Free The Star-Touched Queen by Roshani Chokshi

Otherworld moved airily through the Night Bazaar, sidestepping dancing conch shells and examining iridescent fruits. With their long limbs, stark cheekbones and symmetrical features, they were too perfect to be mistaken as human. They walked with a lope and glide so graceful, it would’ve made Bharata’s devadasi dancers look like broken dolls.
    Wherever I moved, my skin prickled under the weight of watchful eyes. Everywhere we walked, the inhabitants bowed their heads in polite acknowledgment.
    “You seem quite popular. I suppose your cloak is failing its camouflaging purpose.” I hoped the last part would have needled him into drawing the hood from his face, but it remained stubbornly pulled over him.
    He shrugged. “They recognize and appreciate our duty to keep them safe.”
    Our duty , I repeated silently, a tendril of warmth coiling in my stomach. “I didn’t realize the Otherworld needed protecting. Are you … some kind of guardian?”
    Amar moved like a weighty shadow. A not-unpleasant chill emanated from him. Even the Night Bazaar inhabitants who greeted him did so with a touch of franticness in their eyes.
    “I prefer that term, but I think others see my occupation as something that takes rather than protects.” No sooner had he spoken than his hand flew to his throat. For a panic-stricken moment, I thought he would collapse. But a moment later, he relaxed, swallowing a mouthful of air. “I apologize,” he rasped. “I was not lying when I said I could not reveal Akaran’s secrets. Not yet, anyway.”
    A guardian, then, I mused. But of what? None of the folktales I had read made any mention of wardens straddling the divide of human and Otherworldly beings. Just then, a herd of dark-eyed kinnara children rushed past me, their cheeks rosy and their legs and feet clawed like birds. The sight of them made me ache for Gauri. Was she safe? What had happened to Bharata? I comforted myself with those images of the guards marching toward the harem and Amar’s assurances. Still, a twinge of guilt nettled me. I wanted to believe that I had fled Bharata because I had no choice, but the thought that I had abandoned Gauri continued to bite.
    I was still thinking of Gauri as we wandered into the thicket of the Night Bazaar. There, the sound of shopkeepers haggling and screaming—sometimes in languages that only registered as sharp whistles—enveloped us.
    Amar hung back some distance behind me as I stopped by strange tents and vendors. The first tent was draped in a black velvet cloth that giggled at the touch of my hand. Small glass ornaments hung from its awnings, little spinning planets that emitted a drowsy song.
    “Place one beneath your claw or foot or what have you and I guarantee a restful sleep!”
    The owner—a bull-headed being—immediately began tearing them from the tassels, rolling them in front of me like glittering dice.
    “I’ll give you five for the price of three! And all it will cost is the sound of your voice for a week.”
    “No, thank you … I was just looking,” I said apologetically.
    The owner harrumphed , gathered his nights of restful sleep and hung them back on the tent with a glare on his face. I walked quickly to the next table, where the owner, smoking a pipe of rose quartz, fanned her hand indifferently around her wares.
    “A snarl of nightmares,” she said, gesturing to blinking, fanged wisps of smoke, “or a tangle of daydreams. Your choice. I could care less.”
    I reached out to hold a daydream. They looked like they were spun from glass and yet their touch was silk-soft. As they drifted between my fingers, I felt them—a nap in the sleepy sunshine of a winter afternoon, a reverie where a sea alight with flowers and bright candles washed over my ankles.
    The next table was crowded with animal bones. I picked one up lightly before shivering and hurriedly putting it down. It felt like the bone was reading me.
    “Those are for auguring, dikri , for scrying futures,”