Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  The courtings took place in the smaller receiving tents where ample plush seating was scattered throughout the room for the ahiran to drape ourselves. When we were instead directed to our father’s tents, to where he sat upon his throne, a ripple of bewilderment passed through us—my sisters mumbling about who was so important, we’d meet them in such a formal setting.

  “Aashiq isn’t going to propose then,” Sabra said coolly as we walked.

  The teeth sank, and her poison spread through me. Though I told myself he was a man of his word, that there was no reason Father would dissent, that we would surely be wed, her words fueled my doubt. She was right, and I hated it. It was nearly the third evening, and his time was almost at an end. If he had not done it already, there was no chance to ask my father to have me if a new suitor was here. There would be no proposal.

  “You’ll be like me,” Sabra continued, falsely bright. “We can live in squalor together.”

  Fingers slid through mine. Raheemah had dropped back to walk beside me.

  “Don’t listen,” she mouthed, squeezing my hand.

  The guard held open the entrance to the throne room, and we filed into the room one by one. Each sister who entered before turned back to me with a wide smile on her face. My heart frenzied in my chest. What was I walking into? Did I dare hope? No, it was impossible. Proposals did not happen before all of the ahiran, and they certainly did not occur in the throne room. It was a transaction, not a ceremony.

  But when I saw Aashiq standing beside my father’s throne, resplendent in saffron robes, the ground seemed to shift from under me. His eyes met mine, and he nodded just once before his face split into an enormous smile, like the tipping of a goblet of sun between clouds. It was happening, it was really happening. My time as an ahira was done.

  My vision hazed with tears, and I raised a shaking hand to my mouth to hide my disbelieving smile. Sabra stormed past me to join my sisters bowing before the King. I hurried to mirror their movements, finding it impossible to tear my gaze from Aashiq’s. Forehead to the ground, my mind raced with colliding thoughts of self-doubt and excitement. When would I leave with him? Why were we all summoned? This was unusual. What if he was choosing a different sister? But no, he smiled at me. Would I have time to say goodbye to Mama, to Emah, to Tavi? Firoz?

  “Daughters, stand,” the King said sloppily. “I’ve joyous news.” I stared at the carpet beneath my feet, following the path of a pale, brown spider as it disappeared between two of the rugs. Little spider, I will be as free as you.

  “The prince Aashiq has chosen a bride.”

  Raheemah’s hand pressed soothingly against my back, and I leaned against her. Small, constricted spasms ached my neck as I fought a deluge of tears. My breath caught on the knot in my throat.

  “Breathe,” she whispered.

  The King continued. “Aashiq, my friend, my soon son. Step forward and claim your wife.”

  My sisters and I were unmoving, like stones in the sand. I did not raise my eyes from the carpet.

  Soon, yellow-slippered feet emerged into my line of sight. They went still in front of me. I counted: one, two, three, four . . . waiting to see if they would move on to someone else. They did not move, and I nearly fell to the ground in relief. Aashiq’s finger lightly traced my jawline. He caught my chin and pulled my face up to meet his gaze. His brown eyes burned into mine. The smallest smile, meant only for me, rested on his lips.

  “Emel,” Aashiq whispered, “I will take you as my bride.” He reached down and clasped my hand. A hysterical laugh fell from my lips as the dimming world suddenly was reignited as if in flames—it was golden and beautiful.

  He chose me.

  He chose me.

  His hand was warm, and I held it tightly as a battle of emotions waged inside of me. Excitement, hope, pride, relief. All of the things I had been taught to feel, the things that I now truly felt, were like horses galloping through my chest. I was chosen. My mother would be joyous. My father, finally, would be proud.

  My life was like a newly woven carpet rolled out before me, and I saw it there with stunning detail: sharing wine with him as we ate, going to the market with his wives as we gossiped about the servants, visiting the oasis and submerging in the pooling water, walking through the desert with a camel’s reins in my hand. Seeing the world, the entire world.

  I bowed my head slowly, corralling the ecstatic dreams that launched up into the sky like birds taking flight. “Masira has allowed me a great honor.”

  But then I did it. I stumbled, thinking of everything I would leave behind—thinking only of the good, as always seems to happen when a goodbye looms near. My mother and sisters and Firoz. Was being an ahira so bad? Was life in my father’s palace truly so terrible? I shook my head, sending away the traitorous thoughts. Sons, what was I thinking?

  Aashiq was who Masira chose for me. After seven years an ahira, this was my husband. For the rest of my life, this was my husband.

  My husband, my fate, my fortune.

  My freedom.

  I stared into his eyes, tugging back all the cloudy memories of the night I had lain with him. I did not linger on our drunken sex. Instead, I thought of when we had talked staring into the night, when he had been caring, sincere. He was a good man. He had chosen to be kind when he could have been anything else.

  So I let the fear go, and I clung to the pride.

  I was an ahira no longer. I was to be a wife and princess. My smile stretched wide across my face. The torch light glittered in Aashiq’s eyes.

  “Let us be wed,” he said and led me to my father.

  My chin lifted as we walked. I moved like a royal, like I had been trained. My sisters smiled around us, Raheemah and Tavi and the others wiping their cheeks. In my excitement, I had forgotten their presence. Why had my sisters been called to witness his proposal? Though I could not make sense of it, I was so glad they were there to share in my happiness.

  My father slouched in his throne when he addressed us.

  “May Eiqab bestow blessings unto you both. Aashiq, as part of this exchange, I give the strength of my army and the power of my renown to you. From your marriage to my daughter, your family will prosper, and your people will thrive. Your union to my family will raise you up closer to the Sons.”

  His glassy eyes were unfocused, his tongue lolled in his mouth, lazy and fat with liquor. His words were thick, his pronouncements absurd. He was drunker than I had seen him in a long time.

  “And I know that I can expect your loyalty and army’s strength in return.” My father set his glass trinket and goblet onto the table, stood slowly, and grasped Aashiq’s shoulder. Then he turned to me, his eyes almost glistening. “My dove, Eiqab has been kind and gifted you with a great fortune. Aashiq has been generous and gifted you with his kin, his home. Your union to this prince gives us pride and honors our gods.” He reached out and caressed my knuckles with the pad of his thumb. I could not resist his words. Forgiveness and love and warmth for my father poured from my chest.

  I tasted salty tears on my lips.

  “You will be wed tomorrow at the sun’s peak. Eiqab will oversee the ceremony from his blazing throne.”

  The King turned from us to my sisters. “Now daughters, you have not been summoned here only to witness Aashiq choose his bride.”

  It was surreal, gazing at the ahiran as I stood beside Aashiq. I was separate from them, no longer one of them. Raheemah beamed at me. Her face wet, smile brilliant.

  “Matin, come and see!” The King spoke loudly, calling through the tents to someone far away.

  I tore my gaze from my sisters and searched the room, waiting for someone to appear. Was this the man Firoz and Jael spoke of?

  He continued. “See how my daughters are the jewels of the desert, the gems of the sand. They are beautiful and obedient, and you will earn great honor if you claim one as your own!

  “My daughters, I am pleased to tell you we have another suitor to welcome to our home. He has
traveled from the deep north in search of a wife.”

  I wondered how far north—the edge? If that were true and if Rafal could be believed, he might be one of the most powerful men in the desert—perhaps wealthier than even my father. That would certainly explain why we had been called to the throne room to meet him.

  “Matin, join us!” The King clapped his hands wildly as we swiveled our heads from side to side. Aashiq pulled me close, tracing his fingers up and down the curve of my waist, making it clear to the new guest over whom he maintained ownership. I leaned into him, uncaring of his display, and he pressed his lips to my temple.

  Finally, there was a swishing of fabric, and my gaze fell on a man being escorted in by Nassar. His age surprised me; suitors were generally younger. This man had more years than my father. He wore a dark blue ghutra around his face and had loose gold and navy robes. Two long scimitars were fastened at his waist. His beard, more silver than black, was long, and his face held a look of cold cunning. His eyes pivoted from the King to all of us around him.

  The King rambled on, oblivious. “Welcome, welcome! Nassar has told me much of your home, and I think you’ll find my daughters will suit you nicely.”

  Aashiq tensed, and so did I. There was something amiss with Matin. He walked stiffly with his arms curled forward, head bent low. He scanned the room rapidly, as if searching or preparing.

  Nassar was oblivious, distracted by a torch whose fire had deadened. He went to a servant, pointing at the offense, so he failed to notice Matin reaching for his belt. The Salt King was so drunk on arak and pride that he babbled on, equally unaware.

  Matin spun as he unsheathed his scimitars, the sound of slicing metal ringing in the room. A garbled cry sounded, and the guard standing near Matin clutched his throat, eyes wide, mouth agape. Blood poured through his fingers. He fell to the ground.

  And then everything seemed to happen in the span of a heartbeat.

  Chaos exploded. Screams ripped from the center of the room as my sisters saw the guard fall. They fled, disappearing from the room like snuffed flames. I turned into Aashiq, trying to pull him away as I stared at the horror before us. His eyes were wide as he took everything in, his hand reaching for his own scimitar. He shoved his arm in front of me and yelled, “Run!”

  Sons, I wanted to, but I was fixed with fear.

  The King bellowed for his guards with manic fervor, but he moved as though wading through honey. He dazedly spun around, pawing at his waist. Finally, he pulled his sword from his belt and waved it unthreateningly at Matin, who turned toward the King.

  “Where is it?!” Matin screamed. Desperation was heavy in his voice. He strode toward the King, blades raised before him.

  A rush of foreign men dressed in blue and black joined the melee, attacking my father’s soldiers. Swords clanged, men hollered and screamed. My father moved to retreat. Unsteady, he knocked his table as he turned, everything falling upon the rugs, clattering loudly.

  The sound broke my terror. “We should leave! Come with me!” I shrieked at Aashiq, pulling roughly at his hand.

  “I can’t! My duty is to your father! Go hide.” I stared at him, horrified. “Go!” He screamed, pushing me away so that I fell onto my knees. Heart pounding, I scrambled behind the throne. I would not leave him. As if right next to me, another peal of swords rang out in the room. Peeking from behind the throne, I saw Aashiq parry Matin’s attacks.

  No. I could barely breathe. I was horrified, stunned, and fascinated all at once. They were fighting right in front of the throne now. I could not flee, as Matin was too close. With Aashiq’s every stroke, I saw my future flicker. Now there, now gone. I turned away. I would not watch the fight. My spine was pressed to the back of my father’s chair, my knees curled to my chest, my fingers clutched tightly around my shins.

  Where had my sisters gone? Were they running to safety, or had Matin’s men found them, too? Pressing my forehead to my knees, I prayed to Eiqab. Had I the salt, I would have given it all to smother flames if it meant Masira might listen and would protect Aashiq, my family.

  The King’s guards streamed in with scimitars brandished and joined the fight. They cried and shouted as the battle swelled from two to nearly two dozen.

  Unable to resist the growing din, I glimpsed around the throne again and saw more men from Matin’s army. They slashed their swords through the air at my father’s soldiers—my brothers and neighbors. Matin had moved into the fray. He swirled his dual swords like a dancer, blades slicing into soft flesh. I did not see Aashiq.

  My father stood on the periphery, swinging his scimitar uselessly above him, shouting until he was purple in the face with sweat dripping down his temples. He scanned the room, panicked. He seemed irritated with the men clustered tightly before him, shielding him from the fray with their beating hearts and soft flesh.

  A soldier now guarded my father’s throne, preventing any of the invaders from getting to his fallen treasures and the salt that sat behind it. He did not know he also guarded an ahira.

  Red bloomed beneath robes. Men fell, and swords entered sacred places: slithering between ribs, carving into abdomens, slicing pulsing vessels that coursed through cores.

  Fear and revulsion choked me. I wanted to run and find a real place to hide, but I knew these men would slay me as soon as they saw me. I was the daughter of the King they wanted dead. I was their enemy.

  There was no sense to what was happening. A man did not take the throne by catching the King off guard. It was against all honor, all tradition. This was the whole purpose for the ritual that allowed men to challenge the King, so that such shameful betrayals need not happen. No one would respect a king who broke his opponent’s trust as Matin had done. So what did he want?

  Firoz’s warning emerged through my muddled thoughts, and suddenly hysterical, I covered my mouth to stop from laughing aloud. Here I am, Firo! Like I promised you, perfectly safe behind this royal chair!

  The tears of hysteria revived my fear, and I hugged my knees into my chest harder. I sat clenched like a fist until the sounds began to diminish. When my father’s drunken cries were gone, I peered around the throne to see if I could find him.

  I held my breath, fear and hope waging their own war, but then I saw him being pulled from the tent by several of his guards. Though drunk and weak, Father tried resisting the men that tugged at him. He reached out toward the center of the room, toward his throne, but the young guards’ sober strength outweighed their ruler’s, and they soon disappeared.

  There was little left of the battle. Men had fallen to the floor, daggers jutting from chests, abdomens. Entrails spilled onto navy robes, and piles of salt were stained with the blood and ingesta of family and foe. I watched as one of my brothers thrust his sword into the neck of an enemy. The man’s eyes bulged before his life was lost. He fell to the floor with a dull thud.

  None of Matin’s soldiers remained. I did not know if they fled or if they were all slain. The remaining guards sprinted from the room either in pursuit or to secure the perimeter of the palace.

  A bell clanged. It was loud, frantic. More bells joined. Soon, they rang through the settlement, creating a cacophony that rattled my spine: a warning for villagers to arm themselves and prepare for battle. My breaths came in quick bursts, my heart thudded wildly. Were more men coming? Were the fleeing soldiers running free in the village, killing needlessly? I sat still, my hands covering my ears. Scared to move, scared to stay.

  After a moment—or days, I knew not which—the ringing ceased. A heavy silence swallowed me.

  Alone, I stood slowly, the muscles in my legs coiled and ready to spring should anyone come into the room. Dead men lay in piles atop the floor. Matin’s men, my father’s men. I gripped the throne tightly as I stared. Some might be my brothers, and now they lay dead, undignified and splayed. No prayer for deliverance spoken over their corpses. No keening cry from their mothers as their bloodied heads were cradled by the hands that raised them. Would they even b
e taken to the sands to be buried by the sky?

  I stepped soundlessly toward the slain. Their wounds demanded to be seen, and my eyes kept falling on the mangled flesh. The metallic twang of blood and fetid smell of vacated bowels was strong. Bile rose. I covered my nose, averted my gaze, looking instead to the men’s—the boys’—faces. Who were they? Their lifeless eyes told me nothing.

  Matin was sprawled atop others, unmoving, heart beating no longer. I sat upon the ground, relief coursing through me, and stared at the man who had caused so much pain. A large sword was pinned to his abdomen, his muscles still twitching in final protest. His small eyes were open and vacant, a dull sheen to them. I looked down at his robes, the navy stained a purplish-brown from his wounds. On the collar of his robe was the image of a crescent moon, stitched with glittering golden thread. On the opposite collar was a sun with thick rays, stitched with the same thread but muddied by blood.

  Did any of his soldiers remain? Where would they go now?

  Edges of bright yellow robes, stained with blood, puddled under Matin. A pit opened up in my stomach, filling with fear. I followed the fabric and lifted the heavy arm of the assailant to peer beneath.

  Aashiq’s lifeless face stared at me. His mouth slack and open, dark blood dripping from his lips onto the ground. Matin’s arm fell with a thud and I scooted away, tears blurring my vision.

  No, no, no. My life, my future, pulled from under my feet. A crushing weight collapsed onto me, onto my chest. I couldn’t breathe. His beautiful robes, bright like the sun, marred by the monster. What of his wives? Of his children? What of me?

  It couldn’t be true. Not now. Not when I was so close. Everything within my grasp suddenly turned to water, and I could hold none of it. I had nothing. So quickly, I was again an ahira.

  Heavy, retching sobs tore from my chest. I crawled away, messy in grief, disrupting piles of salt, desperate to get away from the death, uncaring that my knees and hands pressed into blood-soaked rugs.

  I threw my head back against my father’s throne and cried—snot spilling down my nose and tears flooding my face. Choking and sobbing. I couldn’t do it—go back to my father, go to the harem to tell my mother, go back to my sisters. I dropped my face into my hands as I attempted to reconcile my fate. As I attempted to understand why Masira could allow me so much joy only to snatch it away.