Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  “Everything sparkles, and I sparkle, too,” I slurred as I gazed at my reflection on the basin-water’s surface. The attendants sighed in admiration.

  Hadiyah said, “How can he say no to a beauty like you?” Then whispered into my ear, “Don’t spoil anything by talking of that which doesn’t concern you, and you will be sealed into marriage.”

  There it was again. Marriage. Like a hook, it pulled back all of my dread, my fear of failure.

  “The Buraq?” I searched around the room for that which I knew would help.

  Adilah rushed to a table to collect a tarnished silver tray. Hadiyah worked efficiently with the metal instruments there—igniting, scooping, adjusting. I watched, entranced by the deftness of her hands. She held out a curved pipe, and I slipped it between the strands of my veil, seating it between my lips. Tasting the tang of metal, I leaned over the lamp until the dried petals burned. Hungrily, I inhaled.

  Charred honey filled my mouth, filled my lungs. The burning desert rose was named after Buraq, the winged steed of legends, for its effects on the mind. The one who inhaled the rose would feel light enough to fly.

  I gulped in the smoke, eyes closed, clutching the pipe like it was my only tether to the world.

  “Take me to him,” I said when I was finished.

  “Good girl,” Hadiyah said, her hand rubbing my back. “Can’t take your pride into those halls. Best to leave it here with us.”

  Alcohol swirled in my blood; smoke spun in my chest. I floated inches above the ground. This suitor was my only chance out. I could not let my fears and worries of failure tarnish my performance. Tipping up my chin, I left the zafif and strode into the palace.

  I was an emerald goddess and ahira of the Salt King.

  And I would find my freedom.

  My steps were silent in the hallway. Only the chink, chink of the chains hanging from my clothes could be heard as I staggered through the narrow corridors, trailing the guard.

  Mesmerized by the torch flames that danced in the air, the patterned carpets that covered the sand, and the pristine fabric walls that towered above me, I took slow, unsteady steps. I was within the opulent heart of the palace, the King’s tents. It was the most heavily guarded, entered only by wealthy visitors and royalty.

  Holding my arms out to the side, I spun in the hallway, pretending to be a bird flying through the sky. I was a kite with green feathers soaring above the tall, white peaks of Father’s tents. Circles of servants’ quarters and workrooms surrounded Father’s private chambers. I imagined how it would appear on a map. How did maps get made if people could not fly? I stopped to consider this seriously. Birds were somehow involved. I strutted around like a walking bird, a map-making bird. I giggled.

  The guard whipped his head around. “Sons be damned,” he muttered. “Stop that!” He stopped and reached his hand toward me. I backed away from his grasp.

  The drunken fantasies fell away. “Forgive me,” I mumbled. I took measured steps forward, now using my arms only for balance.

  We entered a soaring room that glowed golden from its glinting metal lanterns. Servants waved palm fronds toward the center. The softly moving air sent the fires into violent fits that demanded my attention.

  “Not bad!” boomed the King. I jumped at the sound and tore my gaze from the flames. My father sat upon an immense gilded throne, peering at the goblet in his hand as he licked his lips. “They said they’d be bringing more?”

  “Twenty bottles, and if you found this to your liking, you get first pick before they’re sent to the bazaar,” Nassar, my father’s vizier, said from his seat at a small table nearby.

  My father took another long drink. He was not a large man, but in that chair, he was tremendous. Heaps of white crystalline granules and stacked gray slabs surrounded him.

  Salt. His wealth displayed so all who visited could see the worth of their ruler. It was why the caravans came, and what the rest of the desert needed so desperately. The Salt King was the only one who had it.

  Neither he nor Nassar acknowledged me, though I now stood before them. They continued their conversation about the runner that Nassar met earlier in the day and what the caravan promised to supply. Father nodded absently, tapping his goblet until Nassar filled it again. Finally, as if an afterthought, he turned to me. I stared at his feet, willing the world to stop its revolutions, and knelt before the Salt King.

  “My King,” I said, sweetening my voice. I pressed my forehead to the rug, my palms flat on the ground. Tightly closing my eyes, I stretched my arms in front of me, slowly reaching until I felt it: the edge of a salt pile. Moving slowly so I wouldn’t be seen, I pushed my fingertips into the heap until the coarse salt swallowed them.

  “Very good. Up,” Father said, bored.

  I curled my fingers and scooped the fine crystals into my palm. Standing, I raised my eyes to him slowly. His white, silk-lined boots had rubies that sparkled at the end of curling toes. The folds of his red and ivory robes cascaded around his large belly. A long beard draped from his face of deep, waxy creases. His black eyes—the eyes we shared—were yellowed from life at a decanter. He stared at me with furrowed brow.

  Cold panic swept through me, washing away the liquor, and I dropped my gaze to the ground, chewing my cheek behind the veil. Had he seen my theft?

  “Aashiq will be pleased with her.” The vizier’s voice dripped with honey. I nodded toward Nassar, but Sons, I wanted to spit on his silk slippers.

  The King set the goblet on the table and dabbed sweat from his face with his handkerchief. “They are never pleased,” he said. His thick bejeweled fingers twirled the fabric, his long nails snagging the threads as he leaned back in his chair. The accusation in his gaze was quickly replaced with apathy.

  So he did not see me steal his salt, he simply wanted to remind me of my inadequacy. Of course. I stopped grinding my cheek between my teeth.

  “Aashiq’s time has begun,” the King said, gesturing to the tall hourglass whose narrow stream of sand was just beginning to fill the base. “But your own time is short, Emel. If he is not satisfied when I speak to him tomorrow, I will urge him to request one of your sisters and not waste further time with you. No doubt with another, he will find his wife.”

  One night? My heart sank. If the suitor desired it, I could have three nights to show how I would be a suitable wife. If my father convinced him to choose someone else after the first night, there would be no hope for me.

  Nassar butted in, flailing his hands. “When you have had such successes with your other daughters, we must ask if perhaps it is not the sire, but the dam.”

  Anger burned through the rest of my high. I collected bloodied spit in my mouth, rolling it between my cheeks, imagining a life where I could really do it. Where I could reach his feet from where I stood, damn all the consequences.

  “It is no flaw of mine, of that I am sure.” The King waved his hand toward his vizier, keeping his gaze on me. “Emel, let me remind you that these men are threats to our home. Weak ones, sure. I could destroy their settlements if I wanted. But what good would that do me? Your mother will be so ashamed if two of her daughters fail. Sabra? Well.” He shrugged, dismissing her so casually, even I felt stung. “You’re almost what, two and twenty? I cannot bear the thought of throwing such a beautiful bird out to the foxes.” He pouted and looked down at his sash, from which several blades and trinkets hung. Carefully, he detached a glass vessel wrapped in golden bands.

  I said, “I will try harder. I will not disappoint you or Mother.” I pressed my hands together and took a step toward my father.

  He paid me no more attention, distracted by the vessel he held in his palm. Inside, tarnished gold smoke churned lazily with nowhere to escape. His eyes followed the billows and swirls of the smoke possessively. I followed his gaze. I could not deny its allure as I, too, was entranced by its beautiful movement. Even Nassar peered at it curiously. My father was never without the thing, and I did not let myself linger on the though
t that my father found wine and a trinket more worthy of his attention than his own daughter.

  Tearing his gaze from the vessel, he said, “Aashiq is from a strong family. He would be an asset to me, and it is your duty to secure him. Eiqab has blessed you by allowing you to share his bed tonight. Do not squander this gift.” He waved his hand to dismiss me and rose, unsteadily. Nassar jumped up to support him.

  “Isra!” My father shouted, and with Nassar at his side, left the tent, a train of slaves at his heels. His absence sent a ripple of relief through me, and my shoulders fell forward as I waited.

  A woman entered the room, and I turned eagerly toward her. Her flowing dress, fastidiously decorated with bright stripes and zig-zagging lines, barely concealed the curves she had acquired as a mother and a wife. She held her head high, the coins and colored beads on her beautiful veil—the veil of a king’s wife—glinting as she approached. I mirrored her strong posture. The kohl lining her eyes swept up to her temples. The corners of her mouth pulled up into a tight smile, as if secrets were waiting to tumble from her lips.

  “Mama!” I ran to her.

  She stepped forward, arms stretched wide, and we collided. Frankincense clung to her hair and clothes.

  “You’re lovely.” Her fingers pressed the jewels on my head, my hips, passed over the skin of my arms, my shoulders. Her touch lingered on the metallic veil that covered my mouth. “And, how are you?” She asked with eyebrows raised. A test.

  “I am much better now—”

  “You do not sound sincere,” she interrupted. “Try harder.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “I am trying to help. Don’t get mad at your mother.”

  “This is pointless,” I spat. “It isn’t my fault they don’t choose—”

  “I don’t want to fight. I just want . . .” She hesitated and closed the distance between us. “For you to be wed—to get out of here.” She said it quickly and quietly into my ear. To any guard it would have seemed as though she had simply pressed her cheek to mine. She stepped back, “Are you ready to meet him?”

  “Of course.” I squeezed the salt in my left fist more tightly.

  She put her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close, her scent surrounding me.

  “Be your very best tonight, Emel.” I did not understand the plea I heard in her words. Why did she seem a touch more desperate to see me gone than before? Had she heard that Father was allowing me only one night with Aashiq?

  I pulled away, not wanting to hear more when I seemed destined to fail. Unable to meet her eyes, I dropped my gaze to the golden medallion she always wore around her neck.

  She grasped my shoulders one last time, taking in every detail, then she said, “Show him why he must take you home.”

  Pouring the salt into a leather pouch I hid beneath the beaded fabric on my hips, I followed the guard. He led me through the palace until we came upon the private courting tent.

  “He waits,” the guard said and parted the entrance.

  I pushed out my chest, lifted my chin, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

  “You’re here,” Aashiq said, stepping on his robe as he stood in a rush. I maintained my composure. Most suitors did not feel the need to acknowledge our arrival with such fuss.

  He continued with an apologetic shrug, “I have been waiting so long, I am afraid I’ve drunk almost all the wine.” His accent had been notable at the courting, but now, slurred with drink, it was enchanting. I wondered what life was like where he was from, but I promised Hadiyah I would not ask of such things.

  I bowed. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. It takes time to prepare for a muhami such as yourself.” I spread compliments like oil.

  “Let me pour you a drink,” he said. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was being away from the piercing stare of the King, but now, Aashiq seemed more at ease, less proud. He turned back to the table where two goblets sat by a silver decanter, but I grabbed his arm. I trailed my fingertips down the sleeve of his robes to his hand where he held his pipe.

  “I would rather put my mouth on this,” I whispered, taking his pipe and placing it between my lips. I inhaled the sweet honey smoke, feeling a rush of warm air beneath my feet.

  “Ah, well . . . ” He watched me warily. “May I remove that?” He asked of the metal veil.

  “Aashiq, you may do whatever you please.”

  He reached over with clumsy fingers and removed it. I closed my eyes while he did, the world swirling slightly as I leaned forward. The veil tangled in my hair and pulled sharply as it was detached. He tossed it onto a cushion. The sounds of the chains and jewels clattering against each other muted the instant they landed on the carpets.

  “You are much more beautiful than your sisters,” he said, “I could see as much this afternoon, and I see it again now.”

  “Is that why you chose me?” I asked.

  “No. It was the way you watched your sisters and the servants. They held your attention so much better than I did. I had to know why.” He smirked. “It is no wonder you have not been wed, if that was how you act around all of the suitors.”

  I pressed my lips together, wondering if he was right. Was that my problem all along? Could they all see that they were only a means to an end? Finally, I said, “Perhaps I have not found the right man.”

  “Perhaps it is me.” He shrugged, and I saw that in his hesitance, he was as nervous as I.

  Taking my hand, he guided me to the large bed in the center of the room. It was so soft, it took great effort to keep my eyes from drooping closed. We leaned against the pillows, and I faced him, eager to prove him wrong, to show him that I cared for him.

  “Tell me of your family.”

  “I have two wives, Fadwa and Amani. They are older than you and have given me five children. Four sons and a daughter.” As he told me of his family, he spoke so kindly, I found it was easy to listen, to watch his mouth move and face soften. “My daughter’s eyes are like yours, black as night. She is a child of Eiqab.” He seemed to stare at nothing, but certainly he saw her there beside him. “Always running without shoes, uncaring of the sand’s heat.” He smiled as he talked, laughing as he described his wild children. He loved his family tenderly. I imagined what it would be like to count myself among them. Would he love me as he loved his other wives? Would we have children who danced in the desert? A little girl who looked like me and ran across the ground with feet bare. Soon, I smiled with him, warming to his words. And to him.

  “Are you comfortable?” I fingered the edges of his robes as I curled into him, wanting him to see he had my full attention.

  He shrugged out of the robes. I helped, pushing them from his shoulders, deliberately sweeping my fingers over his chest and neck. I dropped my gaze to his mouth as I placed my hand on his thigh. I moved up to his hip.

  He pitched forward and pressed his lips to mine.

  His heat and scent of dusty, sweaty skin surrounded me. I closed my eyes and moved my mouth to match his as I was taught. His tongue was greedy, and I responded in kind. I hummed softly and reached for the bulge between his legs.

  He caressed my breast through the beading. I felt little at his touch, but moaned as I knew men liked. He broke free of my mouth and twisted his body so that he lay beneath me. His hands explored me in a clumsy effort, and I was reminded of the young muhamis I had bedded.

  I pressed into him rhythmically, faster and harder, harder and faster.

  “Perhaps you should . . . ?” He gestured to my clothes, breathing heavily.

  I rose. With my back to him, I undressed methodically, seductively. When I turned to face him, he was already naked. I studied the man who would share my bed that night. His chest sagged and his belly bulged forward.

  It mattered not how he appeared, only where he might take me. And if he treated me well, too, then I could not let him slip through my fingers.

  I pulled him with me back onto the cushioned bed.

  He clambered over me. His bo
dy was atop mine, elbows digging into the mattress beside my chest, his breath blowing in my face at quick bursts. I was grateful for the rose oil on my lip. He stabbed between my legs, attempting to find where he fit, and I tilted my hips to guide him.

  When he found his place, he thrust firmly. I gasped and tossed my head back. Welcome, fresh air met my nose and mouth. He continued, grunting. Drops of sweat fell off of him and onto me. His pace quickened and his groans increased in frequency. I knew I performed my role satisfactorily when he found release. He cried out, I cried out. And it was done.

  Aashiq said nothing and rolled to his side, scooting away until we no longer touched. My stomach turned and my mind spun. So that was it then? I counted my exhales, letting out my drunken, stupid hopes. Of course this man would be no different than the others. He would choose one of my sisters. They all would.

  “It’s all a bit awkward, isn’t it?” Aashiq said after a long time passed.

  I said nothing, unsure of what he wanted to hear. The bed shifted, and Aashiq rose, retrieving his clothes.

  “Care for a walk?”

  “We can’t. I can’t leave the palace.” I sat up, watching him curiously.

  “Through the palace then.” He bent down and picked up my clothes, peering at the tangled chains and ties with alarm. He set them on the bed beside me. “Please, come.”

  I would follow because I had to, but I did so without hesitation, because something about this man was different than the others.

  Chapter Two

  When Aashiq said he wanted to leave the tent with his ahira at his side, the guard’s face creased with disapproval. It was an unconventional request. My suitor was again the man I saw at the courting—haughty and uncompromising. With a show of reluctance, the guard let us go, and he did not follow.