Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Could I return to what I was moments ago, when my mind had already drawn the map of my future? What would I do now?

  My hands fell to my side, and my fingers brushed something small and metallic sending it spinning slowly beside me.

  My father’s vessel.

  Golden smoke twisted and billowed within the glass walls, agitated like steam with no place to go. I looked around the room, seeing if someone, if my father, had suddenly arrived to retrieve it. Swallowing my tears and feeling cavalier in my grief, I reached for it. I was the disobedient child again, one who knows flames burn but yearns to touch them because they dance.

  Lifting the vessel slowly from the ground, I was surprised both at its lightness and its warmth. I studied the intricate carvings in the thin gold bands wrapping around the glass. A chain arose from one band and connected to one of its ends. The end was almost flower-like with petals that closed down over the glass. I pushed against the golden petals, and they shifted. It was some kind of lid.

  Tentatively, I placed my fingers over the lid, seating them so that I could pull it off. What was I doing? What was the smoke, and what would it do to me? It could hurt me. My father could hurt me. Or, Sons, what if the smoke did nothing and simply floated into the air and left the jar empty forever? If my father discovered that I had been the one to ruin his prized treasure . . . I did not want to think what he would do to me.

  But, I realized, I did not care. What more was there for me? Aashiq was the only suitor of dozens who had wanted me. Surely, he was the only suitor who would ever want me. I would either be cast out by my father or I would die in the marauding of what now seemed an imminent war with Matin’s men.

  With a deep breath, I pulled the lid from the vessel.

  As if it had a will of its own, the golden top shifted in my hand. I yelped and nearly threw the vessel across the room, but I held it at arm’s length as I watched, fascinated, as the petals on the lid opened up like a flower at the sun. Horror quickly consumed the appeal as I realized the iridescent gold smoke leaked from its glass container. I continuously slammed the lid back onto the vessel as the smoke escaped beneath my hand, but it was transformed, and it no longer seated onto the top.

  Whimpering, I tossed the vessel on the ground and began to stand. Golden smoke continued to fill the room, and soon I could smell it—dust with a hint of jasmine oil and something completely unrecognizable, like life and wetness.

  I fell back into the throne, sitting paralyzed and staring at the impossible amount of smoke that flowed out of the vessel. Far more than could have fit inside.

  Soon, the cloud of golden smoke was so thick, I could see nothing through it. I looked around the room. Someone would walk in at any moment, see the billowing gold, and know I had meddled with my father’s things. I would be punished, perhaps sentenced to death, because I had been the one to lose his treasured . . . smoke?

  The smoke was coalescing in front of me now. It did not behave as smoke should, spreading throughout the tent and disappearing up through its fine mesh. Instead, it collapsed down onto itself like falling motes of dust.

  I frowned as a large, box-shaped form appeared. The tendrils of vapor dispersed, and I understood I was not looking at an object. It was a kneeling man. His back was turned, and his head bent low. My eyes widened, and a new terror gripped me. I was alone in a tent with an unknown man when only moments ago, unknown men had tried to kill my father, had killed his soldiers, had killed Aashiq.

  But this man—he seemed to have arrived through the very thing Aashiq had denied was possible when I told him my tale of the Salt King . . . magic.

  I stood, staying crouched low as I calculated the safest escape.

  “Yes, master?” His voice was deep and smooth. He stood and began to turn toward me.

  I dropped down to my hands and knees, cowering as I tucked my head behind my hands, my eyes squeezed tight. Let me die quickly.

  There was a long pause.

  “Master?” he said uncertainly.

  His words were unexpected. He did not sound as if he had come any closer. I carefully raised my head to look at him. A soundless gasp rushed from my lips.

  This man was not of my world. His skin was the color of tarnished gold, and his body almost appeared to be forged of the same metal. He seemed ancient, as though crafted one thousand years ago, yet also ageless. He had an intimidatingly large frame, and the curves of his arms and broad back undulated as he breathed.

  Was this a god, one of the Sons?

  I was immobilized with fear, with wonder. His hair slightly darker than his skin, was pulled back into a long tail, contained within thick golden rings. His face was bearded and appeared hewn from stone.

  Below his hands, familiar golden petals encircled both wrists. I glanced to the glass jar beside me. The cuffs resembled its petaled golden lid, still attached to the vessel by the fine chain. Staring more closely, I saw that the edges of the cuffs seemed to melt into his hands, transforming into the faintest golden roots—veins?—that tapered off at his fingers. My attention moved from his hands to his hips, where a dark indigo sash was tied—the only color on his monochromatic figure.

  For all his elegance and beauty, something was not right. Despite his immensity, he seemed very small. His eyes shadowed, his mouth held tight. His body was curled forward as if in surrender. Every piece of him conveyed powerlessness. He could not be a slave; there were no dark scars on his bare chest. So then, what was he?

  His gaze was trained on the ground as I surveyed him. He did not approach. I watched him, curious.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  At the sound of my voice, his eyes flashed up and met mine. I flinched. They were even more golden than his body. They almost shimmered as he stared. His shoulders fell back, his face softened, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He appeared relieved, intrigued. I tensed, regretting that I had spoken at all.

  “My name is Saalim.” He bowed his head forward. “Where is your father?”

  “My—my father? I don’t know . . .” It was a strange question. “What are you?” I finally asked.

  “Do you not believe me to be a man?” A small smirk crept onto his lips. When I did not respond, he continued. “I am a jinni.”

  Jinn. My skin tingled. We had all heard the stories, legends of such creatures. They were rogues with volatile magic, not to be trusted.

  He continued to stare at me until concern distorted his features. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched as if to touch me. I leaned back, flinching, but could not retreat further, as I sat pressed against the front of the throne. Heat radiated off of him, hot waves that crashed into me.

  He paused when he saw me cower and pulled his hand back to his side.

  “There is blood on your face. Are you hurt?”

  I gestured to the dead men that surrounded us. The jinni looked around the room with surprise. How he had not noticed them before, I did not know. With his attention on the corpses, I roughly wiped my face with my fingers to remove the stains, realizing too late that the blood on my face had come from my own bloodied hands.

  “Your father is safe,” he said after a moment. It was not a question. Did he sound disappointed?

  “How do you know?”

  He looked back at me, as though considering an answer, but said nothing.

  I asked, “Do you belong to him?”

  “Some would say I do. Masira would disapprove of the idea that he had ownership over me. I serve whoever releases me, you see. I served your father. Now, you.”

  My brow knitted, and I cocked my head. This jinni belonged to the King. He could be his ally, his friend. Or, he might tell of my disobedience purely for his own amusement. My stomach lurched, and I sat straight up.

  “He will be returning soon,” I said quickly. “You should go back.” I gestured to the empty glass jar on the ground. “I—I am sorry, I did not know what would happen when . . . If I had known . . . it was a mistake . . . I didn’t mean to relea
se you . . .” The words tumbled out. The last thing I wanted now was to face the Salt King’s fury.

  “Emel, stop,” He said this soothingly, raising his palms to me. “I will speak nothing of this to your father, if that is what you fear.”

  He knew my name. I had not told him my name.

  I had to get out of there.

  Fear flashed across his face as he watched me, but his words were level. “Wait. I am not yet ready to return home.”

  He flicked his fingers into the air, and suddenly, the room was absent of all sound. Even the torches blazing around the perimeter of the room were silent. Astonishingly, they had frozen in place and flickered no longer—their tapered flames like glowing stone. There was a stillness in the air around me that felt surreal, magical. I turned back to the jinni.

  “What happened? What did you do?” I backed around the throne, my hands in front of me, preparing for I knew not what.

  “Stilled time. No one will come now. No one can bother us.” He seemed satisfied, pleased with what he had done. The edges of his mouth lifted into a small smile, though they scarcely reached his cheeks before he saw my face. His smile faltered.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said as he stepped forward, slowly closing the space between us. “I can’t hurt you.” His words were so earnest, I stopped moving. “Please,” he said, and reached a hand toward my face. He moved slowly, as though approaching a wild bird. He touched my temple. I winced, closing my eyes. The heat of him rushed at me like a gust of wind, but his touch was soft. He ran his index finger across my forehead and down my cheeks, the tip of his finger leaving a muted burn.

  His caress was soft, careful. And though it was not like Aashiq’s, it reminded me of that which I had lost.

  When he pulled his hand away, I opened my eyes. He continued to move slowly, his gaze repeatedly flicking to my face as if to check that I was alright. When he noted my trembling hands, I saw his shoulders fall.

  “You can trust me,” he whispered again. “Watch.” He took my hands one by one and ran his finger along my palms. My mouth fell open. The blood disappeared beneath his touch.

  “It is better this way. You won’t draw attention when you return to your sisters.”

  Speechless, I touched my clean palms.

  “Now,” he continued. “You have released me from my vessel, so I am bound to fulfill your wishes.”

  “Wishes . . . ?” I was reeling.

  “You are my master. I serve you.” He dropped to his knees and began to bow. I was reminded of the palace servants, of my sisters.

  “No. Stop it. Stand up.” I touched his shoulder. His skin was hot, and I pulled my hand away as if I had been burned.

  He looked up from his kneel, but he did not rise.

  His offer was mesmerizing as endless possibilities flooded me. Oh, the things I could wish for: freedom, my sisters’ freedom, a brick of salt for Firo, my mother’s freedom, my father’s death, one thousand dha, a cold bath, a large meal.

  But in that moment, I could think of only one thing that I wanted most, and I cared not that legends said to be careful with the jinn.

  “Now? Can I wish for something right now?”

  He nodded and smiled. “Anything.”

  “Bring back Aashiq.” My voice shook when I said his name. I pressed my hands together and said it strongly. “I wish for you to bring Aashiq back to life.” I dropped to my knees in front of him, growing hopeful again. Perhaps all was not lost! I smiled. “Please. It’s all I will ask of you.” The slave begged the slave.

  He dropped his head. “That I cannot give.”

  My smile fell. “What?” I asked, the aching sorrow beginning anew.

  “Once Masira takes, she will not return.” His voice was quiet, and he looked at me sadly. “I cannot bring him back to you.”

  “Then what can you do?” I said, standing, tears spilling again. “What good are you?”

  My words hit him like lashes. “Emel . . .” He rose to his feet. “There are limits to the magic. Your father had the same—”

  My father. This jinni belonged to the Salt King, and jinn were dangerous. He was not someone, some thing, I could trust, regardless of what he said.

  “My father?” I was incredulous. “I am not talking of your master,” I huffed. “I need to return to my sisters. You must return to that.” I pointed to the vessel. “And I want you to not speak of this to the King.”

  He nodded his head, his mouth turned down. “It will be as you want. Perhaps next time, you will have a desire that I can fulfill.”

  “I will never see you again. Let me go.”

  He sighed. “I will grant that for you. But know, if you need something, you need only to think of me. I will come, if I can.”

  With those words, the jinni moved close to me. He placed his hands tightly on my shoulders. I grimaced, trying to step away, fearful of a betrayal that proved he was loyal to my father, but before I could escape his grasp, the room shifted, and I found myself in front of my home.

  I spun around. Jael and Alim beside the entrance, alert with hands on the hilts of their swords, were as frozen as the flames had been. I peered down the path behind me and saw nothing but a whisper of golden dust. There was no movement, and I heard nothing at all. Time did not move. Confusion throbbing in my skull, I pressed my fingers to my brow.

  My sisters were arranged in a motionless cluster when I stepped into the tent, all still, draped in their sparkling ahira costumes. I saw tears and horror on their rigid faces, mouths hanging open, evidently in the middle of speaking. The large torch blazing at the center of the room reached toward the sky, desperate and still. I had only a moment to register all of this before everything changed, and the room was alive again.

  “Emel! Thank Eiqab you are okay!” Raheemah cried.

  Lamentations of concern for me, our father, and our brothers surrounded us. Seeing them, the pain of the afternoon stung me again. I could scarcely comprehend any of it, dizzy as I was by everything that happened. They asked where I had been, if I had seen anything. I shrugged and shook my head, not knowing how to explain that something else, something separate from them, had happened to me.

  “What of Aashiq?” Tavi asked.

  Our eyes met, and I shook my head. I did not want to talk about it now. She understood. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around me, and we embraced while my sisters talked and talked and talked.

  When the guards informed us that we were safe for now, that the threat had been eliminated, I went to my mat. I wanted to sink into the deepest sleep. When I lay down, I felt a firm swelling beneath my back. Confused, I reached under and found a large indigo sack beside my map and ink. It was wide enough for me to fit both of my hands inside. This was not the small pouch I normally kept concealed. I pulled open the bag.

  More salt than I had ever possessed in my life, more than all I had taken from the King, met my eyes. I looked to my sisters. None paid me any attention. A family could live comfortably for years with the amount I clutched in my palms. I had not stolen this, so who else would be so daring to steal and gift it to me—to put it where I hid all of my things? Who, besides my sisters, knew of that? It was almost as if it had appeared by magic.

  Magic.

  With a swift tug of the strings, I closed the bag and stuffed it beneath my bed. Who was this jinni, and what did he want with me?

  I curled into myself and pulled the blanket over my eyes to sleep.

  May Eiqab show me mercy and keep me forever in my dreams.

  Chapter Five

  After Matin’s attack, the settlement was secured, and the remainder of the invaders were chased and killed or captured and imprisoned. The entire perimeter of the palace was heavily guarded by the King’s soldiers.

  The days that followed, I wavered between crippling grief that Aashiq was gone and nauseous worry that my father would learn I released his jinni. When no one summoned me to the Salt King those first few days, I began to hope the jinni had been
truthful after all. Either that or someone else was now master of the wish-granting legend.

  One morning, I went to see my mother. She lounged in the harem on a thickly stuffed mattress, studying a long roll of parchment, her brow creased as she concentrated.

  “Mama,” I said, suddenly needing her to treat me like a child again despite the years of me demanding otherwise. When the wound was deep, Mama could fill it fastest.

  She sat up quickly, pushing the paper away. The loosely tied robe she was wearing fell off her shoulder, exposing her bright golden necklace. She covered herself and beckoned.

  “Emel,” she said my name as if she understood everything in the world. I went to her and curled into her lap. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry for so many things.” She wrapped her arms around me and rocked me while I cried.

  Even ungroomed, the wives in the harem glowed beautifully from their well-kept life, and seeing them was another searing reminder of what I had lost in Aashiq. They approached me, murmuring and cooing sympathetically, some nursing babes of their own, others perhaps wishing their own child would come in need of them too. The women pressed their warm fingers to my back and neck as they consoled me. To many, I was also theirs.

  Since I was moved to the ahira tent at thirteen years, more than the others, I frequented the harem. I was never close with Mama, always feeling as though she had a wall of secrets between us. Some days she was soft embraces and warmth, others she was stiff shoulders and reticence. Still I loved to see her because she loved to tell me stories, and I loved to listen. Sometimes, a secret would slip through her tales, and I would understand her just a little better.

  Mama told me legends of the jinn that were as capricious as Masira, of the hatif that murmured across the dunes and confused travelers, of the Si’la who lured nomads and shifted her shape, of magic that sparked at the desert’s edge. And some days, when we were alone, she’d tuck me under her arm and whisper tales that she made me promise not to share. The parts where she talked about her home. Of walking through her settlement alone, the excitement of visiting the marketplace. Of making friends with strangers and servants alike, teaching that kindness reaped fortune. And the most quietly, she’d tell me that I had to visit her home one day. That I had to promise her that I’d go and see it all. That I wouldn’t let anything stop me. I promised and promised and promised. Because I wanted to hear more.