“Welcome!” shouted Kubera.
The apsaras who had been entertaining the crowd stopped dancing, and moved to one side of a large podium where Kubera and Kauveri stood and surveyed the crowd. For tonight’s festivities, Kubera wore scarlet robes. Kauveri’s river sari boasted a pale blush to its waters. As if it were bloodied. “We hope you have enjoyed tonight’s festivities. We know what you have waited anxiously to witness, and we dare not draw out the suspense any longer.”
The light dimmed. A hearty applause broke out from the assembled guests. I snuck a glance at Kapila. I thought she’d stare reproachfully at her sister, Kauveri, but her expression held no hate. Only hurt. Disbelief. The same expression Nalini wore when I chased her away from me.
“Those who have been defeated in my Tournament shall now exit the realm of Alaka through the Parade of Fables,” said Kubera. “Am I not the Lord of Wealth and Treasures? Am I not the King of Riches? I promised each of them that should they play, I would leave them richer.” He stopped to smile widely. “And I did. Of a kind.”
“I don’t remember us getting that promise,” murmured Vikram.
“What were we offered?”
“All our dreams or certain death.”
“The risk and the reward are evenly matched.”
He laughed. “Your sense of humor keeps confusing me.”
“You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
He looked at me, a sly smile curving his lips. “With enough time, I could grow accustomed to anything with you.”
At the end of the hall, a great banyan tree unfurled right behind Kauveri and Kubera. Small ghostly lights clung to the branches. A great rip had split the tree down the middle. A glowing path stretched from the ripped tree to a mirror at the end of the hall. Wind that belonged to another realm ghosted through the air, stirring the ends of my hair.
“Let the Parade of Fables begin,” intoned Kubera.
A farmer walked out of the tree. With a lurch, I remembered where I’d seen him: kneeling on the lawns of Alaka, throwing rocks into a hole and cursing under his breath. He dropped to his knees in front of the crowd, doubling over and coughing. His hand clutched his stomach. Three of his fingers were pure gold.
Vikram stepped forward, as if to help him. I put out my hand to stop him. The farmer wasn’t dying. He was trying to get rid of something lodged inside him.
The farmer coughed. A white bird freed itself from the cage of his stained teeth. A story. The story circled the farmer. Everyone looked up. A tale glittered in its wings—the farmer waking up facedown in a mangrove swamp and discovering his golden fingers. Perhaps he would sing songs about a palace beneath the tree roots and all would hear it and wonder. Perhaps he would cut off his fingers and never speak of what he had seen. Perhaps, perhaps. The story soared to Kubera, and the farmer stumbled through the mirror, leaving Alaka behind.
Next, an old woman clambered out of the tree. I looked closer. Not an old woman at all, but a young woman with pure silver hair. A story bird flew from her lips. Perhaps she would tell a trader that she had left her true hair somewhere in the boughs of an impossible tree where wishes budded from its sap at the new moon, and the trader would tell others and all would wonder. Perhaps she would hide from everyone and carve out her wrists in the fear that all would think she had lost her mind. Perhaps, perhaps. The story soared to Kubera.
Five, ten, maybe a hundred more stories clambered from the tree’s hollow. I couldn’t keep track. Above me, the caged white birds had already taken on different hues as they changed in the telling. Topaz and ocean blue, bleak grays and dusky emeralds. And then, the melody of Alaka grew deeper. Fissures sprang up in the sound, as if it were a voice cracking from grief.
Bodies appeared on the floor. Bodies stacked one on top of another. No wounds marked the skin, but a smell rose from the center of the room—like wet mushrooms and dark earth. At some secret signal from Kubera, shadow beasts stalked out of the corners of the halls and fell upon the dead.
“Is this how they honor their dead?” I asked, clenching my teeth.
Vikram said nothing.
The beasts forced open the jaws of the dead. The scent of stale death filled the air. It reminded me of the battlefields. Even though the stench disgusted me, it was familiar … even welcome. I didn’t revel in death, but I didn’t hate it either. Death had raised me, like an older sibling. Amid death, I had found my bearings as a soldier. Surrounded by death, I had found my place as a leader. And so when the small white story birds tore themselves from the mouths of the deceased, I watched instead of cowered. And I wondered how long those stories had been trapped. Whether they stank of rot. Or whether they smelled like rain, free and unburdened.
As they flew out, the stories flashed in my head. I saw the bodies discovered at daybreak, the Otherworldly gashes that had split them in two. I saw astounded villagers picking up stray limbs. A jaw lying in the middle of a field. A grinning severed head. I saw villagers recoil from the horizon and warn against the monsters that stalked at midnight. Perhaps, perhaps. The stories soared to Kubera.
“Thank you, honored guests,” said Kubera. “Thank you for the privilege of your voice. Thank you for feeding the magic.”
He and Kauveri stepped down, disappearing into the audience. Quiet fell over the crowd. A yaksha attendant took Kubera’s place on the podium. I stifled a gasp. It was the same yaksha who had cornered me on Jhulan Purnima. He surveyed the crowd.
“Champions of the Tournament of Wishes,” he said loudly. “Kindly follow me.”
The crowd turned restless. A surge of movement picked up, nearly blocking me from Vikram, but he caught hold of my arm and held fast. A shout lit up the room. I turned, not knowing what had called my attention, and saw that Aasha was running toward me.
“Gauri!”
The crowd of Otherworldly beings parted before her, some of them eyeing her with lust and others with vague disgust. She flew straight to me and Vikram, stopping just short of throwing her arms around both of us. Her eyes darted behind us. I followed her gaze, but there was nothing but a silk-covered wall.
“Aasha, what’s wrong?” Vikram asked.
I had to stop myself from reaching out to grab her shoulders. She was shaking.
“They’re coming,” she whispered. “I tried my best to protect you from them. But they’re after the poison—”
“What?” I demanded. “Who?”
“The Nameless,” she breathed, her face paling. She stepped back. Her eyes narrowed as she searched the wall behind us. “They know you have the Serpent King’s venom—”
Vikram’s hand tightened on my arm. He held his dagger at the ready, hesitation tightening his face. He tried pulling me down the crowd, signaling for Aasha to join, but I was tired of fighting and being manipulated. Nothing was going to stand between me and that wish anymore. It was done. We had won.