The Star-Touched Queen (The Star-Touched Queen #1)(58)

“Is death nearby? Is that why you look—” I faltered, gesturing at her dramatically different body.

“We are fully in the human world, so death is always nearby. You should see me when we are truly close, false queen. Then, I am a sight to be reckoned with. Sometimes I have lulled away beautiful maids and handsome youths just with my borrowed glory alone.”

I didn’t ask what happened next.

“Now what?” asked Kamala.

I took the small onyx stone and pressed it to my lips. The memories shifted under my gaze, translucent and wispy.

“Now I find out where he will be.”

I sank myself into that memory, into the moment where we first met, bending my whole body into a single event captured within one of those glittering pinpricks.

*

I had been walking through the Chakara Forest. Fat moths the size of palms wreathed my hair like pearls and moonstones. And then, as I had done since before language burgeoned in the velvet clefts of the mind—I danced.

Not a slow dance, but sharp, punctual movements. My dance organized the shadows of trees, canceled the cloying plumes of wind-fallen fruit, aligned the moonbeams themselves. My back arced gracefully as I moved, neck extended like an oryx, fingers conjuring sharp kathas of rhythm, when a sound crunched not far from me.

I spun around. “Who’s there?”

From beneath the heart-shaped leaves of a peepal tree, something rustled. And a voice, so lush it made ambrosia acrid, answered me.

“Only the lowly painter who tries each night, in vain, to capture evening herself.”

“What do you want? Show yourself.”

The stranger stepped out of the peepal tree. He was broad-shouldered, his features as severely beautiful as a strike of lightning. He wore a crown of blackbuck horns that arced in graceful whorls of onyx, catching the light. But it was his gaze that robbed the clamoring rhythm in my chest.

His stare slipped beneath my skin. And when he saw my eyes widen, he smiled. And in that moment, his smile banished my loneliness and limned the hollows of my anima with starlight, pure and bright. He moved toward me, grasping my hand, and his touch hummed in my bones like an aria. A song to my dance. The beginning of a promise.

*

I pulled myself out of the memory. My breathing was ragged. I couldn’t push out the feeling that the memory left. Something so whole that my body craved and curled around it. I thought my soul was leaning toward the stone, wishing desperately to cling to a truth, a beacon that could guide me back to myself. That raw tenderness. That kiss that said goodbye, come back, and I love you all at once. This memory showed me hope. And that was something I could chase to the ends of the earth.

“We need to get to the Chakara Forest,” I said, turning to Kamala.

She had not moved once since I sank into that memory. She had not laughed, nor gnashed her awful teeth, claggy with blood.

“You changed,” she said slowly.

“What?”

Kamala whinnied. “You looked different. Shade-play, shadow-play against my eyes. Trust me, false queen”—she paused—“maybe queen, I know shadows.”

“What did I look like?”

“Like ink-spills and umbra, cloudless nights and winter mornings. Lovely, lovely,” said Kamala in her singsong voice. “But you wore no crown of blackbuck horns and something swirled across your skin. I almost tried to taste it, but I did not want to get swatted by a maybe-deity. Maybe-deity! Maybe-deity! Oh, what a song.”

I glanced at my arm, ignoring Kamala as she pranced about in a circle, tossing her head and singing maybe-deity so loudly it might summon thunder. There was nothing on me but the crust of sea-salt and dried ash. I dusted it off. Kamala’s words put flesh on the bones of my hope. Still, that didn’t give me as much comfort as I’d like. I was asking a flesh-eating demon for comfort.

“You wish to go to the Chakara Forest?” asked Kamala when she was done dancing. Pearly sweat left a sheen on her coat.

“Yes. But there’s something I must do first.”

My hand closed around my mother’s necklace and I tried to swallow down all those past hurts that had hardened into iron knots.

“I need to bury this in the place where its last owner lived.”

Even through my grief of losing Gauri, Airavata’s words rang true. To enter the Otherworld and save Amar, I had to release the ghosts of my past. Kamala jutted her nose against my neck and snuffled the necklace before loudly snorting.

“That necklace lived in a kingdom that smelled of stone. It is kinder to sadhus and sadhvis than its own people and its turrets are fat with mango blossoms. It is on the way to the Chakara Forest.”

My heart clenched. Somehow, I felt like Gauri had given me her blessing.

“Bharata?” I guessed.

“I suppose that is the name it goes by now. Cities shed names like maidens their tears. Does its Raja look like a toad in a golden jacket?”

Skanda had never been … athletic.

“Perhaps,” I said, then thought for a moment. “Probably.”

“Then it is so. It is Bharata.”

“We have to go through it?”

“It is the only way.”

“Then perhaps the stars are on our side.” I hauled myself back onto her saddle and we took off through the jungle.

The moon turned motes of pollen into drowsy glimmers. I watched them drift past me, snatching them out of the air. They looked like the wishes from Naraka’s glass garden. I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the quiet of it all. In the silence, I wished for all the things I had lost—love, lives, memories. Myself. And I wept for those things as I wept for the dead. And then like the dead, I released them and hoped with all that was left of me that I could give them new life.