“It worked!” Dunya whispered.
“Kind of lazy security you guys have here,” Upalu remarked.
“Don’t chide them. It’s some magic,” Dunya said.
It turned out that the Palace was larger than Dunya had anticipated. But, by her estimation, they only got lost once—when they found themselves in the workshops. Fortunately, the people in the dye works took notice of Dunya when she spoke to them, and pointed out the way to the kitchens.
On the way to the kitchens, Dunya noticed that Upalu looked less and less well. Was that smoke coming off of her? “We’re almost there,” Dunya said to her.
“Worry about yourself,” Upalu said. “I’ll worry about me.”
The kitchens had wide wooden doors, and they were now propped wide open to let the heat out. People were hurrying in and out, and loud voices sounded from inside.
“Maybe we should wait until it’s quiet… ” Dunya said—only to watch Upalu vanish into the hustle.—“Oh, no,” Dunya grumbled as she followed Upalu in.
The kitchen was overwhelming—like all the sensations that Dunya had glimpsed in the city, packed into one large room. The smells, the noise, the people… it was all Dunya could do to keep her head and scan the room for a cinnamon-colored scarf.
There—by the fireplace, along the far wall. Dunya ran towards it. Upalu walked towards the fireplace—and stopped short. Dunya caught up with her.
“There,” she said. “I told you it was a large fireplace.”
“I don’t know if it will work,” said Upalu. “But… ” She glanced at Dunya, “thank you for bringing me here. Thank you for trying.”
“You are welcome. Um… what do you do now?”
“I can’t stay in this form,” Upalu said with a shrug. When her shoulders fell, she became insubstantial—colorless—in a moment, Upalu became a column of smoke, which sank into the fireplace. Were the embers glowing more brightly? Was the fire different, now that a djinni dwelt there?
Dunya stood, watching the flames, trying to spot a difference, until someone bumped into her and said, “There’s no place in this kitchen for sightseers!”
Dunya got out of his way and found a place to sit, close to the fire. She checked the sunlight—the day was still young. She waited, watching the activity of the kitchen. She watched as vast quantities of food were prepared and sent out—some to Palace workers, some to Viziers and their entourages, and some, Dunya imagined, to the Sultan himself. The kitchen staff was resting after lunch, and Dunya’s stomach was growling, by the time she spoke.
“I hope you like it here,” she said.
“I’m very tired,” came a whisper from the fire. Dunya looked. A vaguely human-shaped form was visible in the licks of flame. “Thank you for bringing me here. Now you can leave.”
“I won’t. I want to know your story.”
“Well, I don’t feel like sharing. Just… just go.” The fire seemed to give a little huff, and the flames fell back into being regular flames. Dunya pulled down her blue scarf. She approached a chef, took a meat pie to eat, and settled by the fire again.
She had finished her meat pie and was back to watching the flames. In time, the djinni’s figure became visible again.
“Why are you still here?” the djinni asked.
“I want to make sure you’re not lonely.”
“My heart is broken. Of course I’m lonely.”
“Who broke your heart?”
“A human girl. Woman, rather.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“And now a human girl is here to rescue me. This is the contract up on its head.”
“What contract?”
Upalu rolled her head back and heaved a sigh—a puff of smoke went up the chimney. “Djinn are siblings to humans. Humans are made of earth, djinn are made of fire, and Allah granted us both free will, to make of our lives what we choose. Well, it is also proper for a djinni to make a home in a vessel, be it of clay, or metal, or glass. And a djinni will wait in that vessel, and trust in God’s plan to take us to where we should be. And… a human will find the djinni.”
She paused a long time, and Dunya asked her to go on.
“It’s a stupid story. It’s a very old story. I loved, I lost. One of the oldest stories that there is. And when my wishes dried up, I was dismissed—with all due politeness, of course—and that is where you found me.”
“That’s awful.” Upalu turned away from Dunya, and the human girl said, “I know what it is like to be cast aside—given up—treated as worthless. My father gave me… well, gave me in service to the Palace, you might say, as a show of good faith. That’s how Shirin put it.”
“Who is Shirin?”
“A friend of mine. She’s dead now. I would be dead, too… ” Dunya swallowed. Even now, her voice trembled, “if it weren’t for Zahra.”
“Who is Zahra?”
“I… I don’t know where she came from. She has the title of Sultana.”
“Oh. A mortal, then.”
Dunya looked sidelong at Upalu. She was, suddenly, not sure. But Upalu’s mind had turned back to her own troubles, and she sighed deeply and said, “You want to hear my story? Here it is. God’s will put me in the hands of a poor girl. Djinn-wishes should balance the world—elevate the lowly, cast down the mighty. You know—good reversals, turnabouts.”
“And what wishes were asked of you?”
Upalu shrugged. “Nothing too fancy. The girl asked for a home for her family. A workshop for her art. A fountain inlaid with blue tiles in the shapes of lotuses. I could have given her the stars! And I let myself be charmed by her humility. I fell in love… and I thought she was my friend, but she said she could never love a djinni. Something—not human.” Upalu’s voice broke. “She said she didn’t want to see me ever again.” The djinni seemed to collapse into nothing but a pile of embers. “How could she? How could she do that to me?”
“I’m sorry.” That phrase began to sound inadequate the more Dunya said it. “But… I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
That earned her a glare that was all the more potent coming from eyes of fire. “Is that all you can think to say?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much experience with… affairs of the heart?”
Upalu actually laughed that. “I can tell.”
“But I’ve heard many stories… Listen, this Palace, there are many wonders. I heard of a magic carpet in the basement… there’ s a tree whose leaves sing lullabies to… um, itself… ” Dunya’s voice trailed off. Upalu was staring at her. “What I mean to say is, maybe you’ll find healing here. Maybe you just need a change of scenery. Anyway, I’ll look after you.”
Upalu nodded. She seemed to curl up some in the fire. “Very good. I feel protected already. Now… please, leave me alone.”
Dunya got up, wished peace upon the djinni, and left. But she thought about Upalu often for the rest of the day, and resolved to visit her tomorrow.
Dunya went upstairs, to her private chamber adjoining the Sultan’s. There, she prayed.
When she finished praying, she sat in still contemplation for a moment, going over everything that had happened that day. One venture outside the Palace walls had brought one stray djinni into the Palace household. And until today, Dunya hadn’t been sure that djinn even existed!
And if one djinni existed…
Dunya replaced her veils and marched into the Sultan’s bedchamber. Zahra was waiting there, as always. “I know what you are!” Dunya announced.
Zahra looked up from her scroll. “Yes?”
“You are not a human. You are a djinni! You have powers beyond the ken of mortals!” Dunya threw her arms wide. “It must be magic. You can make people forget things!”
Zahra, instead of swooning or admitting defeat, simply chuckled. “Silly child,” she said. “The Sult
an, too, has power. Is he also a djinn?”
“No, of course not. He’s—”
“People do his bidding. He can order life, death, festivals—the entire course of this city rests in his hand. The Sultan can also make people forget things. Have you noticed that, since you came to the Palace, not one person has spoken the name of his first Sultana?” Zahra asked. “Is this not power?”
Dunya waved a hand. “That’s just obedience. You have real magic!”
Zahra shook her head. “I am what I am. Nothing more than that.”
Dunya slumped. “But why do you have power, then?”
“Power is the ability to see ahead,” Zahra said to her. “Silly child. You still have so much to learn.”
Dunya tried to come up with a witty rejoinder, failed, and sighed deeply.
“What is the matter?”
“Why does love hurt people so much? Why do people love those who don’t love them back?”
Zahra spread her hands wide. “Ah, you’ve asked a question I cannot answer, except… ”
“Yes?”
“Life isn’t fair.”
Dunya punched at a pillow. “That’s not an answer!”
“We could have a philosophical discussion all through the night, if you would rather. Shall I order tea?”
“Yes!—no… ” Dunya turned, hearing the Sultan’s footsteps coming down the hall. “You have to tell your stories tonight. But… just one question.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love the Sultan?”
Zahra gave Dunya a very cool, detached look. “I try,” was all she said, just as the Sultan entered.
The Sultan strode into the bedroom. Unwinding his red silk turban, he said, “Now you will continue the story, wife of mine. And do not forget the djinni of the pot of rouge! I like that character. He makes me laugh.”
“I forget no one,” Zahra promised him, and whatever face she had presented to Dunya a moment ago was gone. Now she was as smooth and meek as ever, only appearing to come to life when she began to unspool another wonderful story, thrilling and chilling by turns.
Dunya curled herself on the pillow, half-listening, thinking of djinn, strange storytellers who appeared in the night, and the young man on the border who had sent her a good luck charm—one which had, by all appearances, worked.
Two weeks passed by. Some days Dunya visited Upalu in the kitchen, and they talked. Over a piled plate of food, the djinni would tell Dunya a little more of her history. Sometimes when Upalu laughed, Dunya was sure she had done a good thing bringing her to the Palace. Other times…
“Wait, you mean—I thought that the talk about the Sultan was just rumors,” Upalu said when Dunya had finished telling her story. “I thought that the stories about the Sultan having killed ninety-eight women were—were rumor, nothing else! Exaggeration!”
“I believe what Morgiana and Shirin told me, and they said ninety-eight.”
“And you are alive right now just because he—this wild Sultan—is interested enough in Zahra’s stories to keep her alive?”
“Yes.”
“She could have a sore throat tonight and be dead by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes… yes, I never thought about that, but it’s true.”
“She could run out of stories.”
“She hasn’t yet. She never even hesitates—except when it’s more dramatic to pause, of course.”
“Aren’t you afraid of her running out of stories?”
Dunya didn’t answer for a moment. “I am.”
“How do you even live like that?”
“I don’t think about it too hard… ” Dunya offered, trailing off.
Upalu gave a half-shrug and took another handful of food. “I guess a body can get used to just about anything, then. I thought that only djinn were that resilient.”
Resilient. No one had ever applied that word to Dunya before. “Yes… I suppose so.”
Then Dunya turned the conversation around. “And how are you? Is your magic coming back yet?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Upalu replied, a bit haughtily. “And there’s… there’s something about this Palace. My magic feels weaker here.”
“You’re not fully recovered, that’s all,” Dunya assured her.
“I don’t think that’s it.”
On other days, Dunya went out into the city itself. She wore Zahra’s headscarf, and no one saw or stopped her. She always found her way home and traveled safely.
During her visits, Dunya had to learn to navigate the crowds. She had never been among so many people in her life, of all stations, sizes, and states of personal cleanliness. It took gumption to elbow one’s way through the crowd, and wits to navigate the best path, from one moment to another. But gumption could be grown and wits could be sharpened, and Dunya did both to navigate the thick market crowds that sprung up on either side of the Palace and along the river.
The river was Dunya’s first true destination within the city. The colorful boats crowded the water, and people crowded the wharfs—whether they were merchants doing trade, sailors taking a chance to rest, or beggars bothering for a bit of coin. They, too, were invisible, Dunya noticed; all they had to do was hold out a bowl and eyes would flit right past them.
The next time she visited the old city, Dunya saw the beggars arranged carefully on the steps of the mosques. When a wealthy man would leave his Friday prayers, he would seek out one particular beggar, almost like a friend, and pass a few coins to him and ask after his welfare. This seemed better, but the system in place was clearly built for one rich man or family to one beggar. Dunya couldn’t make sense of it.
The old city was dizzying just to walk in. Conversations passed between buildings over Dunya’s head as gossips hung out their laundry. Musicians played for coins, smiling at their own tunes. There was so much life, so many people around.
Across the river there was the theater district, where the shops were filled with masks and coffee wafted out from restaurants. Dunya could hear debates inside—the people sounded very passionate. There were fewer musicians here and more storytellers—but Dunya felt a surge of pity for them, because none of them were Zahra. And Dunya would pinch her headscarf a little closer over her hair and look ahead to when she would reach the Palace safely—and she always reached it safely.
The blessing—or magic—or whatever it was, of passing unseen and finding her way home, turned upside-down the order of Dunya’s world. While she passed through the city, unseen, the people of Al-Rayyan and the stones around her seemed to melt into a dream, interesting but without risk. In contrast, the stories that Zahra told, though they danced between Dunya’s ears, seemed far more tangible and meaningful. In the city, things just happened. In the stories, there was order; the story might open new tales within itself, but she could trust that Zahra always had the kernel of it in hand, like an arrow in a bow’s embrace.
In between her dreamlike life by day and the stories by night, Dunya knew that it would soon be time for the Sultan’s birthday celebration. And she heard over a well in the Old Town—Munir would ride into the city to visit.
The day before the Sultan’s birthday, Munir and his retinue rode into the Palace at dawn. And Dunya, who hadn’t gone to sleep yet, watched them enter and then crept into the kitchen. She stirred Upalu awake by poking her with a stick.
“Ow! What is it?” asked Upalu.
“A wish of mine came true,” Dunya told her. “Someone I wanted to see has come back to the Palace.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Upalu grumbled.
“You didn’t? Are you sure? No matter, I wanted to share with someone.” Dunya hugged herself. “I’m so happy!”
Upalu rolled her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep, and I suggest you do the same.”
Going to sleep was a fine idea, thought Dunya,
as she tiptoed out of the kitchen. But outside the door, she met a familiar, stocky figure—Hussein, Munir’s companion.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. Then, before she could answer, said, “Captain Munir would like to see you. I was asked to escort you to the Lotus Garden. That is, if her highness wishes. Those were his precise words.”
Dunya wanted to go with him, and almost said so, but an enormous yawn cut off her words.
Hussein gave her a companionable grin. “A long night? I’ve been there.” As Dunya weighed her desire for sleep versus her desire to see Munir again, right now, Hussein added, “Munir added that he wanted to meet as long as the Sultan is sleeping. Which is… ”
“I’ll come now,” Dunya said.
As Hussein escorted her to the garden, he said to her, “A word of advice, just because the Sultan is asleep doesn’t mean his eyes are closed. Do you understand?
“Whatever you and Munir say to each other, you must also look the very picture of brother-and-sisterly chastity. Because there will be people watching, eager to twist even the most innocent of gestures into some kind of scandal.”
“Oh, that, I know that much. I am the daughter of the Grand Vizier, you know” Dunya said, as Hussein left her pass through a door.
Even exhausted, Dunya could see how beautiful the Lotus Garden was. Pools displayed water lilies of over a dozen varieties. Gardeners were already at work, and there were a few of the court’s early risers strolling among the flowers. The sky was the cool lavender before dawn, and the air was already growing warm.
Munir was easy to spot even at a distance. His lanky frame was pacing back and forth between two pools. When he caught sight of Dunya, he smiled.
“There you are!” He bowed to her, his hands open. “Your highness… ”
Dunya ran to him and stopped shy of touching him. “Don’t call me that. It’s good to see you.”
She felt his surprise and tension, and then he relaxed. “It’s good to see you, too. When I heard you were to be married to Sayyid… ” He gently touched her arm and looked down into her face, “I feared for the worst.”
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 8