The Star-Touched Queen (The Star-Touched Queen #1)(36)

“Tell it to me.”

“Why? We both know the tale.”

“Even so. I want to hear it from your lips. Tell the tale. The room will keep rhythm.”

Tell the tale. My heart clenched. I miss you, Gauri. Sinking into my old habit was easy enough. I sat on the floor, crossing my legs in front of me, my gaze flickering between Amar and the pillar. Amar’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back to expose his bronzed throat. I spun my tale and the sky shimmered with images. I told Amar of the demon king who wished to escape death so he performed the most severe penances until he was granted a boon by the gods.

“He prayed that he would not die inside or outside his home. He prayed that he would die neither at night or day nor in the ground or in the sky. He prayed that neither man nor beast could kill him. He prayed no weapon could harm him.”

Amar’s head snapped up. He looked at the pillar with a wicked smile.

“And yet death found its way to him.”

I nodded. “One day, the god appeared as part-man, part-lion and burst forth from the pillar.”

A being of shadow tore through the pillar. A lion’s mane cast a torn shadow across the marble. Fangs lengthened in its mouth.

“He came upon the demon king at twilight—”

“—which is neither night nor day,” said Amar.

“And he appeared on the threshold of a courtyard—”

“Neither indoors nor out.”

“And he spread the king across his lap.”

“Neither above nor below ground.”

The shadow story played out in front of us, a tusked hulking man dragged to his knees and then lifted onto the thighs of the beast god.

“And he used his fingernails.”

“Not a true weapon.”

The shadow being lifted muscled arms above his head and claws erupted from his fingers. Amar grinned.

“And then death took him,” I said.

“Yes,” finished Amar. “He did.”

The shadow beast tore its claws into the demon king. Blood spattered across the walls. Within seconds, the images collapsed and the beast god slunk back into the pillar, one eye slit to the outside world before the marble folded up and swallowed him. I stood up, my hands shaking for no reason.

“Beautiful,” said Amar.

“I found it gruesome,” I said, shivering.

Amar rose and walked to where I stood.

“I was not talking about the story.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you like such a gruesome tale?”

In Bharata, we were taught that it was a tale of the god’s might. But I saw another story within it: the play of interpretation that turned something terrifying and iron-clad into something that could be conquered. I was reminded of the star room where Amar had taken me only days ago. The story was like a different way of seeing.

“It gave me hope … that maybe there was some way around the horoscope. It was a lesson in language too, almost like a riddle…”

Amar stared at me and then he laughed.

“Only my queen would find hope in horror.” He took my hand in his and his gaze was burning. “You are my hope and more.”

“What does that make you? My horror?”

“And more,” he said.

All I saw were his eyes. Velvet dark. The kind of umbra that shadows envy. Amar stared at me and his gaze was desperate with hope. Reckless. I should’ve stopped. I should’ve stepped away. But I didn’t. I leaned forward, and a soft growl—like surrender—escaped his throat. He dug his fingers into my back and pulled me into a kiss.

Amar’s kiss was furious. No heat. Just lightning. Or maybe that was what his touch teased out of me—vivid streaks of light, dusk and all her violent glory. I was lost. I leaned into his kiss and the world around us peeled into nothing. I felt like I could stand over chasms empty of time, and this moment, like a chain of soft-blooming stars, would still be ours.

We kissed until we couldn’t breathe. And then we kissed until we needed the touch of one another like breath itself.

*

I never glanced at the moon for the next week. I knew, buried beneath my happiness, that it was temporary and that sooner or later I would have to pull Vikram’s thread, but I ignored it. I was too lost in the magic of Akaran and Amar.

Akaran had no seasons, so we spent our days trying to find them. Amar led me to a summer hall, where the sky was dim and lovely, bleached of its blue by the heat. Squalls gusted in the corners and above us hung lush glass vines where crystal mangoes swayed. In the monsoon room, we fashioned small enamel elephants and sent them trumpeting across the liquid, stormy floors. Amar blew on them and small coronets of clouds hovered above their heads. In the summer hall’s heat I told him stories and in the ruthless rainstorms of the monsoon room, he kissed me. Beside him, the world was a soft, pulsing and bright thing, alive with hidden angles that we could uncover one by one. It was more than magic. It was life turned relentless and astral. And I reveled in it.

But even in this happiness, my bed was always cold. He would leave before dinner and return while I slept. Sometimes his face was more gaunt than lovely, but he smiled anyway each time that he saw me. Sometimes, at night, I heard the echo of hounds baying and my skin would crawl, but I would forget it, choosing bliss over burden. Sometimes, I looked behind me, certain I had seen a glimpse of that charred door wrapped in chains. But it always danced out of sight.