A Crown of Wishes Page 9

  Beyond the spinning dais of directions stood eight identical doors. Nothing distinguished them from each other. Neither the height nor width, the color nor cut. A yawning, impassable ditch separated us from the doors. The only thing that might fit in that space was the spinning dais of statues. But if the dais was supposed to be a bridge, we couldn’t use it until it fell to the ground and stopped moving. Statues and illusions enclosed us. We needed to start planning how to leave. I turned around to see Vikram drinking deeply from a goblet.

  “What?” he asked. “Did you change your mind about my marriage proposal?”

  “I didn’t hit my head that hard,” I said. “Did you realize we were closed inside these walls? The vetala must have tricked us into following a dead end.”

  “Me?” screeched the creature. “All I wanted was a body. Now I am left to the mercy of your wits. I suspect I am doomed.”

  “I did realize,” said Vikram. “You seem to forget that you were unconscious. I already checked the parameters of the place. We are certainly trapped for the night.”

  “Only a night?”

  Vikram reached behind him for a slip of parchment that was embossed with golden ink and handed it to me:

  Weary traveler, take your heart’s delight

  You have come to the final crossroads of fate

  Thank the Ushas for the truth of first light

  Until then, feast and drink for your heart to sate

  But know these walls will forever bend

  And when they are through, no bones can you mend

  Take care of the direction you choose

  Thousands will come here and thousands will lose

  I read the words slowly. Trapped until first light. Only at first light could we choose which direction to travel in? But how would we know which was true? I glanced up at the palace of night so out of reach. Thank the Ushas for the truth of first light. The Ushas was the goddess of dawn.

  “Is there a reason you didn’t share this with me until now?”

  “And miss the opportunity to see you fly into a rage?” he asked. “There is plenty of time to contemplate our inevitable doom. We have much less time to sate our stomachs. Besides, I wanted to ensure I’d have a head start on eating the desserts.”

  “Ever the optimist.”

  “I am optimistic,” said Vikram, waving around a plate of food, “about not starving.”

  My stomach growled. Vikram didn’t seem any different from eating the food, so it was likely safe. I crouched beside him, taking the halwa for myself, and then sat facing the corner of the square room that resembled the view outside my bedroom window.

  “Your home?” asked Vikram.

  I nodded. “And the corner with the view of Ujijain … is it yours?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a strange view. Vikram’s view of Ujijain was the realm itself. It was cold. Proprietary.

  “You love Bharata,” said Vikram. A statement of fact.

  “I do.”

  “What made you decide to play in the Tournament? You could’ve just waited for one cycle of the moon and rushed back to your beloved Bharata.”

  I bit my lip. If I waited that long without a hope of a plan, Nalini was as good as dead. It wasn’t as if I could stroll into Bharata at the end of the moon cycle. If I set one foot on Bharata’s soil, Skanda would execute Nalini and then pin the blame on me. All the games, manipulation, losses and secrets would be for nothing. Worse, it would plunge Bharata into warfare if we lost the support of Nalini’s tribal home.

  “Circumstances,” I said tightly.

  Vikram watched me. “What did you do to make your own kingdom want you dead?”

  I clenched my hand. “Let’s just say that politics in Bharata forced me to play a game of power I thought I could win. I did not win. Hence the death order.”

  Vikram rolled his eyes and clapped slowly. “Did princess study include theatrics? Do you also run around the city as a hooded vigilante?”

  “You don’t know anything about my life or what it was like for me,” I said angrily. “All you princes are the same. You’ve never worked for anything so you wouldn’t know the first thing about another person’s struggle.”

  His gaze sharpened. “In that, Princess, you are mistaken.”

  I let out a breath and pressed my temples. “Now that we’ve eaten and argued, what about the riddle?”

  “We know the way to Alaka is to follow true north. The statue bearing Kubera’s image says as much. But the statues are set on a spinning wheel—”

  “And they may not be accurate directions when they settle.”

  Vikram drew his brows together. Setting down his goblet, he drew an image in the dirt: a dais and eight doors. He studied it, steepling his long fingers. I groaned. Enough was enough.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “That.” I mimicked his hands, flattened my brows and tried to make my eyes look somewhat insane.

  “I will have you know that it is my meditative pose.”

  “I will have you know that you look ridiculous.”

  “What about you?” he asked. He sucked in his cheeks and glowered, pointing at his face and then pointing at me. “What kind of meditative pose is that?”

  “It’s not a meditative pose at all,” I shot back.

  “My apologies. Is it your bellicose-let-me-drain-your-blood face? Could you not master an expression that looked less like an outraged cat?”

  “Better than steepling my hands and looking like an overgrown spider.”

  “An overgrown spider who is rarely wrong.”

  “My bellicose-let-me-drain-your-blood face has saved your life.”

  “And this overgrown-spider pose is about to save yours.”

  He rested his chin on the edge of his palm, his head tilted just so. Pale light slid over the carved planes of his face, from his narrow nose and sharp jaw to infernal lips that always danced on the edge of a laugh. Vikram caught me looking at his lips and smirked. I bit back some choice curses.

  “When the Ushas leave their home, that would be the equivalent of dawn. So it would be first light. I think the spinning wheel of statues will freeze,” he said. “I think it will come down to where we can cross the dais and access those eight doors. We should monitor it throughout the night and see if it begins to fall.”

  “If that happens, we only have until first light to choose which statue to follow through which door,” I said. “We don’t know how long the dais will remain in place. Any idea?”

  He tapped his fingers together. “I believe we should follow Kubera’s statue in the direction of true north.”

  “That’s far too simple.” I held up the invitation of the Crossroads and read aloud: “‘Thousands will come here and thousands will lose.’ I am sure many of those thousands tried the simplest route.”

  “It’s not about the simplest or most direct path though,” said Vikram. “Magic is a test of faith … why else would we have escaped Ujijain, eaten a demon fruit and allowed ourselves to be tortured by our pasts if we didn’t believe in what the Tournament offered?”

  It was the first time he had mentioned what he had seen in the Undead Grotto. Pain flashed in his eyes, so brief it might have been mistaken for the light glimmering above us. But I caught it.

  “You speak with conviction that relies on feelings, not facts,” I said. “Following true north is too easy. It sounds like a trap.”

  “But that’s half the guile of this place. How many times have answers been so simple and yet someone is determined to take the path of thorns instead of roses?”

  “It’s not earned.”

  “That’s a very human thing to say.”

  “An inclination I can’t help.”

  “It’s not about things that are earned, but just things as they are. Magic chose us for a reason. Did you believe in the Otherworld before you saw it with your own eyes?”

  I nodded.

  “Magic is like th
at,” he said. “It’s like faith.”

  He spoke so earnestly I almost believed him. But Vikram had something I didn’t. Innocence. Maybe the world would break for him because he believed it would. But it wouldn’t do the same for me. To me, the Otherworld and the human world were the same because of one thing: Neither world coddled or cared.

  “I need to think.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Consider the options yourself. But don’t think that just because you saved my life, I will follow you to the ends of the earth and through any door.”

  “Thank the gods. That would be the last reward I’d demand for saving your life.”

  Vikram stood up and stretched. “Do as you will.”

  He crossed the small tent. I studied his gait. You could tell a lot about a person from the way they occupied space. Skanda walked as if he expected a knife around every corner. Vikram held himself as if the world had whittled this moment for him alone and he was not simply going to live it, but rule it. He was so sure of everything that it made me envious.

  He reached for one of the water basins and started scrubbing his face. I sat half frozen on the ground. Was I supposed to get up and leave? But then I frowned. Why should I leave? If he doesn’t want me to look, he should go.

  He didn’t go.

  He shrugged out of his tunic, and then he was down to his trousers. His back was partially turned, but I could still see the outline of corded muscles gracing his shoulders and the sinewy length of his arms.

  Once, I had tried to squeeze myself into an outfit that wouldn’t fit because I’d had one too many helpings of dessert that day. The room felt like that. Like a whole body puckered and determined, too tight and too conscious of every contour and shape within it. I had to leave.

  “Stop admiring the view,” he said.

  “Critiquing it,” I lied, standing and scooping up my plate of halwa.

  “What do you find lacking?”

  “Honor.”

  Not exactly a lie.

  “Alas. I must have misplaced it.”

  “Is there a reason why you seek every opportunity to annoy me?”

  “It’s fun. Your scar flashes when you frown. It almost looks like a dimple,” said Vikram. “I’m still waiting for your face to turn red with anger. It might make you look like you’re blushing. Or perhaps I am making you blush?”

  I froze. No one except Mother Dhina and Nalini had recognized the small scar for what it was.

  “I trained alongside male soldiers for years and have seen, and probably smelled, far more than I should have. Or wanted to,” I said. “You will never make me blush.”

  “If we leave this place alive, I am determined to prove you wrong.”

  The vetala cackled from the other side of the tent.

  “I would choose a more achievable quest, boy. Perhaps you could apply yourself to make the girl snarl at you. That seems far more likely. Or rip out your throat. Also more likely,” huffed the vetala. “Mind the head, though, girl. And that jacket you took from him. I grew fond of it during our travels.”

  14

  A SCAFFOLD OF SILENCE

  GAURI

  People always think killing requires a force: a cup of poison tipped into a mouth, a knife parting flesh from bone, a fist brought down repeatedly.

  Wrong.

  Here’s how you kill: You stay silent, you make bargains that peel the layers off your soul one by one, you build a scaffolding of flimsy excuses and live your life on them. I may have killed to save, but I killed all the same.

  Two years ago, Skanda had fallen in lust with the daughter of a prominent noble. The nobleman loved his daughter and didn’t want her wasting away in Skanda’s harem. So he had her betrothed immediately to someone else. Skanda got angry. The girl’s betrothed was brought to his personal chambers, where the girl’s wedding sari, stolen by a spy, had been placed. One look at it was enough to convince the man that his betrothed had been unfaithful. He broke off the engagement. Two days later, the girl took her life to spare her family shame.

  I had seen the girl’s betrothed when he left Skanda’s chambers. I had seen confusion and fury warring in his face. But I needed more recruits for the army, medicines for the village children, and I wanted Skanda to start apportioning funds for Nalini’s dowry before her wedding to Arjun.

  So I stayed silent.

  Maybe if I had been braver, I would have spoken up. But at what cost? I hadn’t forgotten the serving girl I tried defending. My voice was one of the only things I could control—when to unleash it, when to tamp it down like a burning ember, when to grow it in secret.

  All my life, control and power had worn the same face.

  I believed in gods, but the only faith I truly practiced was control. Nothing in excess. Nothing that placed my life in the hands of another. And yet for the second time, I was considering giving myself wholly to a magic I could neither wield nor know.

  “I was right,” said Vikram, pointing above us.

  The rotating dais of directions had begun its descent in the night. Now it spun faster and faster, counting down to the moment where I would have to make a choice.

  “I say we choose the north and follow Kubera,” said Vikram. “Are you with me or not?”

  “But what if it’s a trap? What if we go with south instead and choose the Dharma Raja?”

  “We might find ourselves in Naraka then, and I have no intention of dying so soon.”

  Above us, the neighing of horses lit up what was left of night. A silver chariot creaked out of an unseen hall, ready to pull the moon out of the sky and usher in the new day.

  “Vetala!” called Vikram.

  “Seeing as I’ve already died, this part is not terribly exciting,” shouted the vetala. “Go on then. This was most entertaining.”

  Vikram threw up his hands. “If you don’t come now, we’re not turning back to get you.”

  “I know,” said the vetala softly. “I know.”

  A screeching sound ripped through the cave. We stood a short distance from the ditch, ready to jump onto the dais the moment it fell into place. With a ripping sound, the dais fell out of the air, crashing into the ditch just as the sky seamed with light.

  Eight doors glowed in the gloaming.

  Eight doors that held no promise of where they would lead.

  One chance to choose the right path.

  First light was about to fall. Together, we raced and leapt onto the dais. I nearly lost my footing reaching for that stone. Wind blurred the world. The eight statues stared down at us with vacant eyes and knowing grins.

  Choose.

  “Vetala! This is no time to play!” called Vikram once more.

  He crouched, as if ready to retrieve the creature, when I yanked on his arm.

  “We only have until first light. It’s survival or sympathy,” I said. My voice was stone. “He told us to go on. It’s your choice to find him. But I’m not waiting.”

  He paused for only a moment before he stepped to my side. Maybe the vetala had abandoned us because it realized we were bound to die. The sky lightened. Dawn had roused the horses. They clambered through the air, soaking up what was left of the darkness so that they gradually turned from white to smoky, then gray to deepest plum. Vikram gripped the page of instructions tightly.

  Around us, sheaves of dirt slid in fat waves … swallowing the gossamer tent where we had eaten, lapping up the false groves that had been our heart’s desires. I watched the ground drag down the only place I could call home.

  Step by step, we crossed the dais. Slowly, slowly, it screeched its halt. At once, the eight doors glowed, each door opening barely more than an inch. Behind each one: light unending. Vikram halted in front of the door marked by Kubera’s statue.

  “Well? Will you follow me from one world to the next or not?”

  Determination blazed in his eyes. There was no doubt in his mind that he was right. His belief felt like heat that crinkles and greases the air. The force of it press
ed and needled the world, as if it could summon kingdoms out of sheer force. His conviction set me alight.

  I grasped his hand.

  Vikram touched the statue of Kubera. Every door slammed shut but the one to true north. Stone gears smacked together like pressed lips. Huge waves of earth rolled to us, pushing us through the door. Golden light washed over my eyes, and dry heat crackled against my skin.

  The door slammed shut, dissolving into nothing.

  I slammed against Vikram, knocking him to the ground. It took a few blinks before I could see in front of me. We were sprawled on top of a lush green hill. A path of thorns and moonstones wound through small valleys and between sparkling lakes before ending at a red gate that encircled the golden kingdom. The kingdom sat in the cupped hollow of a violet mountain range. The palace loomed so large that its great golden spires looked as if they had unraveled from the sky. A thousand turrets bearing pennants of gem-encrusted silk fluttered into the day. I could make out the silhouette of handsome lawns teeming with glittering fountains, fragrant fruit orchards, feast tables piled high with sweets and savories and a large crowd of people who wandered aimlessly through the grounds.

  “We’re here. We made it to Alaka.”

  Vikram took in the view, his eyes widening.

  “It’s beautiful.” He turned to me, mischief glinting in his eyes. “How do they celebrate good fortune in Bharata? In Ujijain, we kiss.”

  I let go of his hand. “Look elsewhere.”

  “Are you sure? You spend an awful amount of time looking at my lips.”

  “That’s only because I’m horrified at the sheer idiocy of the words leaping out of them.”

  “Such tales,” he tutted. “If you’re curious, I’m willing to indulge you.”

  “Go kiss a rock.”

  “I will,” he said with a gallant bow. “Rocks are kinder and softer than you anyway.”

  He turned around, walked over to an outcropping of rocks and promptly kissed a boulder.