Alone in the room, I allowed myself to laugh aloud.
I studied the tent walls. Perhaps once they were white, but now they were a terrible yellow, filthy from the years of oil and dust that collected in the fibers. I looked at the ground, covered in derelict rugs, the threads of which had pulled loose at the edges. Some were even threadbare at the center. Would not a king of so much wealth be able to have new rugs woven upon request? Or could he not see the wear? I picked up the goblet—tarnished silver, its surface scratched from the sand and uncaring hands. Did they not even have someone to polish their silver? Alfaar’s absurd throne, shining like a false sun, sat in the middle of it all.
It reeked of vulnerability—of a fragile mind and an even more frail rule of law.
I had not known the man, but from what I saw of him prior to his execution and in my days in his palace—tents, rather—I felt like I’d known him for years. Alfaar was no Salt King with his crown of stolen treasure. He was no god, even if he and his people fancied himself one.
He was vermin, and he deserved to die squealing as such.
It was coming again, the gnawing sense of isolation. Of being alone. It came in waves, at once suffocating, then suddenly gone again. I stood and paced around the room—empty save the throne and few stools. The salt had been locked away, Alfaar’s guards long since sent home.
The first time I felt it was when one of Alfaar’s sons had taken me through the palace. He had shown me where I could sleep, since I’d refused that vile man’s quarters. The son had said it was a room used by the ahiran to court men.
The feeling had come then, swift and from unknown depths like a squall. It swept through me. Looking at the small room, garish with bright fabrics as worn as the rest of the palace, and knowing what Alfaar had forced his daughters to do, allowed his guests to do to his children, I felt nauseated. I thought of Edala and Nadia—Masira carry their souls—whom my mother and father taught to stand with faces turned up, the word “no” always falling from their tongues. My mother and father who protected us first. Sons, how I wished they would be sitting in the palace when I returned home.
Thinking of my own family, the nausea subsided, but still remaining was the sense that I was alone. It was not that I had my family no longer—that grief felt different. No, it was something else, and it was inscrutable.
It was as though I was missing something indispensable. Like the space left when the ocean’s waves pulled back and no other waves replaced them.
It must be home. I had been away for too long. I needed to return to Almulihi. Tomorrow, I reminded myself. Tomorrow, we would leave, and surely being home would fill the void that seemed to have opened upon being here.
I tried to find my way back to my room. The assemblage of the palace tents so convoluted and careless, I was not surprised when I found myself in one of the passageways outside instead. A servant stood a ways down the lane, so I strode forward to ask her how to find my way back.
The servant saw me nearing and rushed into a tent with a squeak of alarm. I regretted sending so many of the guards home. They, at least, would have been willing to show me the way.
Sighing, I kept walking. Despite the heat, the air was preferable to the stuffy tents. As I rounded the corner, I saw two of Alfaar’s guards ahead, their backs turned to me.
“Excuse me,” I said. The men turned and separated.
I saw then that they spoke a woman. Her face was uncovered, scarf draped over her hair. I should not have recognized her, but the way she watched me was unforgettable. Her eyes were as black as her father’s, yet unlike her father, she stared at me without flinching.
The guards bowed, and as though an afterthought, the woman bowed, too, barely taking her eyes from me.
And I could not look away from her.
“My king,” one of the guards said. “Is there something you need?”
Still, I stared at the woman. She watched me like she knew me. Her black eyes liquid and shining—with what? Sadness? Did she see me as a murderer? No, that did not fit with the softness I saw there. What was she thinking? Suddenly, I was uneasy—not with fear, but rather, curiosity.
Her mouth parted as if to speak. Her mouth. I dropped my eyes to her lips, bowed like a soaring bird’s wings. Something in me stirred, and then she spoke. “King Saalim.”
The way she said my name. Say it again.
“Are you lost?” she asked.
No, not anymore.
Yes, help me.
I shook my head, casting off the traitorous thoughts. What was wrong with me? With the greatest effort, I tore my gaze from the woman and looked to one of the guards, explaining that I needed to find my room.
“I can take him,” the woman said, stepping forward.
Too quickly, I replied, “Very well.” She was closer now. If I reached out I could touch her. If I did, would I understand her—this feeling? With the thought of my fingers on her shoulder, the stirring returned.
One of the guards turned to the woman with shock and shook his head. “No, Emel. I will.”
Emel. I wanted to taste the word as it passed through my lips, but my mouth remained sealed.
The guard was right. It would be highly improper. Without looking at her again—I did not dare lest I stay pinned forever to the sand by her gaze—I followed the man to my room.
Sitting at the edge of the mat, I thought of the woman and what Alfaar had forced upon her, upon all of his daughters. What had the woman been like as an ahira? Did she acquiesce? The idea was irreconcilable with what I saw after I became their king and what I saw today.
The ahiran had huddled together in the tent after their father had been slain. Not one had wept like some of his wives had. They simply watched us with wide eyes, nervously flicking away their gaze when I looked at them. They were diffident, wary—pathetic things shaped by their father’s foul hands. Even I felt a twinge of sorrow when I saw them, knowing what their life had been. But not the woman. Not Emel. In the way she held her shoulders, her head, she allowed no room for pity.
“Emel,” I said aloud. There it was—the stirring and longing and loneliness—humming there like a sitar long after the string had been plucked.
Nassar warned me that few of Alfaar’s family would take the journey to Almulihi. It would be too much for them, he had said. Their lives were too sheltered. They would be scared to journey outside. I hoped he was wrong and that some would come. They had been gifted with an opportunity that would likely not present itself again. How else would they leave their settlement, if not with my caravan?
Would Emel join us? I lay back on the bed, thinking of her eyes.
It was like she knew something about me. Like she carried secrets that I should know.
I wanted to know those secrets.
“Emel,” I said once more. The ache grew like a wave. I shook my head, pressing my fingers to my brow. This desert would propel me to madness. Praise Wahir, I would begin the journey home tomorrow. I could not spend more time thinking of Alfaar’s broken family and crumbled home.
I would not waste time thinking of eyes that were dark as a moonless night, that stared with a terrifying intimacy, eyes that seemed to hollow me further and steer me toward what, I couldn’t say.
Trails of destruction still remained in Madinat Alumulihi. The ashes of my dead family just barely lost to the sea.
I could not be distracted by vague feelings and a black-eyed woman when I had to find those who destroyed my family, tried to take from me my home.
The current of the sea was pulling me back. I could almost hear the wind whispering its plea. Home called with my people who waited for me.
Madinat Almulihi needed their king.
And I needed my revenge.
Also by A. S. Thornton
Watch for the Sequel in 2022
Son of the Salt Chaser
* * *
Saalim, now a king, pursues revenge against the invaders who murdered his family while the forgotten Emel, her b
eloved’s memory of her stolen by her own desert-transforming wish, travels to his kingdom by the sea to reclaim what was lost.
Acknowledgments
Where do I even begin to show my gratitude for the people who allowed my dream to become a reality? Let me start right here and work backwards: thank you, reader, for picking up this book and making it all the way to the end. I can write as many stories as I want, but having you read it means more to me than I can say.
To the entire Camcat Books team who allowed my book to be more than pages of printer paper bound by my local copy store, thank you. In particular, an enormous thank you to Cassandra Farrin who was so delicate and dead-on in her edits and suggestions. This book would not be what it is if it weren’t for you. Words do not suffice to thank you adequately. To Maryann Appel who did the most beautiful work designing this book. You were generous in your tolerance of my incessant and often unsolicited opinions of the design. Thank you. And finally, to Sue Arroyo. For calling me “honey” and “sweetie” and making me feel welcome from the very beginning. I love being a part of your Camcat family, and I cannot thank you enough for having me.
Dayna Anderson is the reason this book is in your hands. Dayna, thank you for “liking” my Twitter pitch and seeing the potential in my unpolished manuscript. You were the original champion of this book, and I will never forget the gift you have given me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To the early readers of this novel that didn’t shy away from providing me blunt and valuable feedback, thank you. Not only did you allow me to make this story better, you gave me so much of your time when you agreed to read my novel. Giving me your free time is a precious gift, and I want you to know it did not go unappreciated.
I would be remiss not to thank the people that inspired me to write—the online book community. Through my blog and social media, I connected with all of you and found a place that I didn’t realize I needed to be until I was there. The bookish world is my second home, so thank you for inviting me in to share your favorite books, gush over the same book boyfriends and girlfriends, share your own writing experiences, and be my bookish besties. Internet friends are real friends, and I have found so many friends in you.
Lastly, an enormous thank you to my husband. For all the days that you did the housework so I could write. For reading my romantic fantasy more times that you can count, even though you don’t enjoy romance. For encouraging me to keep going after every rejection, critique, and bad review. And finally, for being the Atlas of our world–your strength is enough for all of us.
About the Author
Evolving from book blogger to author, A. S. Thornton has a particular fondness for writing forbidden love in ancient deserts. She lives with her husband who deserves a trophy for the amount of gooey love scenes he’s edited. After spending time in Chicago and Colorado, they decided the snow is wholly overrated, and settled in Northern California. When not writing, she’s taking care of dogs and cats as a veterinarian. You’ll never find animals at the center of her writing, though. Those fictional worlds don’t have veterinarians and her literal brain can’t accept that the poor critters would be without parasite prevention.
www.asthornton.com
www.instagram.com/as_thornton/
The Lady or the Lion
by Aamna Qureshi
A Pakistan-inspired fantasy, retelling the story of The Lady or the Tiger?, in which a fiercely loyal princess tries to prove her grandfather’s innocence in an attack on neighboring leaders, while she navigates forbidden love and court intrigues alongside the handsome ambassador determined to prove her wrong.
The Lady or the Lion
by Aamna Qureshi
THE TRIAL
The appointed hour arrived.
From across the mountain, the people gathered into the galleries of the arena. Though considered a barbaric custom in the nineteenth century, the trial by tribunal was tradition. It was with sick fascination that the villagers filled the seats, the overflowing crowds amassing themselves outside the amphitheater walls.
The sky was a murky grey above them; summer was over. A breeze travelled through the air, and the villagers shivered, clutching their shawls and their children close. The chatter and clamor ebbed to hushed whispers as the Badshah entered the arena at its height, where his ornate throne awaited him. His bearded face was stoic and severe: his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes sharp. The onlookers lowered their heads in respect as he took his seat. His wife, the Wali, sat beside him. A low murmur pulsed through the crowd as one more took her seat beside the Badshah.
It was the Shehzadi.
The low chum-chum of chudiyan echoed through the arena as she moved toward her throne, her blood-red gharara trailing behind her. Her golden crown glistened, bright and shining as her blue-green eyes.
She held her chin high, proud as ever, as she took her seat. The villagers had not expected her to come. How she could stomach such an affair was beyond them! To see one’s lover torn to shreds or thrust to another was no easy sight. Yet, there she sat, directly beside her grandfather. They sat directly opposite the two doors, those fateful portals, so hideous in their sameness.
All was ready. The signal was given.
At the base of the arena, a door opened to reveal the lover of the Shehzadi. Tall, beautiful, strong: his appearance elicited a low hum of admiration and anxiety from the audience.
The young man advanced into the arena, his back straight. As he approached the doors, the crowds silenced. A crow cried in the distance, and the lover turned. He bowed to the king, as was custom, but his gaze was fixed entirely upon the Shehzadi. The sight of him seared through her.
He reached for her, she reached for him, but their hands did not touch: they were tangled in the stars between them, destiny keeping them apart.
From the instant the decree had gone forth to seize her lover to trial, she hadn’t spent a second thinking of anything else. And thus she had done what no other had done—she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors.
Now, the decision was hers to make. Should she send him to the lady? So that he may live his days with another, leaving the Shehzadi to her envy and her grief? Or should he be sent to the lion? Who would surely tear him to shreds before she had a moment to regret her decision?
Either way, they could never be together.
Then, his quick glance asked the question: “Which?”
There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it had to be answered in another.
It was time to seal both his fate and hers.
CHAPTER ONE
Durkhanai Miangul heard the bell echoing throughout the mountains. Her hand lay atop her grandmother’s, the Wali of S’vat, whose hand lay atop her grandfather’s, the Badshah of Marghazar. Together, they three had rung the bell to alert the tribespeople of foreign entrance into their land.
For the first time in centuries, the capital city of Safed-Mahal was opening its doors to foreigners, those from their neighboring districts. Coming to harm her family.
The sound resonated through the mountains, in caco-phony with crows crying. It was said that crows brought visitors with them, and as a child, Durkhanai was always excited to see who would visit her castle in the clouds.
But today, she knew the visitors would bring turmoil. While entrance throughout Marghazar was permissible, sparingly, for trade, entrance into the capital Safed-Mahal had been forbidden for centuries. Until now.
“It is done,” Agha-Jaan said, his old face flushed florid from the wind.
“Yes, jaanan,” Dhadi said somberly. “Now we prepare.”
Durkhanai was clad in a pistachio-green lengha choli, her ears and neck dripping emeralds and pearls encased in pure gold. The ensemble made her eyes more green than blue and her skin a soft brown. Beside her, her grandparents were dressed in bottle green: her grandfather in a sherwani, her grandmother in a silk sari.
Maroon red mehndi covered Durkhanai’s hands in flowery
details of blooming roses. Her curly hair was swept up in an updo with ringlets framing her face in front of her dupatta, which sat atop her head and fell down one shoulder.
She was the essence of a princess, but she would need to be more to protect her people. Wind slapped her cold on both cheeks, turning her nose numb: up in the bell tower, there was no spring. It was the beginning of April, when the world cracked open its shell to let greens and pinks begin to spool out. The weather was softer, warmer. From here, she saw the great expanse of lands she was heir to, the jewels of the earth. The palace was on the side of the mountain, with views of both the empty valleys and the populated ones.
On one populated mountain, she saw two waterfalls, and while ordinarily the glittering water brought her peace, today the two holes punctured in the mountain flowed water like eyes flowing with tears. In the distance of the unpopulated lands, she could almost see the blue green S’vat river, which protected them in the north from the Kebzu Kingdom.
Now, for the first time, they would need protection from those within their lands. Ya Khuda, protect us, she prayed.
They waited for the bell to quiet, the valley to turn silent. Then, hand in hand, her grandparents made their way to the door, to head back down to the palace below.
“Come,” Agha-Jaan motioned for her to come.
“Just a moment longer,” she responded. “I want to make dua.”
Her grandfather nodded, allowing her solace, and she was alone.
“Ya Allah,” she prayed. “You are the Protector of all people, so please, protect my people. Bless us, forgive us, let no harm come to us. Ameen.”
Daughter of the Salt King Page 39
