Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Strings of beads and bells hung down over the entrance, and a cacophony of pinging glass and metal sounded when we walked through. A large fire sent heavy smoke into the enclosed room. Through the haze, I saw two iron pots filled with boiling liquid strung above the flames. Behind the fire was a large wooden loft, tall enough to walk under, with a flimsy ladder that leaned against it. Beneath were rows and rows of shelves with an uncountable number of baubles and trinkets: metal pots rolled onto their sides, glass receptacles with chips missing from their edges, twisting golden pipes reaching to the sky, vessels of colorful liquid with corks plugged into their necks.

  A clatter sounded from the darkness atop the loft, startling us both. An orange glow moved to the loft’s edge, and soon I could make out a gnarled man holding a candle in one hand with sheets of parchment in the other. He leaned over the edge. “What do you want?”

  “We need your help. My sister, she . . .”

  The man set down his papers and descended the ladder, candle in hand, with unexpected dexterity.

  “Can you pay?” he asked gruffly when he was on the ground.

  “Yes, I have—”

  “Come here.”

  We followed him to a low, silver table atop a woven rug. He set down the candle and, with creaks and groans, slowly folded his body until he was seated on the rug.

  He was a small man, not much larger than me. He wore long, white robes that were much too big for him. When we were seated, he tilted his face toward us. His eyes were nearly all white: the brown of his eyes paper-thin and web-like, stretching to the center of his pupils, which were shockingly bright white. The parts of his face not hidden in his scarf were covered in severe lines and deep folds of thinning, aged skin. No fat to soften his features. There was no beard on his face, unusual for a man. Instead, he had small astral symbols inked across his cheeks and jaw. He sat silently, staring behind us. Was he blind?

  “Who are you?” he said roughly.

  “My name is Emel. This is my sister, Raheemah.”

  “King’s daughters then?” He guffawed and scratched at his crotch. “How brave you are. Indeed, you must be desperate.”

  Our names were not secret, but not many villagers knew the names of the King’s many children well enough to recognize them at once. “Yes, sir. So you must know your silence is much appreciated—”

  “Don’t talk to me about keeping secrets, girl. Why are you here?” He snapped.

  I cowered and pulled my scarf away from my face. I gestured to my sister. “We think she is with child.”

  “Lie down.”

  Raheemah reluctantly lay on the rug, her face turned anxiously toward me. The healer used his hands to feel the way toward her. He bent over her, his large robes billowing out so his bare, boney chest showed beneath. He felt her body methodically as though orienting himself and then fumbled with the ends of Raheemah’s abaya without thought to her modesty. He pulled them up carelessly until her midsection was exposed. Her bright pants were brash in the drab room. If anyone were to walk in, her clothes would be immediately recognizable as belonging to a princess. I shifted so I sat between the door and my sister.

  Without pause, the healer pressed his boney, claw-like fingers into her skin with firm, repetitive motions until he grunted in understanding, stopped, and nodded. “She could be. It is early. If her womb takes the tonic, she will be briefly ill and the child will be gone. If the womb does not take well to the tonic, then . . . How will you pay?” He sat back slowly.

  I exhaled and dropped my shoulders, worrying over the unspoken consequence. Raheemah scrambled up and urgently pulled her robes down to cover herself. She turned to me and said, “There is no choice. I must.”

  I nodded and said to the healer, “I have salt.”

  The healer shifted and looked toward me with his colorless eyes. He moved slowly until he sat before me. He brought his fingertips together before him, studying me. As he did, the sleeves of his robes fell down to his elbows, and I was surprised that more black ink coated his arms: the phases of the moons, suns with thick rays, and stems with leaves trailing up his arms until all was lost into the folds of fabric.

  “Salt is a dangerous thing to carry, my child. It is the King’s currency. Where did you get it, I wonder?”

  I stared mutely, unsure if he expected an answer. The implication in his words unnerved me. Was he suggesting I stole it?

  The healer’s unseeing eyes traveled over my face slowly. Finally, they fell down to my chest. They lingered there for a moment before he stood, groaning as he straightened out. He grabbed his candle and shuffled to the shelves. He felt his way through the trinkets and pulled vessels of liquid off the shelf. He chose vials and carefully poured precise quantities into an empty silver goblet.

  Cupping the chalice carefully, he brought it to Raheemah. “Drink. Quickly, now.” She silently obeyed, her face distorting at the foul taste.

  “You will bleed heavily, and if there is a child, it will leave with the blood,” he said.

  “What do I pay?” I pulled the sack from my robes and held it before me.

  The healer said nothing. He turned back to his shelves and prepared another vial of liquid. He smelled it, grunted his approval, and placed a cork in its thin neck.

  He gestured for me to open the sack I held in my palms. He reached his gnarled fingers into the bag and pulled out a pinch of salt. With his shining tongue, he licked the crystalline granules off of his fingers. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and hummed in delight. I glanced at Raheemah who looked as alarmed as I felt. The healer waved the bag away and took a step toward me, closing the gap between us.

  “Remove your abaya, girl,” he whispered urgently, eagerly. “You carry life in you as well.” His warm, sour breath blew against my face.

  Raheemah was scandalized, her gaze flicking from me to the healer. Alarm spiked in me. With child? That was impossible. I had no signs, it had been so long since . . . I pulled off my abaya until I stood in the immodest clothes of court.

  The healer smiled widely as he stared at my chest, then extended his hand and placed it carefully onto my breastbone.

  “You are marked, just as I thought. I could feel it!” he said, giddy fascination thick in his voice. He tapped his hand against my heart and laughed wildly, excitedly. “This love is like a draught of poison, but She has poured it for you alone. It will not be easy to swallow, oh no. But once you’ve done it—and you will—you will be changed forever.” He leaned close to me and whispered, “Do not hesitate to drink.” He dropped his hand and then proffered the small vial.

  I took it and moved to uncork the vial, about to drink. I did not understand his words, but I knew that I did not want to be with child either.

  “No!” He shrieked and his hand flew to the vessel, stopping its journey to my lips. He grew serious. “This is not for you. This is my gift, to thank you for the gift that you will soon give to us.” He smiled, almost crazed, before he took the cork from my fingers and re-stopped the vial. “This is for one who stands in your way. May they fear you.”

  I took it from him carefully, scared of what it contained. “What does it do?”

  “Leave,” He turned from us and scrambled up the ladder, murmuring excitedly to himself. “I must tell them the news.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Raheemah and I inhaled deeply, relishing the cool evening air outside the healer’s tent.

  “What was that about?” Raheemah whispered, eyeing the griffon. She still stared at us, except now, she seemed even more curious.

  “Eiqab only knows. He is surely mad. But if it works, it was worth it.” I crossed the scarf over my face and tucked away the vial. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel a little sick, but it helps to be out of that foul smoke.” She coughed and looked back to the healer’s tent as we walked away. The glowing orange from the fire within shone through the strings of beds that hung at the entrance. The griffon still watched us. “That tonic he ga
ve me was awful.”

  “I’m sorry.” I reached out and gently squeezed her hand.

  “Don’t apologize. I owe you a great debt.”

  “So we’re even then? No thirty games of cards owed.” I smirked, reminding her of the promise to lie for me the afternoon I left to the market.

  “Yes, we’re even.” She paused, then turned to me. “Could I see it?”

  “The bazaar?”

  “I just thought, well, I have never been, and I might never . . .”

  I laughed. “Yes! Let me show you.” I explained to her that without the caravan everything would be quieter, and since the Altamaruq had come, things were even more muted. But I promised she would still be amazed. “If it’s okay with you, I have a friend I would like to see while we are there. I haven’t seen him in some time. It will not take long.”

  Her eyebrows raised at the mention of a man, but she agreed. We changed direction to head toward the marketplace.

  “What do you think the healer gave you?” Raheemah asked.

  “Who knows. Meant for an enemy, eh?”

  “Perhaps Nassar will be thirsty sometime soon.”

  “Emah, hush!” Tavi was rubbing off on her.

  “‘This love is a draught of poison,’” she repeated like a perfect student. “I wonder what it means. Are you in love? I hope not. It sounds bad.” She continued to puzzle over his words as we walked, her mood brightening with each step.

  Tendrils of light still lingered in the night sky. We had not been gone long. The walk to the healer’s took nearly more time than our visit with the healer himself.

  The market was ablaze for the evening: shops illuminated by small torches at their entrances, candles scattered throughout the bazaar lanes. We navigated through the quiet walkways, Raheemah exclaiming her wonder at all of the sights with each turn.

  “Amazing!” She cried, watching three musicians laugh and sing together, firelight glittering in her eyes.

  “Wait here.” I left her beside a large spice shop. The outpouring of herbal, floral, and nutty scents reminding me of the palace kitchens. Raheemah walked through the barrels and baskets that were lined in little rows and nodded distractedly.

  I crossed the crowded lane and found Firoz sitting beneath his usual tent.

  He crushed me to him amongst the crowd of shoppers. It was a hug so different from what I had shared with Saalim. His was the touch of family.

  “It is good to see you, too.” I pulled away, gazing warmly at my friend.

  “Every time something horrible happens, I don’t see you. Twice now I’ve been worried you’re dead!”

  Indignant, I crossed my arms. “I tried to see you a few days ago, but you weren’t here.”

  “When?” He asked.

  I told him, and understanding cleared the confusion on his face.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I sold everything early that day,” he said quickly.

  It seemed unbelievable given the quietude of the settlement, but I did not contest. I told of Rafal and what he said of the Altamaruq. Firoz started to tell me what he had heard, but I stopped him.

  “I cannot stay. My sister waits for me. I just wanted to see you, ensure you are well and let you know that I am the same.”

  “Your sister is here?! Why haven’t you brought her over to meet me?” He stretched out his neck and peered at the people in the lane. “I can add another elusive ahira to my list of acquaintances,” he murmured and winked at me.

  “Eiqab, help me.”

  He waved my words away. “Go fetch her.”

  Soon, we were all sitting together under the tent—Raheemah with a jar of coconut juice nestled between her palms, a comfort for her unsettled stomach.

  “I can’t believe all that’s been happening. First the guards, and now the prison.” He motioned to a part of the village behind him. “I heard nothing about illness or death amongst the ahiran, so I didn’t know what to think when I hadn’t seen you. Where have you been?”

  Keeping my eyes on Raheemah, who sat at the front of the shop watching people pass, I told him what happened with Sabra. Of the lashing and the imprisonment. His face fell, and he grabbed my hands, squeezing them tightly.

  He said, “You just missed the prison fire.”

  “What fire?” I asked.

  Raheemah turned toward us, her eyes dropping to where our hands were linked. I pulled away. I did not need the rumors going through the sisters that there was indeed a man in my life.

  “It was awful. That whole section of the village was worried they’d lose their homes—people tore apart their tents to get away from it.”

  Fires were rare in the village, but when they did occur, they wiped away entire sections of our settlements, the wood and animal-hair a perfect feast for flames.

  He continued, “The flames licked up the walls, getting bigger with each thing they consumed. They destroyed the entire prison. I heard it roaring into the night, saw the soot and smoke over the orange glow.”

  Apparently, people from all over saw the shine of the fire at the edge of the village. There had been no deaths, but most of the prisoners had fled and were now scattered throughout the settlement in hiding.

  ”What caused it?” Raheemah asked, now more captivated by Firoz’s story than the marketplace.

  He shrugged. “A strong wind and a precariously close lamp?”

  I thought of the screaming soldier in the prison. Was he in the village now? Mad from torture and seeking revenge? The thought chilled me.

  Aware of the passing time, I said goodbye to Firoz, warning him it would be some time before he saw me again. He hugged me gently and bowed respectivefully toward Raheemah.

  We walked through the market so she could see the shops. She was looking through a table of embellished veils, fingering the shining ornaments, when a middle-aged woman called to us from across the lane.

  “Fortunes for a price!”

  Interest piqued, Raheemah turned to the exotic woman wrapped in a myriad of colors, thickly beaded necklaces draped on her neck, and shining metal chains on her wrists that jingled together when she moved. Raheemah left the veils behind and traipsed across the lane.

  “Please, sister,” she begged me, eyes alight with excitement as she listened to the oracle describe fantasies and futures. “I want to know my fate!”

  “Absolutely not,” I whispered in her ear, careful no one heard our exchange. “We have no coin.” We could not be seen trading in salt.

  The oracle saw our murmured exchange and Raheemah’s subsequent disappointment. “For the young one,” she said directly to me, “I will do it for nothing.”

  It was an offer that could not be refused. Raheemah’s face lit up like a lantern as she followed the oracle into the tent.

  I was uneasy. People did not do things for free. What would she want in return? I hoped Raheemah had enough wits to keep her mouth closed about who we were. I fidgeted outside before deciding to wander through the nearby shops to pass the time. I would not stray far. Some vendors still had their wares on display despite the late hour. Most had removed their goods, and the empty tents yawned wide, dark like toothless mouths.

  I was near one of the darkened tents thinking of the escaped prisoner when my arm was yanked firmly and I was quickly pulled to its back. A scream tore from my chest, but there was no sound. I clutched at my throat. Why couldn’t I scream? I turned to my assailant, and in the glow of the market, I saw his face.

  “Saalim?” I whispered. Glee immediately replaced the panic. He pulled me through the back corner of the tent where two panels had been loosely tied together.

  We stood in the back of the bazaar, smashed between fabric. I clutched my chest as my heart slowed and peered at the rears of tents around us. I could not see any of the marketplace, but I could hear it: clinking trinkets, pinging coin, and humming voices. I smiled, wondrous.

  The faint glow from the open shops seeped through the clo
th and illuminated the jinni’s face a gentle orange. He was dressed in the palace guard uniform, but his scent enveloped me so surely, I could have closed my eyes and known his presence.

  We stared at each other. Moths fluttered in my stomach. I wanted to fling myself into his arms, but his reserve held me back. Why did he stare at me like that? At first, he said nothing. Then, with a light, hesitating touch, he reached for the edge of my scarf. I nodded, and he pulled it away from my face.

  “Hello,” he murmured, his fingers playing through my hair. I pressed my head into his hand. “I’ve missed you,” he said, spreading his fingers across the back of my head and pulling me to him. His other arm wrapped around my shoulders.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said into his chest.

  “Before you worry,” he whispered, looking down at me. “Your sister is fine. It will take quite some time for her fortune to be told.”

  I leaned back and saw a wicked smile curving his lips. “The oracle? That was your doing?”

  “Indeed,” he chuckled, then grew serious. “Now, I have something I must finish. We were interrupted last time.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. Like a pot shattering on stone, the days of pent up yearning for the jinni exploded from me. I reciprocated his movements with the same desperation, clenching the back of his uniform in my hands. We were tangled together, the urgent tension between us crackling and snapping. The tent walls flapped against us, a pocket of privacy in the beating heart in the village.

  I pulled away, breathless, Saalim’s face a palm’s breadth from my own.

  “How did you find me?”

  “After so many mornings together, I know you well. Your mind is easy to find.” He kissed my forehead. “Did you get away without trouble?”