When Sabra’s final morning arrived, the disquiet in our home was a knife’s edge. I couldn’t stand it, so I lay on my mat staring at the fading marks that still lingered on my arms and the map held open between them. It had been ten days since Omar. My bruises were sinking into my skin, now only a soft green.
I refused to think of Saalim, flinging myself toward any other thought when he crept his way into my mind. We had not spoken since that night, and I was not sure we would ever speak again. Would he come if I called? I feared he wouldn’t, and I would never be able to tell him that I was wrong. He had been right all this time. I owed my father nothing if it was at the expense of myself.
Three scimitar-clad guards walked through my stirring thoughts and into the ahira tent. I sat up, the map rolling itself up with a snap. My sisters gasped at their boldness, pulling down their dresses and yanking blankets over their bare legs. Men did not enter our tent.
Unless they had orders from the King.
“We are here for Sabra,” one said. Their faces were uncovered, so we all could see they were our brothers. The King had sent his family to banish his family.
It began: the muted whimpering that escalated into deep sobs as my sisters cried for their eldest. Sabra’s face crumpled. She closed her eyes, chest heaving, then slowly rose. Sabra would not fight her fate; she was too proud. By the time she was standing, the hurt was buried.
I watched her closely, trying to know what was beneath her expressionless gaze. She moved slowly, first kneeling to roll her mat. Tavi rushed beside her to help. I saw our young sister’s shoulders shaking from across the room.
“Leave it,” the same brother said. “You will take nothing with you to the settlement center.”
Tavi turned with a scowl. Sabra did not rise from her kneel. She paused, carefully controlling her words. “Not to Father or my mother?”
“No.”
One of the guards handed her a thick camel-fur cloak that was not dissimilar to what they were bundled in. It was newer and thicker than the second-hand ones we possessed. It would keep her warm in the winter days, but she would still have to find fire in the night. Tavi rushed to fetch her abaya and veil. Everyone would know she was a castoff ahira.
Sabra stoically dressed, finally throwing the cloak around her shoulders. They would take her to the bazaar where she would be released from their guard. She was to have no contact with her sisters and was prohibited from returning to the palace. If she was caught in the area, she could be sent away with traders to distant villages, or, sentenced to death. It was our father’s decision and depended heavily on his mood. She was no longer a part of the family and should act as such.
Sabra had never been into the village, and I thought of Raheemah walking through with me—how she clung to my arm, frightened of being separated. How despite all of her wonder, she was terrified of its enormity. My chest tightened as I wondered how scared Sabra felt facing a world of which she knew nothing. I regretted my smugness, my secret thoughts that in many ways made me no better than Sabra. I was not a fledgling. I was a bird with strong wings, and I could endure. It was Sabra who could not.
“Am I to have nothing? No money then?” Sabra spoke softly, but we could all hear the ground-splitting crack that broke through her voice. Tears welled in her eyes, but she stood tall.
“Don’t worry,” Tavi said, fussing with Sabra’s cloak. “We will get you everything you need. We’ll figure it out. Won’t we?” Tavi looked at all of us. No one said anything.
“You are to have nothing, and since ahiran are forbidden from leaving the palace and consorting with commoners at the risk of their own exile—” the guard stared pointedly at Tavi, “—I would not expect to receive anything from anyone.” Though his words were harsh, there was a softness underlying them. He did not want to be telling these things to his half-sister. I could see sympathy smudging away his stern guise.
There was a long pause. Sabra stared at the ground. Tavi kept fussing and fussing. Looking around for food, for a sack, for anything to give Sabra even though she knew the guards would say no.
And I don’t know if it was Sabra’s strained forbearance or Tavi’s frantic helplessness, but I could not stay silent any longer. “Don’t be cruel. You can let her take the mat, at least.”
“You are out of line,” the other guard snapped.
“It won’t keep her alive,” I said sharply. “She will still suffer, don’t worry. But you won’t have to live with such a leaden heart.” None of the sisters, including Sabra, looked at me, embarrassed by my blunt tongue.
“You will take nothing. We will give you a few moments to say farewell.” The guards left to wait for her outside.
One by one, the room fell apart anew. My sisters went to Sabra, hugging her and filling her with ridiculous promises of finding her on the streets, of sharing their food, of having their prince take her into their home, perhaps as a maid or cook, of talking to the guards to see what favors they could extract. The promises all empty like shop tents at high moon.
Tavi would not leave her side, racked with sobs as she clung to Sabra’s arm.
Sabra stood still while our sisters flocked to her, touching her like worshippers of an idol. Sabra’s eyes stayed trained above the tent’s exit, keeping her head unmoving so that no tears fell despite their pooling on her lower lids. My sisters sobbed and clutched Sabra’s robes, keening as though she were dead already, not understanding that the worst part was not her leaving but not knowing what would happen to her once she was gone.
Most had not been present when our older sister had been cast out six years ago. They had yet to know the grief, the heartache that trailed in its wake. I remembered that day well, but I had forgotten that it would hurt as much as it did watching Sabra face her ultimate fear. Her ultimate failure. Last time, it took two years to learn of the fate of my banished half-sister. She had struggled to craft together a semblance of a life, impossible without a consistent source of money. Begging had not proved profitable that fateful day. Hungry, she attempted to walk off with a loaf of bread. She was caught, and the shopkeeper beat her violently in the middle of the market. The spectators and shop owners shouted in approval. Teaching the vagrant daughter of the king to mind her manners was a lesson that all in the village wanted to witness. A King’s daughter was lazy, she was entitled. They would show her as much compassion as the King showed them.
How little the villagers understood.
My half-sister did not die from that beating, no. That would have been too merciful. She found shelter in an abandoned tent at the far end of the village; how she had managed to crawl there, so broken was her body, I do not know. She lay sick for days. The filth that seeped into her open wounds found an agreeable home, and before long, she became a vomiting, febrile creature with no awareness of the life that passed around her. It was some time before her heart, weary from suffering, stopped.
Two years it took for this story to reach my ears. Two years for the family of the dead to learn of her passing. Once out of the palace tents, she’d had no one. She had been forgotten. How could any sister survive? To have had so many in such a small world and suddenly to have no one in a big place? It was the fate that terrified me, and it was the future I knew Sabra was thinking of as she stood listening to her weeping sisters’ desolate words.
Had our mother come and seen her these past few days? I had not seen it. I am sure Sabra did not go to her, she was as stubborn as me. What was it like to leave home without a goodbye from your mother and father? The indignation I felt toward my father, the resolution that I owed him nothing, suddenly rekindled. Just because my father declared it did not mean we had to let Sabra go quietly.
Tavi’s face was wet, and she gasped like the air would soothe her. Watching Tavi’s misery was almost worse than seeing Sabra go.
I was not close with Sabra, but she was my sister, and I could not watch her face this fate, not if there was something I could do to prevent it. I could not shrink b
ack from my father anymore. He was not my master.
I moved from my mat and pulled the sack from beneath it. I looked at it longingly, already mourning the loss of small freedoms that would come with giving it away. I would never possess this much salt again—how many more muhami would request an older ahira? I did not know if I would see Saalim again. There would be no more magical salt and certainly no more stolen salt.
Standing, I called to my sister. “Sabra,” I repeated more loudly when she did not turn. I was next to her now. She pressed the sleeves of her cloak to her cheeks then looked at me with blood-shot eyes.
“This will serve you better than it does me,” I said cautiously, quietly, aware of the guards that stood outside, though they chatted loudly amongst each other. I described how the salt was used and the careful way she should trade with it, my voice growing stronger with each explanation. “Villagers will take advantage of your ignorance. A pinch is all you should need for food, drink. A place to stay may cost you two or three. Don’t let them ask for more.” The words tumbled out of my mouth as she watched silently. “Go to my friend, Firoz. You’ll find him every day in the market. He sells coconut juice, is not much older than Lateef. He is kind and will help you learn the village, where to sleep, and where it is safe.” I rambled on, trying to cram as much useful knowledge about the village as I could in those few moments.
It was almost thrilling, teaching her everything my father didn’t want us to know. I hoped my sisters listened. I wanted them to learn, too.
Sabra took the bag into her hands, opened it, and peered curiously inside. Her shoulders dropped and brow smoothed as she understood that such an immense quantity of salt would be invaluable to her. With it she could survive.
Suddenly, the reasons we had fallen apart were forgotten. I wanted to mend everything in that moment, to make up for lost time. If I could give her the gift of salt, I could, too, give her forgiveness.
“Sabra, I am sorry for what happened between us. I—”
“I don’t want it.”
“What?” I fiddled with my fustan as I looked from the salt to my sister.
“Do you think you can just give me this,” she raised the bag into the air, “and everything will be okay? That I’ll forgive you for everything you’ve done?”
I recoiled. Forgive me?
“Because I won’t. You are a foolish dreamer, and you put everything you want before everyone else in your life. You’re selfish, and you give me this to make yourself feel better. So, know this, Emel. I don’t want your charity, and I don’t need it.” Sabra turned her palm over so that the sack fell to the ground, half of the white granules spilling out onto the sand.
Furious disbelief choked me, and I stepped forward, about to shout about what she was losing, what exactly she was turning away. But I caught myself. She would not hear it even if the words were screamed into her ear.
I had done what I could. I would not beg. She needed the last say because that was all she could take. So, if that made her feel better, if rejecting my gift eased her even a little, then I would let her have it. She could have that with my pity, because she was making a terrible mistake.
Sabra turned away from me, our sisters, and walked out of the tent. She said goodbye to none.
Most were silent, in disbelief that she could say no, that she had turned down that which would have changed her life, maybe even saved it. But some murmurings about my selfishness echoed through the tent. I did not look and see who sided with Sabra. I was sure I already knew those sisters, and I would not expend more of me worrying about them.
Only residual sniffling and questioning whimpers were left in Sabra’s trail. My cheeks were hot, and my hands shook as I scooped the salt back into the sack and returned to my mat.
Tavi followed, pressing against me as she cried and cried. I tried to console her, to soften to her agony, comfort her like a mother would, like I knew she needed. But I was cooled iron, hard and unyielding. I was angry at my father, frustrated by Sabra.
I stared at the salt beside me, wondering what I’d do in Sabra’s place. At least I would finally be done guessing, I’d know what my future held, and I’d know what I had to do to survive. And I could survive—I’m sure I could, because I knew how to wield my selfishness. That which Sabra, my sisters, claimed was my problem.
I laughed to myself, and Tavi looked up at me, bewildered. Poor Sabra forgot that pride, not selfishness, is the most dangerous thing for an ahira. Her pride would be the death of her. Of that, I was certain.
Chapter Seventeen
Visitors came in droves for the Haf Shata. The wealthy and well-known sent flattering letters to the Salt King when they arrived, hoping for an invitation to the culminating event of the festival: the infamous, erotic party with fountains of arak and clouds of Buraq. For those who were not invited, the revels of a festival in the prosperous settlement of the Salt King were justification enough for the trip through the desert. Firoz said the baytahira was busiest during the King’s final party, so apparently no one went unattended.
The village was teeming with people out to buy wares to take home, people in search of healers, people gambling in game houses and drinking in the bazaar. An exorbitant amount of coin was exchanged.
Until the King’s private party at the end, the ahiran were absent for all of the Haf Shata: we missed entirely the celebrations hosted by the wealthy when darkness fell, the swirling dances that rippled alongside the market in the afternoon, the long hours of drink and games played by friends until sun rose the next morning. We remained in the palace and only heard of the festivities from the servants, who happily detailed their evenings to one another as they passed us by.
The Haf Shata was more exciting even than the arrival of a caravan, and with Sabra no longer present to fault me for my small escapes, I refused to miss it. No court was held during the festival, so I had no reason to linger in the palace until the midday horn. Jael and Alim still guarded my tent at sunrise, so every morning of the Haf Shata, Jael escorted me out of the palace so that I could visit Firoz.
That afternoon, Firoz and I tried to find Rafal. “He has to be here! Everyone else in the desert is,” I said eagerly, pulling him through the bazaar. Most people we asked looked at us as though we were speaking another language, which I suppose was entirely possible, and shook their heads. Finally, we found a local who knew Rafal.
“You didn’t hear?” the man asked gravely. “Killed.”
My breath caught. “Impossible. Why would the Altamaruq kill him?”
The man looked perplexed, then laughed. “No girl, not by them.” We waited. “By the Salt King.”
Firoz said, “But why?”
The stranger lowered his head, his turban nearly touching Firoz’s. “For spreading lies and degrading the King. He was a fool—spoke too loudly and too confidently in the middle of the bazaar. He was bound to be caught eventually.” The man crossed his arms and leaned away, smug with gossip.
“No . . .” I stepped away from them both, bile rising in my throat. My map, the whole desert. Gone.
Firoz thanked the man and dragged me away. “Emel, stop.” He put his hands on my heaving shoulders when we found a quieter spot off the path. “It’s okay.”
“My own father . . .”
“Your father is fierce and cruel—those scars on your back are testament to that. Rafal was not stupid. He knew what he did was risky. But to him, it was worth it. He accomplished his aim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because more people know about the Dalmur now.”
“The who?”
He pressed his fingers to his brow. “The Altamaruq. More people are asking questions. Perhaps we don’t have to live like this—don’t have to stay under the Salt King’s thumb simply because he’s the most powerful man in the desert. We don’t have to live this life under his reign. Why can’t we see the oasis? Because he says so. Why can’t we build sturdy homes? Because he says so. Why can’t we leave th
e settlement, and why is it so expensive to go with the caravans? Because he says so. Why can’t we visit the palace, why can’t you leave, why are you forced to defile yourself night after night? Because he says so.” He spat the words.
His anger distracted me from Rafal. “Quiet.” I didn’t want to lose him, too.
“No. I won’t be quiet about this. What Rafal said was true. I have to believe it. I’ve been talking to other people who are a part of the Dalmur, other believers. There is a better desert, a kinder place. We just have to find it. And if we want to find it, we have to find a jinni.”
I swallowed. “What do you know about this ‘better desert’? It’s all make-believe, like jinn and winged-steeds and Si’la. You’re throwing your hopes into a fire. I don’t want to talk about this for another moment longer. Either you’re coming with me to see the shops, or I’m going by myself.” I stormed off, slamming my feet in the sand. Firoz followed.
Later that day, he took me to the baytahira.
“Why are we here?” I groaned, stuffed with sweets. He led me past the few men and women who called to us. I noticed Firoz had been right about it being a busy time. There were few people still inviting visitors—most of the tents were occupied.
“I want you to meet some people,” Firoz said, too innocently.
We walked through the ribald quarter, further than I’d been before, until we were again amongst homes. Firoz turned into the space between two tents that opened unexpectedly—a secluded square where I could still hear the music from the baytahira. A large blanket skewered on poles protected the rowdy group sitting around a table at its center.
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