Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  No. This life deserved one more try. I would not leave it yet. I would hide in the village. Firoz would help. If another caravan approached, I would escape with them. I didn’t care what the cost was, I would find a way to pay it, and I would take Firoz with me. Tavi, if she’d come.

  I sprinted back to my home.

  The gold manacles, toy soldier, and sand-filled vessel were pressed securely against my chest as I sprinted back to the tents. They chimed together in a percussion that matched my footsteps and quick breaths.

  When I came upon the edge of tents, several guards ran out to me, shouting. “What are you doing? How did you get out here?” One barked, baffled by my bright ahira clothes and lack of coverings.

  “A runner comes!” I yelled, pointing to the horizon. I ran between the guards. They made little attempt to stop me, the approaching runner of far greater interest.

  I tore through the village. The few people outside stared at me with mouths agape.

  Firoz was not in his shop tent, so I ran to his home. I did not care about propriety anymore.

  “Firoz!” I called outside his home. “Firoz!”

  His mother hustled out, flustered and obviously annoyed. Her eyes widened when she saw me. An ahira with tear-stained cheeks, clutching treasure and screaming for her son was not a sight she expected.

  Firoz fell out of the home behind her. “Emel!?” He cried, equally surprised by my state. “What’s wrong?”

  I broke down again. “I had the jinni, Firoz. I had him! And I could have freed him but I chose to free myself instead, and it didn’t work.” I sobbed, proffering the jinni’s things as if it explained everything. “And I’m going to be sent away. A runner is coming—another caravan is near. Nassar won’t let them in, so we will need to go out to meet them. Ready yourself! We will run away together.”

  His mother’s face whipped between her son and I, alarm keeping her silent.

  Firoz placed his hands on my shoulders. “Slow down, Emel. Explain it all again.”

  “I did everything wrong.” I again showed him what was in my hands. “And I lost him.”

  Turning back to his mother, as he felt my shivering, he said, “Mama, can you get her something to cover herself?” She obeyed wordlessly and returned with a worn abaya before she retreated back into her home. Firoz took my things from me so I could dress.

  “Be careful!” I said as he cradled them. I didn’t care that I sounded crazier than Rafal.

  Firoz was mesmerized by the vessel—the flowers and moons that were carved into its metal bands. “There was a jinni?” He asked. “He was in here? You knew him?” His eyes grew wide with disbelief.

  As I pulled the abaya over my shoulders, I began to explain. But I was interrupted by the clamor of tolling bells.

  The warning bells.

  Firoz and I looked at each other, and I took Saalim’s things from him again.

  “Not a caravan then,” Firoz whispered.

  “The Dalmur?” I asked, daring to hope. Maybe they’d rallied after all, decided not to wait on the girl from the palace, and come to find the jinni. I could make myself known to them, tell them I’d already freed him! They could take me with them back to Madinat Almulihi.

  Firoz’s brow creased in concern. “I haven’t heard of any such plans.”

  “I have to get home,” I said. “I have to find Tavi.”

  “Emel!” Firoz called at my back as I fled the tent.

  I stopped and looked back to him, chest heaving.

  “If you’ve a chance to leave,” he said as he ran to me. “Come find me. Take Rashid and me with you.”

  “I won’t leave you,” I promised.

  Tearing through the village, I wove between the people who had stepped out of their homes to locate the source of the alarm. My frantic sprint through the lanes only heightened their panic. Some rushed into their homes, desperately closing the fabric of their tent in a hopeless attempt to protect themselves from whatever was coming. I remembered Saalim’s story of the day Almulihi fell to attackers, of a people whose king had not adequately readied them to defend themselves.

  The king died, and the city was destroyed.

  I ran faster.

  Entering the palace was too easy, under the circumstances. I tugged up my abaya so they saw my ahira clothes and told them I’d no time to answer questions. The guards were far too concerned at the prospect of war to care about a king’s disobedient daughter. When I arrived at the tent I shared with my sisters, there were no guards out front. I slowed my steps. My thoughts raced through the wording of my wish again. Had Masira taken my sisters from me when I wished for freedom from the Salt King? Or did not even the King’s daughters matter when there was a threat? Wary, I peeled the fabric apart and stepped into the room.

  It was empty, but my sisters’ mats were strewn about in a familiar way. I exhaled. They still existed, they just weren’t here. I ran to my mat, lifting it from the ground. I found the tile, necklace, and flower folded inside the cloth beside the rolled map. But where was the salt? I frantically searched for the sack the jinni had given me. I tore into the ground as the salt suddenly became pivotal to my believing the jinni had ever existed. I flung sand behind me. No, no, no. I could not lose him again.

  Finally, my fingers snagged on camel’s wool.

  With quivering hands, I pulled the sack from the sand. Salt was still piled within. I turned it over, dumping most of the salt into the sand—useless to me if there was no caravan to pay for my escape. I kept a little, just in case. I stuffed my tokens of Saalim inside, then slung it over my shoulders with a leather cord.

  “Job well done,” an age-hardened voice spoke into the tent. The bells clanged loudly around us.

  I gasped and turned, wiping my hands on my clothes.

  The healer stood just inside the tent, white robes bright in the crimson room.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, backing away.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I sensed what you did. Felt it right here.” He hit his chest with his palm.

  I turned my hands up and out beside me. “I didn’t do anything. Nothing turned out right.”

  “It took you a while, yes. It is why they felt they needed to intervene, although they failed as I warned they would. Far more deaths than I wanted. So many innocents lost.” He took mincing steps toward me. “Child, if only you knew how many letters we’ve written about you and the jinni! How long we’ve hoped for you to understand. We wondered if we should show you the path, tell you what you needed to know. But Isra said you were too stubborn, that you must learn it on your own.”

  Isra? My mother? She knew this entire time?

  He continued, “If we told you how to act, she said you’d do otherwise. Isra is a smart woman, Masira carry her soul.”

  I staggered back.

  He nodded, a toothless grin spreading on his face, his eyes trained on my chest. On my mark. “Child, you were splendid!” He beamed. “You freed him!”

  “But I didn’t wish for his freedom. I failed.” A cry ripped through me. “And now he’s gone.”

  “Masira sees intentions. She saw yours, smart girl. She will deliver us back into the hands of Wahir, Eiqab be damned!” The healer chuckled to himself. His milky eyes danced. He clapped his hands together and laughed louder. “Good girl! Good girl!” he bellowed into the tent, his inked face and arms causing him to appear as a shadow in the white robes that swung around him.

  “I don’t understand,” I said through clenched teeth.

  The healer’s laughter stopped, and his face softened as if he finally comprehended my bewilderment. He came closer, and leaned toward me. “Perhaps, if you look at your map, it will all make sense.” He began to walk away, then stopped. “And once you do, I suggest you find the King. Your king,” he said, laughing again as he left my tent, leaving me alone.

  Kneeling onto the ground, I carefully pulled out my map and unrolled it.

  I gasped.

  It was a still
a map of the salt trade, still a map of the desert with all of the settlements I knew. It still had my hand, the ink I’d placed.

  But the lines were different, the routes were changed.

  Because now, they did not lead to my settlement. They were different, as if turned by invisible hands. They all arced north, to a place that had no cliffs barring its entrance.

  They led to a glistening city that sat at the edge of the sea, the words Madinat Almulihi written beside it.

  He was home. Now, finally, I laughed, too, rolling my map and stuffing it away. “He’s home.” I said aloud, and left the tent.

  The healer still stood in the lane, his unseeing eyes turned toward the sky, his arms held up in joy. I ran past him, shouting about Saalim’s return home. Through the din of the bells, I could hear him behind me.

  “You did it!” He cried. “Now we are free!”

  As I rushed toward the heart of the palace, the servants’ shouts broke through my glee. “A challenger to the throne! The King has been challenged!”

  I ran like I raced the wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “The King has been challenged!”

  “The Salt King will defend his throne!”

  “Did you hear? There is a challenger to the throne!”

  As the bells clanged loudly around me, I sped through the palace, tearing through the crowds of servants who cried the news to each other, to their families. Some were concerned, others excited by the impending spectacle.

  A small girl stood at the edge of the lane. She watched the panicked people with liquid eyes, her hand in her trembling mouth. She stretched her neck in all directions, and I realized she was lost. When she turned toward me, I saw the red that curved around her face. My neighbor. I didn’t want to stop, but I could not leave her behind.

  “Little sister,” I said, kneeling down to her. “Are you looking for your family?”

  She nodded, edging close to me. She leaned against my knee. I pressed my hand to her waist, and she clutched my abaya with her small fingers.

  “Your family will find you at home. Know your way back?” I asked hopefully, so she could hurry home and I could hurry to my own family.

  “Yes,” she said, but she looked in terror at the masses of servants moving toward the heart of the palace to watch the King.

  I sighed. “I’ll go with you,” I said. “Quickly now.” I took her hand and began to lead her home, but she took slow, scared steps, so I lifted her onto my hip and carried her.

  When we stepped inside her home, her fear transformed into enthusiasm. “Do you want to see my things?’

  I was breathless and fatigued from carrying her at such a swift pace. “I can’t,” I began, but she was already digging through a basket and pulling out a piece of thin parchment and small metal toys.

  The bells still clanged, and I bounced on my toes, needing to hurry. I worried about who was coming. What would they do when they got here? Would they tear through the village, through the palace? If it was truly a challenger to the throne, it should not be an attack on the village. Tradition dictated that they would arrive, challenge, and leave if they failed. That was desert rule. But if they won, what happened afterward was the choice of the new ruler. I did not want to be caught in that fray. I wanted to be there to see the challenger for myself.

  The little girl shoved a poorly drawn map in front of me, distracting me from my thoughts. “Like yours,” she said proudly.

  With awe, I saw that she remembered every detail I had told her of our desert. In her young, inexperienced hand, she had drawn it faithfully.

  “This is amazing,” I told her, and she beamed. “But there is one more thing you need to add.”

  I told her of the city that sat by the sea, her child’s mind easily forgetting the distress outside to think only of the whimsical city. Despite the urgency of the voices that ran past the tent, despite my desperate need to join them, I pulled out my map to show her what I meant. She took it in her hands, her eyes roaming over it greedily. Pointing to the north, I showed her what she was missing on her own. She nodded, absorbing everything I said.

  “Maybe one day you’ll see Madinat Almulihi.”

  She nodded. “When I am big, I am going to have a camel and go all over the desert. I’ll find more places and put them on my map. When I come home, I’ll show you, so you can fix yours.”

  I smiled. “That sounds nice. Now, I want you to add the city to your map with as much detail as you can. Work on it until your family gets home, eh? It’s important that you stay here.”

  She agreed.

  “If it quiets down out there, you can do one more thing. But only if it gets quiet.”

  She stared at me, listening to my every word with whole attention.

  “If you go to my home, you will find a pile of salt in the sand. Collect it in a bag if you have one, or a piece of cloth. I know you have those.” I smiled and brushed the piles of clothes around us. “Then, take it back here. Hide it until your parents and brothers come home, and then you can tell them it was a gift.” The salt would serve them well, perhaps even buy them a way out of the palace servitude, maybe even a camel to travel with. The girl bobbed her head importantly, taking her two tasks very seriously. I pressed my hands to her cheeks. Then I ran from her tent. I realized I might never see her again, and I did not even know her name. I prayed that she would be safe, that she would not be scared.

  In the zafif, I found a single attendant, hustling as she collected various items, locking them away in a chest. She turned toward me when I entered.

  “Emel?” Hadiyah relaxed when she realized it was me.

  “Hadiyah! Thank Eiqab! Where are my sisters?”

  “They are with their mothers, of course. Why aren’t you with them? Haven’t you heard? There is a challenger to the throne.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard! Where are their mothers, then? Where is everyone going?”

  “To see the challenge. In the great tent. More men are following the messengers, I believe the challenger is among them. Find your sisters. Find them quickly. Whatever happens . . . you will want to be with them, I think.”

  My spinning thoughts caught on to Hadiyah’s tone, her frantic behavior. “You think the King will die today.”

  She looked up at me with scared, sad eyes. “Your father is old, and he’s sick with grief and gluttony. I don’t know what will happen.”

  I looked to my attendant one last time. I hesitated, unsure if I should say goodbye. I had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Saalim, of myself, that I had not once stopped to consider what it would mean if we had a new king. What would happen to my attendants, my mothers, my sisters. He could be as vile as my father. Or worse.

  Running to Hadiyah, I pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

  “Be safe,” I whispered. I found a black scarf and rapidly tied it around my face and hair before heading to the palace tents.

  I found my sisters, their mothers with their young children—future ahiran and soldiers—gathered in the tent with my father and his guard, the very tent where the Haf Shata had taken place. A large number of villagers had also joined my family there. All awaited the arrival of the challenger. The room was bare, no blue carpets piled on the sandy floor, no sapphire fabrics strung on its towering beams.

  People streamed into the tent, awaiting the event with nervous excitement. I remembered the challenger of ten years ago—the man plunging to the ground in a graceless death as cries of fierce joy were raised for my father. Would this challenger meet the same fate?

  Finally, the bells’ toll diminished until none sounded. An eerie silence fell upon the tent, the entire village. I slid beside my silent sisters, my hands pressing to the sack of metal and glass at my waist, preventing them from clanking loudly amongst the murmuring voices.

  “Thank Eiqab,” Tavi said when I appeared next to her. Her eyes were red from tears, and she threw her arms around me. “I didn’t know where you were. I was so worried.”
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  “I’m here now.”

  “What’s wrong?” She pulled away, looking at my face. “Are you okay? What happened with Father?” Her eyes were round with alarm.

  With Father, Ibrahim, and the courting. Sons, that felt like so long ago. I shook my head. “I’ll explain later.”

  Tavi’s arm brushed against the sack that I had slung across my shoulders. The metal clanked quietly together. She could feel the jagged edges.

  “What do you have?” she whispered, but sensing my reluctance, she bent to my ear. “I love you. Like the desert loves her sun.”

  I found her hand and squeezed it. “Like the fox loves his moon.” It was what our mother had told us when we were children.

  We turned to face our father, our hands clasped tightly.

  The Salt King paced back and forth. He had hurriedly dressed. Had he still been lying with his wives when the messenger arrived? He wore white robes embroidered with gold that marked him for what he was: the leader of his army, the Salt King. Atop his head was a small golden turban, tied sloppily in his rush. His scimitar swung from his waist as he paced. His guards lingered near him, all clad in white.

  There was a loud commotion from outside the tent. The guards were shouting, and unknown men yelled back. The deep sounds of horses chuffing echoed the barking commands of the foreigners. Within moments, the fabric was strung open. Sunlight spilled into the tent along with the dark shadows of men.

  In the very place where, months before, I had stood to look out into the desert night, I now saw horses carrying unfamiliar soldiers in tunics of dark gray, black, deep blue, and red. These were the colors of well-traveled men to whom uniforms were unimportant. Flashes of silver shone from their belts and across their chests. Their faces were covered with dark scarves. Their ebony horses, covered in ornate gold and silver tack, danced restlessly over the sand. Horse travel was not easy in the desert with so few places to graze and drink. These men had planned their journey well, and I wondered where their camel caravans waited for them. The King’s guard stood warily beside the intruders, bright in their uniforms of white.