Ignoring her jeers, I ran up to her. “Have you seen Firoz?” I began rattling off a description of him—the color and length of his hair, the way he wore his trousers, how he tied his turban. I babbled on until I realized that Sabra was laughing.
“Have you seen him?” I nearly screamed it.
“That boy who desires other boys? Who sells drink in the market like a child? Who talks to all who will listen of a better life if only we’d get the jinni from the King?” she pressed a finger to her chin as though lost in thought. “Oh, yes. I have seen him. Many times. I even once saw him with you.” She said the words sloppily, leaning in toward me as she spoke them, pushing her finger into my chest. Even through my scarf I could tell her breath was sour, body unwashed. “Though you paid me no attention that day. Did you even see me?” She asked to the sky, eyes searching the clouds maniacally.
“I thought,” she continued, her words garbled with drug or drink, “I should tell my beloved sister more about this boy. She seemed so surprised when she saw him with another man talking as one of the rebels who tried to kill Father.”
My breath caught. Had she been in one of those tents when Rashid and Firoz talked to me of the Altamaruq? Had she followed me?
Yet Sabra made no mention of these things. “Maybe she did not know him as well as she thought. She thought him to be such a good friend—or was he a lover? Was he the reason she was always leaving us? To get her fix from a village boy? I thought she must want to know more. But,” she pouted, “I couldn’t find you, so I went to the palace and told a guard who promised he would tell the vizier. That way, he could share it with you.” Sabra batted her eyes innocently.
I looked her up and down, horrified. “You risked your life going to the palace, just to punish me?”
“Punish you? Emel, no! I wanted to help you know more about your friend, eh?” She waved her hand. “I never thought it would have resulted in all of this!” Pretending astonishment, she flung her hands wildly in the air. “Now, poor Firo is in trouble.”
“Don’t you dare call him that,” I spat, stepping toward my sister, malice rolling off of me in waves.
Sabra laughed again. “What would you rather me call him? An abomination? A cow? A rebel? Oh, or a believer? Well, don’t worry.” She stepped back, beginning to walk away from me. “Soon he’ll be trussed up like the animal he is. Feet hung over head, throat sliced from end to end.”
A foreign rage poured itself through me, blurring my vision. In that moment, I was nothing but a channel for wrath. All I saw, all I could think of, was every foul thing my sister had done. Every wrong to me or my sisters, every vile word, every odious look.
“Is your hatred of me worth this, Sabra? Worth the scars on your back? Worth risking your life to hew down my friend? Firoz is a good person, kind and generous.” My father’s court had transformed Sabra into a monster, but the blame did not lie solely there. Sabra had made her choices as all of the ahiran did. I did not care if her face was less pretty, her hips narrower, her legs thin. Mama would have welcomed more of her companionship and conversation, if she had been willing to give it. I would have welcomed that over her jealousy and hurtful barbs. Even the suitors who came to us, for all that we teased one another about their lust, did not always leave with the prettiest girl, or the girl who was most pleasing in bed. Sabra might have won freedom, even love and respect, if she were not always so fixated on what she did not have. There was no excuse, no justification for her wickedness. She had made the decision to be cruel, and I would never forgive Sabra for it. I shoved my sister hard, and she fell gracelessly to the sand.
She was powerless. Frail body and broken soul sitting in sharp angles upon the ground.
“You think my life is worth living?” she screamed, eyes dark with fury and shame. “Do you think I am happy? Have I ever been happy? What do I care if I die? I hope I do!”
Voice shaking, I said, “I hope Masira grants that for you. You deserve everything you have.”
The few people I passed on the way back to the arena appeared undisturbed, unaware that anything significant was happening. I wanted to latch onto that as proof that there was no execution at all. But reality tugged. Only the most depraved found joy in viewing the death of another.
Turning another corner, I faced the grounds once again. Dread, heavy and coarse, swept over me when I saw more people had arrived. Voices loud and dissonant rang through the clearing. Covered faces were turned toward each other, wide sleeves swaying with the vigor of the spectators’ gestures. I had not seen so many people together since the Haf Shata party, another’s tragedy luring people from their terror with promise that the source of their fear would be killed.
As I looked toward the center of the arena, sharp, bitter tears stung my eyes.
No, no, no.
Firoz stood with several guards. The guards’ faces were covered, but Firoz’s was left for all to see, an exhibit for the spectators who waited impatiently for the main event.
He stood with his hands secured by rope before him, feet bound as mine had been when I was lashed. He looked as Sabra had—his clothes were worn and filthy, sweat staining the chest and underarms of his brown shirt, hair tangled with grease and grime. His face, crumpled and broken, was bent toward the sand like a wilted flower. I could see the streaks of dirt traced onto his cheeks where his tears had dried.
I ran to the fence and leaned forward, desperate for Firoz’s attention. I wanted him to see me, to know that I had not abandoned him.
My tears spilled onto my cheeks. He did not look up at me.
“Firo,” I whispered his name, needing to say it aloud, but knowing that none could hear. If I was seen as a sympathizer, I might also be seized and sentenced to death. His family was nowhere to be seen, likely venting their grief in the safety of their home, clinging to each other in sorrow. I peered around for Rashid, the man I had seen with Firoz, sure he had come. There were several companionless people scattered around the edge, faces covered with thick scarves. I did not know Rashid’s eyes well enough to recognize him.
But I saw one I did recognize—a small woman with green eyes. She stood alone, her hand clutching something under her robes, something that sat against her heart. I noticed another man, not far away, doing the same thing. And then I realized that there were at least a dozen of them. Standing quietly, some faces wet, others expressionless, all clutching whatever was at their hearts.
The Altamaruq, the Dalmur. There for their friend. They had not left him alone. I hoped Firoz knew they were there.
There was no warning. No hollered announcement, no bell chiming, no solemn cry. There was no procession for Firoz’s execution. In the eyes of the monster King, he was an animal and would be treated as such. The guards suddenly pushed him onto the stage. Had I not been staring fixedly at my best friend, I would have missed its beginning. Soon, the crowd caught on, and they screamed taunts at the man who was to die.
Their voices roared in my ears, masking the whimpers that passed my lips. Firoz stepped onto the wooden platform and seated himself before the rope.
I silently urged him to fight them, not to let them win. But he did not. He did not struggle, did not resist the hands in service of the King as they held his bound feet and tied them securely to the swinging rope. As the guards tugged and pulled and looped the coarse material, Firoz took one, slow look over his shoulder. I followed his gaze to a man clad in black; crimson covering his face like a vulture. His eyes were rimmed red, cheeks wet as they disappeared behind the scarf. He tapped his heart once and nodded to Firoz. His shoulders shook as he cried.
The men stared at each other as if their fragile, beating hearts were carefully cupped in the palms of their hands. Here it is, it belongs to you. As if the ground was still so they could stand on its sand together. A pair in the desiccated desert, awash with love.
Firoz pulled his hands to his chest and tapped it once, then he broke Rashid’s stare and turned back to the ropes twisted at his feet, sh
attering their last moment and everything that had been between them. He was a man drowned in his grief, his heart drifting away behind him.
I sobbed. No! It could not end like this. Sabra could not do this to them, to me. She could not win.
I wish, I wish, I wish . . . I screamed the words in my mind, praying not to my gods, but to Saalim.
The guards pulled the rope slowly, Firoz’s feet lifting off the wooden stage.
Saalim, please. I wish, I wish, I wish . . .
Firoz leaned back, eyes toward the wide, blue sky. White clouds glided by lazily.
Save him, Saalim. I wish for you to save him. Please.
I closed my eyes, concentrating hard, before opening them again and seeing Firoz’s hips rise from the ground. I choked on my sobs.
Save him, save him. Please, save him. I did not think of my words, I only thought of how I could not lose Firoz—full of hope and so deserving of a better life, and of how Sabra could not have the final say when she was so angry and undesiring of this life. I thought of me and that I could not lose my best friend, too.
I wish for Firoz to be saved.
“I am here.”
I exhaled, almost weak with relief. No, it was stronger than relief. The feeling one has when awoken from a nightmare that felt so real, so tormenting, that only death would have served as resolution. At Saalim’s quiet words, whatever it was, I felt it. The jinni was beside me, his arm brushing against my shoulder, appearing as any other spectator would, but I knew it was him. It was his voice, his warmth, his scent, his comfort.
Firoz’s torso lifted from the platform now, his face turning purple. The guard, standing alongside the man who slowly heaved the rope, carefully pulled a knife from his belt. He twisted it before him, the rusted silver glinting in the sun, reflecting the bright, hot light onto the spectators as it twirled.
Suddenly, a golden medallion slipped out from beneath Firoz’s tunic. It swung beneath his head like a pendulum. I knew what it was. I had its twin buried beneath my mat. I looked at the Dalmur that watched their friend. Is that what they all clutched? They held their faith so close to their heart.
I could not be angry at them. Not anymore. At least in their urgent need, they loved one another. They loved their friend as much as I loved him. The Dalmur fought and killed and died for their people, their friends. Would I take the risks they took for my family? I knew my father and the people with whom he had surrounded us—the people who assented to my depraved life, who encouraged it regardless of how it made me feel—would not do the same for me.
“Saalim, I wish for Firoz to be saved,” I whispered, despairing, not taking my eyes from my best friend, from the gold that caught the reflection of the sun. “Please.”
“Masira will give you what you wish.”
I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, a woman was in Firoz’s place.
Her body rose above the stage.
Then, I realized who it was.
Sabra. I turned to Saalim, who appeared as horrified as I. Looking for the Dalmur, I saw there were none where they had stood only moments before.
My sister rose until she was suspended entirely from the crosspiece. Swaying slightly in the wind, the knife-wielding guard rested a hand against her hip, stilling her, before he bent his knees. He clasped his hand to Sabra’s opposite shoulder, bracing himself, and he reached the knife across her neck, readying for the final act.
“No.” It was all I could say, and I repeated it over and over. Why was she being killed? What had I done?
“Let’s leave,” Saalim said, pulling my arm.
“No!” I said, loosening myself from him, staring at my sister, at the glinting silver knife. My body shook, tears spilling from my eyes anew. “No, no, no.”
“You don’t need to see this.” His voice was firm, rough, and he stood in front of me just as the guard pressed the blade to her neck. He turned me around. I could not fight him. I would not have seen even if I wanted to. My vision was blurred with bewildered sorrow.
As Saalim guided me from the arena, I heard one woman say to her companion, “It’s what the whore deserves for going back to the palace. A begging tramp, worthless to the King.”
I paid no heed to where Saalim took me, but we were soon in an empty tent, everything quiet around us.
“What did I do?” I cried, falling to the ground and pulling my knees to my chest. “I’ve killed my sister. I’ve killed my sister.” I rocked back and forth, choking on guilt.
Saalim kneeled in front of me, pushing the scarf from my head and face. “You’ve done no such thing.”
“I thought about Sabra. I was thinking about her when I wished for Firoz. I was so angry at her. But . . .” I sucked in a breath, “I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t want to kill her.”
Saalim was quiet. Did he know it was my fault? “Masira does what she will. You can’t control it, and you can’t blame yourself for it.”
I thought of my last sight of Sabra, hoisted into the sky, imagining if it were my own life being taken. I had thought a wish would be my way out of the palace, but if this was Masira’s answer, how could I ever risk it? How desperate would I have to be to make a wish that might result in my own death? “I don’t want this life,” I cried. “I don’t want any of this.” I looked at Saalim whose eyes glistened. “I killed my sister. I killed her.” I cried into my knee, clutching the sand in my fists.
Saalim wrapped his fingers around my wrists.
“Shhh,” he said, so gently it sounded like the fall of ocean waves. He pulled me to him, tucking me against his chest. “Shh,” he said again and again. I listened to his whisper, I listened to his heart.
I shook, my teeth chattering, and Saalim held me closer. “I want you to know something.”
I said nothing.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Sabra has gotten what she wanted. Do you see that?”
Pulling my face away from his chest, I stared at him like he was as crazed as the healer.
“When all she had to face was suffering, death was her escape.”
“She didn’t want to die.” But I knew he was right. I felt the lie on my tongue.
“Even I could feel her desire.”
I thought of what she had said to me when I saw her last. Do you think I am happy? Have I ever been happy? What do I care if I die? I hope I do!
“Masira showed her mercy. She was not left to perish on the streets as the other cast-out ahiran. She hurts no longer.”
“Strung up like an animal?” I whimpered. “That is suffering. Before all these people who hated her, said cruel things—”
“She was not conscious on the gallows. She felt nothing, Emel. It was like she was asleep and then, without feeling a thing, she was gone.” Saalim pulled me tightly to him. “Masira will take her. I will make sure of that, if it means I become a vulture myself and fly her to the goddess.”
He was so earnest, so weighed down with grief of his own, that I believed him. Through my slowing tears, I said, “I am no better than my father. I am a monster.” And that thought scared me the most. Half of me was my father, and I could never rid myself of that truth.
He kissed my hair and held me, for days, moons, years. Then finally, he said, “It is because you cry that I know you are not.”
Zahar,
I know it has been some time since I last wrote, and for that I am sorry. The desert has taught me much, and I don’t plan to return home soon. If ever.
Finally, I have come to understand what you mean of sacrifice. Only, I realize it is much more than giving something you need. You must be willing to risk all that you have for Masira to hear.
Masira heard me, Zahar, and though I did not understand it at first, I understand now. Because I have given everything, she has given me the same.
Edala
* * *
—Found parchment detailing discussions of the
Litab Almuq
Chapter Tw
enty-Three
Death and secrecy and lies lurked behind every corner poisoning everyone I loved. I was submerged in the misery it left behind. My mother, my brothers, now my sister. I mourned them all, and I grieved for myself; the life that I was trapped within, that I wanted to be desperately free of.
If it weren’t for Saalim.
And it was only Saalim who could quell my grief, help me to forget the life that plagued me.
Tavi was inconsolable at the death of Sabra. At first, I held back from telling her, unlikely as it was that she would learn of Sabra’s death otherwise. She might never have had to hear the appalling news that her sister was slain because she had returned to the palace. I hoped not to burden her with that knowledge, that she might live more peacefully than I. But if word got back to us that she was dead, I knew she’d never forgive me for keeping it from her.
“Dead?” She cried. I could see it in her eyes. She felt the same as I—that this was too much, she could not bear another moment. “How? Why?”
I told her what I knew, feeling dishonest and dirty as I left out my role.
“And you hated her!” Tavi said, suddenly angry. “You hated her, and she died with that hatred.”
My mouth opened and closed again, surprise leaving me speechless. She was right that there were times I let the bitterness fester between us, and I wondered if perhaps I might do better to temper that malice in the future. But now was not the time to discuss this with Tavi. She needed to be angry at someone since she couldn’t be angry at the one person whose fault this was. After all, we were supposed to be grateful for the Salt King.
“Do you at least feel some guilt? Our sister is dead when we haven’t even finished mourning Mama yet you still go out prancing around the village like nothing is wrong.”
Those were Sabra’s words coming through Tavi’s lips, and though it stung to hear them, I knew she did not believe what she said. Reminding myself she was grieving—she was angry at this life, at her gods—I did not respond. She could fling her nasty comments. They could not make me feel any worse than I already felt.
Daughter of the Salt King Page 29
