Shutting out all the hungry stares on him—how many friends and hangers-on did Asha and Chintu have?—Venkat produced the opal vial. Colors scintillated in its facets, a spectrum as wriggly as any serpent. “On behalf of the nagaraja and nagarani,” he said, smiling, “the office of the court historian presents you with a betrothal gift: a complete mortal dream.”

Hisses of shock susurrated through the space. Even Asha angled her head, uncertain.

“So that is why you refused me the other day!” Chintu declared. “I see now.” Releasing Asha, he grabbed the dreamstone and took hold of the cork. “How, pray tell, does this work?”

Their friends gaped at him with appalled curiosity, eyes and scales glistening in the vial’s radiance. “You cannot do that here!” said a girl with a haughty expression worthy of an apsara.

None of the other people Venkat had given dreamstones to had experienced the contents in public. It was a solitary act. Still, taboos aside, he couldn’t pass up the chance to see a dream being savored.

“Chintu,” his uncle chided. “Save it for later, yes, beta?”

As if he’d known what was transpiring, Nayan strode into the room, his scarlet dupatta draped over his shoulders like pinions. Without trying, he cast the other guests into shadow, and they turned to take him in.

“Normally, yes, our tradition calls for restraint,” Nayan agreed. “But tonight is about new beginnings and the bonds between us. What fortune meets your prince and princess, good or ill, befalls each of you as well, making this a gift for all to enjoy.”

Chintu twisted the cork from the vial.

The dream drifted free, caressing his face, then came to rest on him. His cocky expression faded as his eyes fell shut. His friends swarmed him, jostling for the best view. Even Venkat shared their wonder. As a dreamsmith, he could only ever stand apart, analyzing and mining the elements from outside. But here was someone lost within the reverie.

Chintu’s arms shot up, striking the people who stood closest to him. He began mumbling nonsense in a disturbing singsong that set the hairs on Venkat’s arms prickling.

Then Chintu’s incoherence culminated in a tragic wail. “That is my fork!” His invisible fork speared the correspondingly invisible object he’d grabbed from the air. “Give it back!”

The other nagas and naginis couldn’t have been any more enthralled, judging by how they slithered even nearer. Nayan, like Asha and Madhu, looked amused.

Venkat stifled his own snicker. Sometimes doing your job came with unexpected benefits.

As Chintu kissed the air with wet smacking noises, he settled in to watch. For research purposes, of course.

11