“One day, a terrible creature came to their house. This creature promised the parents precious metals and as many titles as they could wish, if they would give him their daughter, with gold and silver hair.
“I am sad to say, the parents did not hesitate an instant before handing her over. Farizad’s mother told her to bear the creature’s wrath with grace; her father told her to bear sons.
“There was a grand wedding, but Farizad quaked when she sat beside her new husband, for he could… ”
“Halt, halt!” the Sultan said. “I know this tale. She came to love the creature after seeing the way he tended to his garden of roses. With her love the spell came undone, and the creature was revealed to be a handsome prince. I am grown wise to your tricks, wife—you’ve told this story before!”
“This is not that kind of story,” Zahra replied, her voice flat. Her eyes dared the Sultan to interrupt again.
The Sultan, taken aback, said nothing. Finally it was Dunya who, for one last time, asked Zahra to continue.
“The creature that had claimed Farizad for his bride was most terrifying, for only she could see his true shape. He had the power to disguise himself and take human form. To all others, he appeared the very zenith of courtly manners and valiant courage. He appeared, in fact, as a Sultan.”
“What?” the Sultan exclaimed. But Zahra did not stop.
“Farizad toiled, day and night, to be kind, to be patient, to be obedient, as her mother had told her. She tried to calm her husband, to nurture some seed of goodness within him, but she was met with nothing but wrath and greed, and a delight in the pain of others. The people loved her, for she was kind to all, even to unwanted daughters, but the walls of her bedchamber echoed with weeping, more nights than I care to tell.
“One day an embassy arrived from an African empire. The empire was rich with gold, and its emperor was eager to forge alliances with other nations, especially those that heed the word of our beloved Prophet. To this end, he gifted a squadron of soldiers to the monster-Sultan as a token of friendship, delivering men as though they were animals. Twelve soldiers, drilled to perfection and brave as steel, became part of the Sultan’s household. Proud of them, the monster made half of them his own bodyguards, and half of them his wife’s.
“These soldiers were each well-favored, skilled with weapons, and clever. But one soldier, assigned to Farizad’s protection, was kind-hearted as well. Over time, Farizad began to welcome him as a friend, and then fell in love with him.
“Despite their wisdom, the worries of Farizad’s ladies-in-waiting, and the warnings of the man’s brothers-in-arms, the two indulged in their love, seeing it as a gift from God, sent to relieve their sorrow. The exiled soldier and the miserable Sultana. But they were careless, and one night Farizad’s husband, the monster, found them together. He raised his claw and—”
“Slew them!” the Sultan cried, getting to his feet. “He slew them like the animals that they were, the ungrateful swine, the scum of the earth! He granted her a clean death, better than she deserved! How dare you speak that woman’s name in my presence? How dare you?”
“I only tell the tale, your Majesty,” Zahra replied.
“This is how it ends,” Dunya whispered to herself.
“Well then, what happened to Farizad and the soldier? Finish this tale wrong, wife, and your head will be forfeit.”
Dunya clenched her fists in her hands. She was not afraid of the Sultan; in an instant, she was only irritated with him for how petty, selfish, and temperamental he was.
But Zahra seemed not at all bothered. She contemplated the room a while and looked at Dunya, before turning calmly to the Sultan and answering, “I took them.”
Dunya was nearly as confused as the Sultan was. When he asked her to explain, Zahra said, “I took them. You cut Farizad through her heart and you beheaded the soldier, Chemharu, on the spot, and I took them away to where you could never hurt them again. That is as far as their story goes; I can tell no more. Sayyid, darling, why not have more wine?”
In the silence that followed, Dunya asked, “Zahra, who are you?”
The Sultan said, “The Sultana must not utter blasphemies.”
Zahra looked up at him and said, “What blasphemy?”
“What blasphemy? It must be blasphemy, to lie to a Sultan, to tell him one distracting story after another, and for what? To save your head? And what do you mean, you took them away?”
“I was sent here,” Zahra answered. “I was sent here by the Judge. I hovered long over this Kingdom, taking bride after bride. I took women who wept, women who forgave the men ordered to kill them, brides who dared Allah to claim their fiery souls. On and on, until the Merciful One sent me to you in this form, to stop the sacrifice, and see if my wisdom could calm your heart. You were right,” she said to Dunya, “Time has run out for me.” To the Sultan she said, “I stayed with you for one thousand and one nights—nearly three years. Every morning for you was a new chance, Sayyid. I hoped for your salvation. If your heart softened, my eyes would be keenest to see it. But, I grieve to say your heart is not calmed. I have been a loving, faithful wife to you, yet still you hold the sword above my head.”
“But who are you?” the Sultan cried. Dunya, her soul filled with awe, had already guessed. Not a djinni, not a marid, not a spirit, not an enchantress—something she had never thought of, that she should have realized from the beginning. She slipped to the floor and prepared to kneel, thinking, I was ready to die when I walked in here. I am ready now.
Zahra’s black veils lifted around her, carried up as if in a great wind, until they seemed to flap and stretch of their own volition. And the threads of silver in the black glinted, and the glints widened until they became eyes, blinking in the smoke of the brazier. Zahra seemed to grow taller and lovelier still, until the eye hurt to behold her.
“I am an Angel of Allah, the Watchful, the Judge,” she said, “I am the Angel of Death. And I pass sentence upon you.”
Dunya bowed to the floor, hiding her eyes. There was a roaring like a mighty wind, and a feeling of terror and awe and wonder. And then, empty silence. She looked up, and in a glance saw the Sultan stretched out on the floor. His eyes were wide and empty. Dunya shuddered to see him.
She reached over and closed his eyes. “You could have been better,” she said out loud. “I’m sorry you’ll never get another chance.” Dunya straightened up and decided. She raised her voice. “Guards! Guards!”
The door opened, and the first duo of the Sultan’s guards entered. They stared at what they saw. Turning, they yelled for reinforcements.
It seemed to take forever for the Sultan’s guards to file into the room, and then to cross the wide empty space to the bed. Dunya remembered the story she had just heard. They were, she realized, the men who had lost a brother-in-arms to the Sultan’s wrath.
The Captain came forward, signaling to one of his lieutenants. The Captain of the Guard looked hard at Dunya, and then he studied the Sultan’s body. The lieutenant looked at the wine glasses, and the green bottle that was almost empty.
“No weapon,” said the Captain. “No markings.”
“No poison,” said the lieutenant.
“Where is the storyteller?” the Captain asked Dunya.
She swallowed hard. “Gone,” she answered.
She kept her chin held high. She did not want to die, but if that was the place God had chosen for her, she would accept it with grace.
The Captain signaled again to his lieutenant, who put the wine bottle down. The Captain knelt before Dunya, and his men followed suit.
“Young lady,” he said, “You have been witness to a miracle. It is not every day that God strikes down the wicked in our own time.”
“A miracle,” Dunya repeated. It was agreement, and it was a new way to frame what she had seen.
The Captain went on, “We
do not presume to know the workings of the Most High, but you have been given to us as a Sultana, delivering our lives from the horror of that man. We pledge our loyalty to you, Dunya-zhade, she who delivers the world.”
She was without words. It took her a moment to remember her part in the story—and as they had said their part, she would say hers.
“I accept your fealty,” she said to the Captain. “I thank you.” She swallowed, the air was still, and then she said, “Well, we might as well get this over with. Please call the Viziers, and bring them here.”
The Vineyard
When the Viziers arrived, Dunya made a quiet exit. They would call for her when they needed her. In the meantime, in the adjoining garden, she called out “Upalu,” softly.
Upalu appeared, a trail of smoke solidifying into a human form.
“What’s happened? Why is it taking so long? Why—why is the spell on you broken?”
“Zahra broke it. She’s gone now. And the Sultan is dead.”
Upalu stared.
“Zahra broke the spell. She’s gone back to where she came from, but not before k-killing the Sultan.” Why did she stutter on that one word? Dunya squeezed her eyes shut. I just saw a man die.
Upalu gripped her shoulders. “Hold on, Dunya. Hold fast. The Sultan is dead? This is a good day, then. Off to a good start.”
“Yes,” Dunya said, “Yes, it is. I want you to bring Munir here. Tell him what I’ve told you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I can take you with me.”
“I am not going to leave again.”
“You’ll be all right here?”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Upalu promised. Then, in a curl of smoke, she was gone.
At that moment, the harem door opened, and Dunya’s father approached her. She had only seen him look so worried on the night before he had brought her to the Palace harem.
“Dunya,” he said to her, “the Sultan is dead, and his other wife—that Zahra—has fled. What do you know of this matter?”
Dunya looked at him and felt no fear. “I know that she took him.”
“She took him? Talk sense! His body is lying there stinking up the harem. Where did she go?”
“Honored father,” Dunya said, “You would not believe me even if I told you.”
Shareef simply stared at her. “She poisoned him,” he said. “She poisoned him and fled into the night somehow. And you—you were not even supposed to be in the Palace. How were you in the harem tonight? The entire Palace guard attests that you were there, but they all affirm you are innocent.”
“And I am.”
“Then who killed the Sultan?”
“Zahra did.”
“And where did she go?”
Dunya shrugged. “She was your daughter,” she replied impishly. “Maybe you would know.”
“My daughter? What are you talking about now?” demanded Shareef. “She was a courtesan. A woman of the harem.”
“If you say so, Father.”
Shareef sighed. He got up to leave, but Dunya grabbed him by the sleeve.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The children,” she said, indicating Almas and Hashim. “They are innocent. You must promise they will not suffer for what their mother may, or may not, have done.”
Shareef grunted an assent, and Dunya let him go. When he was gone, she settled herself down on a bench. She suddenly felt very, very tired, and it looked to be a long night ahead.
Dunya thought, By now Upalu will have reached Munir. Will they travel by fire to the Palace? Possibly. If not…
She might have dozed off for she was very tired, but when she closed her eyes, she could still see Zahra, her veils lifting and turning into wings.
This is not a comforting thought, Dunya admitted to herself.
And then her thoughts shifted, and she remembered what Zahra had said about being “sent by the Judge.” The Captain of the Guard had called it a miracle. It was unmistakable.
Alone, Dunya composed herself and said a silent prayer. As she whispered, “Praise be to Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful,” her spirit was soothed. She was able to breathe deeply again.
“Dunya!”
“Small lady?”
Dunya finished her prayer in a quick whisper and opened her eyes. Before her, Upalu and Munir were hurrying towards her, from the main gates. Behind her, the Captain of the Guard had spoken.
She turned to address him first. “Yes?”
“The Viziers wish to see you.”
She thanked him and stood up. She waved to Upalu and Munir in acknowledgment. The Viziers were lining up outside of the harem door. Behind them, the Palace doctor and his assistants quietly went inside, to tend to the body of the late Sultan.
Dunya brushed off her outer robe and addressed the Viziers. “I am here. What do you want?”
The oldest of the Viziers stepped forward. “On the advice of the Sultan’s Guard, and our own counsel, Prince Almas must be crowned, but he is in need of a Regent. Would you take on this responsibility?” Dunya took a moment to compose herself , long enough for her to hear Munir and Upalu arrive behind her. Then Dunya stepped forward.
“I will,” she said. And her future began there.
After the noon prayers that day, Dunya was crowned Sultana-Regent of Al-Rayyan. She gave a short address to the people from the high balcony. She promised them that she would uphold the law, protect the city, and respect the legitimacy of Prince Almas, when he came of age. The people cheered, and it was with a great sigh of relief that they settled down to an impromptu feast.
Dunya moved her things into the nursemaids’ chambers, so as to be closer to the little princes. Her conscience pricked at her that she had neglected them of late. And besides, the Sultan’s chamber was full of memories—overwhelmingly so.
The Sultan’s guards became her guards, and all of the duties of the Sultan became hers. The Viziers committed a great deal of the city’s well-being into her hands, and Dunya was torn: on the one hand, she was glad of the responsibility, glad to keep her mind occupied and away from the terrible memories of the Sultan’s final moments. On the other hand, she was crowned less than an hour before she started to miss her freedom.
Her every moment of wakefulness was watched and given over to the people of the court and Palace, the matters of state and war, commerce and minting. Only in Dunya’s dreams could she return, wandering, to the streets of Al-Rayyan.
Munir returned to the border camp, but he made it clear to Dunya that he would only be settling his affairs, and nominating a new Captain there, before returning to Al-Rayyan, to stay.
Upalu remained with Dunya, a flame of familiarity in a new and confusing landscape. The djinni had the freedom of the city, because Dunya had created a new position for her: Vizier of Magical People. All the concerns and needs of the city’s djinn, ifrits, and other spirits, Upalu brought to the Sultana, with an opinion of her own and trust in Dunya, which she often expressed.
The day came, two months after Dunya’s coronation, when merfolk were sighted in the river again, traveling north. The vineyards flourished and the people lived in peace. The sickness that had taken over Al-Rayyan was passing, healing.
After three months as Sultana, Dunya granted herself one luxury, one wish. She did not request it of Upalu, but rather, of her Viziers.
“I wish to take a leave of absence,” she told them. “One day, and I will return to the city. There is a visit I need to pay.”
“A visit to where?” asked Upalu.
“A place I’ve never been,” Dunya replied.
The next day, Dunya dressed simply, took her mare—a gift from the Vizier of Transport—and rode to the south of the city walls. She had an escort lead her to a
certain vineyard outside of the city walls. She dismounted when she approached the land and walked reverently on foot, as if she approached holy ground. She met the groundskeeper, and said, “Rashida was my mother. I understand I have some claim to this land.”
The keepers of the plot welcomed her, and she lingered there for the day, thinking that this would be a wonderful place to bring the two little boys.
It was sunset, and she was just finishing a cup of watered wine, when she felt a shiver pass up her spine unexpectedly. She put down the empty cup, looked around, and saw a tall woman, dressed in all black, standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Zahra,” said Dunya.
Zahra moved into the room. Snowflakes spiraled off of her veils as she moved them aside. “Hello.”
“It is lovely to see you. I did not think we would meet again.”
“Oh, little sister, you should not have lost faith.” Zahra answered, sitting closer to the brazier. “It is lovely to see you, too.”
Dunya thought of all the questions she had, and how many of them were not exactly fitting questions for a mere mortal to ask. But she did have one. “Are you really the Angel of Death?”
Zahra smiled. “I am an Angel of Death. There are many. The world is wide, after all.”
“You’ve really been watching over me since I was born?”
“Since the day I took your mother away.”
After hesitating, Dunya asked, “Do you know what my mother meant, when she named me Dunya?”
Zahra’s smile faded. “The world is a complicated place. It is a complicated name. I hope you know that your mother loved you very much. She was also wise for her age. She knew that you might not travel far. That your world would be restricted to the men you would marry, and the sons you would bear. But she hoped that, despite the place you were given, your heart and your mind would expand to welcome all, and to be as rich as the world.”
Dunya did not trust herself to speak. “Thank you,” she said finally. Then another thought struck her, and she sat up. “Are you here to take me?”
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 20