Star-Touched Stories

by Roshani Chokshi

  The halls were empty. Not a single diplomat stood milling about, waiting for an audience with Gauri and Vikram. Aasha’s heart raced.

  The only way that the outer sanctum of Bharata would be empty was if everyone was inside …

  Through the heavy wooden doors, she heard a steely voice. Two armed guards flanking the doorway moved to block her. Before, Aasha would have cowered, not knowing whether she was once more embarrassing Gauri or doing something inappropriate. This time, she fixed them both with a stern stare.

  “You know who I am,” she said. “Get out of my way.”

  And they did.

  She pressed her ear to the door. She recognized Zahril’s voice the way people recognize the hands of loved ones. From contours and texture and memory. In spite of her resolve to stay stoic and cold, Aasha felt her body give … and when she heard Zahril’s words, the emotion gathering inside of her was a storm shaking itself loose from the sky.

  “In conclusion, the Lady Aasha has my full and unwavering support as Spy Mistress. I accept that she will be my equal, and one day, my successor. I accept that her judgment lies equal to mine. And I dare any of you to refuse—”

  A sound of dissent broke the sternness of Zahril’s voice. Aasha couldn’t catch the words, but she imagined she could feel Zahril’s bristle of annoyance. She did not like being interrupted. And she certainly would not like the vague and flowery way that the courtier would present his dissent.

  “If that is how you feel,” said Zahril with terrifying calm. “Then I value your opinion as much as I value a dog’s waste in the middle of the kitchen.”

  A roar of sound nearly made Aasha push back from the door. She heard outraged cries. Tutterings of displeasure. And through it, one deep, grumbling laugh. She grinned. Vikram. But the laugh was quickly cut off. Probably by a sharp glance from Gauri. Aasha could imagine them on the other side of the door. His face wry and tilting into a knowing grin. Her face calm and swooping into a smile that was unnervingly grim. A pang went through her heart. Though she didn’t miss the culture of Bharata, she missed her friends.

  “The Lady Aasha shows a remarkable empathy. Beyond just a calculating sense of knowing how to weigh and evaluate lethal situations with speed and grace, she has a way of reading people … of making them feel welcome. Of opening, even, the hardest of hearts. She could not be a brighter force if she carried a miniature sun in her arms. I will not hear less.”

  The hardest of hearts.

  Aasha’s smile could have lifted her heels off the ground.

  She didn’t stay to listen to more. She had heard enough, and it made her heart light.

  With a curt nod to the guards, she went to the harem. Zahril had not seen her in days. She wanted to look as she felt—glowing.

  * * *

  “Vikram!” shrieked a voice.

  Aasha jolted upright in the bath. She recognized the voice as Gauri’s.

  “You’re not allowed in here!” hissed Gauri. “And could you please take off those silks? What does it mean that you almost convinced me you were a harem wife?”

  “It means that my beauty is transcendent,” said Vikram. “And why do I have to wait for you to see Aasha first? She’s my friend too.”

  “Well I met her first.”

  “Oh, you can’t be serious. I was nice to her first. You—”

  “—is that a platter of halwa?”

  “What? Where?”

  The door to the bath chambers opened and slammed. Aasha turned to see Gauri barricading the door with a chair.

  “I love you!” she called.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” said Vikram, sounding distinctly betrayed. “That was cruel. Fine, I’m waiting out here.”

  “Good,” said Gauri. “And please take off that dress.”

  “Absolutely not. You may like the sight of me in tight pants, but silk skirts just breathe with you. I think I’ll go scandalize someone while I wait.”

  Gauri just shook her head and laughed, before turning to Aasha.

  “I’m glad to see his confidence hasn’t changed,” said Aasha, laughing.

  “I’m just glad to see you,” said Gauri. She sat at the edge of the bath, appraising Aasha. “You look different.”

  “Better?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible for you to look more beautiful,” said Gauri.

  “So worse?”

  “Again. Impossible,” said Gauri. “Just different. More … sure of yourself.”

  Aasha grinned. She did feel more sure of herself. All this time she had wanted to be human, but she had been wanting the wrong thing. What she had truly wanted was to be herself. To cherish her human curiosity, her vishakanya knowledge, and all the bits in between that she owed to no one. The way she saw the world. She had learned that in Zahril’s tower. Or rather, unlearned her own fear.

  “I suppose you’re right,” allowed Aasha.

  But she would say no more about it.

  When she had found a spare moment, she even tested herself. She stood in the middle of the courtyard, spinning wildly with her eyes closed until she tripped. She had expected and not expected it. Her heartbeat raced wildly; she stumbled. But even in her panic … even in her surprise … she did not lose control of herself. Because she knew herself.

  “So,” said Gauri. “Tell me everything. We weren’t even surprised when Zahril announced that you were her choice.”

  Aasha smiled, but as she searched Gauri’s face, she saw that her friend was not telling her the truth. Relief shone in her gaze. They may not have doubted that Aasha could do this, but it had been a victory for all of them.

  “What is she like?” asked Gauri. “By tomorrow, everyone attending tonight’s festivities, except you, of course, will have to take the potion that removes her face and voice from all of our memories.”

  Aasha raised her eyebrow. No wonder Zahril had not hidden her face from her the first time they met. She could have always taken it away in the end.

  “What is she like?” asked Gauri. “What did you have to do?”

  Gauri may have been renowned for her fierceness … but there was one weakness that always made her eyes round as a child’s. Stories. Vikram had once lured her away from the training camp with the promise of a book of fairy tales that not a single advisor of Bharata had ever seen. She was furious when she found out it was a ruse, and less furious when she discovered that it was only so that Vikram could set up a surprise for her in the training arena.

  Aasha let out a deep exhale. “Well…”

  * * *

  At the end of the story, Gauri might have looked like she was eight years old. Her legs were pulled to her chest, chin resting on her knees. A ridiculous grin spreading across her face.

  “You’re in love?” she nearly squeaked.

  “Not love,” said Aasha.

  “I believe you were the one who first told me, ‘I don’t have to read desires to know what you’re thinking’ and I have news for you—”

  “I like her,” grumbled Aasha, as she toweled off her hair. And then more shyly: “You’re not upset?”

  Gauri just lifted an eyebrow. “What’s there to be upset about?”

  Aasha smiled. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  But then Gauri frowned. She drew her lip between her teeth, hesitating. “Does she … know?”

  At this, Aasha turned.

  “No.”

  They were silent. Gauri knew Zahril’s story … how a vishakanya had stolen away Sazma.

  “Are you going to tell her?” asked Gauri. “Now that you have the position, you should.”

  Now it was Aasha who hesitated.

  “I couldn’t at first because of the order … but now … now I wish I still had a reason.”

  “You’re scared she’ll hate you,” said Gauri. “Scared she’ll only be able to look at you and see the reason she lost Sazma?”

  Aasha could only nod.

  Gauri sighed. “It takes time for people to unlearn hat
e. I know that better than most.” At this, she smiled, and Aasha knew that she was thinking of Vikram. “If she’s not willing to give you a chance, then she’s not worthy of your affection in the first place. Maybe she’ll be angry. Maybe not. But everyone needs time.”

  Aasha sucked in a breath, hoping it might fortify her. The thing was, Zahril had had plenty of time. She’d been nursing this hate since the day Sazma had died a century ago. Maybe time couldn’t erase all hate or soften any memory. Maybe sometimes time was fertile ground for certain hates, and in all that time, it had sprouted a tangle of thorns and knives so deep and sharp that Aasha would only cut herself if she tried to push past them.

  10

  Aasha had never seen Bharata so beautiful. Colored lights hung from trees. A tent of marigolds spiraled downwards from a translucent tent, bright as caught stars. Several bonfires threw ruby sparks into the air, and everyone—Ujijain citizen and Bharata native alike—linked arms and danced, their hands twirling in the air, heady nectar splashing onto the ground. Aasha felt her training settling into her skin. She had not eaten for the banquet, but had requested that food be brought in advance to her quarters. She watched Gauri and Vikram, listening to the crackle of the fire and kindling of dry wood. She smelled the air for anything out of the ordinary from the jasmine and amber oil that the wives and courtesans used to the sharp char of burnt fruit and rice that would be offered to the gods in honor of Gauri and Vikram.

  A wide curving banquet table sat just outside the tent. Servants bustled back and forth, carrying great pitchers of fruit juice and mint water, and platters heaping with aromatic dishes. Aasha’s stomach grumbled, but she did nothing.

  At the end of the table, stiff and watchful as an owl, Zahril surveyed the crowd. Behind her stood a row of handsome statues painted in the likeness of heroes from the fairy tales. Someone had even sprayed them with water, so that their muscles looked like they were sheened in sweat.

  Zahril had not adorned herself any differently for the occasion. Her hair was twisted away from her face, and she wore simple jewelry. A net of pearls and rubies at her throat. Dainty amethysts hanging from her ears.

  And yet, for all of her practiced calm, Aasha felt her strain. She wanted to tell her that the future would be all right, that they could protect each other against all the world would dare to throw at them. After all, she had not imagined what strength she would find within herself. That the very act of trusting her own instinct above all would rescue her from her living nightmares. Her greatest fear had come and gone, and now all that was left was this … this fear to reach out and be reached for in return. It was the most delicious fear Aasha had ever known.

  At that moment, Zahril turned to look at her. Aasha was impressed. She had trained for centuries not to make a single sound with her footfall. But Zahril could hear her through any chaos. Her eyes widened as she took in the brilliant red of Aasha’s salwar kameez, the unadorned collar of garnets and pearls at her throat. Fashionable, and yet powerful as well. For it could hide her vishakanya star even when it was at full bloom.

  Zahril took a deep breath. Her hesitance chastened Aasha. Maybe all this time it hadn’t been about her fear or rejection, but her worry …

  They were standing in the same place—on the same soil—where Zahril had lost Sazma. Aasha sat down beside her, refusing the food and water offered. Together, they watched the festivities.

  After awhile, Zahril said:

  “I don’t know how to be soft anymore. I used to know. I might hurt you, and scream instead of apologizing. I might run, and accuse you of abandoning. But…” and this time, she turned to look at Aasha. Really look at her. Aasha couldn’t have felt more pinned by that mismatched jewel-toned gaze if they had caused manacles to wrap around her wrists. “I would give you all that I am. In time. If you let me. If you thought it … I … might be worth it.”

  Aasha didn’t trust herself to speak for a whole minute.

  It must have taken Zahril all five days just to speak that much. To show that much.

  “I think thorns make a rose even more desirable.”

  Zahril stared at her. “On the one hand, I’m delighted. But we must do something about your sense of metaphors. I’ve heard courtiers so drunk they could barely remember their own names speak more compelling lines of poetry.”

  Aasha just laughed.

  They sat in comfortable silence, each scanning the party.

  “What kind of protocols have you ordered?” asked Aasha.

  “The usual. Although the Ujijain Spy Master was insistent on his own methods for his half of the festivities, so I find myself on guard.”

  Aasha nodded. Though she felt guilty about it, she let her vishakanya star rise onto her skin. Her stomach gave a squeeze of discomfort. It felt disrespectful to Sazma’s memory, to summon the very power that had taken her life. Especially when she sat so close to Zahril that the bare skin of their arms occasionally pressed against one another.

  The desires of the crowd were nothing out of the ordinary.

  They wanted food. Drink. Each other.

  But one thought reached Aasha, digging into her skin.

  So close. Just her neck. So open.

  A shudder ran through Aasha. She moved closer to Zahril, but the thought grew louder. A slight gust of air—the kind caused not from a wind, but by an arm moving swiftly—stirred the beads of her dress at the same time that she realized why the voice was so disconcerting:

  It was coming from right behind them.

  Zahril reacted only half a second after Aasha. She flattened herself against the table, just as Aasha reached out—poison brimming in her fingers—for the culprit. Her eyes fell on the lifelike statue. Too lifelike.

  Someone had painted them. Enchanted them so that they could not move until the final moment. The gray man raised his stone sword. But Aasha could feel his pulse, and she knew that he was living.

  “A knife!” shouted Zahril. “Here!”

  But Aasha didn’t take it.

  After all, she was a weapon.

  She closed her hand around the man’s wrist just as his sword swung in a wide arc to her neck. It knocked her to the side, but it didn’t go through. He slumped to the ground. Pushing herself up on her elbow, Aasha managed a shaky grin.

  “Where’s my thanks?” she asked hoarsely.

  But Zahril was looking at her as if Aasha had taken the sword and plunged it through Zahril’s belly. Aasha frowned. She pushed herself off the ground. Something glinted amidst the grass. Pearls. Thousands of little pearls. Her hand flew to her throat. But her collar of jewels did not meet her hand. Only skin.

  And star.

  Zahril looked as if she was a rendering of ice.

  “I thought I’d met the worst kind of monster years ago,” she said, her voice flat and affectless. “I was wrong.”

  11

  In the days and weeks that followed, Zahril did not retract her appointment of Aasha.

  Aasha was glad of this, for she had never seen Bharata and Ujijain plunged into more disarray. Now more than ever, Gauri and Vikram needed her nearby.

  “Just until everything is settled,” said Gauri wearily. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Aasha. “I’m your friend. I am your friend before I am your subject, and so I will be here.”

  Besides, thought Aasha, I have nowhere to go anyway.

  The treason of the Spy Master had sickened Gauri and Vikram. Aasha was called a heroine that day, celebrated throughout the two kingdoms.

  No one but Zahril had seen the star.

  And so her greatest secret was still … hers.

  But though Aasha might have been victorious, the fledgling kingdom was mired with problems. Gauri and Vikram’s victories were never without their losses, and yet no matter what kind of day they faced, Aasha always saw them walking hand in hand. Fingers laced. Eyes never straying from one another. As if they were the beginning and end of the universe, and everything else was just noise.r />
  It cut Aasha.

  Three cycles of the moon had passed without word from Zahril. Sometimes, while everyone was eating, Aasha would walk to the temple where the offering sat before the deities. Zahril always tasted the food of the monarchs before they did. But either her methods of enchantment meant that she never saw Aasha trying to talk to her, or she simply didn’t care. Aasha didn’t know what was worse.

  The only benefit was that the courtiers of Bharata were on board with her appointment. Convinced even more by her multiple visits to the temple. A pious Spy Mistress can only bring prosperity to the kingdom.

  “Aasha,” said Gauri one evening. “The new Spy Master of Ujijain said that he is willing to take you on as an official assistant. You can stay here for the next year until you’re ready to assume the new duties. But if you wanted to go somewhere else, I understand.”

  The meaning was clear.

  She could return to Zahril.

  Aasha shook her head. “I’m not wanted.”

  Gauri sighed. “Tomorrow is the final day. That’s when both Spy Masters must submit an answer over who will mentor you.”

  Aasha said nothing. “Then I suppose I don’t need to bother with packing.”

  After excusing herself, she spent the rest of the day in the royal kitchens. She no longer worried about the threat of her fingers. Her training with Zahril had made her so hyper-aware of her surroundings that nothing could frighten her anymore. At least not while she was awake. Aasha threw herself into the dishes … until her hair was streaked white with chickpea flour and her hands bore the battle wounds of many too-hot rotis. Aasha wanted to push herself to the point of exhaustion. She wanted a dreamless slumber, just one night where she wouldn’t have to dream about Zahril beside her.