Girl, Serpent, Thorn

by Melissa Bashardoust

  “I knew, but I didn’t think it concerned you,” Tahmineh answered.

  “But the curse—”

  “Divs are liars, Soraya. And they are dangerous. I’m not going to expose you to one of them.”

  “A div can’t hurt me—especially in a dungeon.”

  Tahmineh’s hands twisted the fabric of her skirt. “The danger is not always obvious. Divs can be manipulative. They can destroy you with a single word.”

  “Maman, please—I’ll be so careful. Just let me talk to—”

  “Soraya, this is not a discussion,” Tahmineh said, her voice growing louder. “It’s too dangerous, and you can’t trust anything the div says. I won’t allow it.”

  Soraya’s cheeks went hot at her mother’s sharp tone. She knew her veins were mapping out her frustration on her face, and she couldn’t believe that her mother could sit and watch the poison spreading through her daughter and not allow her this slim chance to be free of it. Soraya shook her head, aware of the poison running through her veins, seeping from her skin, coating her tongue. “How can you say that to me when you—”

  She stopped before she reached the one topic that always remained unspoken between them, but it was too late. Tahmineh’s hand stilled in her lap, and her face went ashen, as if she had truly been poisoned.

  Soraya had never accused her mother of anything. She had never before said, This is my life because of you, because of a choice you made. After all, her mother had been barely more than a child herself when the div cursed her future child. Soraya had never demanded an apology for what had happened, and Tahmineh had never offered one, either. Instead there was the line on her forehead, the weight of words unspoken.

  Soraya bowed her head, her anger cooling into guilt. She would have bitten out her tongue if she thought it could undo what she had almost said. Her fingers sought out the loose thread on her sleeve. There was still a part of her that wanted to tell her mother that she couldn’t accept her refusal, and that she had to speak to the div. There was a part of her that just wanted to scream.

  But instead, she took a breath, like she was preparing to submerge underwater, and said, “I understand.”

  * * *

  Soraya woke with a ragged gasp in the middle of the night. She’d had another dream about the Shahmar.

  The dreams were different each time, but they always ended the same. The Shahmar would appear to her and raise one gnarled, scaled finger to point at her hands. Soraya would look down and see the veins on her hands turn dark green, but this time she couldn’t stop them as they spread over her whole body in a final, irreversible transformation. A terrible pressure built inside of her, like something was about to burst out of her skin, but just when she couldn’t bear it anymore, she would wake, the Shahmar’s laughter still echoing in her ears.

  The first story Soraya had ever heard was her own—the story of the div who had cursed her mother’s future child. The first story Soraya had read for herself in a book stolen from the palace library was the story of the Shahmar: the prince who had become so twisted by his crimes that he had transformed into a serpentine div.

  Soraya had looked in horror at the illustration of green scales growing along the young man’s arms, and then her eyes had shifted to the green lines running down her wrist. She had slammed the book closed, promising herself that if she was very good and kept bad thoughts away, her curse would never warp her mind or transform her body any more than it already had.

  There were other divs that may have been more frightening to a child—wrathful Aeshma with his bloody club, or corpse-like Nasu, who spread corruption wherever she went—but the Shahmar was the one she had revisited over and over again, horrified and yet unable to keep away. But soon she didn’t need to seek out the Shahmar, because he began to visit her dreams, standing over her and laughing as his past became her future.

  Soraya sat up, trying to erase the images from her dream and that feeling of pressure building under her skin. She had never told anyone about her fear of transformation, not even her mother. And maybe that was why Tahmineh couldn’t understand Soraya’s urgent need to find a way to lift this curse, or why it seemed so pointless to be afraid of a div. Soraya was far more afraid of herself and of what she might become.

  In one hasty motion, Soraya rose from the bed and opened the doors to the golestan. The moon was a sliver tonight, but the embers of the fire on the roof still burned, giving the normally vivid and varied colors of her garden the same orange hue. The grass was cold, wet, and prickly against her bare feet as she padded across the garden to the door in the wall. She felt like a sleepwalker, taking one step and then the next as if compelled by something outside herself. She didn’t care that it was the middle of the night. She didn’t care that she was in her nightdress, her feet bare. All she cared about was the monster waiting for her in the dungeon beneath the palace.

  There was no passageway that would take her down into the dungeon—that path had been blocked off before Soraya was born. Instead, she had to walk along the edge of the palace wall, moving down toward the far corner, where she knew she would find a small, unassuming doorway that opened onto a set of stairs leading down.

  She was being completely careless, and not just because her hands and feet were bare, or her clothing inappropriate. She had no idea what she would do once she reached the dungeon. There would be guards, wouldn’t there? How would she sneak past them? And yet, she couldn’t keep herself away from that shadowed doorway yawning before her. And as she reached it, as she stood at the head of the steps and stared down into the void below, she knew she would find a way—she had to find a way. Nothing else mattered to her, nothing else existed, nothing could stop her—

  A harsh ringing sound to her right interrupted her thoughts, and she felt the bite of metal along the base of her throat.

  “I wouldn’t take another step,” a familiar voice growled in the darkness.

  She was lucky he hadn’t killed her on the spot, but upon hearing Ramin’s voice, Soraya felt truly cursed. Of all the people to catch her, why did it have to be him?

  “It’s me, Ramin,” she said. The darkness swallowed up her voice, so she said again, louder, “It’s Soraya.”

  Anyone else would have backed down at once—whether because she was the shahzadeh or because of her curse—but Ramin’s sword lingered at her throat a breath too long, as if he were battling some inner temptation. Finally, he sheathed the sword, his hands going to rest on his hips. “Soraya. I wasn’t expecting you.” He took a step closer to her, forcing Soraya to take a step back.

  “I was just—I wanted to see—”

  Her voice was still too quiet, and so he started to approach her again, leaning in to hear her. She backed away, but he only followed, never letting her stay more than one step away from him. “You’re too close,” she whispered hoarsely.

  He let out a derisive snort. “I’m not afraid of you, Soraya.”

  Her hands balled into fists at her side. You should be afraid, she thought. But Ramin knew from experience that she would rather fold herself into nothing than risk hurting him. As the son of the spahbed, it must have galled him to know that a timid, shrinking girl his younger sister’s age was more dangerous and fearsome than he could ever be. And so he had always looked for ways to provoke her, as if in challenge. He would step in too close and gesture too widely near her, or speak to her in the most insulting and condescending tones. And every time, Soraya would tuck her hands away, lower her head, and try to ignore him, like a flower trying to force itself back into a bud.

  “Tell me—what are you doing wandering around near the dungeon at this hour?” Ramin continued. “Have you spent so much time among the rats in the walls that you’ve forgotten how to sleep at night?”

  Irritation made her blurt out, “We both know what’s in that dungeon and why I’m here.”

  He frowned. “So you do know. Did Sorush tell you?” He paused in thought, and even in the darkness, she saw him bristle. “I
t was Laleh, wasn’t it?” he said, his voice hardening. “You were always following after her. That will be over soon, though. Once Laleh marries Sorush and becomes the shahbanu, she won’t have time for you anymore.” He crossed his arms and aimed a pointed look at her. “Maybe then you’ll learn to leave her alone, for the sake of your family’s reputation if not for hers. I always knew you would try to hold her back—that’s why I kept her away from you.”

  Those words nearly knocked the breath out of her as years of loneliness and disappointment came together to form a knot in her stomach. “You kept her away?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. Someone like Laleh doesn’t belong hidden away. All I had to do was distract her with new friends at court until she finally forgot about you.”

  Soraya went still—except for the blood rushing through her veins like liquid fire. She had always found Ramin irritating, but she could ignore and push down irritation until it dissolved. The fire going through her now would not dissolve or fade away. It would eat them both alive.

  You should be afraid, she thought again. But this time it was not a hopeless wish, the complaint of a girl who always gave in, but a realization, a truth she finally believed. It was also a threat. If he thought he could hurt her and boast about it to her face, if he wanted to test her limits, then he would have to face the consequences. In a way, she was relieved that all her formless frustration now had a name. A face. Something she could touch.

  “But no matter how you found out,” Ramin continued, “you’re the last person I would allow to see the div, given what you are.”

  Soraya lifted her head, baring the deadly skin of her throat. “And what am I, Ramin?” She stepped toward him, the space between them so small now that one of them would have to retreat.

  But Ramin didn’t back away or even flinch, still unwilling to admit that she was more dangerous than he was. Soraya wondered what would happen if she reached up now and let her bare hand hover over his face—would he finally drop his stoic pose and surrender to her?

  Her hand started to lift of its own accord, and a thought came unbidden to her mind: If Ramin dies, Sorush and Laleh would have to delay the wedding.

  As quickly as the thought had come, another soon followed—a memory of Laleh’s face, an expression burned into Soraya’s mind since childhood. That same year she had first met Laleh, Soraya had convinced herself that the div had lied about her, or that the curse had worn off. She wanted to test her theory, and so one spring morning, she and Laleh had waited by the window until a butterfly landed on the sill, orange wings opening and closing. Soraya had reached out and gently brushed one fingertip along its black-edged wing. It was the first living creature she remembered touching. It was also the first living creature she remembered killing, its wings twitching once, twice, before stopping entirely.

  But it wasn’t the butterfly she remembered most vividly. It was the look of devastation on Laleh’s face, her eyes watering, her lips pressed together as she tried not to cry. And Soraya understood that she had made Laleh sad by wanting something she couldn’t have.

  Soraya backed away from Ramin, realizing what she had almost done—to him, to Laleh, to herself—and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, a familiar gesture of surrender. Her hands were shaking—and she couldn’t help thinking that they were disappointed, cheated of their prize. But no, she didn’t want Ramin dead. She didn’t want to kill him or anyone else. She took no pride or satisfaction in her curse—she hated being dangerous, and hated the div that had made her this way. That was the only way she could be sure she was different from the monster in her dreams.

  “Soraya?” Ramin moved toward her.

  “Leave me alone,” Soraya snapped, careful to keep her voice low. You should be the one cowering away, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t speak in anger now. Anger needed a release. Soraya’s arms tightened around her waist, her shoulders hunching over. Anger and shame fought for control within her, and so she forced her body into the position of shame, because it was safer. “Never mind,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  With her head bowed, she couldn’t see his face, but she heard him give an irritated sigh. “You’re right about that. Besides, only the shah can decide who is permitted to see the div, so go back to your room and forget all about it.”

  She ignored the flash of anger at his dismissal and turned away from him, hurrying back to the golestan, to the walls that stopped her from wanting what she could not have.

  4

  Soraya rose and dressed on the morning of Nog Roz, the first day of the new year, with a sense of purpose.

  On a day like this, Soraya would normally take extra care not to leave her room. Today, the palace opened its gates to everyone, the palace gardens teeming with people from all parts of society—including the shah himself. Though he would spend a portion of the day in the audience hall accepting gifts and offerings, he was also free to celebrate among the crowd.

  But all night long, Ramin’s parting words kept returning to her: Only the shah can decide who is permitted to see the div.

  Catching the shah alone was difficult. He was often surrounded by guards, and more often accompanied by either the spahbed or Tahmineh. Even if Soraya tried to use the passageways to reach him, she would probably run into a guard first and have to explain why she was sneaking up on the most powerful and protected person in Atashar. But today was different. Sorush would still be well protected, but he would be out in the open and easier to reach. Plus, he would be in a good mood, and Nog Roz was a day for gift-giving, after all. Perhaps he would be moved to grant Soraya the only gift she had ever asked him for. Her mother had refused her, but Sorush outranked her, and so if he allowed Soraya to see the div, Tahmineh would have to agree.

  Dressed in a finely made gown of green and gold brocade that she never had reason to wear, Soraya left her room through the golestan and made her way to the celebration in the garden, which was already full of people. Under the cypresses, children gathered around an old storyteller acting out the stories of brave heroes. She heard snatches of song from musicians and bards, singing both triumphant tales of legendary kings and sad ballads of tragic lovers. Directly in front of the palace were the four mud-brick pillars that were raised every year, one for each season. On top of the pillars were sprouting lentil seeds, meant to bring abundance for the year to come. Low tables were set up throughout the garden, holding golden bowls of fruit, candied almonds, and pastries, along with beehive-shaped bundles of pashmak—meant for decoration, but children kept sneaking handfuls of the sugary strands. Hyacinth and rosewater mingled in the air, creating the scent of spring.

  Soraya had only ever seen this celebration from above, or heard it from afar. Being in the midst of all this color and light made her believe for once that the year was changing for her, too, the promise of spring’s renewal fulfilled at last. She would have liked to have taken some almonds, but there were too many people gathered around the tables. Instead, she found a safe place under the magenta-blossomed branches of an arghavan tree where she observed the festivities from a distance.

  She had thought the crowds would be difficult—and true, she did have to be especially careful of every movement, every step—but now she realized that only in such a vast and varied crowd could she hide without hiding. No one looked at her, no one glanced down at her gloves or asked her who she was, and yet she felt freer and more visible than she ever had before.

  She might have forgotten her purpose entirely while standing under the trees, but an hour or so later, she heard a boisterous cheer roaring over the rest of the noise, and Soraya turned to its source. Sorush was passing through the crowd, a group of soldiers raising their goblets to toast him in his wake. He was dressed as one of them, in a red tunic that suited his black hair and bronze complexion, rather than in the more cumbersome robes of a shah. In the days before their father’s death, they had celebrated Nog Roz together, along with Laleh. Sorush would steal pastries for them, an
d he and Laleh would bring them to Soraya’s room to share.

  Soraya peeled away from the shade of her tree and began to follow Sorush. She had to move slowly through the crowd, careful not to come too close to anyone, so she lost sight of Sorush in the line of cypresses that separated the four quarters of the garden. Still, Soraya kept winding her careful path forward, feeling a little like a serpent, unable to move in a straight line.

  Once she’d passed through the cypresses, she caught sight of Sorush again, his red tunic easy to spot from a distance. Where was he going with such drive, such purpose? He barely looked around at anyone, moving through the crowd as though it didn’t exist. Following more slowly, Soraya looked beyond him, to see where he was heading. Her eyes traced a clear path to one of the pavilions that offered shade and rest to the celebrants.

  She stopped cold when she saw Laleh in the pavilion, waiting for her groom. Beside Laleh was Tahmineh, her forehead smooth now, her gaze fond.

  Soraya ducked behind a flowering almond tree near the pavilion and watched Sorush join his bride and his mother. Together, the three of them were unmistakably a family. Laleh wore a brilliant smile, her eyes sparkling. Someone like Laleh doesn’t belong hidden away, Soraya remembered as she watched Sorush take Laleh’s hands, his thumbs softly stroking her knuckles. And Tahmineh beamed over them both, a son and a new daughter she could take pride in. Soraya had never seen her look so untroubled.

  Soraya’s gloved hands clutched at the bark of the tree. In the space around her mother, her brother, and the only friend she had ever had, she saw her own absence. In their glowing smiles, she saw the truth: that she always would have lost them, because they were meant to know joy. And no matter how much she wanted to deny it, Soraya knew that a part of her would always resent them for that joy, for having even the possibility of it.