Star-Touched Stories

by Roshani Chokshi

  “This doesn’t smell like what it looks like,” Aasha had protested.

  Zahril had scoffed. “You think a poison is going to announce itself just for your convenience?”

  “That would be nice, yes.”

  They had fallen into a rhythm. Zahril would insult. Aasha would ignore. A lesson would ensue. Each time she didn’t die, Aasha imagined that a small tool chiseled out a little more of Zahril’s smile. Her face, though scarred on one side, was still … beautiful.

  Aasha hadn’t noticed until today. It was at the end of the lesson. Aasha’s hair was plastered to her face, damp from the steam room where Zahril had laid out the various poisons and scents. Zahril had been leaning out over those poisonous fumes, one sea-glass eye swiveling, the other—garnet-black and glinting like ice under a new moon—pinned to Aasha. The steam and smoke and venom had plumed into the still air. A watery phosphorescent light had burst from a broken vial. Zahril had averted her gaze just in time, bringing her almost face-to-face with Aasha. Aasha, who had no cause to worry about venom, had no cause to flinch. She stayed still, her eyes wide open, which was how she noticed that Zahril had squeezed her eyes shut. It was such a strangely childish gesture that Aasha fought back the urge to shelter Zahril in her arms. But within seconds, that urge faded. Something else replaced it … a nearly painful desire to reach out and touch. It was all because of the light from that broken tube. Silvery light burst from it, illuminating the smooth planes of Zahril’s face, the crescents of her cheekbones and dark spill of her eyelashes, the wide bow of her mouth, which—when not pulled into a sneer—was full as a fruit. Zahril had opened her eyes to see Aasha staring at her. A moment too long passed. And then it was broken.

  A week passed.

  Aasha still hadn’t been able to shake Zahril’s face from her thoughts. And, if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t really want to.

  There had been something secret, unguarded in her expression. An ease that Aasha had only recognized in her own reflection. It didn’t make sense to imagine that the Spy Mistress might share anything with her, but Aasha felt as though she knew that fear. That gap of belonging and not quite fitting, wondering if the parts of her that overlapped might somehow be worn smooth with time and simply fall into place.

  Nearly two months had passed in the Spy Mistress’s company. Aasha, who hated the taste of the bland food delivered from the neighboring village, had taken to preparing the dishes herself. Zahril generally claimed her food was either inedible or fatally spicy, but Aasha noticed that her dish was always clean after a meal.

  Tonight she was making pakoras. Zahril had only just started sampling the things Aasha attempted to make.

  “That doesn’t smell right,” said Zahril. She was eating whatever bland offering had been prepared by the people in the neighboring village. “If you poison yourself, I will feel like a very poor instructor.”

  “I will try not to hurt your feelings,” said Aasha.

  Aasha did not turn as she spoke. But she felt, like a bend in the space, as if Zahril was smiling. Yesterday, Aasha had simmered apple slices in cloves and honey. Zahril, whose hands were full, had said:

  “Just give me the thing, if you’re so desperate for me to insult your culinary ability.”

  Perhaps she meant for Aasha to put it on the plate. And leave it there. But she hadn’t.

  She placed the fruit between thumb and forefinger, twirling it like a spiral, so that it might catch any threads of golden honey. Then she’d held it up to Zahril. Zahril tensed. Not looking at her. But her lips had parted, and Aasha placed the fruit on her tongue. If she saw the barest flush of red on Zahril’s cheeks or if Zahril had noticed the slight tremor in her fingers when her skin had brushed the damp velvet of her lips, neither of them said anything.

  Aasha had never made pakoras. But she understood the basics. Chopped cauliflower, tomato, plantains, and chili peppers dipped in a batter made from gram flour and deep-fried into crispy perfection. The smells soon overwhelmed the kitchen …

  But so did the popping oil. It bubbled faster than Aasha expected. Leaping out of the cast-iron pot, and landing everywhere. Including her skin.

  Aasha gave a sharp cry.

  Zahril was at her side in an instant.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  “Wait—” she started.

  Aasha saw it before it happened. The ladle poised too close to the handle. The sharp jut of Zahril’s elbow, and the sudden shift in weight.

  “Move!” cried Aasha.

  She pushed. Zahril stumbled. The pot of oil teetered. Spilled.

  It only took a blink.

  The oil sprayed up and out, catching Aasha’s bare toes and lapping Zahril’s arm. A strangled gasp escaped Zahril’s throat just as Aasha pulled her into a shadowy corner of the kitchen, safe from the oil.

  “I would curse your whole line if I knew your surname,” hissed Zahril between winces.

  Aasha ignored her. She recognized the outline of a dusty firestone hanging near a large copper pot. She ran to it, breaking the stone on the counter. A white plume of gas escaped, snaking toward the oil and the burning vegetables, drowning the heat until it was covered in thin, spidering frost.

  “Are you all right?” asked Aasha, returning to Zahril.

  “Never better,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I’ve always wanted to be equally burned. If only it got on—”

  “Stop that,” said Aasha sternly. “This is no one’s fault. You came to the stove because you were concerned. For me.”

  Zahril said nothing.

  “How can I dress this wound?” she asked.

  Zahril cradled her arm close to her side. She glared up at Aasha like a wounded animal.

  “My bedroom,” she said, finally.

  In that moment, Aasha felt as though the entirety of the Spy Mistress’s tower was an unfamiliar maze. It did not matter that she had crossed its stones and knew its secret doors and memorized the rough stones of the staircases. Now it was an unfamiliar land because she was going to see Zahril’s bedroom. It was as if the sky had pulled back a corner of itself, revealing a vast, beating heart.

  Aasha held her by the elbow, gingerly. It was only as they walked through a new passage of stone that a realization caught Aasha by the throat …

  For the first time, her blue star hadn’t flickered to life in response to surprise. Or danger. In fact, it hadn’t happened at all since that time with the rock monster. The work that spoke to Aasha’s soul had calmed something within her. Weeks ago, she would have been too scared to move Zahril out of the way. Too convinced that to touch her during one of those moments would only end her life or injure her another way. But there had been a strange shift within Aasha.

  Even now, she didn’t feel that pang of worry that she might harm Zahril. It was only concern. It was only them moving through the familiar darkness of the Spy Tower, the light from the lanterns tense and pale, not illuminating anything more than two girls making their way over the stones, their arms linked, worry etched in their faces. Their care for one another enough to chew down the pain. If only for another moment.

  And to Aasha, that was all anyone needed to see.

  Zahril stopped outside of Aasha’s room.

  “Did the oil get to your head too?” she asked. “That’s my room.”

  “And mine is beside it,” said Zahril.

  At an alarmed look from Aasha, Zahril managed a single, powerful snort.

  “This is tradition with every potential Spy Mistress,” she said. “You’re not special.”

  Special. The word stung more than it should have. It’s not like she wanted to be the only person that had inspired Zahril to spend each night, unknown, near her. But she wanted, she realized, to be special to someone even if it meant being ordinary and unnoticed to everyone else.

  At Zahril’s touch on the wood paneling, a door shivered to life.

  “Who made this tower?” asked Aasha. “I only know of one rakshas
a king who can make illusions like this.”

  “Do you now?” Zahril smirked. “You’re getting better at interrogation. Well done. Always ask when you perceive a person is at their weakest. They’re far more likely to open up.”

  “Are you at your weakest?”

  “Certainly,” said Zahril with the kind of breezy casualty as if Aasha had asked something as inconsequential as the time of day. “But my weakest is leagues above everyone else’s strongest.”

  She stepped through the door, leaving the question unanswered. Aasha followed after her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness of Zahril’s chambers.

  When her eyes finally did understand what they were looking at, her imagination pulled her vision off center. Aasha hadn’t even realized how secret corners of her mind had wondered at Zahril’s personal chambers. Sometimes, after grueling exercises, she thought Zahril slept on a stone circle. She thought that there was nothing but one candle guarding her. Her imagination had coaxed forth a place of bareness. Cold.

  The reality was anything but.

  Sumptuous.

  That was the only word Aasha could summon. Though the kitchens were barren, and the other chambers empty of warmth, it was as if this was the one place where Zahril had shoved every facet of her personality. The room was multileveled.

  Couches and sofas on one side—far more than one person would need for themselves—piled high with silken throw pillows and velvety blankets. Chandeliers of raw amethyst and unpolished garnet unraveled from the ceiling, as if this bed chamber had been carved into the mouth of a wondrous cave. On the second step down, there was a wide bed and several tables covered with amphorae of perfumes and bone-boxes cut into the shapes of jewels that held powders and cosmetics, lip stains and an assortment of crushed metallics for eyeshadow.

  A fire roared in the other corner. Books—hundreds with gem-toned spines—lined an entire wall. There was something else too. Paintings. Paintings on every wall. They seemed familiar even though this was the first time that she had seen them. The scenes depicted a life Aasha thought she had left in her past—the Night Bazaar, its split sky cradling both a moon and a sun, the light feathering over softly rendered vendors and creatures. How could Zahril even know about such a thing? Few humans had ever gained access to the Otherworld. Even less had been admitted into its shops and allowed to leave.

  “Are you going to help me with this wound or let me bleed out?” snapped Zahril.

  Aasha hastened to her. She was standing beside her bed. When Aasha approached, Zahril nudged her chin to a small chest of drawers.

  “The green bottle,” she said.

  Aasha opened up the lid. The contents of the chest unfurled like a miniature staircase. There were slim bottles emblazoned with roses and interlocking vines, bowls of raw quartz filled with bright pigments, and a thousand slender amphorae. It smelled strong. Chemical. She traced the bottles quickly before finding a small green bottle.

  “Unstopper it,” said Zahril.

  She did.

  “Now pat it onto my arm.”

  “With what? My hand?”

  “A cloth,” said Zahril.

  Aasha cast her glance around, but didn’t see anything. She reached for a strange, dirty-looking rag beside Zahril’s pillow.

  “Not that!” she snapped. “That’s…”

  For the first time, Zahril blushed.

  “That’s not mine,” she said finally.

  “It’s in your possession,” pointed out Aasha.

  She held up the rag, and that was when she noticed something printed along its edges. A star balancing on the crest of a mountain. It was the same signature that she had seen on the painting in her room. It was also, she noticed as she took in the surroundings with a new eye, the same signature emblazoned on every painting here. The symbol, the scrap of cloth, the sudden glisten in Zahril’s eyes. It spoke of grief.

  “Who was she?” asked Aasha.

  Zahril bit her lip. “How do you know it was a she?”

  She didn’t know. Not for certain, anyway. It wasn’t as though there was something distinctly feminine about the signature. Maybe it was the scent that lingered in the square of fabric. It was silk, she realized. Perhaps, once, it had been pristine and white. Instead of the threadbare and moth-bitten thing that it was now. Maybe it was the memory of love that had preserved something about it—a scent like milk steeped in roses. All delicate cream and new blossoms.

  “I don’t know,” said Aasha. “Instinct, I suppose.”

  Aasha cast around for a different cloth, but Zahril sighed.

  “Just use it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Am I stuttering?” she snapped.

  “Let’s not forget that I’m the one wielding the potion.”

  “Don’t threaten me unless you intend to follow through with it.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Aasha. “I could leave you.”

  She wasn’t even sure where the words had come from … maybe it was exhaustion. For pushing herself further than she ever had, for conquering her fears and for winning when she was told she wasn’t. Maybe it was childish to want just a yes. Yes, you did it.

  “Then go,” said Zahril.

  If the air itself solidified and turned them into those strange insects forever pressed between glass, Aasha would have found it more comfortable than standing in front of Zahril. For a girl that didn’t look much older than nineteen, Zahril looked as if life had made her heavy. As if it had carved a dimension and a space for a world of grief that she had no choice but to carry with her. A dare lingered in the knifelike balance of her gaze. It said: well, were you threatening me or not?

  Aasha, even as she gritted her teeth and felt a little part of herself cave inward with hate, did not go.

  She poured some of the green bottle onto the edge of the threadbare handkerchief. She reached for Zahril’s hand, forcing her eyes not to drift upward when she heard her wince. Zahril’s hand trembled.

  The burn was livid. Skin flaked and curled at the edges. The skin beneath was raw and shiny.

  “You should go,” said Zahril, once Aasha had bandaged her hand. “Tell them you learned from me. I’ll even sign the thing agreeing that you are fit for the job. That’s what you want.”

  Want.

  It was the underbelly of wishing. A wish was fantastical. A want was … fleshy. It was a snake biting its tail—devoured and devouring.

  Foolish or no, she felt betrayed at having any wants. A wish was supposed to remove all of that. And look how far a wish had gotten her?

  It had brought her outside of the world she knew—took her dreams and made them nightmares, unstitched her nightmares and turned them into dreams. She had wanted choice. In its wake, she had found uncertainty. Human. Vishakanya. What was she?

  Aasha said nothing for a couple of long moments. Maybe a week ago everything that Zahril said had been what she wanted. A week ago she would have said that all she wanted was the seal of approval that would make Gauri and Vikram happy, and let her stay in Bharata. But the weeks had worn away those edges of her. It wasn’t that things had changed, so much as that parts of herself felt peeled off. She wanted to earn this.

  “No.”

  Zahril raised her eyebrow. “No?”

  “You’re wrong,” said Aasha. “I don’t just want you to say that I’m fit for the job. I want to earn it.”

  “So be it,” said Zahril.

  She turned her face, but Aasha caught the glint of a smile.

  As if she had passed some test.

  7

  Zahril had taken with fever.

  Aasha had caught her in the hallway that morning.

  “Good reflexes,” said Zahril hoarsely.

  Her attempt at sounding like an impartial mentor were thwarted by the sweat beading across her forehead.

  “Why are you trying to turn this into an evaluation?” scolded Aasha. “You’re not well. Let me take care of you.”

  Za
hril grumbled. But Aasha ignored her. She half-carried, half-dragged her down the hall and back to her room. As she had observed from yesterday, she placed her hand against the wall, watching as a door shivered to life.

  “You haven’t managed to fit an arena in here, have you?” asked Aasha.

  “The thought had never occurred to me.”

  “Well then I guess we can do a different kind of lesson for today.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” said Zahril.

  Aasha helped her to bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

  “We’ve already done sight, sound, and smell—”

  “Taste,” said Zahril, tiredly. “There will be a glass tray in the kitchen. Bring it.”

  Aasha nodded. As she took the stairs she called: “I’ll bring you tea too!”

  Just as the door closed, Aasha heard a grumble of protest and faintly:

  “Am I not in enough pain?”

  * * *

  Aasha piled a tray with cut persimmons, mugs of tea, and handfuls of mint leaves. She preferred mint in her tea. Zahril preferred mint as an extension of violence. When she wasn’t talking, she chewed down the stalks to a green pulp.

  In the other pantry, Aasha found a second glass tray. It was heavy, weighed down by a number of unguents and bottles that had been welded to the metal. A few weeks ago, Aasha would have found it intolerably heavy. But her arms had grown stronger. They even looked different. There were callouses on the pads of her fingers from not noticing one of Zahril’s killing contraptions fast enough, and a couple of small welts on her wrists and palms from brushing against a hot pot from forgetting her cooking. A steady ache pulsed between her shoulder blades, along the curves of her waist and down her thighs. Soreness from muscles shedding their weakness.

  Inside Zahril’s room, the lantern lights drifted across the ceiling. Zahril sat like an imperious queen, the pillows forming a mini-fortress. There was an armchair and a low table at her side where, Aasha realized, she was expected to sit. The moment she set down the glass tray, Zahril held out her hand.