What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?
And, just as swiftly as her mind posed the question, her heart gave the reply: What I must. What I must. What I must.
For years she had unconsciously schooled herself to face this test, teaching herself to rely upon herself alone. Now she would be up to the task that lay before her, the one Maju had told her was her destiny, or she would not. And if not she, then no one.
But it will be hard, she thought. Ah, God! Much harder than she had thought. For though she had listened for it carefully, it seemed to her that she had heard no warmth in Shahrayar at all. He was cold, through and through. So cold that Shahrazad could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.
With a jerky motion she unclasped her hands, ran one of them nervously over the fabric of the divan, then paused. Slowly, more carefully now, Shahrazad explored the fabric beneath her fingers. At the unexpected feel of what she found there, she felt her thoughts steady and her courage revive.
For what she felt beneath her fingers wasn’t the subtlety of silk. It was the simplicity of finely woven cotton. Here, in this place that was most truly his, Shahrayar surrounded himself not with things to compel and impress, but with things to make a refuge and a home. And the knowledge of this warmed Shahrazad’s heart, as she hoped to find the way to warm Shahrayar’s.
And so she sat, her fingers stroking the fabric of the divan. And thus it was that Shahrayar found her. Coming back into the room, certain now that he had himself under control, he caught the gentle motion of Shahrazad’s hand and stopped short. For the first time he thought he saw Shahrazad’s mother in her. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if, like Maju, Shahrazad could see things that others could not.
And at this wondering, Shahrayar felt something move within him, even within his heart that he, himself, had turned to stone. But what it was, he could not tell. So he continued into the room and watched the way Shahrazad heard the sound of his coming and turned her face toward him once more.
“Ah!” she said, and he saw the way her face lit up. “You are much more comfortable now.”
“I am, indeed,” Shahrayar answered. “But how can you tell?”
“By the sound of your movements,” Shahrazad said. “You walk with more ease than you did before. And the sound of the fabric is gentle as it brushes against itself.” She cocked her head, as if considering. “You are wearing a caftan, and your feet are bare, like a boy’s.”
“That is so,” Shahrayar said, his tone astonished. At the sound of it, Shahrazad gave a laugh like chimes in the wind.
“There is no magic in this, I assure you,” she said. “More like a lucky guess, my lord. My father often dressed this way when he came to see me at the end of the day after his court duties were done. He told me he had acquired the custom from the old king, your father. I simply thought you might have done so also.”
At the mention of her father and his own, Shahrayar sobered. “I have no wish to speak of fathers.”
“As you desire, so it shall be.” Shahrazad’s smile faded away, and the room was filled with silence once more. At this, Shahrayar felt the thing inside him stir again, but this time he thought he knew its name: It was called sorrow.
“What will you have to eat?” he asked, after a moment. And now I am back where I started, he thought, only this time, he discovered he was hungry.
“I would like to try whatever pleases you,” Shahrazad answered promptly.
Shahrayar felt his face color and was glad she could not see it. He simply did not understand the way she treated him. Where was her anger? Her resentment? Her fear? Her hate? Was she so cold and untouched that she felt none of these things?
“Why?” he inquired.
“So that I may get to know you better,” Shahrazad said, as any new wife might. As if the meal she and Shahrayar were about to take was merely the first of many they would enjoy together, instead of the only one. And now the thing within Shahrayar was called pain. And as he recognized it, it burst forth.
“Why?” he cried again. And, though the word was the same as he had used just moments before, both he and Shahrazad knew the question he posed was not.
“For the love of God, Shahrazad! For years you have kept yourself apart, since you were nothing more than a child. Now you come forth for this. I do not understand you.”
Nor I you, my lord, thought Shahrazad. How can you travel so far from yourself and not even perceive that you are lost?
But she spoke none of this. Instead she said, “Because it is what I wished, Shahrayar.”
He gave a sharp, unbelieving laugh, “What you wished,” he echoed, “Do you mean you wish to die?”
“Of course not,’ answered Shahrazad, “I wished—” Her throat closed suddenly, and she cleared it. She knew that she must speak the truth in this, but it was a difficult one to tell.
“I wished to be the one to truly see, to come to know your heart. At least, I wished to try.”
At her words, Shahrayar felt his stone heart give a crack, and the pain surged forth into his veins, scalding as lava. Too late. Your wish has come too late, he thought.
“How will you see it?” he asked, his tone bitter. “How will you see anything truly? You are blind, Shahrazad.”
The words hung, awful, in the air. And Shahrayar discovered he could hate himself.
“That is so,” Shahrazad answered, her voice calm, “Do you think that is the most important thing about me? If eyes are all one needs to see and know another’s heart truly then answer me this: When you look at me now do you see and understand my heart?”
Shahrayar was silent for so long, Shahrazad feared he would not answer. But at last he replied, “No, I do not, Shahrazad.”
“Then perhaps you should not be so quick to judge what I can do, though my eyes see not as yours.”
“You think that I’m a monster, don’t you?” Shahrayar asked, the words tumbling forth before he even knew they had been formed.
“No,” Shahrazad answered swiftly. “Not that.”
“What, then?” asked Shahrayar.
This time it was Shahrazad who paused before she answered, for had she not just told herself she would not speak of this? But he had asked, and so she answered truthfully.
“I think that you are … lost.”
“Lost!” Shahrayar cried, stung. “Do you think I am a child, then?”
“No,” Shahrazad answered steadily. Only that you act like one. A great kingdom is in your hands. All look to you, yet you see only yourself, Shahrayar.”
A shocked silence filled the room. Not since he had truly been a child had anyone spoken to him in this manner, Shahrayar thought.
“I am the king. How dare you speak so to me?”
“And I am the queen, if only for this night,” Shahrazad answered, as her chin came up stubbornly. “What will you do to punish me for answering truthfully when you bid me speak? Kill me before my time is up?”
“Enough!” Shahrayar exclaimed, for her words horrified him. Did she truly think him capable of such a thing? But why not? he answered himself. Had he not proclaimed that she would die tomorrow morning, and for even less cause?
“I have no wish to quarrel, Shahrazad.”
“Nor I,” said Shahrazad. Then, to Shahrayar’s amazement, her mouth quirked up. “But you make it hard not to, you know.”
Shahrayar gave a startled bark of laughter, all his anger suddenly gone. It felt good to be with someone who was not afraid to speak her mind, he realized to his surprise. His first queen had certainly never spoken to him so. Now that he thought about it, they had barely conversed at all. Perhaps if they had …
No, Shahrayar thought. He would not travel down that road. There was no sense in comparing the one who had betrayed him to Shahrazad. That much, he could already tell.
“I will make you a bargain,” he said now, careful to keep his tone light. “I will admit that I am quarrelsome if you will admit that you have a sharp ton
gue.”
His first wife would never have taken such a bargain, Shahrayar thought. She would have denied his faults, for was he not the king? And, in denying his, she had hidden her own.
“Well, of course I have a sharp tongue,” Shahrazad said, as if Shahrayar had but stated the obvious. “I am the daughter of a storyteller, am I not?”
“That is so.”
“Well, then,” Shahrazad said, and she extended her hand, as if to seal the bargain. Shahrayar took it between his own. For the first time, he learned how soft Shahrazad’s hands were. And how warm. And he felt the way her fingers trembled within the cage of his.
“All this bargain-making has made me hungry,” Shahrazad said as she slid her hand from his. “I thought you promised me food, my lord.”
“So I did,” Shahrayar admitted. He filled a plate, sat down at her feet, and they shared a meal in companionable silence.
But again and again as they shared the food, Shahrayar’s fingers met those of Shahrazad. Until he found himself craving her touch more than the food. What it would be like to set the meal aside and simply touch her? To run his fingertips across her palm and up her arm until he had coaxed her head down upon his shoulder. What would his own head feel like resting on her heart? he wondered. Could the very beating of it have the power to warm him?
When he realized the direction his thoughts had taken, for the first time since the night he discovered that he had been betrayed, Shahrayar realized how weary and confused he was.
Shahrazad is right, he thought. I am well and truly lost.
And for the first time, he realized how cold he was.
But just when his thoughts would have given him over to despair, he was pulled back by the sound of Shahrazad’s voice.
“Might I beg a boon of you, my lord?”
“Do I get to know what it is ahead of time?” Shahrayar asked, glad to be distracted from his thoughts. But as he turned his head to look up at her, he caught the line of worry between Shahrazad’s brows, and he was sorry that he had teased her so. “You may have whatever you wish,” he promised swiftly, “if the granting of it brings no stain upon my honor.”
“I swear that it will not,” said Shahrazad. “You know I have a sister, who is but ten years old.”
Shahrayar nodded, though he felt his stomach sink. “Dinarzad.”
“It has always been my custom to say good night to her each evening,” Shahrazad went on. “Might she be permitted to come to me here, so that I might wish her both good night and farewell?”
“Such a thing is easily granted,” Shahrayar said. But his throat felt thick, for he remembered the grief that he had felt upon his first parting with his brother, Shazaman. This parting of the sisters would be both first and last, and he himself would be the cause.
“It grows late. Do you wish to send for her now?”
“If it pleases you,” said Shahrazad.
“Stop doing that!” Shahrayar burst out before he could help himself. He rose, and set their empty plate upon a nearby tray.
“Stop behaving as if you were my servant. It does not suit you, Shahrazad. I like the sharp edge of your tongue better than the dull one. I seek to please you in this. Just say what you want.”
God knew, there was little enough else by which he could please her, and he had suddenly discovered that pleasing her was a thing he wanted, very much.
If Shahrazad was distressed by this outburst, she did not show it, answering merely, “Then it would please me to send for her now.”
So Shahrayar clapped his hands to summon a servant to fetch Dinarzad. When she was brought, she threw herself at once into Shahrazad’s arms. Her tears flowed freely, for she had yet to learn the way to conceal her feelings, being but a child. And Shahrayar was moved at her grief.
“Would you like me to leave you alone?”
At his words, Dinarzad’s head shot up. “No! You must not!” she cried.
“Dinarzad, remember you are speaking to the king,” Shahrazad remonstrated softly.
Dinarzad’s face colored and she bit her lip. “That is … I beg you to stay with us, my lord. There is something I would ask of my sister, but you alone can answer yea or nay.”
“What is it that you wish?” asked Shahrayar, intrigued.
“My sister tells me a story each night before I sleep,” Dinarzad explained and, though her eyes managed to meet Shahrayar’s without flinching, her voice was soft and small. “She reads the cloth in the way of her mother, Maju the Storyteller. For as long as I can remember, she has done this, but after tonight—”
But here her eyes filled with tears once more and she was unable to go on.
So the rumors are true, Shahrayar thought. Shahrazad has become a storyteller, like her mother before her.
“You would like her to tell you a story,” he said. One last story.
Dinarzad nodded.
“By all means,” said Shahrayar, pleased that he could grant her wish. At his words, Dinarzad gave a great sigh. Her distress seemed to leave her, and she nestled her head upon her sister’s shoulder.
Above the young girl’s head, Shahrazad’s eyes met those of Shahrayar. In that moment, it did not seem to him that Shahrazad was blind. Instead he thought she saw him very well. Though what she saw when she looked at him, Shahrayar could not tell. Then Shahrazad looked down, and the moment passed.
“Thank you,” Shahrazad said softly. “Will you please send for my trunk? Only then will I be able to do as my sister has asked.”
And Shahrayar said, “I will do so at once.”
And now it was Shahrazad who sighed, for though she knew her greatest test still lay ahead, she was satisfied that it was well begun.
Eight
DINARZAD SETS THE FUTURE IN MOTION
“Very well, little one,” Shahrazad said to her sister after the trunk had been brought. “You know what to do by now. Open the trunk and hand me the length of cloth you will find inside.”
But to Shahrayar’s surprise, Dinarzad did not at once obey her older sister’s instructions. Instead, she pulled Shahrazad’s head down. Then, she whispered something Shahrayar could not hear, her dark eyes flashing to his face and then away.
“If that is what you wish,” Shahrazad said, when her sister was finished.
“It is,” replied Dinarzad.
“Will you ask him, or shall I?”
“You do it,” Dinarzad said.
“My sister wonders whether or not you would like to choose tonight’s story, my lord.”
“Me?!” Shahrayar exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “But why?”
“Tell him,” Shahrazad urged gently. “Don’t be afraid.”
“It’s just—” Dinarzad faltered. “I wondered—” She pulled in a breath and plowed on. “My sister has told me many tales, one every night since I was strong enough to open Maju’s trunk. But it does not hold stories just for me. It holds tales for all. Do you not wish to hear one?”
“I do wish it,” said Shahrayar. And found with the saying of it that it was true.
You have raised this child up well Shahrazad, he thought. For, like the rest of the court, he had heard the tales surrounding Dinarzad’s birth. She is generous where others would find cause to be selfish, just as you are.
“Then, if you please, my lord,” said Dinarzad, and she gestured to the trunk.
So Shahrayar knelt and opened the ebony trunk that had once belonged to Maju the Storyteller. As he did so, he heard a sigh like the final gust of a windstorm pass through Dinarzad. He glanced up to find her dark eyes regarding him solemnly. He smiled, and she smiled back. Then Shahrayar gave all his attention to the trunk.
Deep inside he thrust his hands, reaching down, down, down—a very long way it seemed to him—until his fingers touched the very bottom. Then up and down and back and forth Shahrayar swept his hands until he was certain he had covered every inch of the trunk’s interior.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Ah God, I cannot bear
this! he thought.
What if his true destiny was this: Always to be unable to obtain what others seemed to come by without thought.
What had Dinarzad said? That Shahrazad had told her a tale each night since she had first grown strong enough to lift up the lid of the trunk. How many times had she reached in and pulled forth the thing she longed for, each time successful though she was just a child?
But for the king, it appeared, there would be nothing. No tale, just as there had been no trust.
No love.
No! Not this time! thought Shahrayar. This time will be different. This, I vow.
And as if his vow contained the power of a wish, his hands found the thing they had been searching for.
Shahrayar seized the piece of cloth in his hands as he drew it forth as if he were afraid it might escape him now that he had found it. Then almost at once, he relaxed his hold. Passing the cloth from hand to hand as if trying to learn its texture. To figure out how Shahrazad would be able to perceive and decipher what he could not.
Though the finding of it brought him wonder, to Shahrayar it still seemed but a simple piece of cloth. It was thick and heavy, its texture rough in some places and smooth in others. It seemed to cling to his hands, then slip away all in the same moment. Even its color seemed changeable, so that he could not truly say just what color it was.
“This is all that I could find,” he said at last. He sat back upon his heels and raised the cloth to Shahrazad.
“That is as it should be,” Shahrazad answered as she stretched out her arms. Shahrayar laid the cloth across them. “For it means this story is yours. Will you hear it?”
“I will,” said Shahrayar.
At these words, Dinarzad sighed once more. Shahrayar closed the lid of the trunk, lifted it, and set it aside. Dinarzad then curled up at her sister’s feet. Shahrayar retired to a nest of cushions nearby.
For many moments Shahrazad did nothing but sit silently, her head bent, as if listening to the story within the cloth. Then she began to move her fingers from side to side across it—on one end only, Shahrayar noted. Not from end to end, as if to learn the tale in its entirety, but only the place where it would start. Though how she knew which end was which Shahrayar could not even begin to guess.
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