The Ninety-Ninth Bride

by Catherine F. King

  There came the night when Shirin decided to end the Falcon’s charade once and for all. She struck the flint and lit the lamp, and when she held the dagger aloft, she found not a monster, but a beautiful woman in the Falcon’s place—a woman with fierce golden eyes and a fluting voice that Shirin loved.

  The Falcon was furious at Shirin’s disobeying. She scolded Shirin as though she were a child, and Shirin lashed back, citing how unfair and trying the Falcon’s treatment had been. “How did you expect me to trust you, if you lied to me about your true nature?”

  To which the Falcon replied, “I was relying on your trust, not your scorn. I shall have to fly away now, to the land beyond the North Star, and I shall never see you again.”

  At once Shirin regretted her rash words and begged the Falcon to stay, But the Falcon took to the air and flew off, and as soon as she was gone, the beautiful home on the mountain vanished, leaving Shirin cold, shivering, and far from any home.

  Shirin did not point her shoes towards the herdsman’s hut. Instead, she resolved to go to the land beyond the North Star and seek out the shape-shifter that she knew and loved.

  The way was long and treacherous. Shirin sought the help of the Four Winds, but they all said that she was no sort of lady for them to help, being neither modest, nor quiet, nor pious. Finally, she sought out the most wicked, most powerful djinn she could find. Finally, after she spoke to six sinful djinn, they led her to their sister, the Djinni of Pride, who was strong enough to take Shirin beyond the North Star, and who, furthermore, would never turn down a challenge.

  Far beyond the North Star, Shirin and the Djinni of Pride found a palace made of the northern lights and the coldest, purest ice. There lived a tribe of ferocious efreets, all abuzz with preparations for a great wedding. Their prince was to be married to a princess who had been cursed years ago into the shape of a Falcon, unless she should either agree to marry the Prince or find a human girl willing to marry her.

  And so Shirin learned the story of her dear Falcon-woman, and she grew even more determined than before: she would rescue her Falcon and somehow return to the land that they knew.

  At this point in the story, the sun rose and again Zahra stopped talking. Again, the Sultan pardoned her, and went to nap in an evil mood. Dunya napped herself, and passed another pleasant day in the library. Around dinnertime, Dunya passed through one of the Palace gardens, and there, she was surprised to meet Zahra, accompanied by half of the Sultan’s elite guard. Dunya fell into step alongside her “sister,” and spoke to her in an undertone.

  “You have a plan. I’m starting to see it, now.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Every night, a long, wonderful story. Every dawn, an intolerable ending. Every night, the story picks up, but then another one starts. You’ve stayed alive longer than anyone else has.”

  “We have both stayed alive.”

  “Oh, I am grateful to you, very grateful… I just wonder, how long do you think you can keep doing it?”

  Zahra smiled at Dunya, with a cunning, secretive grin. “I have a lot of stories.”

  “This is hardly what anyone would call a marriage.”

  “Let us return. The sun is going down,” Zahra said. As they turned, she added, “A marriage is a shared, made-up thing. Most of life is made up as one goes along, dear.”

  “Are your stories made up as you go along?” said Dunya.

  “They come to me, rather,” said Zahra.

  “You don’t make any sense.”

  “But I keep us alive,” said Zahra. “Now, come. This story has a very good conclusion.”

  They returned to the Sultan’s suite. This time, he was waiting for them, and he tapped his foot impatiently while Zahra slowly prepared herself and finally settled down among the pillows. Dunya prompted Zahra, and she continued the story.

  Shirin was determined to stop the wedding. With cunning, bribery, and a small use of brute force, she smuggled her way into the Falcon-princess’s bedroom late at night. Her Falcon recognized her immediately, but they were shy around one other, each remembering the angry words they had shouted in their last meeting. Finally, Shirin tried to apologize at the same time as the Falcon-princess. At the end, they clasped hands and forgave one another. Then, they hatched a plan together.

  On the day of the wedding, the Falcon-princess declared that she wanted to set a final, simple challenge for her fiancé to complete. She challenged the efreet-prince to successfully shepherd a herd of caribou into a pack on the palace grounds. The efreet did his best, but his height and voice—and the flames that erupted constantly from his back—terrified the poor beasts, and he stormed off in a furious temper, saying no one could have done better.

  “I bet that she could do better,” said the Falcon-princess, pointing to Shirin, who was sitting by the palace gate.

  Shirin, confident in herself, got to her feet and roamed the tundra, bringing the caribou to their pens with love and patience. The efreet-prince and his whole court were so furious that they tore themselves to pieces, and Shirin could finally embrace her Falcon-princess. The Djinni of Pride took them back to the land that they knew.

  There, Zahra assured the Sultan and Dunya, they lived in mutual love and respect for many years.

  “Humph,” said the Sultan. “I didn’t trust that story from the moment the Falcon opened its mouth. I have so little patience with magic in a story.”

  “Then perhaps you shall enjoy another tale,” Zahra offered, “one with no magic whatsoever—simply a story of a courtesan named Yasmeen. What do you say?”

  The Sultan eagerly agreed and asked to hear the story.

  Dunya’s days fell into a pattern: long nights of listening to Zahra speak, and then sleep in the early hours of the morning, waking up when the sun was high. The hours in between, she wandered the library or the gardens, or strayed close to the groups of courtiers, listening to their talk. When they were not composing poems or commissioning paintings, they were discussing the beauty and mystery of the new Sultana, she who was rarely seen. No one seemed to realize that Zahra was an imposter. It was a strange magic.

  Dunya remembered the sight of the nasnas, and the fact that all it took was a display of pretty mirrors to keep her family from looking, really looking, at the half-person right before their eyes. Perhaps there was no magic at the heart of this, merely exhaustion from an indifferent court… but, then again, perhaps there was.

  Pah. Dunya had heard enough and thought of this enough. She did not wish to be a Sultana—not when Morgiana and Shirin’s blood stained the title. The sister of the current Sultana, now that was suitable. A Princess. A Princess without guards, without retinue, without attendants. A Princess able to choose how she would spend her days.

  The library was a wonder, and the gardens were a delight, but more and more she strayed to the walls of the Palace, to look over at the river flowing north to south, and at the city that rose on all sides. In her daily routine, she grew accustomed to the strangeness of Zahra, who now appeared quite at home in the Palace. The woman had ordered the Palace to her own liking: from the dressmakers, she ordered new clothes, from the treasury, she requested an allowance, and from the library, she requested books. The allowance she gave to Dunya; the books and the fabrics occupied her own days.

  But busy as Zahra was, in her own subdued way, it seemed that little escaped her notice.

  One evening, as Dunya and Zahra were waiting for the arrival of the Sultan, Dunya stared out the window at the lights of Al-Rayyan. “You know, life is really quite short” Zahra said,

  “I do know that,” said Dunya. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about my own death, you know, before you arrived.”

  Zahra did not take offense—she never took offense. Instead, she smiled and said, “All I mean is that if you long to see the city, you should go and explore, while the time is yours.”

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nbsp; At the very suggestion of what she had wanted, Dunya balked. She turned to Zahra and said, “I don’t know. It would be so easy to get lost, and there are many dangers for a young girl… at least, that’s what my father always said.”

  “You are not quite a young girl, though. You are old enough to cover your hair, for instance.”

  “I suppose… ” Dunya found herself gnawing on a fingernail. Her hair had never been important up until now, either in the walls of her father’s house or sequestered in the harem.

  “Wait here.” Zahra went to her dresser and brought back a headscarf. It was not black, but blue, with faint stripes. Strange that it had been made for a Sultana, but was simple enough to belong to almost any girl of Al-Rayyan. “Try this,” she said. She helped Dunya fit it over her long hair and tuck it behind her ears. The fabric was soft and light. Dunya went to the mirror to look at herself. With the veil over her hair, she felt suddenly more grown-up.

  “That’s better,” said Zahra. “Go quietly and carefully, and you will not be seen unless you want to be seen.”

  Dunya peered at her sidelong. “The way you are talking, saying… Is that magic?”

  “If you think it is so, then it is so,” came Zahra’s reply. “I think the blue looks good on you.”

  And maybe it was magic, or maybe it was just Dunya’s nature as a quiet girl, but from then on, when she wore Zahra’s headscarf, she seemed nearly invisible. From guards to servants to Viziers, nobody seemed to notice her. With it, she wandered the rooms of the Palace and, one day, climbed to the top of the Palace walls. She looked out over Al-Rayyan, wishing to go into the city.

  Again and again, she found herself ascending the wall and looking out over Al-Rayyan. The city was made of red stone, with rare canals sparkling between the streets. The brilliant domes and tiles of the rooftops were humbled by lines of washing that crisscrossed the air. The people who crowded the streets and bridges were so distant, Dunya couldn’t make them out, but she yearned to join them.

  She rested her elbows on the wall and muttered, “But how to get out? I must be able to return every night. I don’t want to miss Zahra’s wonderful stories.”

  A company of horsemen parading down an avenue gave her an idea. She could follow the couriers out, perhaps even take a horse of her own! She took up her skirts and descended the wall, going in search of the stables.

  She found them eventually, when the sun was setting. And Dunya learned something new, just being there: horses scared her. Their size dwarfed her, and they seemed wild, their shining hooves all to eager to kick out. Dunya was looking for a way back to the Palace proper when another rider arrived—this one was a courier.

  The courier addressed the Palace steward, saying “I bring letters from Munir. One for the Sultan, and one for the Grand Vizier.”

  Dunya’s interest was caught. Still, no one seemed to notice her, so she followed the track of the second letter as the steward took it to the Grand Vizier’s office. Shareef was there, surrounded by papers and talking to another Vizier. Shareef took the letter.

  Dunya paused outside the door. Some barriers she didn’t want to test. She slipped out of sight, and heard her father opening the scroll, and then a thwack. He must have laid it aside.

  “Any news?” asked the other Vizier. Dunya didn’t know him. It was infuriating, how much she didn’t know.

  “He’s a damned hypocrite. Says we’re weak-livered for letting the Sultan’s madness get to this point—but he says so on paper, a safe week’s ride away from the Palace.”

  “What else is new?” asked the other Vizier. “Does he plan on visiting soon?”

  “He asks us to keep him informed. He must not have received my latest letter, then. No plans on visiting. As ever, we’re on our own. Coward.”

  Dunya didn’t want to hear this. She started to creep away, and then heard her father yell, “Dunya!”

  Damnation. So someone had noticed her, after all.

  She turned around and said, “Yes, Father?”

  “The Sultan seems less inclined to kill you these days,” he said casually, “Do you think you could bring up a delicate subject to him?”

  “What?” Dunya was confused.

  “The Sultan is growing more distracted,” he explained. “He is paying less and less notice to the affairs of his Kingdom. If you could persuade him, as his sister-in-law, to talk to us, his council of Viziers, that would do a great deal of good… ”

  “He barely notices me,” Dunya told them. “And I am his wife.”

  But her father waved a hand, already turning away. “I knew I could trust you to do it. Go on, then.”

  Dunya left and followed the track of the second letter, sent to the Sultan’s chambers. Dunya trembled as she approached the doors, hoping that Zahra would be there. Mysterious Zahra, who had saved her life.

  She entered and found Zahra lounging with the Sultan on the bed. There was an energy in the air that Dunya didn’t recognize and didn’t like. But there was also a sumptuous dinner set out on a side table, and Zahra told Dunya to help herself. The Sultan didn’t notice her—he was reading from a scroll.

  “Listen to this!” the Sultan said. “Munir says that he agrees with me that all women are faithless and heartless… ”

  “Present company excluded?” Zahra asked, leaning over to stroke his hand. Dunya shuddered.

  “Oh, you’re a fool indeed if you think I trust you,” the Sultan said with a laugh. Zahra’s playful smile died on her lips. “Oh, now Munir starts to flatter me. He was always weak. But he hasn’t got any bright ideas about usurping me, at least he’s that smart… ” He noticed Dunya for the first time. “You! What are you doing here?”

  Dunya had been lost in memories of Munir, from the one time she had met him, but she cleared her head enough to say “I’m here to listen to a story from my… sister. How does the story of Yasmeen end?”

  “You may find out tonight,” Zahra said, teasing out a lock of her black hair. “And then again, you might not.”

  The Sultan grunted, and Dunya remembered her father’s words. “By the way, my Lord, the Grand Vizier Shareef has… erm… he’s asked if you might… consider… possibly… ” Her fear overwhelmed her and the rest of the words spilled out, “Paying more attention to the city’s affairs?”

  He turned to her, and his eyes were terrible. “Why, you presumptuous little—” he began to berate her, with such fury and language that Dunya was sure he would command her death. He finished by reaching over and smacking her head, saying, “If you are so intent on the affairs of the Kingdom, you can run them, you ignorant worm!”

  He turned his back to her. “Go on!” he barked at Zahra. “Tell us what happened to Yasmeen.”

  “First… ” Zahra stood up and went to Dunya. “Are you all right?” she asked. She inspected Dunya’s head and murmured, “Just a bruise, nothing more.”

  Dunya shuddered, fighting the urge to cry. As the night went on, Dunya recovered from her fear, bit by bit.

  The tale of Yasmeen was a bawdy story with many euphemisms that Dunya did not understand, though the Sultan laughed until he drooled. When Yasmeen’s story came to its absurd conclusion (according to Dunya), Zahra began another tale.

  There once was a king who liked to disguise his royal station and wander among the people of his city. He was visiting the poorestsection—the Jewish quarter—when he heard a song of joy coming from a humble shack. Inside he found a shoemaker named Lironi, whose faith and joy in her God were great, and who trusted in her God to carry her day by day—

  “Why is it always a woman?” the Sultan asked peevishly. “Your stories are always about women. Why can’t you tell a story about a man, for once? Or can’t you think of someone unlike yourself for a full minute?”

  “But this story does have a man in it,” Zahra explained, so meek and mild. “It has the King.”


  The Sultan continued to argue, before eventually capitulating and letting her resume her story, but Dunya, sitting to one side with a pastry in her hands, had an idea.

  As dawn began to stain the eastern horizon, the Sultan waved a hand and yawned. “I can’t stay awake any longer,” he said to Zahra. “You’re pardoned for the day—I need to sleep.”

  As he stretched out on the bed, Dunya got to her feet. She cleared her throat. “Zahra?”

  “Yes?” Zahra turned to her.

  “May I ask a favor of you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Show me the city.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Dunya glanced at the sleeping Sultan. Zahra understood at once, and the two of them went out to the balcony. “I’ve been thinking about this all night,” Dunya said. “I want to go into the city, like the King in your story. I’m scared, but—I’ve wondered about it all my life. Would you come with me? You know the city much better than I do, I’m sure.”

  “I suppose I do,” Zahra covered her mouth with her fingers, thinking. “But I cannot follow you. I have to stay here.”

  “But—”

  “I have to stay here.”

  “But you have magic,” Dunya insisted in a whisper.

  “I will not be moved on this,” Zahra said. “But I have loaned you a scarf that may help. And—here.”

  Zahra stepped behind Dunya. She laid one hand on Dunya’s shoulder, and with the other she began to point out districts of the city, which became clearer as the sky brightened.

  “Do you see the treetops on that boulevard? That is the Street of Sycamores, where the Viziers and other wealthy citizens live. Your father’s house is there. On the other side of that street is the banking district. Now, if we move north—you see a bit of the old city wall there—there are markets close by the Palace walls and the river. Weaver’s street—which you can find by its smell—and beyond that, the Demon’s Market.”