A Crown of Wishes

by Roshani Chokshi

  “Are you so eager to end your life, dear mortals?”

  This was an excellent start.

  “No—” said Vikram.

  “Then why do you seek entrance here?”

  “Can we not go into—”

  The tiger roared at us: “ONLY VISHAKANYAS MAY ENTER WITHOUT THE LINE. AND ONLY YAKSHAS AND YAKSHINIS MAY STAND IN LINE. NO HUMANS.”

  Air gusted from the creature’s mouth. The wind forced us backward and we retreated to the end of the line. Vikram paced furiously.

  “How are we going to get inside when we’re clearly not vishakanyas?” he muttered, tugging at his hair. He stopped, his brow creasing in thought. “Or maybe we just have to look like them.”

  I stopped pacing. “What?”

  He glanced back toward the feast tables and started walking. I jogged to keep pace.

  “I think I heard you say that we should look like vishakanyas.”

  “You heard right. It’s not my first choice. I’d rather not dress like a courtesan again—”

  “Wait. Again?”

  His face colored.

  “The Feast of Transformation may have something for us,” he mused.

  “I’m still listening for the part where you explain why you dressed like a courtesan in the first place.”

  Vikram braced his elbows over the Feast of Transformation, fingers hovering over the bottles. He held up a bottle containing a scrap of a woman’s sari and a pot of cosmetics.

  “I hope this is more rewarding than last time,” he muttered.

  The Feast of Transformation demanded a trade of hurt. The moment I grabbed a vial, I felt ghostly fingers carding through my memories, searching for a kernel of pain. It wasn’t hard to find. I felt a sharp tug behind my heart, the sound of a memory unclasping and rising to the surface of my thoughts. And then: Nothing. The memory faded. I looked down at my garb and found myself dressed in a rather revealing outfit studded with emeralds. A translucent veil draped down from my head. I looked unrecognizable in the mirror propped against the Feast of Transformation table. Thanks to glamour, my hair was now long and silver, my eyes were the color of quartz and I was taller and more willowy than I’d ever been without magic.

  Beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath. The magic of the Feast of Transformation had disguised Vikram as a short and shapely woman with a riot of copper hair. The only thing that looked the same was the sly smile he flashed when he inspected himself in the mirror.

  “I look good,” he said, examining himself from multiple angles. He shifted from one foot to the next. “This is horrifically itchy. Why do women wear this miserable garment?”

  “I don’t think that was our choice.”

  “Oh.”

  I laughed. “I can’t think of many men that would glamour themselves as a woman.”

  He notched his chin a little higher. “This is just a form. In the older tales, a god made himself an enchantress just to trick a horde of demons. And the most famous warrior of the age became a eunuch for a year. I can have the form of a vishakanya for a night to win a wish.”

  I clapped. He bowed. And we headed down to the vishakanyas’ tent. Before we reached the entrance, I pulled him to one side.

  “What is it?”

  “Assuming we get inside, you need to be prepared for a fight.” I hiked up the dress. Vikram colored and immediately turned away.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  I unhooked one of my thigh straps and handed it to him along with the small knife I had tucked inside it earlier.

  “Where do I put this?” he muttered, patting his rather generous-looking hips.

  “A real vishakanya wouldn’t need one at all. Remember? Conceal it.”

  Groaning, he reluctantly strapped the knife to his ankle.

  At the entrance of the tent, I gathered my courage. The line of people stared at us longingly. I hated being stared at like this, as if I were just a means of satisfying someone. Vikram looked indignant and folded his arms over his chest. The beast swung its head around:

  “NO TRESPASSER—” it started, and then stopped, tilting its head.

  Here goes.

  “Since when am I a trespasser?” I demanded, sneering.

  The shadow tiger shrank back, lifting its paw. “I did not—”

  I raised a dismissive hand. “In what universe do you imagine that I am interested in recitations of your deficiencies?”

  The beast’s brow furrowed; its ears lay flat against its skull. “I did not mean to make a mistake.”

  Vikram—who had not lost his deep voice—wisely decided to keep his mouth shut and settled for a fierce glare.

  “And I did not mean to find myself interrogated. Move aside.”

  My heart was beating violently. One false move, and the charade would be ruined.

  “My apologies,” said the creature and stepped aside.

  I murmured a quick prayer before lifting the gossamer veils and entering the warm dark of the tent. No lamps illuminated the interior, but small lights were sewn into the silk, winking like hesitant stars. Incense painted the air with bright notes of sandalwood and orange blossom. Something reflective covered every surface that wasn’t already occupied by one of the Otherworldly patrons. We stepped inside carefully, searching around the corner for any sign of a vishakanya. Vikram went on his tiptoes to whisper in my ear:

  “Just because we look like vishakanyas does not mean we are one. If they touch us, we die.”

  I patted my thigh where the other knife was securely strapped. The tops of Vikram’s ears turned red.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I whispered back.

  We moved quickly down the hall, scanning for any sign of Kubera’s key or a ruby. But so far there was nothing. Unease prickled in the back of my head. If this wasn’t the right place, then we had to get out fast. There was no telling how long the effects of the Feast of Transformation would last. At least a dozen patrons sat inside, their heads tipped back to stare at their desires twisting in the mirrors above them. I followed the structure of the mirrors overhead. They were all linked, held up by some kind of net.

  Another hall, concealed from the patrons and courtesans, forked from the entrance. I stepped inside first, listening for any impatient footfalls or rasping breaths. Nothing. I scanned the walls. A mirror hovered above me.

  For the second time that day, the mirror didn’t reflect me. But it didn’t show the glamour I wore either. The mirror showed my heart. Bharata. I saw a pewter sky blanketing the watchtowers, salt stacked in perfect wheels in the merchants’ quarter, bonfires spraying ruby splinters into the air. I saw my people dancing, cheeks ruddy from laughing. I saw legends hanging off the trees like fruit, ripe for the taking and devouring, ready to be shared among friends and family. I saw every reason to return home.

  My eyelids drooped. Maybe if I closed my eyes, the images in the mirror would shatter and become a reality—

  “Gauri!” hissed Vikram.

  My eyes flew open. I tried to move forward, but I couldn’t. Fine silken ropes had fallen from the mirror and worked their way around my arms and legs, pinning me in place. Vikram, too, was trapped. Anyone with a foul sense of humor and a sharp knife could walk through the hall and kill us where we stood. It was only by sheer luck that the hallway was abandoned.

  “I’ve heard of being trapped by your desires, but this is ridiculous,” he grumbled.

  “How long did you look at the mirror?” I asked.

  “I only glanced at it.”

  I reached for the dagger on my thigh, but it slid out of the sheath, clattering to the ground. Biting back a hiss, I tried throwing all my weight backward and then forward, trying to untangle my limbs from the ropes. The iridescent ropes shone a little brighter, coy as a smile.

  “How do you rid yourself of desire?” I mused. “It’s not like I can magically become a different species.”

  Vikram paused. “That’s it! Look back into the mirror—”

  “Absol
utely not. That’s what got us trapped the first time.”

  “And maybe it can free us too.”

  I watched as he looked into the mirror. At one point, he turned a furious shade of red. Then, the silken ropes crumpled around him. He crept toward me, picking up the fallen knife and sawing at the silken bonds. The threads didn’t even fray.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “I just let go,” he said, shrugging. “I looked at the desires and I told myself I didn’t want them. Then they freed me. Try it.”

  I tried. I tried to pretend that I didn’t want the images anymore. But I couldn’t. I saw myself kneeling in a square of sunlight in Bharata’s gardens, wrist-deep in earth as I dug a home for a rosebush. I craved for that belonging, the kind that knits happiness to your heart so it never wanders too far out of sight.

  Blinking, I tore myself from the image. The silken ropes had grown in number and strength. But I also saw something else … paint had dropped onto the rope. I looked up at Vikram. The glamour of a woman’s body was already fading. He had grown taller. The tight curls had begun to relax and lose their copper sheen.

  “What is tying you down?” he demanded.

  They would catch us—maybe even kill us—if I couldn’t free myself. What was holding me back? Home, Nalini, vengeance, the throne. So many things tugged at me. It was different for Vikram. He wasn’t driven by desire for the throne of Ujijain. He was driven by the belief that it should be his. Somehow he could separate that. I couldn’t. But maybe … maybe I could look beyond it?

  I stared back into the mirror. This time, I tried to focus on the space between the images as they changed. There, in that undefined nexus … that was my real desire. The mirror couldn’t show me the thing that pushed me toward that half-key to immortality because it was more. It was unquantifiable. A sylph with no face. It went beyond my need for vengeance or saving Nalini because it was the hunt for a legacy. It looked like nothing and everything. I blinked and the mirror shattered. The silken ropes crumpled.

  I gathered them quickly before they could loudly thunk onto the floor. The moment I pushed the ropes to one side of the hall, Vikram shot me a warning glance and we both raced down the hall to where a gossamer screen separated one room from the next. Vikram reached for it, but I knocked his hand back. I squinted, gesturing for the dagger. Was someone standing on the other side? I stared for a moment longer, but no shadow moved behind the screen. I nodded, sheathing the dagger, as Vikram pulled back the curtain. There, lodged into the silk as if someone had punched it into place, was a glittering ruby.

  “That’s it!” he said. “It has to be.”

  I swept another glance around the room, careful to avoid the ceiling when I caught the gilded shine of a hundred mirrors overhead. No sign of disturbance to the pristine cushions. Nothing knocked aside in haste. A hall hugged one side of the room, curved out of sight. I stared a moment longer, but no shadow flickered on the wall’s other side. Satisfied, I nodded to Vikram, who started walking to the ruby. Something shone in the facets of the jewel—a table surrounded by diners. Ice spangled the air around the stone. The cold of it formed a fist around my heart.

  “Give me a lift,” said Vikram. “Maybe I can tear this thing out with the knife—”

  I had layered my palms together to give him a lift when I noticed something:

  Silence.

  When we had first stepped inside, the vishakanyas’ tent had been full of low murmurs, whispered encouragements and even the occasional moans. I crouched, skimming my thigh for the dagger slung around my leg. A low sigh and a crumpling sound broke the silence. Vikram had slumped to the ground. The copper of his disguised hair had darkened. His limbs lengthened and the barest trace of stubble began to shadow his shifting face.

  Panic raced through me. Before I could touch him, a low laugh echoed from the opposite side of the room. Eleven vishakanyas stepped from the shadows. They had been waiting. Invisible.

  “What did you do to him?”

  I heard a small gasp beside me and turned to see a beautiful vishakanya materialize in the air. She cowered away from Vikram. Her hand was still outstretched. Had she touched him?

  The effects of the Feast of Transformation had vanished. Vikram lay in his original jacket and trousers. His face was pale, and sweat beaded on his skin. Things that were once eye-level fell little by little. The borrowed height from the Feast of Transformation had disappeared and I had returned to my original size and shape.

  “A man!” gasped the vishakanya. She did not run to the others pressed in the dark corners of the room. Instead, she stared at me.

  “Don’t you dare touch him,” I hissed, brandishing the knife.

  I ran through what I knew about vishakanyas. Every inch of their skin was deadly. But they bled and died just like any mortal. At least, that’s what Maya’s stories always said. I just had to get past the skin.

  The vishakanya sank into the corner, suddenly timid. “I only brushed against him for a moment … nothing that would kill him, I swear.”

  “He is not for any of you,” I said loudly, swinging the knife at the rest of the gathered poisonous courtesans. I stepped protectively over Vikram’s body. “We only came here for the ruby. That’s all. Let us take it and leave, and no one will be harmed.”

  “And if we don’t want you to leave?” asked one.

  Her movements held all the terrible grace of a nightmare.

  “You both came here willingly,” she taunted. “To know us. To see us. To take from us.”

  Twelve to one, I repeated in my head. If this were a normal fight, maybe I’d have a chance. But unlike any fight, the very touch of my opponents’ skin could kill me. I tore part of my salwar kameez and wrapped my bare arms.

  The vishakanya shrugged. “Admirable, but futile.”

  “I’m warning you—” I started, but the words awakened something in the vishakanya. She was no longer smiling. No longer wheedling.

  “No, girl,” she said, as cold as glass. “I’m warning you. That human boy is now mine.”

  “He was never—”

  “He is in our tent. He is not protesting. Therefore, he is ours. And now that he is mine, you should know that I am not someone to steal from. You see, girl, we like humans. Human desires are nothing like the desires of yakshas and yakshinis. Yours are a treat. There’s something different about human desire. How damp it is. The way it gloms on to your nightmares and silvers your hearts with a rime of frost. You will carry that desire, ripping up the earth at its seams if it means you can have what you want.”

  “It’s destructive,” said the vishakanya.

  “It’s beautiful,” chimed another.

  “And we will have it,” said another.

  “So don’t take my toys, girl.”

  And then she lunged straight for me.

  20

  OF RUBIES AND SISTERS

  AASHA

  If Aasha wanted, she could reach out and touch the human girl. Kill her. But if she did that, the questions brimming inside her would go unanswered. Already, they felt out of control, as if they’d grown thorns and would soon cut her apart. Who could I have been? What life could I have called my own? That urgency to know made her feign a headache earlier and wait, crouched and cramped and invisible, in a corner of the tent where the Lord of Treasures had hidden a ruby. He had visited the tent in the afternoon, informing her sisters that a pair of human contestants might come searching for the jewel. If the humans failed, they were fair prey for the vishakanyas.

  Aasha had hoped to get to the humans first. She had planned to negotiate with them: answers to her questions about the human world in return for letting them escape with the ruby.

  But her sisters had been faster.

  Now there was no chance of conversation. Her sisters licked their lips hungrily. As one, the vishakanyas lunged. Hands darted for the girl’s ankles as she leapt for higher ground. Aasha pressed herself farther into the corner. Beside her, the man stirre
d. Her touch had imparted a snare of sleep. Not death. Some of her sisters used the technique as a mercy killing. Aasha used it to avoid killing altogether.

  Her sisters knocked over the table the girl had jumped on, slamming her backward. The girl leapt to the ground, slashing her knife across the air and catching one of her sister’s arms.

  “Next time I’ll aim for your face,” said the human girl. “Give us that ruby. I have no desire to injure you.”

  But Aasha’s sisters only laughed and laughed. Wariness prickled through Aasha. They had plenty of desires to eat in Alaka. Maybe it would be easier to let the girl go and forget this business.

  The human girl turned her face to the ceiling, her eyes darting across the hundred mirrors knitted together. An eerie grin lit up her face. Her sisters pressed closer. The girl leapt, her fingers outstretched as she clawed for the golden tether anchored to one of the walls. Swiftly, the girl sank her knife into the rope that bound together all the mirrors.

  “Now that I have your attention—” said the girl, stabbing the rope. “You may have noticed that while I may not be able to kill each of you in one movement, the mirrors can.”

  Her sisters shrank a little closer to the ground. Aasha started inching along the walls, trying to get to them. The human girl swung her body, and the mirrors swayed dangerously to her rhythm, listing and groaning against their confines.

  “I can do it little by little,” said the girl, sawing delicately at the rope. She raised her knife: “Or I can start hacking.”

  Fear gripped her. If her sisters were injured, how would they feed? They’d wither to nothing. Aasha’s fear turned thin and cold, slipping in the space between her thoughts and numbing her nerves. She changed direction and ran to the girl.

  “Stop! Don’t hurt my sisters, please,” said Aasha. “I’ll do anything!”

  Something in the girl’s gaze relented. Mercy flickered across her features for only an instant. The next moment, her eyes hardened.