The Storyteller's Daughter (9 page)

“Then suddenly the climb was over. The ground grew smooth and flat beneath his feet, covered with grass as thick and soft as a finely woven carpet. The king fell to his knees. The old woman slid from his back.

‘“That was well done,’ she said. And a deed well done should always be rewarded. Ask your question, and you shall have an answer for it.’

“With that, she cast off her tattered cloak, and with it, her very form. Before the king’s astonished eyes she altered until a young woman stood before him, lovely and strong. Her long dark hair streamed down her back, black and lustrous as the night sky. Her eyes shone clear and bright and were as silver as the stars wheeling above her.

“And thus it was that the king realized that it was the seer herself whom he had carried across the water. And that what he had taken for the bank of the opposite shore had, in fact, been the mountain.

“And so he knew that he had come at last to the oracle.

‘“What is it that you wish to know?
¹
the seer asked as she seated herself upon the ground.

“‘If you please,’ the king said, suddenly humble, ‘why is it that I have no son? It is what I have longed for above all else.’

‘“Show me your hand,’ the seer instructed.

“The king held it out. The seer took it between hers and studied it carefully, running her fingertips back and forth across it. At her touch, the king shivered, for it was as cold as the water he had crossed to reach this place, and her skin was as smooth as the stones on the river bottom.

“A man may not always have what he desires, even if he is a king,’ the seer observed at last, and at her words the king felt his heart clutch. ‘You have many daughters. Do you not love them?’

‘“Yes, but—,’ the king said, then stopped short.

“‘Ah!’ the seer commented, when he failed to go on. ‘Though you are a king, I see that you are still as many other men are. You do not see what you have, but long to see what you have not.’

“At her words, a great fear and an even greater despair seized the king. ‘Is it then hopeless?’

“The seer did not immediately reply but lifted her face up to the stars. And it seemed to the king that he could see the myriad patterns of them etched across the surface of her skin as if the seer bore the mark of the very universe itself.

‘“It is not hopeless,’ she said at last. ‘Though your way may be hard. For thus say the stars. If you see what you desire but claim it not, long will be your path and great your sorrow.’

“Though her words were solemn, when he heard her proclaim them, the king felt a great weight lift from his heart. For it seemed impossible to him that he might see his son but claim him not. His wife would give birth; a midwife would place the infant in the king’s arms. In jubilation, he would hold him high for all to see and declare 1 here see and claim my son.’ When one was a king, such things were simple.

‘“I[__] do not fear this prophecy,’ the king spoke out, his tone bold. And he saw above his head a single silver star go streaking across the heavens.

“Ah!” the seer exclaimed, her gaze still upon the sky. ‘So you think the light of your will can outshine what is written in the stars?”

“‘I am a king,’ the king said proudly. I am not as other men are.’

“‘We shall see,’ the seer replied. ‘Go now, for you have made your choice, and what is done cannot be undone. All that remains now is for you to play it out.’

“So saying, she vanished, leaving the king to make his way alone back down the mountainside.

“He set off swiftly, his spirits high, determined to reach his home as soon as possible. With every step he took, the king became more and more certain that when he arrived at his palace, he would be greeted by the news that his young wife was with child. This time, he was sure, it would be the son for whom he had longed for so very long.

“Who does that seer think she is?
the king thought as he marched along.
Why should she see my destiny more clearly than I? Other men may be ruled by what the stars proclaim, but not me. I am a king and therefore not as other men are.

“And so, by degrees, the king worked himself into a righteous fury at the way the seer had spoken to him—and worked himself out of heeding the warning of her prophecy. Thus occupied by his thoughts, he walked mile after mile, hardly noticing the passage of time. Indeed, it seemed to him that he marched through a contradiction; time either moved very, very swiftly or not at all. For even though he walked until his limbs ached and his brain grew fuzzy, neither night nor day seemed to come or go, but he moved always through a strange gray twilight.

“Finally the king began to realize a dreadful thing: Though he had walked until he was more tired than he had been in his entire life, he had not yet reached the stream that wound around the foot of the mountain. And with this realization came a great fear.

“What if, in this place of enchantment, he had become well and truly …”

But here, Shahrazad’s voice was interrupted. Into Shahrayar’s apartment came a new sound: the crowing of the first cock of the morning. Its raucous greeting of the day ended on a note that sounded exactly like triumph, and then was gone. The room was filled with silence. As if awakening from a dream, Shahrayar stirred and gazed around him.

Dinarzad was still curled up at her sister’s feet, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and even. Shahrayar himself still sat upon his nest of cushions, so enthralled by Shahrazad’s tale that he was in exactly the same position he had been when she first began to tell it. He hadn’t so much as moved a muscle.

He had not noticed the passing of the hours. Neither the full moon setting, nor the stars snuffing out like the flames of a thousand candles, one by one. Instead he had stared up at another night’s sky, in the company of another king. One he greatly feared was on his way to ignoring what was right in front of him and so was setting out upon a path that would be both long and filled with sorrow.

But with the crowing of the cock, the dream had been shattered and Shahrayar returned to the real world once more. Day was here, impossible to ignore. Now he saw the way the sky had turned soft and pink like the inside of the shell his father had brought him once following a great victory on the shores of some faraway ocean. Never had he seen so beautiful and terrible a sight, thought Shahrayar, save for one thing only: When he looked on Shahrazad. His bride. His wife. His storyteller.

By his word, she had become all these things. And by his word, her life would end with the coming of this bright morning.

When he realized what was to come, Shahrayar felt a great trembling in all his body, clear through to his stone heart.

No!
he thought.

He did not stop to puzzle at his own swift rejection of what he had himself proclaimed must be so. He knew only one thing: Though the morning had come, Shahrazad must not be allowed to die.

I
am the king,
he thought.
If I can will one thing, then I can will another.
Though what this thing should be, he did not yet know. But he rose to his feet, and at the sound of this, Shahrazad spoke for the first time since she had broken off her tale.

“Is it day, then, Shahrayar?”

Shahrayar felt his throat constrict, but he answered steadily, “It is day, Shahrazad.”

“Where is my trunk?” Shahrazad asked, and so surprised him. For she made no reference to what must follow the rising of the sun.

“Behind you.”

“Will you take me to it?”

“Of course.”

So, mindful of Dinarzad who still slept, Shahrayar took Shahrazad by the hand and led her to the trunk. She knelt before it, placed within it the piece of fabric holding the secrets of the story she had begun, then gently closed the lid and said:

“I am sorry, Shahrayar.”

“What for?” he asked, the surprise plain in his voice.

Oh, what a great fool I am!
thought Shahrazad. Surely it would have been better if she had not spoken. For how could she put what she was feeling into words? To do so might end her task almost as soon as it had begun.

She was not sorry to have become Shahrayar’s wife. Not sorry to have taken up her tale. To her, the way that she must take seemed as clear as it always had. Her motives were true and just.

But it had come to her through the course of the long night that where she perceived a path running straight and true, Shahrayar might perceive a different one. A way so filled with twists and turns that it could never come out straight.

Might not her actions appear like deception should be learn what she had done before he had truly come to trust her? How deep might such a wound cut, having been so cruelly deceived by a wife before?

He had not spared her life—not yet. Not even for a moment longer. But if he did, surely he would believe it was the result of his own will. It would not occur to him that it could be the result of her storyteller’s art, also.

If he should see what she had done through any but the eyes of love, what would befall them both?

“Shahrazad?” Shahrayar prompted.

“Never have I begun a tale I could not finish,” Shahrazad answered slowly. “Perhaps I should not have given my sister her way in this. Her tales are short, for she is just a child. But you are a man full grown. I should have realized a tale that belonged to you would take more time. We may never know how the story ends, and for this, I am sorry.”

At her words, Shahrayar felt something explode inside his head.
I see it now,
he thought.
The way to keep her alive.

“I do not accept your apology,” he said. He leaned down and helped Shahrazad to her feet. “For I promised I would hear this story through to its end. Therefore I will do so.”

At his words, Shahrazad’s heart gave a great leap, though she answered, “But—”

“Oh, do be quiet and let me think a moment,” Shahrayar exclaimed as he spun away in frustration. “Why must you always ask one more question? Why can you never let things be?”

“I suppose because I cannot help it,” Shahrazad said.  “It is the way that I am made. What if the telling of this tale takes many nights, Shahrayar? More than you now can perceive?”

“Then it will take as many nights as it takes! I am the king. All must abide by what I proclaim.”

“So you keep saying. But will what you proclaim today still be so tomorrow?”

“How should I know?” Shahrayar all but shouted, and Dinarzad stirred and moaned in her sleep. “Do you think I have all the answers just because I am king?” he asked, his tone suddenly weary and quiet.

“No, I do not think that,” Shahrazad said. “For surely a king is first a man. And so it must follow that a king does as all men do: the best he can.”

At her words, all Shahrayar’s anger and frustration left him for wonder.
She understands.
She did not expect him to be perfect just because he was the king, nor did she expect him to hide or deny his flaws as his first queen had.

And so he moved back to Shahrazad and took her face between his hands.

“You ask me questions for which I have no answers. They are all in the future, and I cannot see that far. I can only see this moment and it confuses me, for it contains things I did not think to find.”

“Then let us solve one puzzle, at least,” suggested Shahrazad. “I will tell your story each night until it is done, and rejoice in the telling of it.”

Shahrayar felt her words sink, deep inside him, like water into parched ground.

“I thank you for your generosity.”

At his words, Shahrazad’s mouth quirked up. “Now I know you are just a man,” she said. “For I think you have grown confused over which of us is the generous one.”

“No, I have not,” answered Shahrayar.

And he realized suddenly that the two of them were standing body to body and that he still cradled Shahrazad’s face in his hands. At this, a longing to kiss her rose so sharply within him that it felt like pain. He released her and stepped back.

“Come,” he said. “Let us summon a servant to carry your sister. Go to your father and tell him what has come to pass. I think he will want to hear it from you, rather than from me. I hope that it will bring him gladness.”

“I am sure it will,” Shahrazad said.

And at that moment, the sun appeared through the window and shone upon her face so brightly that even her blind eyes were dazzled.

And now, for a moment, we must leave Shahrayar and Shahrazad. Though they are the heart of this tale, a thing that is right and fitting for it is theirs. There are others who must be spoken of, for, without them, the tale cannot travel to its proper end.

I have told you how, in the time following his discovery of his first queens betrayal, Shahrayar locked himself in his highest tower and did not come down. Great was the fear and compassion his people had for him during these days—before he descended from the tower and all perceived that his heart had been turned to stone.

But what none perceived was that it was not Shahrayar alone whose heart was altered during this time. There were others whose hearts were changed as well. First among them were the former queens brothers, and their hearts were transformed in this way: They were turned into pillars of flame that burned with a desire for revenge. Until it was accomplished or their lives were ended, the fire could never be put out.

Now, Shahrayar had been a prince before he had become a king, for that is the way things usually go.  And so it follows that his first bride had been a princess, daughter of a kingdom taken by Shahrayar’s father in one of the many wars of conquest at which he so excelled.

The land he had conquered brought Shahrayar’s father great wealth and, though he was glad he could now call it his, he did not want its people humbled too much. He wanted them to retain their pride, for they had become his people, and their pride had therefore become his.