“You are certain she comes of her own free will?” the king demanded.
The vizier nodded. “Absolutely certain, sire. I knew you would wish to be reassured of this, and so I questioned her closely. She is under no outside compulsion. She seeks only to spare you grief, your country turmoil, and others the fate which she knows must surely befall her.”
Shahrayar began to pace, his brow knit, his movements brusque and choppy.
“So,” he said after a moment. “You would have me sacrifice a paragon.”
Oho! the vizier thought. So that is the way the wind will blow. I am not the one who set the terms of this harsh bargain, O my king. You did that all by yourself. If you no longer find them to your liking, do not make me your scapegoat.
“A paragon? I cannot say, my lord,” he said aloud. “To me she seemed a woman much as any other. Will you see her at the appointed hour or not?”
Again the quick color flashed into Shahrayar’s face, and in that moment the vizier knew that he and Shahrazad had gambled and won.
“What I have proclaimed, that will I do,” Shahrayar pronounced, and his voice was filled with angry pride.
Satisfied that in his pride and anger the king would pursue the identity of his bride no further, the vizier bowed low for a third and final time.
“Then I will bring her to you as you have proclaimed it shall be,” he said. “Tonight, as the full moon rises. By its light, you shall claim her as your bride.”
That evening, in the cool of the twilight just before the moon appeared, the vizier went to his daughter’s quarters. Shahrazad had dismissed her women and was attended only by her sister, Dinarzad. At the sight of her father, the young girl ran to him and threw her arms about his legs.
“Papa, tell her she must not do this!” she cried.
“My little one,” the vizier said. With one hand, he stroked his youngest daughter’s head. “Do you think I did not try?”
“Try again!” Dinarzad pleaded. She lifted her tearstained face to his. “Just one more time. I am afraid, Papa! So much depends on me. What if I do something wrong?”
“You will do nothing wrong if you do as Shahrazad has asked,” said the vizier. “Nothing less, and nothing more. Go to your room now and wash your face. Let me speak to your sister alone.”
Dinarzad did as her father asked, casting one look back at Shahrazad over her shoulder as she departed. When she was gone, the vizier moved to where Shahrazad had been standing silently all the while, dressed in her finest robes. They were white, and in them, Shahrazad seemed to shine like a candle flame against gathering darkness.
“You are still set on this course, my Shahrazad? It is not too late. You can still change your mind.”
“I have not changed it, my father,” Shahrazad replied. “Indeed, I think that I could not, even if that were what I truly wished. I cannot go back. Therefore, I must go forward.”
To herself alone she kept the thought that it had been too late to change her mind in this from the moment she was born.
The vizier regarded his daughter steadily At what he saw in her face, though his heart still grieved, his mind was satisfied.
“Come then,” he said. “Say one last farewell to your sister. Repeat your instructions and ease her mind. Then I will go forward as you have told me I must: I will take you to King Shahrayar.”
Six
THE KING TAKES A WIFE BUT RECEIVES A SURPRISE
Just as the full moon began to climb in the sky, the vizier strode through the palace, Shahrazad at his side. The vizier was attired in cloth of silver. In one hand, he held the great curved staff, which was his badge of office. Through halls as dark as midnight, the vizier and his daughter walked together. And halls as white as a scorching noonday sky Halls as green as the limbs of cedar trees, and as golden as the sand that stretched around the palace for countless miles.
Each place they passed was thronged with people, all longing to catch a glimpse of the woman who had come forward to be King Shahrayar’s bride. But in this they were disappointed, for Shahrazad had drawn a veil across her face to avoid all chance that anyone might realize who she was.
At length the vizier and his daughter reached their destination: Shahrayar’s great audience hall. Here the stones were clear as river water. Great columns of porphyry as purple-red as the flesh of plums flanked the entrance. Guards clothed all in white and armed with gleaming scimitars stood motionless on either side.
Three times the vizier struck his staff of office upon the stones to announce his presence. On the third strike, the king’s chamberlain stepped before the vizier and Shahrazad, placing his body between the newcomers and the king and making himself a shield, for he was charged with keeping the life of the king secure, even if it cost him his own.
“Who seeks an audience with King Shahrayar?” he demanded.
And the vizier answered, “She who would be his bride.”
At this, a sound filled Shahrazad’s ears, a sound like bees buzzing in their hive.
“Does she come of her own free will?” the chamberlain inquired. “Let her answer with her own voice. By the king’s command, in this, no other can speak for her.”
And Shahrazad answered, “By my will and no other’s.”
Now the sound that came to her ears was like wind moving across the sands—a long, low sigh.
“Enter and be welcome,” the chamberlain said. And he stepped aside. Together, Shahrazad and her father entered the audience hall, for the doorway was so vast they could move through it the same way they had arrived before it: side by side.
Down the length of the audience hall, the vizier and Shahrazad paced, over a floor as smooth as glass. A vast domed roof sprang up over their heads, so cleverly made that if you looked up, there were places where you could see the sky. Already the first of the evening stars were shining through it. Smooth gray columns stood straight and tall as trees along the chamber’s sides. Between them, packed as tightly as salted fish in a barrel, were the members of Shahrayar’s court.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense, of the agitated breath of courtiers, and something Shahrazad could not quite identify. Anticipation, she thought. And perhaps fear, also. Though the room was filled with people and the day had been warm, the air burned with cold as it struck Shahrazad’s nostrils.
And so, for the first time since she had known in her heart what she must do, Shahrazad felt its steady, constant beating stumble. For it seemed to her that the cold could have its source in just one place—and that place was the heart of King Shahrayar, who soon would be her husband.
At her side, Shahrazad felt her father’s footsteps slow. She slowed her own to match his, then stopped at the exact same moment he stopped. And thus it was that Shahrazad knew that her destiny was now at hand, for she had come at last to stand before King Shahrayar.
He was seated on a raised dais upon a throne of cedar, polished until it gleamed as red as an ember. On his fingers flashed rich jewels. His body was adorned in cloth of gold. As he stared down upon the vizier and the woman who stood beside him, his eyes glittered as bright as newly struck coins.
As the king’s gaze moved over him, for the first and only time that he could remember, the vizier discovered he was glad that Shahrazad was blind. For he had never seen a man’s eyes look as Shahrayar’s did—empty of all emotion save a fierce determination to continue on the path that he had chosen. But this determination burned not hot, but with a hard and icy cold.
“You are welcome, my lord vizier,” Shahrayar said, and at the sound of it, Shahrazad felt her stomach muscles clench, for never had she heard a voice so empty of emotion.
What will I do, she wondered suddenly, if the truth of things is even worse than I supposed?
What if it wasn’t that Shahrayar’s heart had been turned to stone as all had whispered? What if the king no longer had a heart at all? To see a thing that wasn’t there was beyond even Shahrazad’s skill.
And then it came to her
that she already knew the answer to her question: If King Shahrayar’s heart had left him entirely, then in the morning she would die.
“Who is this that you have brought before us?” the king asked.
And the vizier answered, “One who would be your bride. This is the hour you did appoint for a maiden to come forward and offer herself, if she would. As you proclaimed it must happen, so it has come to pass.”
“Then let me see her face and know her name,” commanded Shahrayar.
At these words, Shahrazad felt her father tremble, he whom she knew had never trembled in his life till now. And her father’s fear helped to steady her, though Shahrazad was surprised by the knowledge that this could be so.
I have not come to die, she thought. But to do what must be done.
And so, before the vizier could reach for the veil that concealed her features, Shahrazad grasped it and threw it back over her head herself. Up it flew, like a bird taking wing, then settled upon her shoulders as softly as a butterfly. But Shahrazad’s voice was strong as iron as she proclaimed her name.
“I am Shahrazad, daughter of Nur al-Din Hasan, the king’s vizier, and Maju, called the Storyteller.”
And in this way did King Shahrayar and all he had assembled within his great hall learn who had come forward to be his bride.
Absolute silence filled the audience hall. Even the courtiers were too stunned to gossip. It was a terrible silence—one that stretched on and on. Until Shahrazad lost track of how long she stood facing the king, her face bare, her body motionless, with her father quivering at her side like a horse before a race. The longer the silence stretched, the colder the air in the audience hall became, until it seemed to Shahrazad she was wrapped in the cold hand of death himself.
“What trick is this, Nur al-Din?” Shahrayar demanded finally, in a voice both strained and harsh. “Do you think to thwart me? Do you hope, because she is yours, that I will turn aside from what I have proclaimed and, though I wed her, not require that she die tomorrow morning?”
“There is no trick,” the vizier answered, and Shahrazad felt her fathers trembling cease as he replied. As if the king’s anger had steadied him the way his own fear had steadied her. “Nor is there any hidden design. My daughter came to me and asked for a boon. I swore to grant it before I knew what it was that she desired. If I could have found a way to deny her, believe me, I would have done it.
Then, to her surprise for they had not discussed it, Shahrazad felt her father step forward.
“Hear now what I shall proclaim, sire,” the vizier said, his words coming hard and fast, as if a great dam had burst inside him.
“The moment my eldest daughter breathes her last is the moment I serve you no longer. I will take the daughter who remains to me and leave this land to travel far and wide. Everywhere I go I will proclaim to all who will listen the cruelty of King Shahrayar. And I will proclaim that your land could have no greater gift than that your heart should beat no more.
“If I had not my younger daughter in my care, I would cut your heart out and feed it to the wild dogs of the desert myself.”
At the vizier’s words, a sound like a flock of panicked birds rose from the courtiers, Shahrayar rose to his feet and the sound cut off.
“Be careful what you say, old man,” he warned. “To plot the death of a king is treason, and it is your life, not mine, which will be lost.”
“Then so be it,” the vizier answered. For he found that not even the love he bore to Dinarzad could still his tongue now that he had begun.
“Take my life if you will, but I will not take back what I have spoken. All here know that I have served you well, King Shahrayar, as I served your father before you. And always by speaking the truth. I have done nothing more than speak it to you now. If you have not the ears to—”
“I pray you, Father, peace!” interrupted Shahrazad, as she stepped to the vizier’s side.” Truth or no, to speak so now does nothing but pour oil upon a fire. No will but my own has brought me to this place. This you know, for this I have spoken. Let this fact content you now, and King Shahrayar also.”
There was a second pause.
“Your daughter speaks wisely, Nur al-Din,” Shahrayar observed after a moment. “For her sake, I will set aside my anger and forget your rash words. But guard your tongue well, remember your younger daughter, and do not expect me to show such mercy a second time.”
“Mercy is a thing I have ceased to expect from you, sire,” the vizier answered.
“Enough!” cried Shahrayar. “Bring forth the holy man, and let there be an end to talking.”
At a signal from the chamberlain, the holy man who was to perform the marriage ceremony stepped forward. The chamberlain himself took Shahrazad by the hand, guided her up the steps, and placed her hand in that of Shahrayar. And it seemed to her that the grip of his fingers felt as tight and cold as prison bars.
And so it was that King Shahrayar and Lady Shahrazad were wed. With the full moon shining down upon them like a plate of silver polished by the vigorous hand of God.
Seven
IN WHICH HIDDEN THINGS BEGIN TO REVEAL THEMSELVES
Then finally, the moment came when Shahrayar and Shahrazad were left alone.
The ceremony was over, the courtiers dismissed. Last to say farewell to the new queen had been Nur al-Din Hasan, the vizier, her father. She would not see him again until the morning. If she had been successful, he would embrace her with joy when the sun arose, for she would live—if only for one day longer. If not, father and daughter would embrace in sorrow. Then, the vizier would perform his final duty for King Shahrayar and lead his own daughter to the executioner’s block.
But which outcome it was to be had yet to be decided, though Shahrayar knew it not.
“I bid you welcome to my—our—quarters,” Shahrayar said as he held aside a tapestry and ushered Shahrazad inside. For these rooms would, indeed, be hers, if only for this night. Gently, Shahrayar seated Shahrazad upon a low divan, then roamed the room, unable to settle, certainly unable to sit at her side. Shahrazad could hear his agitated footsteps moving back and forth.
What sort of sign is this? she wondered. At this very moment, what was going through her husband’s mind?
God help me, Shahrayar thought as he prowled the room like a caged tiger Why doesn’t she say something?
For it had come to him suddenly as he beheld Shahrazad sitting in his own rooms that, although his will had carried him this far, it would carry him no farther. Even his imagination seemed to have deserted him, for he could conjure up nothing beyond the present moment.
What on earth am I supposed to do now?
Hardly aware of what he was doing, Shahrayar reached up to tug at the neck of his golden robes. When had they grown so uncomfortable? he wondered. For the fine cloth felt like sand against his skin, rubbing until he was raw and smarting. The collar felt like hands around his throat trying to choke him. Above it, Shahrayar’s face felt brittle, as if made of cold, thin glass. He half feared to speak, lest his features should splinter and slide right off.
What is the matter with me? he thought. He had done nothing but carry out his own will. Match his footsteps to the path that he had chosen. The only one he had been able to see. Since he had first come down from the tower, it was the path that had steadied and guided him. He was sure it was the right one.
Why, then, did he suddenly seem to have lost his way? Why did everything that once seemed so right, now suddenly seem to be so wrong?
“Will you eat?” he asked abruptly. The thought of food made his stomach turn, but anything would be better than to continue dwelling on his own thoughts. Turning toward Shahrazad, Shahrayar gestured to a series of small tables near the divan. They were loaded with every kind of delicacy the palace cooks could prepare, as if they had wished the new queen’s last meal to be a particularly fine one.
“Please, choose whatever you like.”
At his words, Shahrazad shifted position ever so
slightly, turning her body toward the sound of his voice, Shahrayar scrubbed his hands across his face, Fool! Idiot! Imbecile! he chastised himself. How will she choose when she cannot see?
How could he have forgotten that Shahrazad was blind? But there was something about her that encouraged him to forget, so sure did she seem of herself. And thus it was, so wound up was Shahrayar with his own inner turmoil, he failed to see the turmoil in Shahrazad.
He saw the pallor of her skin, but not the fine sheen of perspiration upon it, like dew upon a rose. He saw the hands clasped tightly in her lap, but not the way they gripped each other till the knuckles gleamed white as mother-of-pearl beads. He saw the fineness of her garments, but not the way they quivered in time to the too-quick beating of her heart.
Cool and remote Shahrazad seemed to him. As unafraid as she was untouched. And suddenly Shahrayar was angry that she should be so unmoved while he was not. And he welcomed his anger, for it was clean and simple. Here, at last, was a feeling he recognized.
“Your pardon,” he said, his voice sounding ugly even to his own ears. “With your permission, I will change my robes. You may do so also if you wish. Shall I summon a servant to attend you?”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Shahrazad answered simply. “But make yourself comfortable, by all means.”
At her answer, Shahrayar bit down, hard, upon his tongue. Of course she would not change, for she had brought no other garments with her. Why should she when she would die with the coming of the sun?
I must get away from here, he thought.
“For a moment, I will leave you, then,” he said. Turning, he pushed aside a hanging and vanished into the depths of his apartments.
For several moments, Shahrazad sat perfectly still, her only movement her steady breathing in and out. At first this brought no peace, for with every breath she took, her mind repeated the same phrase, over and over:
The Storyteller's Daughter Page 5
