The Ninety-Ninth Bride

by Catherine F. King

  It was strange getting to sleep that night. The tent swayed in the wind, and though the inside was nice and warm thanks to Upalu, the night winds snuck in every so often. When Dunya closed her eyes, she was back with the djinni, traveling through the sky like a comet, trapped in fire.

  It took Dunya a long time to fall asleep, and when she did, she dreamed vividly.

  She dreamed that there were footsteps sounding just outside the tent flap. When Dunya peeped outside the tent, she saw a woman in a rider’s outfit, looking up at the stars.

  “Shirin?” Dunya asked.

  Shirin turned and met Dunya’s eyes with a long-gone, sardonic smile. “Well met,” she said. “Getting better?”

  “Slowly,” Dunya said. She got to her feet. Shirin looked well, but she did not smile.

  “Is this a dream? Are you a ghost?” Dunya asked.

  “Dream. Vision. Visitation. What does it matter?” Shirin waved a hand—a hand encased in a thick leather glove.

  “A falconer’s glove!” Dunya exclaimed. “There was a story about you and—and a princess who could turn into a falcon. It was so romantic, and… ”

  The look on Shirin’s face made her stop. She had never seen Shirin so sad, so defeated.

  “It’s just a story,” Shirin said.

  “But it was… ” Dunya trailed off. “I’m glad to see you.”

  Shirin half-smiled at that. “Thanks. You’ve grown up well. I wanted to see you. I was always sharp-tongued, but I hope you never took it seriously.”

  “It’s all right, really it is,” Dunya managed to say. The wind began to pick up.

  “Listen to me, Dunya. I am not resting well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what can I do about it?” Dunya begged. The wind grew stronger. A particularly strong gust made Dunya close her eyes, and when she opened them again, Shirin was gone.

  Dunya woke up, and it was early morning. He could hear some people moving around outside and she shivered.

  She kept this dream to herself. That day, Upalu took her to the edge of camp, and they sat looking out into the desert. At one point, Upalu said “Isn’t the silence marvelous?”

  The wind wailed in Dunya’s ears. She shivered and said nothing.

  That night, she dreamed of Morgiana again.

  “It is good to see you,” Dunya said to her. In this dream they were out in the desert, with the lights of camp small in the distance.

  Morgiana didn’t smile, didn’t speak.

  “Did you heal me? Did you help me to get better?”

  “No, you are young and strong, and I had nothing to do with it,” Morgiana said. “Dunya, did I ever set you at ease? Was I ever kind enough that it mattered?”

  “Of course,” Dunya said. “Of course you were.”

  “Then help me. Dunya, I am not resting well.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dunya cried. The wind picked up, and oh, how it battered at Dunya, so that she had to cover her head and shrink to her knees, because if not…

  She woke up that morning clutching her ears, and Upalu asked if she was all right. “I’m fine,” Dunya said to her. “Just a bad dream.”

  Dunya kept this dream locked tight within her. That day, Munir took her to the paddock on the eastern edge of camp. He took out a cold-blooded mare and helped Dunya mount it, sidesaddle.

  “You don’t have to be scared. I think the horse likes you,” he said as he led the mare around the paddock.

  Dunya smiled tightly. “It’s nice up here,” she managed to say.

  She was afraid to go to sleep that night. She tossed and turned, and hoped that she could make it to morning without waking up, but…

  She dreamed of Zahra.

  Zahra was wearing red, not black. She said nothing, only stared at Dunya with wide, mournful eyes.

  “Are you dead?” Dunya asked her.

  Zahra shook her head. Still silent.

  “Zahra? What do you want me to do?”

  Zahra said nothing.

  “Zahra, what can I do? If I go back, I’ll die. You can’t ask me to go back.”

  “I’m not asking,” Zahra said at last. Red beads appeared in a line circling her neck. They began to grow larger. A drop ran down to her collarbone.

  Dunya covered her eyes and screamed, “I’m sorry!” She woke up to Upalu beside her.

  “Dunya, Dunya,” said the djinni, “It’s all right, you were only having a dream. It’s okay. He can’t get you out here.”

  Dunya nodded, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind.

  The morning grew brighter. They walked around camp, and were cooking chickpeas for lunch when Dunya said, “I have to go back.”

  Upalu asked, “Back where? Back to the market?”

  “No. Back to Al-Rayyan.”

  “No” was the first thing that Upalu said.

  “I’ve been having dreams,” Dunya cut her off. “They’re getting worse. I have to go back.”

  “Bad dreams? Those are common to people who have had experiences like yours, violent ones.”

  “It’s not—look, I think they’re messages. From the dead.”

  “From the dead.” Upalu stared at her.

  “Yes. How can I leave that undone?”

  “Very easily.”

  “Upalu. I have to go back, and I’ve made up my mind.”

  They kept arguing until a chickpea popped. Upalu suggested that they eat lunch. She ate very fast and excused herself. Dunya suspected where she was going. A while later, her suspicions were confirmed.

  Upalu dragged Munir into the tent. “Munir,” said the djinni, “Dunya has taken leave of her senses.”

  “Maybe I’ve come to my senses,” Dunya said. “Listen. I’ve had dreams, dreams of the women that I knew that the Sultan killed. They aren’t resting easy, neither Shirin nor Morgiana. And the last one was about Zahra. I can’t leave her there, to whatever the Sultan may decide to do. She saved my life—twice, she saved my life.”

  “You might die if you go back there. Almost certainly will die,” Upalu said.

  Dunya swallowed hard. “Then I’ll have had… ” she tried to count up, “I’ll have had a thousand good days, give or take.”

  “Help me out here,” Upalu said to Munir. “What’s the news from the city?”

  “Not much.” Munir admitted. “There hasn’t been any word of the Sultan in a different mood than usual, but news can be slow to reach us. Dunya, please consider. Don’t you have—” he gestured around him, “Don’t you have a future to live for? A place? You can have a place here, you and Upalu. Life is a gift, you can’t squander it.”

  “We’re not meant to just live,” Dunya said. She hesitated, searching for the right words.

  “I swear,” Upalu said, “if you utter one word about Zahra’s stories, I will… ”

  “The stories don’t matter! This is about right and wrong. I can’t leave Zahra to die. If there’s anything I can do to get her out of there alive, I owe it to her.”

  “There might not be anything you can do,” Munir said.

  “By the sounds of it, she’s fine,” Upalu added.

  Dunya took a deep breath. “I just have a feeling there’s not a lot of time left. Anyway, I don’t need your permission. I was hoping to have your help, but I’ll go myself.”

  “No,” Upalu said at once.

  “You can’t,” Munir said at the same time.

  “What, will you hold me prisoner?” Dunya snapped at them.

  “I—” Upalu stopped. Munir laid a hand on her shoulder. Upalu glanced back at him, then turned to Dunya. “I don’t want to see you die, or hurt,” she said. “But if you’re set on this, then you will have my help.”

  “And mine,” said Munir. “All I ask is… wait until we get news from the Palace. We may hear later today. Or
we may—”

  “Captain!” Came a voice outside the tent.

  “—Or we may not,” Munir finished, turning towards the voice. “I’m here,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

  Dunya followed him into the blinding sunlight of day. The speaker had been a courier from Al-Rayyan. He brought with him dispatches, both verbal and written. Munir opened the Palace news at once. He scanned it, then read it again, and said to Dunya, “Zahra lives, but the Sultan has had her imprisoned.”

  “Imprisoned?” Dunya repeated.

  “You’re sure?” Upalu asked, emerging into the daylight.

  “Read it yourself. It says that the Sultan has become wary again. It’s a mood of his. I’m sure it’ll pass,” he added, as Dunya read over the dispatch. It had been written by one of the Palace Viziers, but not her father.

  Dunya waited until Munir dismissed the courier. When they reentered the tent, he glanced sidelong at her. “I have nothing more to ask of you. But you have my help.”

  “And mine,” Upalu added.

  “Where is she likely to be imprisoned?” Dunya asked him.

  “There are a few likely locations… ”

  “Is the harem one of them?” Dunya interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll look there. I just need a way to get back to Al-Rayyan, and I need spells to pass by unseen.” She didn’t have Zahra’s blue scarf anymore.

  “I can do that,” Upalu said.

  “Can you help me get Zahra out of the city and to this camp?” Dunya asked her.

  “Absolutely. Easiest thing in the world.”

  “I have a question,” Munir said. “Considering we will be harboring a fugitive wanted by the Palace, can your magic keep Zahra hidden for a long time? Or… ”

  “As long as you need. Djinn magic comes from the heart,” Upalu explained. “Dunya? What’s wrong?”

  Dunya was covering her mouth and her eyes were scrunched up. “From the heart,” she said. “Both of you, thank you.” Before they could say anything, she reached out and hugged them both. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could hold this moment, and them, forever. I shall have to make plans, she thought, In case I die. She hugged them a bit tighter, and then let go.

  It was three days of steady riding to reach Al-Rayyan. Upalu followed Munir and Dunya, in fire form, and joined them in the evenings.

  The sun was setting over the desert when they came to the walls of Al-Rayyan. Munir went to stable their horses and pay for fresh ones. Upalu joined Dunya, who was looking up at the walls.

  “Zahra might be dead by now,” Upalu said.

  “She’s not. I know it. Not yet,” Dunya replied. She adjusted her headscarf—it was secondhand, from camp, like everything she was wearing, but she didn’t mind. It would get her where she needed to go.

  Munir rejoined them. To Dunya he said, “Do I need to go over the Palace plan with you?”

  “No,” Dunya said, giving him a smile. “You’ve gone over it enough. I know where she might be.”

  “And you know the ways out?”

  “Yes.”

  “One last thing,” he said. He reached into his belt and drew out a small knife, neatly sheathed. “Just in case,” he said firmly, handing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. Then she clasped his hand, and said, “I’ll see you soon,” in what she hoped was a firm voice.

  She turned to Upalu. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  Upalu passed her hands over Dunya’s head. Dunya shivered, remembering the spell, or whatever it was, that Zahra had lain on the Sultan, and then Upalu said, “It’s done. Let’s go.”

  With the djinni as a wisp of smoke, Dunya headed towards the First Gate and passed unseen under the eyes of the guard. She made her way to the Palace, never looking back nor to the sides.

  When they reached the main gate of the Palace, Upalu rematerialized and said, “I can join you if you’d rather—”

  “Just stay here, in case I call for you.” Dunya smiled up at her. “And meet me here when we come out.”

  “Of course.” Upalu felt silent.

  “I wish I could tell a good story,” Dunya said. “A story of a courageous lady who finally found a voice. A story of direction, you know? Meaning.” Dunya went on.

  “We have the stories we’re given,” Upalu said, “but we can direct the way that they go.” Dunya reached to clasp her hand, but Upalu hugged her tightly. “God be with you,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  Dunya nodded and entered the Palace.

  She headed southwest immediately, and felt a pang of guilt—she hadn’t told her friends about this errand.

  But she went to the garden of spices, and from there to the wine cellar, which was dark, and to the steps leading down to the reservoir, which was even darker.

  “Should have brought a torch,” Dunya remarked to no one. She shrugged and began her descent, keeping both hands on the wall of the stairwell. She was a long time going down.

  She almost fell when the steps leveled out and she saw light at the end of the passage. Between her and the light, there was that shadow guardian again. Still standing at attention, looking as if he would never rest until the world came crashing down.

  Dunya held out her hands as she approached him, and the guardian said, “Your hands are clean. You may pass.”

  She passed him, felt that wave of sadness again. She saw that the light was coming from the water itself, luminescence tinting the slightest ripple. The light was scant, but enough to see the tree by.

  “I’m back,” she said.

  The tree began to sing, to lament. Dunya approached it, and felt pity for the stunted little thing. It should have seen the sun long ago. She knelt on its roots, ignoring the pains in her knees.

  “I will do,” she said, “whatever I can, to help your spirits rest easy. I swear it.”

  She could never quite account for what she did next, only that it felt right, as right as anything she’d ever done. She drew out the knife Munir had given her and held out her left palm. She winced preemptively, then drew a thin slice along her palm, as carefully as she could.

  “Ouch,” she hissed and flexed her hand so a little blood fell onto the tree, its roots. The leaves went silent. And then, there seemed to be close to a hundred little sighs, and the tree started to turn, leaf by leaf, into mist, into air.

  Dunya got off of the roots, sheathed the knife, and turned back. She didn’t need to see the end. When she reached the wave of sadness, she said, “I will see if I can help you, too,” and started to climb up. When she reached the open air again, she went in search of Zahra.

  The Last Story

  She had told Munir and Upalu that she would check all the places where the Sultan kept prisoners, but she had a very clear idea of where the Sultan would keep Zahra.

  So, she headed straight for the Palace harem.

  It was heavily guarded, just as it had been when Dunya had first arrived at the Palace. Lights danced in the windows, casting patterns on the ground and walls around.

  The guards did not cast a look at Dunya, which meant Upalu’s magic still held. Dunya passed through the doorway, blessing the djinn and all magic that came from the heart.

  When she passed into the main chamber, she saw the Sultan and Zahra arranged in a not-quite-familiar tableau: the Sultan was sitting at Zahra’s knee, his eyes focused on her; behind her there was a delectable picnic dinner with pastries, cheeses, and a green bottle of wine.

  Dunya stepped into the room and closed the door. The Sultan glanced at her, but did not interrupt the story. Dunya stood by a pillar. When Zahra finished the story, she looked up at Dunya. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

  With that phrase, Dunya felt the go-unseen magic on her break away, like glass. The Sultan looked straight at her and said, “I wondered if I would see yo
u again.” He stood up slowly. “That was a good story, wife,” he said to Zahra.

  “You’re not going to call for the guards?” Dunya asked.

  “No. I only wanted them to bring you to me if they saw you. Well, somehow you got past them. You’ve got more brains than I gave you credit for. Here, have some wine.”

  “Perhaps you should abstain from wine, dear sister,” said Zahra. She got up and embraced Dunya. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You can’t possibly be finished tonight, wife,” said Sayyid, after swallowing a morsel of cheese. “You had better come up with another story, if your head likes the neck on which it sits.”

  “Have you been all right?” Dunya asked in a whisper. “I came to see you as fast as I could.”

  “Do not be afraid,” said Zahra.

  “But I am,” Dunya replied.

  “You do have another story, right?” demanded Sayyid.

  “I do,” said Zahra. “Why not have some more wine, husband, and I will tell you. Dunya, please be calm.”

  “Yes,” said the Sultan. “If you came all the way here, you may as well enjoy yourself. I’ll have you arrested in the morning.”

  Zahra laughed gently and sat back down on the sofa. The Sultan sat at her knee, with a wineglass at his hand, and Dunya stiffly sat on the bed.

  “Once,” Zahra began, “there was a princess whose hair was like gold and silver cascading down her back. Her smile was the smile of a rose, and her heart was as a lotus, overflowing and offering to all. Her name was Farizad.”

  The Sultan almost choked on his wine.

  Dunya kept her composure, but her heart began to hammer. Farizad was the name of the Sultan’s first wife, the wife who had betrayed him, the wife who had always been kind to Dunya when she was nothing but a neglected daughter.

  “Farizad had all the learning that befits a princess, she had all the graces that befit a woman, but she lacked one thing: parents who loved her. Her parents instead had a mind for fortunes, for titles, and for how much gold they could amass to line their coffins when they died. They sought to acquire more, unaware of the gift they already possessed.