The Star-Touched Queen (The Star-Touched Queen #1)(7)

That was new. My father never waited for anyone.

“And if I say no?”

The guard stepped back. “I—”

“Don’t worry, it was only a question.”

“Does that mean—”

“—which is to say,” I said slowly, “that I will come with you. Lead the way.”

He turned on his heel and, after a moment’s hesitation, began marching back down the path. Guilt twinged inside me. He was only doing his duty. He hadn’t even done anything openly insulting, like some of the harem wives who would spit on my shadow.

I toyed with the idea of apologizing, but thought better of it. My words were out and that was that. Around us, my father’s court shimmered in the early evening. Even though the sun had gone, the sky remained a rich turmeric yellow. A bright vermillion peeled at the edges of the clouds, fading somewhere into the tangle of trees. Around me, the silver reflection pools lapped up the last light and in its waters burned flat flames.

The entrance to the gardens of Bharata was cleverly constructed so that the gates marking it looked like a snarl of roses at first glance. On closer inspection, wrought iron bloomed beneath the petals before snaking upward to bolster the trees—fig and neem, sweet almond and tart lime—into living pergolas. My father’s guards circled the gardens. In their scarlet robes, they looked like vicious trees poised to spear the sun should it fall.

“One moment, Princess,” said the guard quickly. “I believe His Highness is concluding a discussion on matters of state with the crown prince.”

Beneath my veil, I arched an eyebrow. If my father was discussing anything with the crown prince, it would be his extravagant ledger. Without waiting for an answer, the guard bowed awkwardly and left. The moment I knew I was alone, I left the path, following the harsh voice of the Raja to a secluded copse of trees. In the middle of the clearing, my half-brother cowered in the Raja’s shadow, his head bent as he toyed with the sleeves of his jacket.

“How dare you embarrass us?” the Raja thundered.

“It wasn’t my fault, Father, that peasant disrespected me—”

“He sneezed.”

“Yes, but on my jacket.”

Skanda, my half-brother, was a fool. Where the Raja favored wisdom, Skanda favored wealth. Where the Raja listened, Skanda leered.

“Would you like to know the difference between us and everyone else?” demanded the Raja.

“Yes?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“But—”

“The worms do not take heed of caste and rank when they feast on our ashes,” the Raja said. “Your subjects will not remember you. They will not remember the shade of your eyes, the colors you favored or the beauty of your wives. They will only remember your impression upon their hearts and whether you filled them with glee or grief. That is your immortality.”

With that, he strode out of the grove. I ran back to the garden’s path, out of breath and hoping he hadn’t noticed my presence. By now, the sun had slipped behind the palace, transforming everything that surrounded it to a rosy gold.

As the Raja approached, I saw him as I always did—illuminated and beyond reproach. But as he came closer, new details leapt forward. There were weary creases at the corners of his eyes and a new slope to his shoulders. It didn’t look right. I felt like I was truly seeing him for the first time and what I saw was a man stooped in age, wearing a thinning pelt of greatness. The moment our eyes met, I averted my gaze. Seeing him like this made me feel as if I had stumbled into something private, something I wasn’t supposed to know. Or, perhaps, just didn’t want to.

I knelt before him, the tips of my fingers brushing against his feet in the customary symbol of respect and deference.

“It is good to see you, daughter,” he said.

I knew my father in his voice, in his words. The moment he spoke, all of the previous strangeness was forgotten. My father was not known for a pleasing, diplomatic tone. His voice had the gravelly lurch of a thunderclap and all the solemnity of sleep, but the sound clung to me in well-worn familiarity. It lulled me into safety and for a moment, I thought he would say that his meeting with the courtiers had been a sham, that he had no intention of marrying me off to strangers, that I would stay here forever. This was no heaven, but it was the hell that I knew, and I preferred it far more than whatever beast of a country awaited me.

All of that half-hope slipped away with his next words.

“In the manner of the old kings, we are holding a swayamvara for you,” he said. “You will get the chance to choose your own husband, Mayavati.”

His voice filled the courtyard. Cold sweat turned my palms clammy and my practiced calm fell away. My mind scrambled for an escape, but everything felt too close, too slippery and, worst of all, hopelessly out of reach.

He stared at me expectantly.

“Yes, Father,” I forced out.

I grimaced, sure he must have heard the curt edge to my speech. I thought he would scold me, but instead he lifted my chin.

“You’re the only one I trust to make the correct judgment.”

I wanted to yank away from his hold and hide the sudden glistening in my eyes, but his grip was firm, his eyes knowing. He released my chin and sat on a marble bench beneath the tart lime tree. He moved to one side, beckoning for me to join him, but I remained standing. Sitting was agreement to a forced marriage. And I didn’t agree.