The table shuddered. The diners woke. Slowly, the diners lifted their pale hands. The silk dropped from their faces. Their expressions turned empty and devouring. A low, guttural moan escaped their throats. I froze. They were all that was left when fear devoured a person, the stringy indigestible remains of bitterness and cravings.
At once, the table lengthened, stretching out like an arena. The diners clambered forward, pushing themselves onto the table on their ragged elbows. I ran, dodging the swipe of an emaciated hand. Vikram stood up in his chair, his lips pale and his eyes ringed white with terror. The ruby behind him dimmed and flared.
“Behind you!” I screamed. “Get the ruby!”
He ignored it. One of the diners lurched onto the table-turned-arena. It stood, tall and dark, dripping hunger. It loped toward me, its movements disjointed and horrific. It didn’t run. It didn’t have to. If it caught up to us, there would be no escape. The other eleven joined it.
Vikram ran to help me, and I tossed him one of the daggers. The diners encircled us. A mass of loping, fragmented bodies. They sniffed the air with noseless faces, the slashes of their mouths flung wide and gaping. They lunged. We parried, working seamlessly to stab, swerve out of the way, duck beneath their arms. The diners closed on us, some of them swatting at the air as if they could claw us out of existence. Hunger poured out of them. If I felt nauseous before, it was nothing compared to this. Their dried-out tongues reached out to taste what had long been denied: the world. Its nuances, colors like flavors dancing across the tongue. The taste of a kiss on someone’s lips. Spice and air. Our breaths came in rushed, fast gasps. The ruby danced far out of reach. The diners advanced. Slower this time. As if they were preparing to savor the meal.
“Jump?” croaked Vikram.
“Together,” I said.
He held out his hand, and I grabbed it tightly. Vikram scrabbled at the wall. The ruby came loose. Beneath us, the floor disappeared. His fingers slipped from mine. I prepared for a long fall, a terrible crash. But the endlessness sucked in its breath and made fools of us. We slammed into the floor. Vikram teetered backward and I caught him around the arm.
The diners had disappeared.
The silence had too.
Vikram slipped his hand into mine. His face looked pinched and I wondered what horrors and trials had kept him riveted to his seat, unable to move. We held on to each other. Our breath rasping. Hands shaking. The first trial had left me dizzy with victory. But this trial had wrung out my spirit. I looked up to find Kubera standing before us, clapping.
“Well done!” he said. “Excellent performance, contestants.”
Not moving his arm from around my waist, Vikram threw the ruby at Kubera’s feet.
Kubera smiled. “You have brought me an excellent treasure.”
Our two trials required us to break free of fear and conquer desire. When Kubera told us that we were to find the key to immortality, I imagined something grand and coveted. Something that would make kings fall to their knees and even the gods would hide jealously. What we ended up with was everything and nothing like what I expected. Kubera took the ruby gently, reverently. He clasped both palms over the stone and when he opened his hands, a scarlet bird flew into the darkness. A story.
This was the key to immortality.
The thing that made kings quiver and deities distrustful:
Nothing but a tale.
34
A WHIFF OF SACRED
VIKRAM
Vikram had never been pious. He believed in the stories because he needed to, because he had to hope that if there was one place where he belonged it was in some celestial framework. He needed to know he wasn’t some hiccup of fate. But for the first time, he felt a rush of something holy. There was a whiff of the sacred in all this darkness, a pulse that felt new and ancient. When he jumped into the dark and pried the ruby loose, calm had spiraled through him. Maybe he would never be anything more than a thread in the tapestry of fate. But he and Gauri had done something worthy of immortality’s attention. No one could take that story from him.
The rational part of Vikram knew that he still had reason to be wary. Their host in the Tournament was still the fickle Lord of Treasures. But right then, he couldn’t feel like anything but a story teetering on the verge of myth. He felt like someone who had vanquished odds, found someone who lit his dreams on fire and performed feats of magic without losing his life or limb. He felt … like a hero.
Kubera grinned before them, his expression wide and guileless.
“I was concerned you would not make it in time,” he said. “Pockets of fear are their own lands. We can lose ourselves in them so often.”
“In time for what?” asked Gauri. No formality. No deference. She added hastily: “Your Majesty.”
She was trembling, her skin cold and clammy.
“The Tournament of Wishes is over,” said Kubera. “Now we celebrate.”
Kubera clapped his hands. Before, they had been standing in a darkened room. If the room had walls and floors, they were indistinguishable from one another. They simply merged into huge tracts of black shadows. But now, light pierced the darkness. A window unfolded, revealing an early evening sky.
“Fear takes away our sense of time,” said Kubera. “That is why I saved it for last.”
“Two trials and a sacrifice,” said Gauri. “That was the bargain you struck with us.”
Kubera nodded. Uneasiness seeped through Vikram. At first, he thought she was trembling with fear. But maybe it wasn’t fear at all … maybe it was rage. He pressed his hand more firmly into her skin. She ignored him.
“What do we have left to give?” she demanded, her voice breaking.
Kubera’s face split into a wide grin. “You’d be surprised.”
“My lord, are you demanding our sacrifice at this very moment?” asked Vikram.
“Not at all. And I promise you that I will not ask for anything that wouldn’t already be taken from you.”
Vikram frowned, working through the words slowly. That did not bode well. Now that the initial victory had worn off, the trial had left him spent and cold. He hoped magic would make him feel chosen for something, remarkable in ways he hadn’t realized. Instead, he discovered that magic hid her fangs behind fables. The stories of his childhood were not ways to live, but ways to see—a practiced blindness. And now he saw everything.
“All of the champions of the Tournament of Wishes will be present at tonight’s festivities. You can tithe your sacrifice then. Return to your rooms. The evening’s festivities will be a sight to behold.”
“Champions?” repeated Vikram. “Does that mean … does that mean we’ve won?”
Kubera eyed him for a long while. A flush crept down Vikram’s neck.
“Won?” repeated the Lord of Treasures. “What is a win?”