The Ninety-Ninth Bride

by Catherine F. King

  “So did I,” she said. “Morgiana died, and Shirin. They became my friends, and then...” She choked up and rubbed hard at her face. “I shouldn’t cry! I’m just tired.”

  “I cried when I heard about them,” he told her softly. “I don’t understand what’s happened. I thought you were to be married to the Sultan. I have seen the scroll that lists your name. But here you are, alive—and no one speaks of you except as the Princess of the second rank.” He eyed her. “Who do you say that you are?”

  “I am… ” She took a deep breath. “I am the Sultana. Though I do not like it.”

  “Sayyid—has he touched you? Hurt you?”

  “No. He barely sees me.”

  “You are blessed,” Munir said, with a sigh. “I am so relieved to hear that. Is his madness lifted, then?”

  “I do not think so. I think he is just distracted.”

  “Distracted? By what?”

  “By Zahra”

  “Zahra. I’ve heard that name. The court is full of speculation. They say she never leaves the Sultan’s chambers. Is that true?”

  “Zahra—” she began, and then bit her tongue. It was all so strange, and with Hussein’s warning and all, maybe this wasn’t the place or time. How well did she know Munir? “Zahra is reclusive,” she said, at last.

  Munir nodded. She couldn’t imagine he was satisfied with that answer, but he seemed to understand that there was a secret.

  “How does she treat you?” he asked.

  “What does that matter?”

  “You are her rival.”

  “She treats me very kindly. She doesn’t seem to bear me any ill will. And she tells the most wonderful stories.”

  Munir nodded, but didn’t ask anything more. Dunya waited, then asked, “How long are you staying? In the Palace?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t stay here long.”

  Dunya’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry to sadden you, little bird. Say… did you receive the locket I sent you?”

  She was still wearing it around her neck. She held it out for him to see.

  “It seems to be doing you good! I’m glad to see that.”

  “I’m still alive,” Dunya said drily. She looked up at him, and didn’t think to hide how happy she was to see him—right up until she yawned. “I’m sorry,” she ducked her head. “That was rude.”

  “You didn’t sleep well?”

  “I didn’t go to sleep.” Dunya yawned again, and pinched her cheek to try and stay awake. “How goes the fighting on the border?”

  “Never mind that. I think it’s time for you to go to bed, young Princess.”

  “But we haven’t even begun to talk!” Dunya yawned again. Munir glanced over his shoulder, at anyone within earshot. “I will see you again soon, at the Sultan’s birthday celebration.” He did a decent job disguising his wince.

  “Yes… ” Dunya studied him. His long features were becoming clearer as the daylight gathered. He looked tired, too, like a hounded thing. She wanted to reach for his hand, but people were watching. Her heart thudded in her ears, and she tried to focus.

  Her heart thudded a little louder. “Yes. Is it lonely, out in camp?”

  He opened his mouth, glanced over his shoulder again, and then said diplomatically, “It’s different than the company you find in the Palace.” His eyes met hers. “Don’t worry about me.”

  She didn’t look away. She had his full attention. Her cheeks grew warm. “But,” she managed to say, “I do worry about you.”

  His mouth quirked to one side in a wry smile. As he was about to say something, a noise interrupted—a gardener’s tool falling to the tile. Munir seemed to remember where he was. “Your concern speaks well of you,” he said, with a courteous nod. “I thank you.”

  Dunya didn’t know what to say—she tried to imagine what First Wife Noora might do—and she curtsied. She yawned again. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I should go and rest.” When she glanced up at him, he was suppressing another smile. Was he laughing at her?

  “Go and rest, Princess Dunya,” he said. “We will speak again soon.”

  This interplay between courtesy and sincerity was spinning her head. She curtsied, said, “Good morning,” and turned away.

  “Good morning,” she heard him call as she left the Lotus Gardens. She could almost feel the watchful eyes of everyone else slipping away and off of her. But it was nice, to have been noticed for a little while.

  She would really have to thank Upalu again.

  The River Spirit and Her Grief

  The day of the Sultan’s birthday arrived. While the Palace bustled with activity for the evening celebrations, the Sultan was quiet. He took himself to a high balcony to watch the guests arrive, and Dunya followed him there. She thought that she had been unnoticed, as usual, until she heard him say, “Sister-in-law. You’re there, aren’t you?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Dunya replied and started to shiver.

  “Come over here and look over my shoulder. Or by my elbow,” he added, with a glance at Dunya’s height. Outside the Palace gates, there were sedans and litters and grand carriages, awaiting the trumpet call and the gates pulling open. Even up here, Dunya’s ears caught the whinny of horses and the faint chatter of the guests.

  “How do they do it?” said the Sultan. “How does anyone find meaning in their petty little lives?” He lifted his hand and pointed to one person—a distant dot—after another—after another. “He will die. And he will die. And he will die. How do they stomach that reality? Why do they bother going on?”

  “Sire?” she asked in a small voice. “Are you… are you happy?”

  “Happy?” the Sultan repeated. “I’m the happiest man I know. I’m the only soul that doesn’t have to pretend.”

  He fell silent. Then he sighed. “Might as well get this over with.” And he turned around and left Dunya alone on the balcony.

  When she returned to the main room, a messenger was waiting for her. He carried a short note, which read, “If you would meet me in the library before I leave, I would be very grateful—Munir.” There was a postscript: “The geography shelf.”

  Zahra presided over the feast, as regal a Queen as any could wish to find. The Viziers presented their gifts to the Sultan. Each gift was costly and laden with meaning of some kind. Zahra explained these meanings to Dunya in a patient, steady whisper.

  Munir, for his gift, presented a year-old colt with all the makings of a great stallion.

  He left early, claiming he needed his sleep before an early departure tomorrow.

  Dunya waited a few minutes and then left herself, murmuring that she wasn’t feeling well. As soon as she was out of sight of the banquet hall, she hurried to the library. The geography shelf was easy to find—she knew where the large globe showing the known world rested, along with slanted tables for reading or drawing more maps. Munir was waiting for her there.

  “Captain,” she said, coming to a halt and curtsying.

  He sketched a bow in response. “Dunya,” he said, “I wanted to see you before I left.”

  “Thank you for your message.”

  His smile in return was sheepish. “I—if it is not too much to ask—I would like it if you wrote to me.”

  Dunya’s heart raced. She smiled and said, “Yes, I would be happy to write to you. By—um—by Palace courier, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I could tell you Zahra’s stories. They’re so good.”

  “Yes, Zahra… ” He lowered his voice. “Does she really just… tell stories? And that’s kept her alive?”

  “Yes.” Dunya felt a swell of pride in Zahra’s accomplishment.

  “Incredible. Yes, I’d like to know what stories she tells that have saved her head. And I really want to hear from you, and know you a
re all right.”

  A blush crept from Dunya’s neck and started to spread over her face. She hoped the light was too dim to see it, knew that it was not. “You’re very kind,” she said.

  “Your sister,” Munir said, “is remarkable.”

  Dunya automatically wanted to say, She’s not my sister, but something stopped her. Walls had ears. Anyone could be listening on the other side of the stacks. If Zahra’s spell was broken, would her life be forfeit? This was dangerous knowledge. And so, she didn’t interrupt Munir, who went on, “As are you.”

  “Thank you,” Dunya said, her blush flaring up again.

  Behind him, a lieutenant whispered to Munir. Half-turned, said, “I hear you,” and turned back to her. “I have to go,” he said. “Write to me, please.”

  “I will.”

  He took her hands—his were callused and warm—and bowed over them and said, “God be with you,” then he was gone.

  By the time Dunya made it back her chambers, dawn was already staining the horizon, but still the Sultan insisted that Zahra continue the story she had begun the previous night. Dunya could not stay awake for this; she tottered to her own small bedchamber and fell asleep there.

  She had a very strange dream.

  She dreamed that she was sinking slowly through the rooms of the Palace, from the royal bedchambers, to the offices of Viziers, to the receiving rooms, to the Palace baths… and down further than that, sinking through stone. Throughout her descent she could hear someone sobbing, a wretched, broken sound, interrupted by splashes.

  She dreamed, she sensed a lake, a part of the river, flowing powerfully under the Palace, sealed in total darkness, but going towards the light. And something else…

  Dunya’s heart raced. There was a woman trapped in the river! She bobbed in the water and threw her head back for huge, howling sobs.

  Dunya reached out. “Take my hand!”

  The woman didn’t seem to hear her at all. Instead she submerged herself, and underwater she screamed so loudly and so terribly that Dunya woke up.

  It was still early morning, and Dunya’s thoughts were all scattered.

  She crept into the Sultan’s bedroom. The Sultan and Zahra were lying side-by-side in bed, but Zahra was awake and staring at Dunya curiously. She held a finger to her lips and slipped out of bed, still wearing her nightclothes, which were all black. Dunya wondered if everything Zahra owned was black, as Zahra led her out onto the balcony.

  “What is it?” Zahra asked. “You seem troubled.”

  Dunya told her about the dream.

  “Zahra,” she said when she had finished, “What is there beneath this castle?”

  “An underground lake—not a large one—from the bend in our river.”

  “No one could live there, could they?”

  “I think any human would drown in moments.”

  “I dreamed of someone there. She was sobbing so much. Someone ought to go help her.”

  “Sshh, sshh.” Zahra hugged her and stroked her hair. “It was only a dream, little sister.”

  “It didn’t feel like other dream I’ve had. It felt like… I don’t know what it felt like. But what if it was true?”

  “Just let your dreams be dreams.”

  “Can’t a dream be real?”

  “Dunya, do you know how Al-Rayyan was founded?”

  “I know about the Sultan Rifat and how he built the Palace. My grandmother told me.”

  “Very good. But the city was here before that. Back then it was only a collection of tents, but the river spirit had struck a bargain. Do you want to hear this story?”

  “I always want to hear your stories, Zahra. They’re wonderful.”

  Zahra smiled at her and told the tale of the river spirit’s grief while the morning sun rose and the air grew warm. When she was finished, Dunya looked over her shoulder, into the quiet bedroom.

  “That was a good story. But I just wondered, what if the Sultan heard you talking and grew jealous?”

  “He is my husband, but he has no claim on my words,” Zahra answered. “If he wants to hear the story, he can always ask.”

  Dunya was silent a long time. Zahra, as always, did not press or leave. She just stayed there, watching the sunrise with Dunya.

  “Can a dream be dangerous?”

  “If one spends too long in it, yes,” was Zahra’s answer.

  “And then one’s mind would grow ill,” Dunya said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of Sultan Sayyid.” Dunya sighed. “I am so tired of living like this, afraid of every sunrise, afraid it will be your last—or mine.”

  “And what would you do, then?”

  Dunya couldn’t answer. Finally, she said, “I think you’ve done more than your fair share of helping. It’s time that I helped, too.”

  Dunya hurried to the kitchen as soon as she dressed. She had a wish for Upalu to grant.

  She was surprised to see the kitchen far more crowded than usual. Aynabat and the other chefs were yelling for order, but many servants—more than worked in the kitchens—were crowding around the great fireplace, the one where Upalu lived. Some were on hands and knees before the hearth, others were standing at a distance and throwing salt and spices towards the flames.

  “Please, a wish!”

  “Grant me a wish!”

  “No, my family needs this wish, listen to me!”

  “No, me!”

  Dunya stopped in her tracks and surveyed the scene with wide eyes. “Oh, no,” she whispered. She was clutching her bird-shaped locket, and she felt it grow hot in her hands. In a moment, it was too hot for her to hold.

  A fierce whisper sounded as she let it go, “Get me out of here!”

  Dunya obeyed, turning on her heels and running out of the kitchen, hearing people cry that the fire had died out, and what did that mean?

  She hesitated in the hallway, unsure of where to go. Finally she ran to the east, out through the rose garden and into the empty tower of the harem. Wincing, she pulled the locket off from around her neck and dropped it onto the carpet. Upalu boiled up out of it, mercifully keeping herself a tall pillar of flame, not touching any of the flammable things in the room—and most of the things in the harem were flammable.

  “What was that all about?” Dunya asked the djinni.

  “I don’t know, you tell me! How many people did you tell about me?”

  “Maybe they worked it out for themselves? I did tell Zahra… ”

  Upalu rubbed her face hard, as molten-glass tears threatened to fall. “Humans are so silly. And so greedy. I can’t stand it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dunya. “This is all my fault. I should have found you somewhere safer to stay.”

  “Someplace to rest,” said Upalu with a sigh.

  There was a pause, and then Dunya said, “I’ll take you out of the Palace. And you can go where you want. I just have one small wish.”

  “A remedy to heal Sultan Sayyid’s illness.”

  Upalu’s flame dimmed. From a tall pillar she shrank and curled up on herself until she was about Dunya’s own height. “What are you doing?” Dunya asked.

  “That’s a wish I cannot grant,” said Upalu, shrinking in further, “except by advising you. Wait a moment.”

  There was a burst of light, and Upalu shaped herself again. She set down feet, not tongues of flame, onto the carpet, which hissed a little, but did not scorch. She shaped herself into her girl form again. “Don’t expect too much,” Upalu said, looming a little awkwardly over the girl, “but ask me your questions and I’ll give you what answers I can. That’s as close as I can come to granting your wish properly.”

  When Dunya’s astonishment ebbed, she stumbled on her words and then said, “But you wanted to leave. I won’t keep you from that.”

&n
bsp; “But first I will grant your wish. The worst thing about being mobbed… well… ” She picked up the bird-shaped locket and held it out to Dunya, who took it with wrapped fingers, “The worst thing, after being treated like a treasure to be stolen and abused… was that I could not grant a single wish. Not even the gentlest and best of them. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need practice.” She glared at Dunya under thick brows. “But don’t go gloating about being right.”

  Dunya invited Upalu to sit on the cushions of the harem, and for a moment Dunya was tempted to get out the chessboard. Dunya simply began by saying, “The Sultan’s mind must have snapped. He is unreasonable, distrustful, short-tempered—he sees enemies everywhere, particularly in the women he is married to. I want to find out how I can undo this and restore him to sanity.”

  “Well… he is the Sultan. Seeing enemies everywhere might be sane, for him.”

  “But wanting to kill his wife, every sunrise?”

  “Fair enough. Did he ask you to seek out a remedy?”

  “No.”

  “Does he know you’re searching for a remedy?”

  “No.”

  “The most important question—does he regret the way he is? Does he want to change?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dunya answered. “But he must! So many lives depend on him.”

  “‘But he must.’ Oh, the wishes that have started with that phrase. I’m sorry, my friend, but when it comes to the mind, so often, one must wish to change in order to change.”

  “That’s absurd!” Dunya burst out. “Why, I’ve—I’ve changed a great deal just in the past month, and I did not particularly want to.”

  “You’re very philosophical, you know that?”

  “I’m just contrary. That’s what my grandmother said when I was naughty.”

  Upalu took Dunya’s hands. “Small lady, I do not doubt that you’ve changed, but I think that was the natural result of challenges and adventures. But a person with a restful life must want change in themself before their spirit makes even the smallest transformation. I am sorry, but without the Sultan’s willpower, anything you wish for, or buy from the Demon’s Market will yield only puffs of smoke and deep regret.”