Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Saalim looked pained at the thought. “But remember the intention of what you want. When you wish for something, you are speaking from here.” He brushed his fingers against my brow. “But what you feel here is just as important.” He laid his hand against my chest. “Had you not just fought with Sabra, had the words of her saying she hoped she’d die not rang loudly in your mind, I do not think she would be gone. Would you have been imprisoned when you asked to not yet return home, if you hadn’t been thinking of how much you didn’t want to return to your normal life? The result of the wish would have been different.”

  What he told me was not new. We had discussed this. But still, I cowered at the thought of making the wish.

  “So you have to be clear in what you want. You have to feel it here.” His words were hard and unyielding, but his lips against my chest were soft. “To give you your freedom, to say goodbye to you, will be the hardest thing I do.” He murmured the words against me. “But I will do it, Emel. I will help rid you of your father so that you can take back your life.”

  “Can’t you . . .” I hesitated, “just kill him?” It would be such an easy solution. I felt vile for finally voicing that desire aloud, for talking of my father’s murder so casually. I turned away from him, embarrassed.

  He was unabashed by the question. “I would have done it already if I could. Remember, I cannot kill my master. I cannot change his fate in any way without his choosing it. I do nothing for him that he does not ask me to.”

  “But then how can you do all that you do for me without my asking?”

  “So long as it does not affect my master, I can use my magic however I please. And it pleases me to please you.” He leaned forward and kissed my temple, his hand running down my arm.

  My head ached, trying to process the nuances of jinn magic. “So then if I were to ask for my freedom, would I not need to be your master? Wouldn’t my freedom change the fate of my father?”

  He considered my question, then nodded. “Clever.”

  I sighed. “I hate this.”

  “You must become my master.”

  “That means I would need the vessel.” I exhaled and pulled my knees to my chest. All this planning made things too real. I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  As though he sensed my disquiet, he said, “Even if Masira separates us . . . if you leave me for a better life and I can see you no longer, I will still have my memories of us and the knowledge that you are hopefully somewhere safer, happier. Somewhere you can be whole.

  “Though no amount of time with you will be sufficient, what I have had, even if just a flicker in my long life, in which I was finally able to love you, to hold you and have you . . . that will have to be enough. The thought of forgetting you, having none of our memories together . . .” he stopped, and sucked in a long breath.

  “But what about me and what I feel?”

  He said nothing and took my hand tightly in his.

  That night, Tavi and I sat at the center of the rama, both clutching our small sacrificial flames. She pressed her fingers to the brass that held the oil, closing her eyes, her lips moving to silent words.

  Our relationship was mending. As her grief abated, it left room for understanding and forgiveness, and in their trail, I found that we were closer than before.

  She collected the jar of water she’d brought with her and pulled the stopper from its top.

  “Tavi,” I said, then reached into my sack of salt. “If you want Masira to hear, then take this.” I poured a palm of salt into her hand. “She will listen.”

  Tavi had never been in possession of so much, and she did not know that my source was unlimited. She had a choice then: keep and spend it—it would get her many things if she braved the settlement again—or sacrifice it.

  She did not hesitate. Turning the salt onto the flames, she said her silent plea again. When the fire was doused, her shoulders dropped, and she pulled the doused vessel to her chest.

  I repeated her movements and poured the salt onto the flame.

  After a moment, I asked, “What did you say to Her?”

  She sighed. “I told Her I wanted us to leave here, together.” She rested her hand on my knee, and I covered it with my own. “And you?”

  I said, “The same.”

  Dawn was brightening the ahira tent. My sisters slept soundly. Gentle, slow sighs around me. My eyes were open wide as I stared at the canopy, at the tiny holes in the fabric that allowed light to seep through.

  I did not sleep well that night, tossing and turning with thoughts of Saalim and our conversation. My mind waged war over my two desires: freedom or Saalim.

  Why couldn’t I have both?

  I turned and dug through the soft sand near my mat until I felt fabric. I pulled out the package and shook off the sand. Rolling onto my stomach, I carefully unwrapped the contents.

  The long necklace and small tile fell onto my bed alongside the moon-jasmine whose petals were still stretched open in the dark tent despite the emerging dawn. I brought the flower to my nose, closing my eyes and smelling traces of Saalim in its perfume. I set it down and fingered the tile delicately, wondering where it once rested in the ancient castle.

  I thought back to the desert’s edge and the bustling city Saalim had painted with his words. I replayed my fantasies of a life Saalim and I could share in a city like that, walking hand in hand along a road of horses and busy people, sharing sugar-dusted dates. I replaced him with a nameless, faceless man, seeing if I could find happiness with that stranger. I couldn’t. My mind returned to Saalim.

  As I gazed at the white flower and the blue tile, I realized that without Saalim I would not have my gleeful dreams, my pools of hope. If I did not have him, I would have neither of the precious things cradled in my hands. I would possess no more knowledge of my world than what I was able to glean from tight-lipped suitors and stories from a trader. I would not have the memories of the sea or the birds that cawed above it. I would not know that ships were things that sailed on waves and that fish were animals that swam beneath them. I would not understand that stone was something to stack and craft homes, not just a weight for parchment. That wives were not something to be counted as objects but something to be revered and held. And I would never have learned that the warmth of being loved was amplified by the terrifying fire of loving one in return.

  I spun the moon-jasmine between my fingers, its blurring petals resembling the glow of the sun. I thought of the night I received that flower. The night I spent with Saalim in the fallen dome. Of how he helped me down the stone steps eroded by salty spray and ocean winds. I remembered how he knelt down and plucked the white flower from the sand, handing me a piece of his home. I recalled the moon that night, its pale glow as it curved in the star-speckled sky. How later he gave me the small tile, imperfect along its hand-cut edges, and told me that with it, I could always remember the sea.

  My mind wandered and wandered, climbing through memories of Saalim glowing gold, treading around my mother with blood-red stones strung from her neck, stepping over dead soldiers beside a glistening throne. It moved rapidly in the lethargic hours of the morning until it stumbled upon something . . . something that snagged. My mind groped through the haze, finding the edges of a thought, a memory.

  The fog cleared as I remembered a golden sun and crescent moon emblazoned on the collar of navy robes. Navy, or indigo, or . . . the color of the tile that rested in my hand. The color of the sea. A golden sun with thick rays was unusual but its portrayal clear when next to its equal, the moon. But there was something about the jasmine in my fingers whose thick petals surrounded a perfectly round center. The flower that, when open, looked unmistakably like the image of the sun that had been threaded onto the blue fabric.

  I grabbed the medallion strung to the golden chain and examined the crescent moon and sun etched onto its surface. How pretty I’d thought it was when I finally looked at it so closely for the first time, before I connected it to Matin, to the foreign soldi
ers. To the Dalmur.

  I held the moon-jasmine up to the medallion and peered at the two beside each other.

  I sat up, stunned.

  It was not a sun that was stitched onto the robes of my father’s enemies. It was the flower that grew wildly at the desert’s edge. It was an image of the white bloom that I held, magically alive, in the palm of my hand. And alongside it was a crescent moon for whom its ivory petals would spread.

  Like shuffling cards, everywhere I had seen those images flashed through my mind—carved into the pendants that swung from the assassins’ necks and had rested against my mother’s chest, stitched onto Matin’s robes, tattooed on the arms of the healer, etched onto the golden bands that wrapped Saalim’s vessel . . .

  I dropped the objects in my hands. There was more to the Dalmur than wanting the jinni for the wish. They were related to Madinat Almulihi, and if their hopes carried traces of the same sea that surged through Saalim, there was something I was missing.

  There was something Saalim was not telling me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saalim was correct about the suitor, and that afternoon we gathered in our finery to meet the muhami Ibrahim. I bided my time, waiting for the perfect moment when I could find Saalim and demand he tell me everything he knew about the Dalmur.

  Ibrahim was older with a long white beard that draped against his chest. Though he might have been the oldest muhami to court us, I could see he was a strong man and a formidable ruler. He was vaguely familiar, but I could not place why. We were told he came from a large city far across the desert.

  I could hardly concentrate during the courting, thinking over and over of the Dalmur and the possibility that they had a deeper connection to Saalim than I understood. What did it mean that they carried symbols of Saalim’s home? The jinni was disguised as a soldier and kept a close guard on my father during the courting. I tried to catch his gaze, wanting him to feel how desperately I needed to talk to him, but he did not look at me once.

  It was some relief that Ibrahim behaved so differently than the other suitors or my distraction might have been obvious. He did not get up to speak to us, did not call us to come to him. Occasionally, the King would gesture to an ahira, drawing on the advantages of one girl or the next, as if suddenly remembering the reason the man was sitting in the tent with his daughters. Ibrahim would observe politely, his white beard swaying as his head bobbed. But I could see that the Salt King was not investing in a political alliance with this man. My father was agitated and distracted, and I wondered if Ibrahim was even interested in taking home a bride, so little did he interact with any of us.

  Since Mama’s death, I had noticed a marked change in my father. He had grown pale, irritable, and taciturn, his clothing disarranged. The frequency with which he snapped at his daughters, barked at Nassar, or cuffed his slaves had increased, and his volatility erupted from long stretches of apathy. Sometimes, I thought I saw sadness lurking behind his indifference but rage and impassivity were the perfect camouflage for vulnerability.

  The muhami asked my father of the people that threatened our village—he had heard the rumors, what happened at the King’s Haf Shata party. My father’s eyes darkened, but he waved Ibrahim’s words aside, shrugging his shoulders, claiming it all had passed. Ibrahim pressed him for details, and surprisingly, my father elaborated on what had happened. He warned Ibrahim to be careful, describing in detail what the savages—he spat the word—had done to the settlement. “Spreading lies to my people, seeding distrust,” he said, leaning back into his chair as though tired of speaking.

  It was strange but empowering to be in the position of greater knowledge. My father seemed small and weak, understanding so little. Ibrahim seemed genuinely concerned as the King described the details. Ibrahim clucked sympathetically. A similar rebellion was occurring in his home, he said. Strange people who terrorized his streets, leaving behind black marks of their hands as if a threat.

  “The Altamaruq think I’ve a jinni,” the King said flatly. A few of my sisters barely concealed their winces at the word. I watched Saalim to see how he reacted, but he was untroubled. Did not even blink.

  “Bah!” Ibrahim pounded his fist into his palm. “Mine search for the same. Absurd radicals!” The King nodded distractedly.

  The vizier stood by watching my father and the foreign ruler, watching me and the rest of the ahiran. His gaze was impassive. His eyes had met mine once earlier in the afternoon. He had stared, but when my eyes found his, he shifted his focus and continued his perusal of the room.

  My father’s dispassion, Ibrahim’s nonchalance, Nassar’s curiosity, the Dalmur and Madinat Almulihi. I was uneasy about it all.

  When the ahiran had given up on the muhami and were sitting on cushions talking amongst ourselves, my father addressed us. “Daughters, it is time to return to your home.”

  Confused, we stood and assembled, ready to follow the guard that would lead us to the zafif to change.

  “Emel, you stay.”

  I stopped, disbelieving that Ibrahim could possibly want to court me—Saalim would not have allowed it—my heart slammed against my ribs. Tavi looked at me questioningly as she followed my sisters out. Soon, I was alone with the King, Ibrahim, Nassar, and a few of his slaves and one of his guards. Saalim. Finally, our eyes met. He was rigid, as unprepared as I for what the King planned.

  “You’ve given up, Emel,” the King began when my sisters were gone.

  “Forgive me, your highness,” I stammered as I fell to my knees to bow before him.

  “I don’t want you to speak. Just stand and look at me.” His quiet terrified me more than if he had shouted. I rose, and my eyes met his.

  “I have watched you through two seasons of laziness. You have not tried with the suitors. You continue to fail despite my best efforts.

  “Beyond your failure, you oppose me and my law. First, you’re out by yourself in the palace. I know that was not the first time. I thought your punishment would remind you of your duty to be obedient, remind you that I am the King. It thought it might correct your behavior.

  “But it didn’t. And now you flirt with slaves, ignore suitors, and refuse guests at my festival.” His voice did not rise. It was level. He was weary. “Yes, Emel,” the King continued. “I have eyes everywhere. How long did you think your behavior would escape my notice?”

  I looked at Nassar, but he watched the Salt King, and his face gave nothing away. So he had not remained silent after all. He had spoken with his King, and now here we were with this foreign man. I wondered what role he was to play. Ibrahim sat back and watched me, unaffected by my father’s charges.

  I glanced to Saalim, his eyes were dark as he listened.

  “And if that was not enough . . .” The King rose from his chair and walked toward me. I saw Saalim start forward as if to protect me, but he stopped himself, remembering his place. He was bound, helpless to do anything. “You bribe guards with salt you stole from me to go into my village.” Still, he spoke softly. Like a hissing snake.

  My eyes flashed to Nassar, but his scowl was not one of resentment. He looked surprised, almost fearful, at the King’s words. Momentarily, it shook me from my rising alarm.

  “For what purpose do you serve me, Emel?”

  My attention snapped back to Father.

  “You are my ahira, and instead you eat my food, sleep in shelter I provide, wear my jewels, and do everything but the one thing I ask of you.”

  I leaned back as he approached, anticipating what was to come. I stared at the buttons against his shirt, watching them peek out from behind his beard tentatively as though they, too, did not want to miss the spectacle.

  He said, “Look at me, you coward.”

  Unable to bear it any longer, tears filled my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of rage. Sons, I was no coward. I did not hide behind another’s strength because I was too powerless to face things on my own. I shook with fury, and silent, hot tears coursed down my cheeks.r />
  I stared at my father, blurry through my tears. I did not look to Ibrahim, to Nassar, to Saalim. I could not stand to see their faces. I held my head high, my mouth set in a hard line. I stared at him until he looked away.

  “You are of no use to me now,” he said as he paced in front of me. “I sent word to Ibrahim after I learned of your refusals at the Haf Shata party. We are fortunate for the timing. Ibrahim needs a gift for his son as a congratulations for his first marriage. You will not be that wife, Emel, as you are no longer worthy of that title. Your marks bear truth to that. You will be his son’s concubine. You will travel with Ibrahim to his home, live in the palace with the other whores, and when his son needs to be attended to, you will pleasure him as you have been trained.

  “Ibrahim knows the details of your deception, Emel. He will see an end to it. He can’t have a wayward mistress for his son. Oh,” the King paused, suddenly remembering, “I do believe you and his son have met. His name is Omar.”

  I set my jaw, clenching my teeth as I listened to his words. There would be no reality in which I would leave my village to live the rest of my life as Omar’s whore. Death would serve me better.

  “My King,” Nassar cleared his throat. “Emel is very beautiful, very skilled. Is sending her away the best decision?” He sounded scared, and the fear in his voice, his boldness at speaking up, again distracted me from my father’s sentence. I looked to the small man whose hand was held out before him, questioning, tentative.

  “That you think you can continue speak against my decisions shows I may have misjudged you as my vizier,” the Salt King said.

  “Throw him to the foxes,” Ibrahim said, waving his hand. He still had not moved from his chair.

  The King looked at Nassar. “We will speak after I am done.”

  Nassar looked apologetic. “Forgive me, your majesty—”