A Crown of Wishes

by Roshani Chokshi

  “What do you want after this, Vikram?”

  His eyes widened. But when he opened his mouth to speak, the floor burst into flames. We got ready hurriedly. Right before we left, I went to the drawer that hid the Serpent King’s venom and gently hid it inside a sewn-in pocket of my salwar kameez. We were so close to the end, I could almost taste the wish on my tongue. One step closer to Bharata. To Nalini.

  “Gauri?” asked Vikram. He held out his arm. I took it.

  The moment we walked outside, cold licked up my spine. I wasn’t sure whether what I felt was some aftereffect from the feast of fear, but the atmosphere of Alaka was anything but festive.

  It felt like a storm crouching over the sea, waiting for just the right moment to strike.

  36

  A DIFFERENT SONG

  AASHA

  She couldn’t stop staring at the invitation that had arrived in her chambers.

  All champions are required to attend the Parade of Fables,

  which will mark the conclusion of the Tournament of Wishes.

  Upon conclusion, all wishes may be collected.

  Arrive no later than sunset.

  She was a winner in the Tournament of Wishes. She had won a wish.

  … But how?

  Her sisters danced around the tent.

  “What are you going to wish for, Aasha?” exclaimed one. “Wish us a grander palace! With an elephant made of gemstones to carry us everywhere!”

  “Lazy,” scoffed one of her other sisters. “Wish for the ability to sing the weather into being. Then we could always have mild days or even snow when we wished it.”

  “Or wish for—”

  “That’s enough,” said the eldest. The sisters fell silent. “Start preparing the tent. Once the Lord of Treasures has entertained the champions, every participant throughout Alaka will be storming the courtyard and begging for our time.”

  Another of her sisters shrugged. “Well done, Aasha!”

  The moment they left, Aasha sank into her chair, folding her hands in her lap. A wish? She had never considered the possibility that there might be something she could finally decide for herself. All her life, she and her sisters had shared everything. It made sense that they would assume that even a wish won by one of them would be something to share. Guilt twisted through Aasha. She didn’t want to share this.

  Things had felt different, lately. She didn’t even dress as she once had. Today, she wore a flower behind her ear. Most of her sisters thought it was little more than passing fancy, a curiosity that would fade the moment the Tournament ended because then she could no longer do such a thing. But her eldest sister hadn’t stopped staring at her. As if she was finally seeing her.

  “Don’t listen to them,” said the eldest. Aasha jolted upright in her seat. She hadn’t realized anyone had been watching her. “That wish is yours. You earned it.”

  “I don’t know what I did to win though.”

  Her sister smiled, but it was a sad and wistful smile, the kind that belongs to goodbyes.

  “I know what you did,” she said quietly. “You wanted. You acted on it. You were brave and kind and curious.”

  Aasha wasn’t sure about being kind or brave, but she had certainly been curious. More and more, she had spent time out of the tent, pushing farther through the surrounding forests and not returning until she knew her presence would be missed. She couldn’t help it. There was so much to see, so much to try to capture before they would have to leave. Just the other day she had found a shrub full of bright blue berries. Before, if she ever tried to eat anything other than the desires of the yakshas and yakshinis who visited her, she would end up with the taste of ash in her mouth and immediately vomit. But this time, the berries had stayed bright and plump in her palm. Blue as shards of the heavens. And when she chewed them, flavor burst behind her lips: syrupy and sweet. Small seeds lodged themselves in her teeth. It had taken forever to get them out, but she savored that anyway. Neither frustration nor flavor had ever accompanied the feeding of a vishakanya. There were no words or experiences to capture sweetness—it felt like an innocent memory, something stumbled upon and too easily forgotten. A smile, interrupted. Edible poetry, indeed. After that, she caught herself rolling her tongue across the roof of her mouth, hunting for every ghost of that flavor.

  “I know where you’ve been, Aasha.”

  Her words didn’t sound like an accusation, but Aasha flinched anyway. She wanted to be like her sisters: content. She wanted, so often, not to feel that she was the only person who desperately wished things were different. But she could not help who she was and she did not want to apologize any longer for her dreams.

  “Go,” said her sister. “I hear the Parade of Fables is quite a sight to behold. You can tell us all about it when you return.”

  “I wish you could come with me to the palace,” said Aasha.

  “Careful with your wishes, little sister.”

  Aasha blushed. “I wasn’t thinking…”

  “Unburden your mind, Aasha. We will miss you when you go,” said her sister. She was staring at Aasha intently. Unspoken words sprouted between them. “Whenever you need us, we are here. Wherever you may be. And … whatever you might be.”

  She left. Now Aasha was well and truly alone. The room felt cramped. The weight of her decision had taken up all the space. In one short month, she had lived a far fuller life than she had in the past hundred years. A hungry desire to learn more, see more, touch more filled her until she found herself scrabbling at the blue star emblazoned on her throat. Desperate to throw it off.

  Aasha readied herself. In the other rooms, she heard her sisters squabbling over lost cosmetics and borrowed outfits, arguing over the philosophical merits of one poem compared to another. Their love and gentle fights had been the music of her life for so long. But beyond the tent, a different song called her.

  When she left, she kept looking behind her.

  No vishakanyas were allowed in the palace proper. Aasha kept expecting someone to leap out of the shadows and tell her that she didn’t belong. But everyone was preoccupied. She walked gingerly, her ankle still sore from the attack. Shuddering, Aasha looked around, but there was no sign of—

  “Traitor to your kind,” someone whispered.

  “Besmirching our legacy.”

  “Ruining your sisters.”

  The Nameless stepped out of the shadows. Aasha trembled. The last time she saw them, they had chased her through the forest, screaming and demanding the vial of the Serpent King’s poison. She ran so fast, she tripped over a log and twisted her ankle. Before her, they looked like vengeance poured into the form of three women. Desperation wearing skin.

  “We will give you one last chance to aid us, sister,” said the Nameless. “Take it from the humans and we will let you keep the Blessing. You would not want to force our hand.”

  Aasha’s eyes widened. “The Blessing is not yours to take! I don’t even know who you are.”

  The Nameless laughed. A terrible smile split their faces. Aasha fled into the palace, but she couldn’t run fast enough to drown out the sound of their answer on the wind:

  “We are you.”

  37

  THE PARADE OF FABLES

  GAURI

  Alaka looked like the end of a story—calm and final. Every person smiled. Every scene looked serene. Apsaras danced on a podium of pressed wings. Tufts of light darted through the crowd, clinging to lacquered horns or gleaming tails. The air tasted like burnt sugar and jasmine, and felt like the end of a celebration where an exhausted evening was ready to push out the guests and embrace sleep. But I recoiled. It felt too … neat. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of something unfinished and watching.

  The crowd swelled. It was impossible to tell who was a contestant in the Tournament of Wishes and who was a champion on the verge of making a wish. In my pocket, I could feel the heat rising off the vial of the Serpent King’s poison. I needed to speak with the Lady Kauveri before I ma
de a wish. It wouldn’t make a difference if I wished for my throne upon my return if I never had a chance to leave. If I could speak to her before the Parade of Fables, maybe I could convince her that the Serpent King posed no harm to her sister. Maybe she would keep the vial of poison and not use it. I’d have my exit and my conscience cleansed too. Chance didn’t favor me, but magic had at least taught me to believe in the impossible.

  Beside me, Vikram inhaled sharply. “It’s him.”

  I followed his gaze to the opposite side of the room, where the Serpent King stood with his bride. He appeared as a beautiful human man wearing long blue robes. His consort, the Kapila River, did not move from his side. She walked in front of him, almost guarding him.

  “What are they doing here?”

  Vikram shrugged. “It’s the last day of the Tournament. Maybe everyone who was invited has to come?”

  A yakshini appeared before us, holding out a crystal platter on which goblets full of sparkling liquid caught the light.

  “Sweet memory?” asked the yakshini.

  I reached for a goblet, and drank it in one swallow. The liquid was cold and fizzy on my tongue. A bright recollection lit up behind my eyes—climbing a guava tree with Maya and eating the tart fruit with a sprinkle of salt. Vikram was silent beside me, a misty look drifting across his face.

  “Another?” asked the yakshini.

  I set down my goblet. “No, thank you.”

  The yakshini bowed. Vikram swiped his arm across his mouth and stared a little resentfully at the retreating tray of goblets.

  “If you wanted another sweet memory, you should have asked.”

  “I am not interested in recollections of the past,” said Vikram, holding my gaze. “I have a future now. There’s nothing sweeter than that.”

  I squeezed his hand.

  “Welcome!” shouted Kubera.

  The apsaras who had been entertaining the crowd stopped dancing, and moved to one side of a large podium where Kubera and Kauveri stood and surveyed the crowd. For tonight’s festivities, Kubera wore scarlet robes. Kauveri’s river sari boasted a pale blush to its waters. As if it were bloodied. “We hope you have enjoyed tonight’s festivities. We know what you have waited anxiously to witness, and we dare not draw out the suspense any longer.”

  The light dimmed. A hearty applause broke out from the assembled guests. I snuck a glance at Kapila. I thought she’d stare reproachfully at her sister, Kauveri, but her expression held no hate. Only hurt. Disbelief. The same expression Nalini wore when I chased her away from me.

  “Those who have been defeated in my Tournament shall now exit the realm of Alaka through the Parade of Fables,” said Kubera. “Am I not the Lord of Wealth and Treasures? Am I not the King of Riches? I promised each of them that should they play, I would leave them richer.” He stopped to smile widely. “And I did. Of a kind.”

  “I don’t remember us getting that promise,” murmured Vikram.

  “What were we offered?”

  “All our dreams or certain death.”

  “The risk and the reward are evenly matched.”

  He laughed. “Your sense of humor keeps confusing me.”

  “You’ll grow accustomed to it.”

  He looked at me, a sly smile curving his lips. “With enough time, I could grow accustomed to anything with you.”

  At the end of the hall, a great banyan tree unfurled right behind Kauveri and Kubera. Small ghostly lights clung to the branches. A great rip had split the tree down the middle. A glowing path stretched from the ripped tree to a mirror at the end of the hall. Wind that belonged to another realm ghosted through the air, stirring the ends of my hair.

  “Let the Parade of Fables begin,” intoned Kubera.

  A farmer walked out of the tree. With a lurch, I remembered where I’d seen him: kneeling on the lawns of Alaka, throwing rocks into a hole and cursing under his breath. He dropped to his knees in front of the crowd, doubling over and coughing. His hand clutched his stomach. Three of his fingers were pure gold.

  Vikram stepped forward, as if to help him. I put out my hand to stop him. The farmer wasn’t dying. He was trying to get rid of something lodged inside him.

  The farmer coughed. A white bird freed itself from the cage of his stained teeth. A story. The story circled the farmer. Everyone looked up. A tale glittered in its wings—the farmer waking up facedown in a mangrove swamp and discovering his golden fingers. Perhaps he would sing songs about a palace beneath the tree roots and all would hear it and wonder. Perhaps he would cut off his fingers and never speak of what he had seen. Perhaps, perhaps. The story soared to Kubera, and the farmer stumbled through the mirror, leaving Alaka behind.

  Next, an old woman clambered out of the tree. I looked closer. Not an old woman at all, but a young woman with pure silver hair. A story bird flew from her lips. Perhaps she would tell a trader that she had left her true hair somewhere in the boughs of an impossible tree where wishes budded from its sap at the new moon, and the trader would tell others and all would wonder. Perhaps she would hide from everyone and carve out her wrists in the fear that all would think she had lost her mind. Perhaps, perhaps. The story soared to Kubera.

  Five, ten, maybe a hundred more stories clambered from the tree’s hollow. I couldn’t keep track. Above me, the caged white birds had already taken on different hues as they changed in the telling. Topaz and ocean blue, bleak grays and dusky emeralds. And then, the melody of Alaka grew deeper. Fissures sprang up in the sound, as if it were a voice cracking from grief.

  Bodies appeared on the floor. Bodies stacked one on top of another. No wounds marked the skin, but a smell rose from the center of the room—like wet mushrooms and dark earth. At some secret signal from Kubera, shadow beasts stalked out of the corners of the halls and fell upon the dead.

  “Is this how they honor their dead?” I asked, clenching my teeth.

  Vikram said nothing.

  The beasts forced open the jaws of the dead. The scent of stale death filled the air. It reminded me of the battlefields. Even though the stench disgusted me, it was familiar … even welcome. I didn’t revel in death, but I didn’t hate it either. Death had raised me, like an older sibling. Amid death, I had found my bearings as a soldier. Surrounded by death, I had found my place as a leader. And so when the small white story birds tore themselves from the mouths of the deceased, I watched instead of cowered. And I wondered how long those stories had been trapped. Whether they stank of rot. Or whether they smelled like rain, free and unburdened.

  As they flew out, the stories flashed in my head. I saw the bodies discovered at daybreak, the Otherworldly gashes that had split them in two. I saw astounded villagers picking up stray limbs. A jaw lying in the middle of a field. A grinning severed head. I saw villagers recoil from the horizon and warn against the monsters that stalked at midnight. Perhaps, perhaps. The stories soared to Kubera.

  “Thank you, honored guests,” said Kubera. “Thank you for the privilege of your voice. Thank you for feeding the magic.”

  He and Kauveri stepped down, disappearing into the audience. Quiet fell over the crowd. A yaksha attendant took Kubera’s place on the podium. I stifled a gasp. It was the same yaksha who had cornered me on Jhulan Purnima. He surveyed the crowd.

  “Champions of the Tournament of Wishes,” he said loudly. “Kindly follow me.”

  The crowd turned restless. A surge of movement picked up, nearly blocking me from Vikram, but he caught hold of my arm and held fast. A shout lit up the room. I turned, not knowing what had called my attention, and saw that Aasha was running toward me.

  “Gauri!”

  The crowd of Otherworldly beings parted before her, some of them eyeing her with lust and others with vague disgust. She flew straight to me and Vikram, stopping just short of throwing her arms around both of us. Her eyes darted behind us. I followed her gaze, but there was nothing but a silk-covered wall.

  “Aasha, what’s wrong?” Vikram asked.

  I had to
stop myself from reaching out to grab her shoulders. She was shaking.

  “They’re coming,” she whispered. “I tried my best to protect you from them. But they’re after the poison—”

  “What?” I demanded. “Who?”

  “The Nameless,” she breathed, her face paling. She stepped back. Her eyes narrowed as she searched the wall behind us. “They know you have the Serpent King’s venom—”

  Vikram’s hand tightened on my arm. He held his dagger at the ready, hesitation tightening his face. He tried pulling me down the crowd, signaling for Aasha to join, but I was tired of fighting and being manipulated. Nothing was going to stand between me and that wish anymore. It was done. We had won.

  “Let them try and get it,” I said, old bravado sneaking into my voice.

  “Just because you wear our mark does not make you invincible to the pain we can cause.”

  The Nameless stepped out of the shadows right next to Vikram. One fluid movement. In. Out. Inevitable from the very second I caught the metallic sheen winking in the dark.

  “No!” screamed Aasha.

  Beside me, I heard a grunt of pain. Vikram’s hand tightened on mine to the point where I lost feeling in my fingers. I turned, catching him before he crumpled to the ground. I clutched his shoulders, trying to raise him up. Ice cut my thoughts. He … he wasn’t supposed to fall. They were supposed to aim at me. Not him. Never him. His eyes went wide, lips paling. A hilt sunk into his back caught the light. My hand came away red. A thick stain … something dark … something that my mind refused to comprehend as blood spread across his shirt. I felt yanked open, hollowed in the space of a blink. Screams and fury and night rushed in to fill me. I fell to my knees.

  “We don’t need to touch you to harm you, girl.”

  38

  DARK AS DUSK

  GAURI

  I always thought of silence as the absence of sound. But kneeling there—watching Vikram crumple to the ground, blood forming a red shadow beneath him—I thought I felt the world slump, begging silently for reprieve. Or maybe it was just me. This sight couldn’t fit inside me. My heart refused to hold it. It unlocked. Broke. The sound of it made the silence scream.