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For my siblings, Monica and Jayesh.
And for all siblings who refuse to be secondary characters in anyone’s tale.
You are legends in the making.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Second books are hard. I realize how trite that sounds. Writing is hard. Getting out of bed on Mondays is hard. But second books are a unique form of pain because they are ruthless in their demands. It’s like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie but throw in cesspits of despair, an ego ravaged by debut year and the sheer panic of not knowing “how to book.” But this book emerged tough and hungry, and it wouldn’t have been possible without the help of so many resplendent individuals.
To my critique partner, Lyra Selene: You read this in awful draft form and loved it first! Thanks for the feedback and crying Claire Danes gifs. I am so glad to call you a friend. To JJ: Let the record show that you claimed Vikram first. Thanks for letting me ramble over drinks and then ramble because of drinks. You are an Oracle. To Stephanie Garber: Thanks for being an imitable cheerleader and fellow Regency romance reader. Our hours-long phone chats bring me the best kind of joy. To Tristina Wright, Sona Charaipotra, Ayesha Patel, Annie Kirke, Amanda Foody: Thank you for beta reading with kind eyes and an open heart. To Sarah J. Maas: Thank you for lending your invaluable warrior queen insight on this draft, for Barrons (because *swoon*) and for taking the time to listen and advise with kindness and humor. To Jessie Sima: Thanks for the beautiful art and fangirling over PYNCH with me. To Kat Howard, Kavitha Nallathambhi and Sohum Chokshi: I am always indebted to your wisdom and friendship, and grateful for your insight. To the Ladies of Tall Tree Lane (Leah Bobet, Ryan Graudin, E. K. Johnston, Lindsay Smith and Emma Higginbotham): Thanks for the liquor and laughter and vanquishing of dock spiders. “It was a good death.” To Sabaa Tahir, Renee Ahdieh, Beth Revis and Jodi Meadows: Thank you for your kindness, generosity and brilliance throughout the year. I am so grateful.
I can’t thank the booktube and blogging community enough for shouting about The Star-Touched Queen and inspiring me every day. Special thanks to Rachel Simon, Brittany at Brittany’s Book Rambles, Alexandra at Lit Legionnaire, Summer at Butter My Books, Rachel at YA Perfectionist, Samantha at Thoughts on Tomes and Melissa Lee at Live Love Read YA. Shoutout to Viktoria (@seelieknight) and Andrea (@ashryvur) whose playlists got me through revisions and coaxed out the words.
To my St. Martin’s Press family: Thank you so much for your support, guidance and for giving a loving home to my stories. Eileen, you see the bones of a story when all I see is purple prose and nonsense. Thank you for believing in me, and for wearing a thousand hats: cheerleader, romance novel recommender, life guru. To the fabulous marketing and publicity team (Brittoni, Karen and DJ): Giving each of you a crown of wishes would still be inadequate thanks. To the library team (Talia and Annie): Thank you for all that you’ve done! Talia, I’m working on your vampire story.
A thousand and one thanks to my brilliant agent Thao Le. I am so humbled to have someone as hardworking and creative as you on my team. To my family at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, especially Jessica Watterson and Jennifer Kim. Thanks for all your help and support. To Andrea Cavallaro: Thank you for taking The Star-Touched Queen overseas and giving it a home abroad.
To my friends, without whom I would be a codfish. Victoria G.: Thanks for switching shoes with me that fateful day in kindergarten. Niv S.: Thank you for the tea and fairy tales. Bismah R.: Thank you for Swedish Fish and quasi-French lessons. Chelsey B.: Thank you for agreeing that poisonous courtesans are always a yes.
To the Chokshi, Gandhi, Negrosa, de Leon clans: your support and love is my foundation. Forever indebted to Momo, Dodo, Cookie, Poggi and Panda Bear: Thanks for not batting an eyelash when I run through the house, leaving glasses everywhere, donning horns, consulting with the forces of evil and never quite explaining my writing projects. To Shraya, Pallavi Auntie and Sanjay Uncle: Thank you for letting me into your lives and your kitchen. Thanks for the support, love, rat gasps, and pizza. To Aman: Thank you for the laughter and pecan pie, for keeping promises and banishing nightmares, for reminding me how to human and always challenging me. Most importantly, thank you for coaxing out the magic in the world when I’ve forgotten how to see it.
And last, to my readers. I adore you to pieces. You inspire me every day and humble me beyond measure. Thank you for the fan art, playlists, letters, encouragement and love. Thank you for giving me the chance to tell these stories.
PROLOGUE
THE INVITATION
Vikram had spent enough time with bitterness that he knew how to twist and numb the feeling. Tonight, he didn’t draw on his years of experience. Instead he let the acidic, snapping teeth of it chew at his heart. As he walked to the network of wooden huts that formed the ashram, the echo of laughter hung in the air. He stood in the dark, an outsider to a joke everyone knew.
Since he was eight years old, he had spent part of every year at the ashram, learning alongside other nobility. Everyone else resented the part of the year where they returned to their kingdoms and endured having to put their lessons to use. Not Vikram. Every time he returned to Ujijain, he was reminded that his education was a formality. Not a foundation. He preferred that. No expectations meant learning without fear of being limited and growing opinions without fear of voicing them. His thoughts preferred the fertile ground of silence. Silence sharpened shrewdness, which only made him embrace the title his father’s empire had, albeit grudgingly, given him: Fox Prince.
But shrewd or not, the moment he entered the ashram, he wouldn’t be able to ignore the celebrations of another prince called home to rule. Soon, Ujijain would summon him home. And then what? The days would bleed together. The hope would shrivel. It would be harder to outwit the council. Harder to speak. He tightened his fists. That bitterness turned taunting. How many years had he spent believing that he was meant for more? Sometimes he thought his head was a snarl of myth and folktales, where magic coaxed ignored princes out of the shadows and gave them a crown and a legend to live in. He used to wait for the moment when magic would drape a new world over his eyes. But time turned his hopes dull and lightless. The Council of Ujijain had seen to that.
Near the entrance of the ashram, a sage sat beside the dying flames of a ceremonial fire. What was a sage doing here at this hour? Around his neck, the sage wore the pelt of a golden mongoose. Not a pelt. A real mongoose. The creature was napping.
“There you are,” said the sage, opening his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time, Fox Prince.”
Vikram stilled, suspicion prickling in his spine. No one waited for him. No one looked for him. The mongoose around the sage’s neck yawned. Something tumbled out of the creature’s mouth. Vikram reached for it, his heart racing as his hand closed around something cold and hard: a ruby. The ruby shone with unnatural light.
The mongoose yawned … jewels?
“Show-off,” said the sage, bopping the mongoose on its nose.
The creature’s ears flattened in reproach. Its fur shimmered in the dark. Bright as true gold. Bright as … magic. When he was a child, Vikram thought enchantment would save him. He even tried to trap it. Once he laid out a net to catch a wish-bestowing yaksha and ended up with a very outraged peacock. When he got older, he stopped trying. But h
e couldn’t give up hoping. Hope was the only thing that lay between him and a throne that would only be his in name. He clutched the ruby tighter. It pulsed, shuddering as an image danced in its face—an image of him. Sitting on the throne. Powerful. Freed.
Vikram nearly dropped the ruby. Magic clung to his body. Starlight raced through his veins, and the sage grinned.
“Can’t speak? There, there, little Fox Prince. Perhaps all the words are knocking against your head and you simply can’t reach out and snatch the right one. But I am kind. Well, perhaps not. Kindness is a rather squishy thing. But I do love to lend assistance. Here is what you should say: ‘Why are you here?’”
Shocked, all Vikram could do was nod.
The sage smiled. Sometimes a smile was little more than a sliver of teeth. And sometimes a smile was a knife cutting the world in two: before and after. The sage’s smile belonged to the latter. And Vikram, who had never been anxious, felt as if his whole world was about to be rearranged by that grin.
“I am here because you summoned me, princeling. I am here to extend an invitation for a game that takes place when the century has grown old. I am here to tell you that the Lord of Wealth and Treasures caught a whiff of your dreams and followed it until he found your hungry heart and cunning smile.”
The ruby in Vikram’s palm quivered and shook. Crimson light broke in front of his eyes and he saw that the ruby was not a ruby, but an invitation in the shape of a jewel. It shook itself out … unfurling into gold parchment that read:
* * *
THE LORD OF WEALTH AND TREASURES CORDIALLY INVITES YOU TO THE TOURNAMENT OF WISHES.
Please present the ruby and a secret truth to the gate guardians by the new moon.
This ruby is good for two living entries.
The winner will be granted their heart’s wish. But know now that desire is a poisonous thing.
* * *
Vikram stared up from the parchment. Distantly, he knew he should be frightened. But fright paled compared to the hope knifing through him. That shadowed part of him that had craved for something more was no childhood fantasy gone twisted with age. Perhaps it had always been a premonition. Like knowledge buried in the soul and not the sight. True but hidden things.
The sage nodded to the ruby. “Look and see what awaits you.”
He looked, but saw nothing.
“Try singing! The ruby wants to feel loved. Seduced.”
“I wouldn’t call my singing voice seduction,” said Vikram, finding his voice. “More like sacrilege, honestly.”
“It’s not the sound of your song that coaxes out truth. It’s the sincerity. Like this—”
The sage sung no song, but a story. Vikram’s story. An image burned in the ruby. Vikram clutching the Emperor with one hand and tightly holding a bundle of blue flowers in the other. Voices slipped out of the gem: muffled displeasure, the title “heir of Ujijain” spoken around a laugh. He saw the future Ujijain promised him—a useless life of luxury wearing the face of power. He saw the nightmare of a long life, day upon day of stillness. His chest tightened. He’d rather die. The sage’s voice had no tone. But it had texture, like a scattering of gold coins.
“If you want a throne, you’ll have to play
The Lord of Treasures loves his games and tales
A wanting heart will make his day
Or you can waste your life recounting fails
But say it, little prince, say you’ll play this game
If you and a partner play, never will you be the same.”
The ashram huts loomed closer and the fires crackled like topaz. The idea took root in Vikram’s mind. He’d built his life on wanting the impossible—true power, recognition, a future—and now magic had found him the moment he stopped looking. It breathed life into all those old dreams, filling him with that most terrible of questions: What if …
But even as his heart leapt to believe it, the sage’s words made him pause.
“Why did you say partner?”
“It is required of your invitation.”
Vikram frowned. The princes in the ashram had never inspired his faith in teams.
“Find the one who glows, with blood on the lips and fangs in the heart.”
“Sounds as though they would be hard to miss.”
“For you, doubly so,” said the sage. His voice expanded. Not quite human. The sound rose from everywhere, dripping from the sky, growing out of the dirt. “Say you will play. Play the game and you may yet win your empire, not just the husk of its name. You only get one chance to accept.”
The sage sliced his hand across the flames. Images spilled out like jewels:
A palace of ivory and gold, riven with black streams where caught stars wriggled and gave up their light. There were prophecies etched on doorframes, and the sky above was nothing but undulating ocean where discarded legends knifed through the water. A thousand yakshas and yakshinis trailed frost, forest brambles, pond swill and cloudy coronets. They were preparing for something. Vikram felt as if he’d tasted his dreams and starved for more.
Magic plucked at his bones, begging him to leave this version of himself behind. He leaned forward, his heart racing to keep up with the present.
“Yes,” he breathed.
As if he could say anything else.
The moment split. Silently, the world fell back on itself.
“Excellent!” said the sage. “We will see you in Alaka at the new moon.”
“Alaka? But that’s, I mean, I thought it was myth.”
“Oh dear boy, getting there is half the game.” The sage winked. “Good for two living entries!”
“What about two living exits?”
“I like you,” laughed the sage.
In a blink, he disappeared.
PART ONE
THE GIRL
1
TO BE A MONSTER
GAURI
Death stood on the other side of the chamber doors. Today I would meet it not in my usual armor of leather and chain mail, but in the armor of silk and cosmetics. One might think one armor was stronger than the other, but a red lip was its own scimitar and a kohl-darkened eye could aim true as a steel-tipped arrow.
Death might be waiting, but I was going to be a queen. I would have my throne if I had to carve a path of blood and bone to get it back.
Death could wait.
The bath was scalding, but after six months in a dungeon, it felt luxurious. Gauzy columns of fragrance spun slowly through the bath chambers, filling my lungs with an attar of roses. For a moment, thoughts of home choked me. Home, with the pockets of wildflowers and sandstone temples cut into the hills, with the people whose names I had come to murmur in my prayers before sleep. Home, where Nalini would have been waiting with a wry and inappropriate joke, her heart full of trust that I hadn’t deserved. But that home was gone. Skanda, my brother, would have made sure by now that no hearth in Bharata would welcome me.
The Ujijain attendant who was supposed to prepare me for my first—and probably last—meeting with the Prince of Ujijain didn’t speak. Then again, what do you say to those who are about to be sentenced to death? I knew what was coming. I’d gathered that much from the guards outside my dungeon. I wanted intelligence, so I faked whimpering nightmares. I’d practiced a limp. I’d let them think that my reputation was nothing more than rumor. I’d even let one of them touch my hair and tell me that perhaps he could be convinced to get me better food. I’m still proud that I sobbed instead of ripping out his throat with my teeth. It was worth it. People have a tendency to want to comfort small, broken-looking things. They told me they’d keep my death quick if I’d only smile for them one more time. I hated being told to smile. But now I knew the rotation of the guards’ schedule. I knew which ones nursed battle wounds and how they entered the palace. I knew that no sentinels guarded the eastern gate. I knew which soldiers grinned despite their bad knee. I knew how to escape.
My hair hung in wet ropes against my back as I slid into the
silken robes. No coarse linens for the Princess of Bharata. Royalty has the strangest advantages. Silently, the attendant led me to an adjoining chamber where the silver walls formed gigantic polished mirrors.
Slender glass alembics filled with fragrant oils, tiny cruets of kohl and silk purses of pearl and carmine powder crowded a low table. Brushes of reeds and hewn ivory shaped like writing implements caught the light. Homesickness slashed through me. I had to clasp my hands together to stop from reaching out over the familiar cosmetics. The harem mothers had taught me how to use these. Under my mothers’ tutelage, I learned that beauty could be conjured. And under my and Nalini’s instruction, my mothers learned that death could hide in beauty.
In Bharata, Nalini had commissioned slim daggers that could be folded into jeweled hairpins. Together, we’d taught the mothers how to defend themselves. Before Nalini, I used to steal shears and sneak into the forge so the blacksmith could teach me about the balance of a sword. My father allowed me to learn alongside the soldiers, telling me that if I was bent on maiming something, then it might as well be the enemies of Bharata. When he died, Bharata’s training grounds became a refuge from Skanda. There, I was safe from him. And not just safe, but not hurting anyone. Being a soldier was the only way that I could keep safe the people I loved.
It was my way of making amends for what Skanda made me do.
The attendant yanked my chin. She took a tool—the wrong one, I noticed—and scraped the red pigment onto my lips.
“Allow me—” I started, but she shut me up.
“If you speak, I will make sure that my hand slips when I use that sharp tool around your eyes.”
Princess or not, I was still the enemy. I respected her fury. Her loyalty. But if she messed up my cosmetics, that was a different story. I closed my eyes, trying not to flinch under the attendant’s ministrations. I tried to picture myself anywhere but here, and memory mercifully plucked me from my own thoughts and took me back to when I was ten years old, sobbing because my sister, Maya, had left Bharata.
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