DEATH
I knew little of curses, but much of stories. These were the tales collected in teeth, passed down from the mouth of one generation to the next. I heard the dead murmur them like talismans when they walked through my halls. They shared stories of curses shattered by moonlight or splintered by kisses. In all the years since the Shadow Wife had pronounced my heartbreak, I had never believed them until now. Because here, with Night’s lips to mine, and the world yielding its treasures one by one … I knew that I was free.
Read on for a preview of
A Crown of Wishes
the new novel from Roshani Chokshi
Available March 2017
PROLOGUE
THE INVITATION
Vikram had spent enough time with bitterness that he knew how to twist and numb the feeling. Tonight, he didn’t draw on his years of experience. Instead he let the acidic, snapping teeth of it chew at his heart. As he walked to the network of wooden huts that formed the ashram, the echo of laughter hung in the air. He stood in the dark, an outsider to a joke everyone knew.
Since he was eight years old, he had spent part of every year at the ashram, learning alongside other nobility. Everyone else resented the part of the year where they returned to their kingdoms and endured having to put their lessons to use. Not Vikram. Every time he returned to Ujijain, he was reminded that his education was a formality. Not a foundation. He preferred that. No expectations meant learning without fear of being limited and growing opinions without fear of voicing them. His thoughts preferred the fertile ground of silence. Silence sharpened shrewdness, which only made him embrace the title his father’s empire had, albeit grudgingly, given him: Fox Prince.
But shrewd or not, the moment he entered the ashram, he wouldn’t be able to ignore the celebrations of another prince called home to rule. Soon, Ujijain would summon him home. And then what? The days would bleed together. The hope would shrivel. It would be harder to outwit the council. Harder to speak. He tightened his fists. That bitterness turned taunting. How many years had he spent believing that he was meant for more? Sometimes he thought his head was a snarl of myth and folktales, where magic coaxed ignored princes out of the shadows and gave them a crown and a legend to live in. He used to wait for the moment when magic would drape a new world over his eyes. But time turned his hopes dull and lightless. The Council of Ujijain had seen to that.
Near the entrance of the ashram, a sage sat beside the dying flames of a ceremonial fire. What was a sage doing here at this hour? Around his neck, the sage wore the pelt of a golden mongoose. Not a pelt. A real mongoose. The creature was napping.
“There you are,” said the sage, opening his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time, Fox Prince.”
Vikram stilled, suspicion prickling in his spine. No one waited for him. No one looked for him. The mongoose around the sage’s neck yawned. Something tumbled out of the creature’s mouth. Vikram reached for it, his heart racing as his hand closed around something cold and hard: a ruby. The ruby shone with unnatural light.
The mongoose yawned … jewels?
“Show-off,” said the sage, bopping the mongoose on its nose.
The creature’s ears flattened in reproach. Its fur shimmered in the dark. Bright as true gold. Bright as … magic. When he was a child, Vikram thought enchantment would save him. He even tried to trap it. Once he laid out a net to catch a wish-bestowing yaksha and ended up with a very outraged peacock. When he got older, he stopped trying. But he couldn’t give up hoping. Hope was the only thing that lay between him and a throne that would only be his in name. He clutched the ruby tighter. It pulsed, shuddering as an image danced in its face—an image of him. Sitting on the throne. Powerful. Freed.
Vikram nearly dropped the ruby. Magic clung to his body. Starlight raced through his veins, and the sage grinned.
“Can’t speak? There, there, little Fox Prince. Perhaps all the words are knocking against your head and you simply can’t reach out and snatch the right one. But I am kind. Well, perhaps not. Kindness is a rather squishy thing. But I do love to lend assistance. Here is what you should say: ‘Why are you here?’”
Shocked, all Vikram could do was nod.
The sage smiled. Sometimes a smile was little more than a sliver of teeth. And sometimes a smile was a knife cutting the world in two: before and after. The sage’s smile belonged to the latter. And Vikram, who had never been anxious, felt as if his whole world was about to be rearranged by that grin.
“I am here because you summoned me, princeling. I am here to extend an invitation for a game that takes place when the century has grown old. I am here to tell you that the Lord of Wealth and Treasures caught a whiff of your dreams and followed it until he found your hungry heart and cunning smile.”
The ruby in Vikram’s palm quivered and shook. Crimson light broke in front of his eyes and he saw that the ruby was not a ruby, but an invitation in the shape of a jewel. It shook itself out … unfurling into gold parchment that read:
* * *
THE LORD OF WEALTH AND TREASURES CORDIALLY INVITES YOU TO THE TOURNAMENT OF WISHES.
Please present the ruby and a secret truth to the gate guardians by the new moon.
This ruby is good for two living entries.
The winner will be granted their heart’s wish.
But know now that desire is a poisonous thing.
* * *
Vikram stared up from the parchment. Distantly, he knew he should be frightened. But fright paled compared to the hope knifing through him. That shadowed part of him that had craved for something more was no childhood fantasy gone twisted with age. Perhaps it had always been a premonition. Like knowledge buried in the soul and not the sight. True but hidden things.
The sage nodded to the ruby. “Look and see what awaits you.”
He looked, but saw nothing.
“Try singing! The ruby wants to feel loved. Seduced.”
“I wouldn’t call my singing voice seduction,” said Vikram, finding his voice. “More like sacrilege, honestly.”
“It’s not the sound of your song that coaxes out truth. It’s the sincerity. Like this—”
The sage sung no song, but a story. Vikram’s story. An image burned in the ruby. Vikram clutching the Emperor with one hand and tightly holding a bundle of blue flowers in the other. Voices slipped out of the gem: muffled displeasure, the title “heir of Ujijain” spoken around a laugh. He saw the future Ujijain promised him—a useless life of luxury wearing the face of power. He saw the nightmare of a long life, day upon day of stillness. His chest tightened. He’d rather die. The sage’s voice had no tone. But it had texture, like a scattering of gold coins.
“If you want a throne, you’ll have to play
The Lord of Treasures loves his games and tales
A wanting heart will make his day