Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  “Not tonight, Saalim.”

  He said nothing, and in his silence, I felt his confusion.

  I turned slowly, unsteadily. “It is what I must do. I must protect my family.” My words were sharp.

  “We have talked about this, Emel. That is your father’s delusion talking. Your family is protected without you—I protect them. You do not need to do this for them.”

  “Is it a delusion? What about our relationship? Isn’t that too, just a dream? What is the right choice, Saalim?” My words were too sharp, my intoxication sending them spinning like swords.

  “A dream? It hasn’t been one for me,” he said softly, stepping toward me. “The right choice is the one that feels right for you.” His words were an echo of my mother’s.

  I pointed behind me to where the suitor waited. “This is what feels right.”

  Understanding crashed into him, and the jinni, who had been so confident, so sure around me, seemed to crumble into the broken, wretched slave I had seen the afternoon I released him from his vessel. I, the knife, he, a block of wood.

  “Please, not tonight.” He pressed his hands together. “I cannot watch you go. Not with him.” He groaned. “Don’t give him your body. I can give you the next suitor and the one after if that’s what you want. Just not this one. Anyone but him.”

  I didn’t listen, wasn’t hearing him. The arak sloshed in my ears. Buraq pressed against my chest.

  “You said you’ve watched me these past years. Haven’t you seen it? No one chooses me, Saalim. I can’t afford to say no to a single suitor.”

  The gap closed between us, he dropped to his knees, shoulders bent forward, his face twisted with a desperate plea. He clasped my hands, bringing one to his mouth and kissing my palm gently, the coarse hair on his face tickling my skin. He spoke quietly, his eyes staring through me, seeing something I could not see. I could feel the heat of his face, his breath against my palm.

  “He is a monster, Emel. His filthy eyes upon you, foul hands on you . . .” He gripped my hands tighter, his words a whisper. “Your fingers against his skin, your lips on his. I cannot bear it. Not for you.” His amber eyes simmered, but there was a heavy darkness in them, a familiar darkness. There was guilt.

  Not understanding, I pulled my hands away from him. “You can’t think of that,” I choked. “It will drive you mad! I am an ahira, Saalim. I have a duty.”

  He looked like I’d slapped him.

  I stared, frustrated by how he complicated things, angered at myself that in some ways, I felt more loyalty to him than to my family and had known him for a fraction of the time. He treated me better than most, yet I could not choose him. I could not live the life I wanted with him. We could never be. My rage bubbled over. My mother was right. Saalim was a fantasy, an untruth. My life as a daughter of the Salt King was real.

  “I can’t choose you,” I said. “Because then I will be back in that reeking tent with my sisters day after day. Will I say no to every muhami until I’m cast out and on the street like Sabra is soon to be? What if you’re taken by the Altamaruq, if you are passed on to someone else? Like Aashiq, you will be gone, but I will still be here.” I wildly gestured as I spilled the words I did not want to believe onto the ground between us. “You are a jinni. I am an ahira. Our lives are in the hands of my father or whoever our masters will be. There can be nothing between us. There can be no future.”

  We stared at each other, our chests heaving with hurt and anger and throbbing hearts.

  “Go, Saalim,” I said flatly, praying that the hurt of my words drowned out the desire I felt for only him. Sons, let him feel only rejection. It will be better that way.

  He gave me one last, withering glance before his eyes dropped to the ground.

  “If it pleases you.” Then, he was gone.

  Shivering in the suddenly cold hallway, the air moved around me again, and the sound of the palace night converged upon me. Quickly, I turned to the guard, who was pressing forward, unaware of the disturbance. I followed him to my muhami.

  “Hello, Emel,” Omar said silkily.

  “My prince.” I bowed, shutting my eyes tightly and fighting the swells of sorrow. “How about some wine?” I cooed, pouring us both a glass. I drank mine quickly and began to pour myself a second glass.

  “Sit down,” Omar said, pushing my hand away from the decanter.

  I did.

  “Your father tells me that you are the most beautiful daughter but in desperate need of breaking. I thought,” he continued, “that this might be fun. Perhaps if we can make some progress tonight, we can try again tomorrow. And if, after the third evening I am satisfied by your obedience, perhaps—” he paused, taking a swig of his wine, “perhaps we can be wed.” His freezing words slid down my spine. I fidgeted on the mattress.

  “Oh, I hope that I will please you,” I purred, understanding what he wanted from me. I leaned back onto my elbows. Omar smirked and walked over to stand between my legs. He leaned over me and roughly pulled the veil from my face.

  “Better,” he said. “Now, on your knees.”

  I obeyed. Omar fumbled with his waistline and pushed his pants down to reveal the part of himself that he wanted me to attend to. He thrust his hips forward toward my face. I thanked Eiqab I was numb from the liquor, from the Buraq, and I took him between my lips.

  I closed my eyes and imagined a vast empty sky that I floated through. A gentle sky where I felt nothing. I imagined this, and nothing else.

  “Yes,” he hissed, his voice thick with lust as he clasped my arms, tugging me to stand. His eyes were glazed and sweat glistened on his brow. I stared at his chest covered in a white tunic and thought of fluffy clouds. He grabbed my face and pulled my gaze up to his. Our eyes met, and I saw lust so much different from Saalim’s.

  I shook my head imperceptibly, ridding myself of thoughts of the jinni.

  “Take off your clothes,” he commanded.

  I did as he asked. He surveyed my nudity, his eyes lingering on my chest, my legs. He followed and came to me, pushing his body onto mine. “This is nice, isn’t it?”

  I hummed in agreement. I closed my eyes and again, thought of the sky. Were I a bird, I would soar so high, none would catch me.

  He clutched the back of my head, moving me like a doll, and his mouth fell on mine. I felt nothing as I climbed through the sky.

  He reached between my thighs.

  I thought again of Saalim. Did he know Omar’s intentions? Is that why he begged me not to come tonight? I was a means to an end for Omar. An outlet for greedy ardor. He cared not for me, only the space between my legs.

  He turned me so I faced away from him and pushed me onto the bed. My hair fell over my shoulders. The scars on my back shone like signal fires at night.

  Snarling, he rolled me onto my back again. “I don’t want to see that.” He mounted me. Through my hazy vision, I could see his expression was crazed. As he forced himself hard between my thighs, I closed my eyes, moaning as I was trained. He squeezed my body until I bruised and shoved into me over and over and over.

  I tried again to think of the sky, to think of the uncaged bird I wanted to be. But I could think of nothing but Saalim as tears fell down my cheeks.

  The twilight horn rang through the village. Minutes later, an attendant arrived.

  “Emel.”

  Omar had requested me again.

  “Good girl,” my father hummed as he fondled his glass vessel, empty of tarnished gold smoke. He sat on his throne, the jinni’s salt surrounding us like an audience. Two days’ worth of sand was in the top of the hourglass beside him, its gentle stream filling the bottom far too slowly. He sipped his cloudy arak and sent me out the door to my suitor.

  Emboldened by the bruises he had left the night before, Omar was rougher, meaner. I lay back, letting my mind travel to the worlds I had heard the jinni speak of. Places where homes were built of stone and flowers bloomed like weeds.

  That night I did not think of Saalim. No
, I would not violate my memories of his safe hands while tumbling with that monster in his muddy pond.

  Sticky and sore, lying next to the sleeping pig, I resolved that I would not let a third night happen.

  Not like that.

  No.

  I would have my say.

  “A third night, Emel? My, do you please him so!” My father’s voice boomed with pleasure. He clapped his hands. I was bruised and weary and aching, but there was no liquor or smoke in my blood to dull my pain.

  Only one day of sand remained at the top of the hourglass. Omar had the journey of the moon and sun left to decide if he would choose me as his bride.

  My father dismissed me, and I was sent off to bed the savage. And finally, I was not helpless.

  Tucked carefully away was the small vial I received from the healer. Omar sat against a pile of cushions when I entered the tent. The air was hazy from Buraq smoke as it had been the nights prior, and he was already deep in his drink. I greeted him coolly, and he laughed.

  “How are you feeling, my dove?” I could hear the amusement in his voice as he called me the same name often used by my father.

  I did not answer. I went to pour him another drink as I had done the nights prior.

  I arced my body so that the scarf draped over my shoulder and down my back concealed my movements from him. I uncorked the vial and tentatively smelled it, scared to get it too close to my face, but it smelled of nothing.

  Nervously, I tipped its entire contents into his goblet of wine. Nothing happened. I exhaled, relieved, then began to worry what the healer had given me. Had it been nothing more than water?

  I turned back to Omar and smiled lazily at him as I handed him his sullied wine. I watched him fearfully as he drank, waiting for him to pause, to notice, and fly into a rage. But he did nothing. He drank it in one swallow.

  “Sit with me,” he ordered and grabbed my hand, pulling me down toward him. My full goblet of wine spilled over the sides onto his pants. He huffed angrily but said nothing as I sat beside him.

  He began to talk of our future, speculating that perhaps I was not the best choice for him, casually insulting me and the scars he found so unsightly. Sitting rigidly, I was unable to listen. All I could do was wait.

  Not much time passed before his words began to slur. I grew tense hearing the change in his voice. I watched him closely. His eyelids grew heavy, and he began to blink more and more, slower and slower. The space between his words lengthened.

  Though dazed, understanding furrowed his brow. He looked bewildered, then peered at me, wary and suspicious. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and fell deeply asleep.

  I waited through the night, silent as a scorpion, but he did not stir. At dawn, I gently pushed at his shoulder, seeing if he would rouse. He did not. When the light through the tent changed, when the sun was beginning to rise, I returned home.

  Though I was exhausted and sore, depleted and hollowed, there was a lightness to my steps. In the only way I could, I had said no to a suitor, and I had won.

  I had won myself a small reprieve. My duty to Omar was finished.

  And of my duty to the Salt King? I realized I owed him nothing.

  The fourth night came. The base of the hourglass was full. Omar’s time was up.

  At the blaring of the twilight horn, I steadied my breathing, staring at the sand on the ground between my feet. Tavi sat beside me, holding my hand tightly. She saw my bruises, she saw my face. She knew the cost if he wanted me.

  The attendant came. “No summons from the King tonight. I am sorry, Emel.” She sounded so sincere.

  My heart beat wildly against my ribs, exaltation pumping through me. He did not want me. There would be no wedding. Omar would not return to court for another year. He could not hurt me, or my sisters, until then.

  There was a flicker of fear. Though he had no proof, would he tell my father what had happened?

  My sisters clucked sympathetically, thinking they understood how I felt. They only saw that I had been close to a proposal. They did not see that my soul hurt more than my body. They could not see the relief that emerged like a shadow with the sun.

  I did not understand the full weight of the burden that had been sitting upon my shoulders until it had been lifted by the attendant’s words. When I was not called to the King and the looming promise of proposal was pulled away like a scab, I cried. My sisters thought it sadness. I said nothing to dissuade them. They did not need to know that it was joy, it was restoration.

  True, in some ways I was sad. I was sad for the girl that I had been just two nights prior. So weak, so helpless, so confused. Because of my father and the thorny court he created. Because of men like Omar. I cried when the attendant left, because I felt grief for that girl, for me.

  But I cried, too, because I was changed. Through Firoz, through Aashiq, through Saalim, I had glimpsed a part of me that I had never seen, did not know I possessed. Though I could not control all, I could and would control some things. I did not have to be a willing participant in my father’s court.

  Sorry, Mama. I do not care what you envision for my future. I don’t want it.

  Sorry, Father. Your thoughts of my worth don’t align with mine, and I will have the final say.

  Sorry, sisters. You may find the easier path the one that has the fewest turns, but that is not the path I will choose. I can’t sacrifice myself for you or for anyone.

  I looked at Tavi, whose soft eyes glistened in response to my tears. She gave me the smallest smile and winked at me. I knew she understood. She and I were cut from the same cloth, and she dreamed my same dreams. We clutched each other.

  “I can’t endure this anymore,” I whispered to her.

  She nodded, knowing.

  And with that realization was strength. Finally, I glimpsed my own power. Now, I needed to learn how to wield it.

  Wahir crafted beasts of the ground and watched them pace. He crafted beasts of the sky and watched them flap their wings.

  Eiqab laughed and struck the animals into the dust. He said, Brother, you think you are powerful because you can create life, but remember, I am stronger, I can destroy it.

  Wahir did not stop. He continued to make life, even when Eiqab took it.

  Masira watched her sons closely, but she did not interfere, for it was a discussion to be kept between brothers.

  Wahir pointed to his beasts. He said, But look at the camel that stores my water for the length of the moon, see the vulture that feeds himself on the death you cause, watch the fox that finds its meals beneath my pale light. Life is wise.

  Your life may be wise, but still, it is weak, Eiqab said, sending more beasts crashing to the ground.

  The beasts grew in numbers, and soon Eiqab could not kill them all. Brother, Wahir said, you are mistaken. Life is not weak, it is infinite, and when faced with trouble, life endures.

  —Excerpt from the Litab Almuq

  Chapter Sixteen

  I knew the heart of winter had arrived when the fires were kept burning through the night. With the season of long nights came the anticipated winter festival, the Haf Shata: a seven-day revelry surrounding the massive desert-wide market that culminated with a private party at the King’s palace. The poor and the wealthy alike traveled from across the desert with their own goals in mind—whether it be to line their pockets with dha and fid, cart away rare gems and salted meat, or to see the King’s famed wives and ahiran.

  The village was abuzz with excitement in preparing for the festival. Shop owners bulked up their supply, cleaning their tents and shelves. Guards combed the village ensuring livestock was tethered, clothes were pulled from drying lines, and homes and shops were rendered immaculate. They ineffectively removed the beggars from the streets, as most retreated at the sight of them, only to return moments after they had passed. When the guards weren’t busy pulling the scrupulous mirage over the settlement, they were planning the ways to best protect their king. The threat of the Altamaruq lurked,
and we all worried an influx of people traveling into the village would better hide the lurking rebels, would better conceal another attack.

  But the threat was not enough for the Salt King to call off the Haf Shata. The festival must take place.

  The palace swarmed with servants who meticulously arranged decorations, planning elaborate fare and drink, preparing every underutilized tent for guests or to house and train new slaves recently bought from southern traders. The last time I walked by the kitchens, there were so many people shrieking at each other, I thought it to be a brawl—but no, only discussing who would use which cook fire. The clanging of the hammer at the metal-forgers went nearly through the night. The click-clicking of needles and the whoosh of fabric had been incessant from our neighbors’ home as they prepared costumes. More and more pots were lined outside the potter’s as he waited for the sun to dry them before he shoved them in his kiln. Looms rolled carpets out of tents like tongues as more and more were woven for the palace floors.

  It could have been a heady chaos, but this year amongst the ahiran, the Haf Shata was of little concern. Instead, we focused on the twenty-third anniversary of Sabra’s birth. In the days leading up to it, we tiptoed around her, fearful of stoking the anger that threatened to boil over. She had grown taciturn and hermetic, unwilling to speak to the family that would soon be forced to abandon her.

  It had been nearly three moons since I had spoken with her. Since we stood before my father and she threw the fledgling to the foxes. The enmity was heavy, and each day we shared in our home together was harder than the previous.

  Tavi was relentless, begging each of us in turn to move beyond our bitterness. “You don’t have to hate each other. You both are being absurd,” she would say. I would shake my head and say, “Sabra first.” I am sure my older sister did the same. I knew in a couple of years, I would suffer the same fate. But watching Sabra sulk around the tent, I allowed myself the indulgence of feeling pleasure that my sister would suffer after being so vile. Even if that feeling left trails of guilt.