff of the sacred in all this darkness, a pulse that felt new and ancient. When he jumped into the dark and pried the ruby loose, calm had spiraled through him. Maybe he would never be anything more than a thread in the tapestry of fate. But he and Gauri had done something worthy of immortality’s attention. No one could take that story from him.

  The rational part of Vikram knew that he still had reason to be wary. Their host in the Tournament was still the fickle Lord of Treasures. But right then, he couldn’t feel like anything but a story teetering on the verge of myth. He felt like someone who had vanquished odds, found someone who lit his dreams on fire and performed feats of magic without losing his life or limb. He felt … like a hero.

  Kubera grinned before them, his expression wide and guileless.

  “I was concerned you would not make it in time,” he said. “Pockets of fear are their own lands. We can lose ourselves in them so often.”

  “In time for what?” asked Gauri. No formality. No deference. She added hastily: “Your Majesty.”

  She was trembling, her skin cold and clammy.

  “The Tournament of Wishes is over,” said Kubera. “Now we celebrate.”

  Kubera clapped his hands. Before, they had been standing in a darkened room. If the room had walls and floors, they were indistinguishable from one another. They simply merged into huge tracts of black shadows. But now, light pierced the darkness. A window unfolded, revealing an early evening sky.

  “Fear takes away our sense of time,” said Kubera. “That is why I saved it for last.”

  “Two trials and a sacrifice,” said Gauri. “That was the bargain you struck with us.”

  Kubera nodded. Uneasiness seeped through Vikram. At first, he thought she was trembling with fear. But maybe it wasn’t fear at all … maybe it was rage. He pressed his hand more firmly into her skin. She ignored him.

  “What do we have left to give?” she demanded, her voice breaking.

  Kubera’s face split into a wide grin. “You’d be surprised.”

  “My lord, are you demanding our sacrifice at this very moment?” asked Vikram.

  “Not at all. And I promise you that I will not ask for anything that wouldn’t already be taken from you.”

  Vikram frowned, working through the words slowly. That did not bode well. Now that the initial victory had worn off, the trial had left him spent and cold. He hoped magic would make him feel chosen for something, remarkable in ways he hadn’t realized. Instead, he discovered that magic hid her fangs behind fables. The stories of his childhood were not ways to live, but ways to see—a practiced blindness. And now he saw everything.

  “All of the champions of the Tournament of Wishes will be present at tonight’s festivities. You can tithe your sacrifice then. Return to your rooms. The evening’s festivities will be a sight to behold.”


  “Champions?” repeated Vikram. “Does that mean … does that mean we’ve won?”

  Kubera eyed him for a long while. A flush crept down Vikram’s neck.

  “Won?” repeated the Lord of Treasures. “What is a win?”

  “I meant, my lord, have we each earned a wish?”

  He waved his hand. “Oh! Wishes. Yes, yes. Pesky things. You may each have one,” he said. “Although I’d not smile so quickly, Fox Prince. Have you thought about the wish? How you’d demand it, utter it, taste it? Because wishes have a tendency to take on lives of their own. Sometimes they’ll do what you want. And sometimes they won’t. Once, a hardworking artist known for his attention to detail and eye for color begged me for prosperity. I granted his wish because I am nothing if not kindness incarnate. And then I robbed his sight because I am nothing if not malevolence incarnate. The artist hanged himself. But he got what he wished for, did he not?”

  “And you would do the same to us,” said Gauri, accusingly.

  “Maybe? I never quite know what I’ll do until it’s done!” said Kubera. “We shall see you tonight for the Parade of Fables.”

  He nodded his head, and turned on his heel.

  Gauri called out to him. “What about the other contestants?”

  Kubera stopped walking. He did not turn to face them as he said, “Oh, they woke up beneath trees or facedown in streams or perhaps not at all if they did not seem like appropriate vessels for stories. If you can’t tell a good tale, you’re of no use to me.”

  The shadows leapt up like a great bubble, covering them. Black swam in front of Vikram’s eyes. In the next moment, they were both standing in their chamber. He looked at Gauri closely. There were circles beneath her eyes. The intricate salwar kameez was ripped and bloodstained. Her face looked pinched. Haunted. Without speaking, she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. His body reacted faster than his mind did. His hands gripped her waist. And they spent a few moments wound tightly together. But this kiss didn’t feel like the one yesterday, where they had stepped into one another’s arms with hesitation and nervous energy, enchantment softening the air and coaxing out unspoken dreams. This kiss felt tarnished. As if they were just trying to steal back something that was taken from them. It felt wrong. And for a moment, Vikram felt like the diners at the table of fear. Nothing more than a body reaching out for any feeling to shake off the cold.

  PART THREE

  A TALE WORTH TELLING

  35

  A CROUCHING STORM

  GAURI

  Last year, Skanda and his war council had planned to lure and destroy an elite group of an enemy kingdom’s army. I was the one who suggested that we plant Bharata’s soldiers on either side of a river that ran through one of our mountain villages. Our scouts had seen the army camping just on the other side of the range. My plan was simple—take out their supplies, force them to cross the mountain for running water. Surround. Kill. Skanda liked the idea. A week before Bharata enacted my plan, I asked him when Bharata’s messengers would return from informing the village to evacuate.

  “I didn’t tell the village to evacuate,” he said, pouring himself a goblet of pale wine.

  “But … they’ll die.”

  “Don’t you think it would be strange to the enemy if they ransacked an empty village? They’d wonder what had happened.”

  “Illnesses can claim whole villages at a time, brother. You could use that as an excuse,” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “Those are”—I bit back the word “my”—“your people. Your subjects. Your kingdom. Would you have them die?”

  “If it means keeping the rest of my kingdom, then yes.”

  I couldn’t allow that to happen. That night, I came up with a plan. All night, Nalini and I worked on a dose and capsule of poison. From a former visit to that village, I knew they made regular pilgrimages to a healing shrine beside a mountain geyser. I had visited it myself, wandering through the serene mists and taking rest in one of the numerous huts that surrounded the healing area. It was a large place. Large enough, perhaps, to shelter an entire village. I just had to get them there.

  Harm to help, I murmured to myself, even as my fingers shook from arranging the poison capsules that would easily dissolve in liquid. Even as I knew that the village was in the midst of celebrating their harvest festival. All would drink from the ceremonial vat of malted honey barley. Children would take their first sips—life to life, from earth to blood—and lovers would shyly share their first cup, and husbands and wives would swallow deeply and savor the warmth of safety.

  And I would have it poisoned.

  Forced by the lack of supplies, the soldiers from the enemy kingdom arrived to a nearly empty village. Nearly empty. Some were too old to make it to the healing grounds. Some were with child. Some were children. Bharata’s soldiers did as I had planned. They surrounded. They killed. Maybe a thousand lives were saved, but it was those few that haunted me. I felt every loss of life like a ghost curled inside my body, until I was so full of phantoms that they crowded my mouth and left no room for words. That whole week, I vomited every meal.

  Harm to help. Harm to help. Harm to help.

  Those ghosts would forever carry new fears … had I done enough, had I been enough. Fear meant not knowing where you started and ended because control was nothing but illusion. Alaka’s feast of fears might not have devoured me, but it had sipped away my emotions.

  Hollowed me.

  When I drew Vikram to me, all I felt was cold. A cold that frosted over the very memory of warmth. He broke the kiss first. I stumbled away from him, disoriented.

  “I don’t want to be anyone’s distraction,” he said. He reached out to trace my cheek. “Not even yours.”

  “It was just a victory kiss,” I said. My tongue felt dry. I stepped closer to him. “I can do better.”

  Vikram just looked at me, his gaze resting on my lips. And then he shook his head with a rueful smile.

  “I have no doubt.”

  Vikram took my hand, guiding me to the baths and handing me fresh clothes that weren’t crusted in blood. He ran a warm bath, turned around while I sank numbly into the water. He hummed a silly broken tune, scattering my thoughts. After I changed, he led me to the bed. I frowned, confused. But he didn’t do anything except lean against the pillows, pull me to his chest and wrap his arms around me.

  “Want to know a secret?” he asked.

  I shuddered. Alaka had dredged up enough secrets.

  “If it’s a secret you want to give away, it doesn’t sound that compelling.”

  “All right, if that’s—”

  “Tell me.”

  He laughed. “I sang to you when you were poisoned.”

  “No wonder I stayed unconscious for so long.”

  He flicked my ear. I swatted his hand.

  “I’ll tell you another,” he said.

  He told me ridiculous things. Like how when he was scrawny and fifteen, he’d dressed as a courtesan to sneak into the Ujijain harem only to get caught for looking too convincing. Or how he had trained one of his father’s pet parrots to shriek obscenities at the palace priests. He didn’t ask for any secrets in return. All he wanted, it seemed, was for me to laugh. And little by little, I realized I was smiling. The cold stopped gnawing at my heart. Little by little, I let myself feel. The feast of fears hadn’t disappeared, but it had faded. We sat there for what felt like hours.

  “Not quite what I expected of victory,” he said, carding his fingers through my damp hair.

  “How so?”

  “Sadder, I guess.”

  “War feels like that,” I said quietly.

  “How do you get through it?”

  I was silent for a moment. I’d seen horrifying battles. Sometimes I didn’t know how I survived. Or even if I deserved to survive. The only way to face the next day was to change the story and live that new perspective. Sometimes the other horrors faded into dull silence. Sometimes they
didn’t. I told Vikram, and he nodded. Before, I would have thought he was agreeing out of politeness. But he understood this time, and I believed him.

  “The tales we tell ourselves to sleep,” he murmured.

  I shivered and he held me tighter. “We’re in a nightmare, not a story.”

  “That’s not true,” he said softly. “Here, I’ll tell it to you. Once there was a beast princess and a fox prince—”

  “Beast princess? That sounds awful, I—”

  He shushed me. “—and they had to do all kinds of awful things. Like talk to each other.” I laughed. “And fight through memories that tried to lure them away, poisonous beauties and … fear.” My chest tightened. “And they did all of this for freedom. One day, even if they couldn’t see it now, it was going to be worth the pain.”

  We were both quiet. I toyed with my necklace. This was the first story anyone had told me since Maya left the harem. I’d almost forgotten the true power of a story … how it lulled you outside your thoughts, let you process the world in a way that was palatable. Not poisonous. Calm rushed through me.

  “You forgot to mention the sacrifice,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It will be nothing. Kubera isn’t going to take anything that wouldn’t already be taken. If you think about it, it’s not much of a sacrifice.”

  “How can you really believe that?”

  “It helps when there are no other options.”

  I laughed. “Spoken like a true fox prince.”

  He frowned. “I wonder if they’ll change my name to Fox King when I return.”

  “That doesn’t sound nearly as intriguing.”

  “Perhaps I’ll dedicate a royal committee to my new title. They can spend the day coming up with sycophantic titles and I’ll become the dense king that believes them.”

  We laughed. Loudly. It wasn’t even that funny, but we needed it and the sound of laughter seemed to sew back the dulled-down pieces of me. The feast of fears started feeling like a distant nightmare. Which meant that tomorrow pressed ever closer. What was I going to do when I finally returned to Bharata? What did this—laughing in the arms of the enemy prince—mean?