Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Large bowls sat upon the small stage by my father’s chair, empty as he mingled with his guests. The guards allowed me to approach the stage and dump my coins. They clinked against the metal as they fell to the bottom of the bowl. Other sisters did the same. Throughout the night, the basins filled.

  I turned toward the crowd, surveying the room from the stage. The sun, now sinking into the horizon, shined its dazzling light into the open tent. Everywhere its glow did not touch appeared black.

  A face in my periphery caught my attention. I turned to meet the gaze. A slave holding goblets of drink stared back. We stared at each other for several moments before the slave turned away, continuing his task. His eyes did not glow, and I saw nothing to mark him as the jinni, but nonetheless, I hoped. My heart quickened as I descended the stage and followed the slave, ignoring my duties to the guests, desperate not to lose sight of him as I weaved through the dancing, laughing, groping, and drinking bodies. Where was he? I stopped in the midst of the crowd, head whipping back and forth as I stood on my toes.

  “A drink for the princess?” The words, almost identical . . .

  Wild-eyed, I whirled around to face the man.

  “I beg your forgiveness. I did not mean to startle,” he mumbled. His eyes stared down toward the clinking chains circling my waist. I took the goblet of wine and examined him quickly, tilting my head from side to side. There was nothing familiar about him. No heat, no smell, no golden cuffs around his wrists.

  I sighed. What was I doing, and what could I even say to Saalim surrounded by all these people?

  The crowd spun around me, the music loud in my ears, drums vibrating through my chest. I brought the wine to my lips, and I swallowed it in one drink.

  “Slow down, Emel,” a familiar voice said.

  Cold fear crept up my spine. I turned, and there was Omar. I silently cursed having forgotten that while he was not allowed to court for a year, he was welcome at the summer and winter festivals. I had not seen him since our last night together. Had he known that anything had happened? I peered at him nervously, but all I saw was an intoxicated man.

  “Prince,” I nodded. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

  “Quite the fun we’re having tonight!” His words were slurred, and relief washed through me. If he knew something was amiss, he did not let on.

  He leaned toward me. “Though I do think that my time spent with you was better. This is all so . . . chaste. Don’t you think?” He smirked and edged closer.

  The tent suddenly felt like a net. I leaned away, trying to step back.

  “Ah, Emel. You wound me,” he said with mock pain. He frowned. “I know you must be broken-hearted I did not take you as a bride, but you see, I could never have taken someone like you as a wife. As a plaything perhaps . . . I cannot deny you were fun. Maybe when the private tents open later, I’ll look for you. Until then,” he pulled out two large golden coins, “a kiss will do.”

  “Actually, I was going to tend to another. You’ve interrupted me,” I said, attempting to slip past him.

  He raised a hand to me as if to strike me, but instead, grabbed my arm and pulled me to him. I squirmed under his hold as he squinted at me, as if trying to figure me out. He pressed his lips roughly against my own, then placed his mouth on my neck, his teeth pressing into my skin.

  Finally, his hold loosened. I spun away, and without looking back, disappeared into the crowd.

  “Just as delicious as I remember,” he laughed behind me.

  Night had fallen, and the King again called for attention. The volume of the party dimmed alongside the music until there was only the hissing sounds of rustling robes and hushed whispers of guests.

  As though he forgot that he had just called to his guests, my father hollered at a servant.

  “Come! Tonight is a night for fun to be had by all. Including you!” The King pointed at the servant then clapped his hands. A smattering of chuckles rumbled through the people.

  The servant shuffled toward the King, head bowed low.

  The King took two glasses of wine from the tray and offered one to the servant.

  “Drink with me!”

  At first, the man refused, shaking his downturned head.

  “Ah, I’m wounded.” He turned toward his guests. “Who would refuse a drink with the King?”

  The servant reluctantly took the glass.

  “There you go! Now . . .” The King clinked his to the servant’s, laughing horribly, then downed his drink.

  The servant hesitated, then moved to do the same. Offense shifted the King’s features, and he grabbed the goblet from the servant’s hand and splashed the red liquid onto the poor man’s face, spilling drops of wine onto the tray and staining his white tunic. I warned myself not to look too closely. It made no difference whether I knew him or not. But as I told myself no, my eyes wandered to his wrists.

  “No king drinks with a slave,” the King hissed.

  A glint of gold peaked out from his sleeves. Saalim. My chest tightened as the crowd laughed at the man’s humiliation. I clenched my jaw, furious.

  The King continued loudly. “We do not mix with the low. Eiqab has blessed us with fortune, and we will not waste it.” The people yelped their approval.

  Pushing the servant away from the stage with his foot, the King turned back to his guests with his arms spread wide. The man stumbled and fell to his knees, his tray and empty goblets spilling across the rugs. The guests laughed harder, clapping in wild delight at the spectacle. I turned away, seething—unable to see anything but my blinding fury. I tightly folded my arms across my chest to prevent myself from doing anything else. I wanted to go to Saalim and reveal to the crowd how weak my father was who relied on magic for power. I wanted to run to Saalim and hold him, shelter him from the fools who did not know his worth.

  My father did know Saalim’s worth, though, I realized. He knew exactly what he was doing and to whom. Of course he would lord his power over the only thing that was more powerful than he. The one thing that could not fight back. My nails dug into my skin.

  Once the laughter died down, the King announced to his visitors that he and his harem would be spending the rest of the evening in the neighboring tent. All were welcome. The panels of fabric that had been open connecting to the two tents were promptly closed for the privacy of those who would watch the King’s lechery or participate in their own. Guards quickly followed their king and his harem into the space. I did not watch them go. I had not seen my mother all night, and I did not want to see her amongst the wives soon to bed the King in some atrocious display of power. It was the only time I was grateful to be his daughter and not his son. We did not have to watch him befoul our mothers as the guards who protected them did.

  Less than a quarter of the crowd followed the King. Perverse curiosity, engorged and shameless from liquor, leading them to the enclosed tent. When the panels opened as they passed through, I could already glimpse thick Buraq-rose clouds sitting heavy on the shoulders of the visitors inside. Mercifully, I saw nothing else.

  For the rest of the guests, the music returned and strummed along. Drinks circulated, food was consumed, dancing began again. For those that desired, the private tents were now opened, allowing guests short, intimate encounters with the ahiran if their pockets were deep enough.

  I lingered by the open wall of the tent, peering out at the night. My thoughts fixated on my father’s cruel treatment of the jinni.

  As the night pushed on, the crowd in the main tent thinned, some finding ahiran to join them in the private tents, others reclining on the large cushions and benches scattered about the room. I watched my sisters flirt and touch coaxingly, some sitting on the laps of men, others locked in heady embraces, coins sparkling at their breasts and hips. My eyes scanned the slaves and guards, but I did not see the one for whom I searched.

  About to turn back toward the desert, wanting to glimpse the white-freckled sky once more, I saw Omar approach from amongst the crowd. I tur
ned my back hoping he wouldn’t see me.

  “I thought it was you,” he said, suddenly next to me.

  I let out a breath and stepped away from him. “Mmm,” I hummed. A guard stood just outside the tent. I had to be careful now. If the guard saw my refusal, I felt certain my father would hear of it.

  Omar carefully stroked my arm, his fingers tangling in the gauzy fabric of the scarf on my shoulder. “Your father is enjoying his wives tonight,” he said, staring out into the night. “You should visit, observe,” he whispered. “I desire you, Emel.” He moved so that he was behind me, both of our faces turned to the onyx desert. His body concealed mine completely from the company inside. His stomach against my back, his robes brushing against the soft fabric around my legs. His rapid breaths blew against my hair.

  “Perhaps you could learn some things from your mothers.”

  I feigned a laugh. “Me? I think perhaps it is you who could learn something. Like how to please a woman since your manhood couldn’t manage it on its own.”

  He wrapped his arm around my waist and yanked me toward him. I could feel the hardness of him pushing against me. He roughly stuffed his hand beneath the fabric covering my breast. “You whore. How dare—”

  “Prince Omar,” I said loudly so that the guard standing near would hear. I shoved away from him, relieved he made his reckless move. “The King’s rule does not allow this behavior without first your payment for a private tent. I am not your ahira tonight.”

  The nearby guard heard me and shouted at Omar. “This is no courting. They are not free!”

  Omar pushed away from me, mumbling to the guard about misunderstanding and dramatics and of course he was going to pay. He strode back into the party. I stepped out across the threshold and into the desert, enchanted by the darkness around me. I let myself linger in the night until I was sure Omar had lengthened the distance between us. I closed my eyes entertaining thoughts of running into the inky night, disappearing forever. But no, not yet. There were still things I had to do, frayed edges that needed mending. I had to find Saalim.

  Back inside, I saw Omar had not gotten far. His back was turned to me as he watched the lazy partiers. Smugly, I saw that his shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths, surely enraged by his humiliation.

  Smiling to myself, I sauntered by. “You may think you hold the winning hand, my prince,” I hissed, “but the cards I have, I play well. Better luck next time.” I winked, and walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Omar followed me. I hadn’t considered that he would, and had the words not felt so good, I might have regretted them. I quickened my steps, but he kept my pace. Neither of us ran, not wanting to attract undue attention. Searching the guests for those that seemed unoccupied, those that might find my company desirable, I heard Omar call behind me.

  “Emel,” he said loudly, “you cannot say no to my coin.”

  So he was playing this game, too. I pretended I did not hear, acted as though I was not running from a guest but rather searching for someone. If a guard heard Omar, they did not act on his words.

  Glancing to my side, I saw that Omar was right behind me. He reached out his hand, fingers spread, and firmly grabbed my arm. Sons, now I was in trouble.

  “Ahira,” a man called as Omar pulled me to him. Eagerly, I turned in the direction of the voice. A handsome, young nobleman came toward us, robes of white and gold undulating around him.

  “There you are!” I said brightly, tearing my arm from Omar’s grasp. The nobleman faltered at my unexpected response.

  “Actually,” Omar said, “we were just heading to a private tent.”

  The man’s eyes darted between Omar’s hand on my arm and our faces. “That is impossible. The ahira promised me an evening in a private room. I have just spoken with Nassar. It is already arranged.” The man stepped close to Omar, nearly a hand taller than him.

  Omar sneered at him. “Do you know to whom you speak, salt chaser?”

  The nobleman’s face hardened to flint. He stared at Omar as an eagle would a rodent and squared his broad shoulders such that Omar appeared a child beside him. Though the nobleman said nothing, Omar seemed to be struck dumb.

  He looked away and said, “She bores me anyway.” Huffing he retreated to the party.

  I dipped my head to the nobleman and offered him a tired smile. “Thank you.”

  “You do not have to thank me. I have come with coin.”

  Between Omar and the other guests I’d tended to that night, I was tired of the act. But how could I say no when I could feel Omar’s eyes on my back, certainly watching to see if what the man said was true.

  The man led me away from the center of the room. He held three dha out to me. “Will this do for a kiss?” He was close to me now, speaking in my ear so I could hear him over the musicians playing nearby.

  “The night is not young, sir. A kiss on the lips will take quite a bit more.”

  “Well, perhaps just a touch then,” he said and pressed the coins to my palm.

  I closed my fingers around them. The nobleman reached toward the chains encircling my waist and touched them lightly, letting them drop one by one back to my navel. He touched the top of my brassiere, tracing his fingers along the whorls of the design. He paused, hesitating just for a moment, then collected himself and said, “The gold is lovely on you.”

  “Thank you.” I closed my eyes, exhausted, but not daring to turn this man away.

  While he reached into the purse at his hips, I scanned the room. Omar stood at the room’s periphery, staring at us. The nobleman pulled out five dha. “Enough for a kiss?”

  “That will do,” I said smiling, taking the gold coins. I arched my neck, a show for Omar, and waited.

  The man leaned forward and, with unexpected gentleness, brought his lips to mine. I felt his lips part just slightly, but there was no urgency, no hunger to his movements. Nothing like the other guests that evening. It was pleasantly familiar, reminding me of the morning in my prison cell those many moons ago . . .

  My breath caught, a deep chasm wrenched open, chest tight from the pressure. My eager ahira facade crumbled.

  The man trailed his lips across my cheek to my jawline to the place just under my ear, his touch feather-light. He let his mouth linger above the bruised area on my neck left by Omar earlier in the evening. His warm breath and beard tickled my skin before he kissed me there softly, just once. He kissed me everywhere I had been kissed that night, gently, slowly. As if he had seen it all and was there to erase it, replacing it with something soft and kind—or claim it as his own. His hands held my head and shoulder attentively.

  Feeling myself soften at his touch, I stepped back. “Saalim—?” I whispered, hopeful. Though my chest burned with longing, we had too much to discuss. I needed to apologize, to explain. And it couldn’t be here, out in the middle of the party.

  “Ah, my time is up, is it? Very well, I can pay more.” Scorn fell from his lips, and I recoiled from it. I didn’t understand where his contempt was coming from—was it my behavior tonight? What had I done to upset him? Then I remembered the last time we spoke. He had not forgiven me.

  He held his empty hand in front of me, and, at the slightest movement of his fingers, another golden coin appeared. He deftly tucked it behind the cloth on my breast, letting his fingers linger on the skin of my chest. Heat flooded through me, but it could not battle the cold iron that held fast the memory of our last time together. The poison I spat at him.

  He kissed my mouth again, carefully and tenderly, holding my head in his hands.

  He presented more coins. He was intent, almost frenzied, tucking the gleaming coins wherever they fit. His fingers caressed my skin each time, heat radiating out from each touch. He bent to kiss me again.

  “No,” I whispered into his lips. Each moment a stinging reminder of what I was. “Please.”

  He spoke with his brow pressed against mine. “Why not, princess? I can pay. You cannot refuse me.” Suddenly
, he was angry.

  “I can’t . . . I want to talk to you.”

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “After I have had to watch every monster at this insufferable party place his paws on you, I think you can stand a bit more.”

  He kissed me again, but now he was fiercer in his movements. He held my face firmly between his fingers and pulled my hips roughly to his.

  “In fact,” he said, “how about we collect our little privacy, like we promised your dear Omar?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me to the guards who stood alongside Nassar and the basin of glinting coins.

  “A private tent, please,” he said to the vizier.

  Nassar squinted as he looked at Saalim, his lips pursed as if about to ask a question before satisfaction eased his features. “Oh yes, Emel is quite experienced. Enjoy!” Nassar did not care that he did not know who this man was. He had money, and that is what mattered.

  Saalim held his hand over the bowl and coins spilled from his palm. Once his price was paid, he turned and strode toward the private tents, taking me with him.

  We stepped into a room that was not dissimilar to the tents that I often shared with muhamis: gauzy fabric hung from the ceiling above a large mattress piled with colorful pillows and thin blankets.

  Once inside, he turned toward me. He had shed his disguise. His skin dark gold beneath the nobleman’s robes, his face held the familiar planes, and his eyes, though shadowed by anger, flashed bright yellow, like lightning splitting the sky.

  “Saalim, wait.” I begged. I held my hands before me and backed away. “I need to talk to you.”