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?”
“I meant, my lord, have we each earned a wish?”
He waved his hand. “Oh! Wishes. Yes, yes. Pesky things. You may each have one,” he said. “Although I’d not smile so quickly, Fox Prince. Have you thought about the wish? How you’d demand it, utter it, taste it? Because wishes have a tendency to take on lives of their own. Sometimes they’ll do what you want. And sometimes they won’t. Once, a hardworking artist known for his attention to detail and eye for color begged me for prosperity. I granted his wish because I am nothing if not kindness incarnate. And then I robbed his sight because I am nothing if not malevolence incarnate. The artist hanged himself. But he got what he wished for, did he not?”
“And you would do the same to us,” said Gauri, accusingly.
“Maybe? I never quite know what I’ll do until it’s done!” said Kubera. “We shall see you tonight for the Parade of Fables.”
He nodded his head, and turned on his heel.
Gauri called out to him. “What about the other contestants?”
Kubera stopped walking. He did not turn to face them as he said, “Oh, they woke up beneath trees or facedown in streams or perhaps not at all if they did not seem like appropriate vessels for stories. If you can’t tell a good tale, you’re of no use to me.”
The shadows leapt up like a great bubble, covering them. Black swam in front of Vikram’s eyes. In the next moment, they were both standing in their chamber. He looked at Gauri closely. There were circles beneath her eyes. The intricatesalwar kameezwas ripped and bloodstained. Her face looked pinched. Haunted. Without speaking, she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply. His body reacted faster than his mind did. His hands gripped her waist. And they spent a few moments wound tightly together. But this kiss didn’t feel like the one yesterday, where they had stepped into one another’s arms with hesitation and nervous energy, enchantment softening the air and coaxing out unspoken dreams. This kiss felt tarnished. As if they were just trying to steal back something that was taken from them. It felt wrong. And for a moment, Vikram felt like the diners at the table of fear. Nothing more than a body reaching out for any feeling to shake off the cold.
