A Thousand Nights

by Johnston, E. K.

  “How can I trust you if you betray your own kind?” I said to him. I would compromise with him no longer. He had given me what I needed, and my sister’s wedding had provided me with the rest. I was stronger here than I had ever been in the qasr, powered by the dancers that circled the fires between my father’s tents. “How can I give the safety of my family to someone who has no regard for his own? You have not even asked about your mother. I will never join you.”

  “Very well,” he said to me, and went back to his horse. He climbed astride it, and turned to the mist. “My wife has forsaken her own kind, spurning my offer as she has. Go to the tents of her father. Take whatever you want from them.”

  I screamed then, but I could not stall the mist. It streaked away from us through the night, toward the place where my family danced at my sister’s wedding. I put some of the copper fire into my scream, so that they would have some warning, but it did them no good. They could not stop the mist as it pulled children into cook fires and buried men alive in sand.

  “Lo-Melkhiin!” I screamed at him. “I beg you, husband, make them stop!”

  “I cannot,” he said to me, the viper in his eyes. His mother was wrong. There was no part of the boy she had loved still inside him. “They are mad with it, can’t you see? Nothing can make them stop now. Watch your world burn, light of my heart. Tomorrow we will find another one and burn that too.”

  I turned from him, and stretched out everywhere with the copper fire. He did not stop me, or he could not, and I went amidst my father’s tents to the ruin and terror I saw there. I pulled my oldest brother from the sand. He coughed, spewing grains of it in all directions, and then lay still. I quelled every fire I could find, lamps and candles, cook fires and hearths, but so many of the children were already burned. My sister stood with one arm around both my mother and her mother, and the mist parted around them. I could not imagine that they would be spared, but then I looked closely and saw that each of them wore a necklace made of that bright metal.

  “Sister,” I cried to her, hoping that she would hear. “The metal will protect you. Get it to as many as you can!”

  She did hear, for she began to run. I could not stay with her. There were too many others that had been burned or buried. I could not save them all.

  “Not so human after all,” the mist said to me, with voices beyond counting and no faces at all. “And yet, not powerful enough to fight us. Only good enough to clean up the mess.”

  I needed more hands, but even with the copper fire, I had only two. It was not fair. There were so many of them, and I stood alone in the desert, having nothing to fight them with. A wooden ball rolled to a stop at my feet. A lamp sat beside it. And a bolt of orange cloth with gold thread. Above, I heard a great bird scream. I knew that I had made them, not called them or found them. They had not been, and then I wished for them, and they were. If I wanted help, I would have to make it.

  I brought forth all the copper fire I could muster, and threw it out into the desert. The demons did not know the desert well, for all that they lived here. They did not use it as my people did. They did not know its moods and its temper: which animals were common, what secrets those creatures carried. I would fight them with the very things they scorned, and the desert itself would be my hands.

  I found the lizards that baked in the sun and crawled into the oleander at night. They were large ones, the size of a sheep at full growth. I set a fire in their bellies, and turned them out to do battle for me. They burned so hot, they streaked through the mist and seared it. I could hear Lo-Melkhiin’s kin scream, and the sound was like my sister’s laughter to my ears.

  I took the horses that the southernmost traders had brought with them. They were fleet-footed and could run in the sand even during the hottest part of the day. I gave them horns made from the pale man’s metal to strike at the half-formed bodies of Lo-Melkhiin’s kin, and where they pierced the mist, dark ichor fell into the sand.

  Sand-crows I woke and brought forth from their nests. When Lo-Melkhiin’s kin struck them down, they caught fire and flew again, their talons shod in the same bright metal that their northern cousins wore. They sliced at the mist, herding it away from my people.

  The goats came to me, curious and eager, and they took cleverness from my copper fire like it was a salt lick I held for them. They made traps to catch the mist in baskets, and shut it up in tents. The mist howled in fury, but my spritely goats only laughed at them and took to new mischief.

  There were fires again, burning out of control in the hearthstones and fire pits. I called on the wadi toads, who always knew when the floods were coming, and made them hands to carry water with. They extinguished the flames, and when they poured water on burned skin, the skin was healed.

  Last, I waked the hives, and brought out the bees. They could not see in the dark, so I used my copper fire to light their way. They went to every person they could find, carrying small scraps of the pale man’s bright metal, and made sure that everyone was warded against the mist.

  My head was pounding, and my throat was dry. The creatures I had made battled for me, and I stood in the sand and wept from pain and exhaustion. My people wailed and screamed their losses, mourning for those I had been too slow to save from living burial or the fire’s fury. I wanted to kill Lo-Melkhiin for what he had brought down upon my family. Finally, I shared my sister’s anger.

  Lo-Melkhiin was close to me, and somehow a war raged across his face. His body was unmoving as his mind fought against itself. His horse was dead; pure terror had burst the poor beast’s heart. Around us, the fighting was starting to diminish. If we were to have peace, it would be soon. There was a bright dagger, not a copper one, in my hand.

  “Lady-bless,” said my bees. “The mist is caught. Where shall we put it?”

  I could think of only one place where Lo-Melkhiin’s kin might be safely taken. It was so far that I did not know if my power was sufficient to the journey, but I knew I must try, even if it was too much for me. The knife vanished. I had chosen my end.

  “North,” I said to them. “Take them to the mountains where the bright metal sits in the ground. May it bind them there for all the ages of men.”

  “We go, we go!” said the bees and the fiery crows and the lizards, which had grown wings from their burning bellies.

  They went up into the sky, and Lo-Melkhiin screamed to see them go, but he could not reach them. I watched them disappear from my eyes, but I could feel when they landed in the mountains. Lo-Melkhiin’s kin writhed there, weakening, and could not escape.

  “Star of my heart,” Lo-Melkhiin said. His rage was spent, but he was a viper still. “Now we have only one another.”

  I would not go back to him. I would die first. My death was no longer his; I would have it here, in my desert, on the sand beneath the starry sky. It would never belong to him.

  My copper fire was at its end. There was enough left for only five more words, the shortest story ever told, made with threads that frayed almost before they could be spoken. I could save myself with them, I knew. Or I could save Lo-Melkhiin.

  I thought of a qasr without a king. I thought of merchants who did not care what the desert did. I thought of my father, who deserved better, and of my sister, who deserved the best. I thought of a ball and a lamp and a bolt of cloth, all made because I wanted them to be. It did not matter if Lo-Melkhiin’s mother was wrong. I could make it so that she was right.

  Five more words, and then I could sleep. My head would no longer pound. My throat would no longer burn. It would be quiet and still. Perhaps I would dream of the creatures I had made. I would like to see what they became in the morning when the sun came up. Lo-Melkhiin’s artisans had made such new wonders, yet I did not think there had been new animals since the world was born; now I had made six of them. I hoped they would do good when I was gone.

  Five more words. I could feel them on my tongue. There would be peace in the whole desert, not just in parts of it. Not just for t
he nobles of Lo-Melkhiin’s court, but for the common folk of the qasr as well. For everyone. My father’s caravan. My mother’s tent. All through the sand desert. In every village and in every district inside the city walls. I would speak for them. Five more words, and it would be done.

  Lo-Melkhiin is a good man.

  THERE WAS A LION ABOVE ME when I woke, a lion with the face of a woman, and so I thought I dreamed.

  “Daughter of my heart,” said Lo-Melkhiin’s mother to me. “You have my thanks.”

  I sat up. I thought my head would split, but after a moment, the ground stopped heaving and the pain left me. I reached for the copper fire inside me, but it was gone. Nothing remained that could be burned.

  “Sister?” The lamp that lit my sister’s face burned with a clear light. “Sister, you live!”

  I was as surprised as she was to learn it. Yet I could feel my heart and hear my own breath. I had faced Lo-Melkhiin and lived, again. I wanted to run and dance on the shifting sand, but I was not sure my legs would hold me up to do it.

  “Daughter of mine,” my father said. “Let us bear you back to your tent.”

  He stooped to carry me, as he had not done since I was brought out of my mother’s tent for the first time, but I held up a hand.

  “Where is Lo-Melkhiin?” I said to them. “Where is my husband?”

  “He is dead,” my sister said to me. “Sister, you have killed him.”

  “No,” I said to her. “He lives, I am sure of it. Where is his body?”

  Lo-Melkhiin’s mother pointed to where he lay, and I crawled toward it. My father was surprised, and did not think to help. Lo-Melkhiin’s face was the color of ashes. There was blood on his lips, and his breath was so shallow that I listened for nearly a minute before I heard it.

  “He lives!” I said to them. “Help him, please!”

  They stared at me as though I had stood in the sun too long and baked out my thoughts, all except for Lo-Melkhiin’s mother, who looked at the ground.

  “Sister,” my sister said to me. “Why?”

  “I have saved him,” I said to them. I made my voice as loud as I could, so that any who were close by would hear me. “You saw the battle that was fought. You did not fight men. You battled demons, and so did I. You saw the power and the new creatures that were made. I tell you, he is saved. When he wakes, he will be the good king again. The demon is gone and will worry us no longer.”

  “Daughter of mine,” said my father. “Are you sure?”

  “Father,” I said to him. “I know it as I know my sister’s face. I know it as I know my mother’s voice. I know it as I know myself. Lo-Melkhiin is a good man.”

  My father carried him, leaving me to my oldest brother, whose lungs had been cleared of sand. Many of the tents were down, struck in the fighting, but enough stood to house the wounded and the dead; there was one for me and Lo-Melkhiin.

  We were set there, and then left, except for my sister and for Lo-Melkhiin’s mother. The boy came in, his arms burned, and behind him the old woman and serving girl. They wept to see me, and I kissed them. Then I turned to where my husband lay, and waited for him to wake.

  Outside my tent, my mother and my sister’s mother began their rites for the dead. Everyone who had died here would be buried with my family’s bones, including my youngest brother and my oldest brother’s sons. It would take them more than one night to do it, even with help from the other visitors who wore the priestly-whites, but it would be done.

  “I am sorry, sister of mine,” I said to her. “I did not mean to turn your wedding into a funeral.”

  “Do not be foolish, sister,” she said to me. “If not for you, we would all lie dead, and no one would be left to perform the rites.”

  Then she went out to find her husband. She could not help her mother and mine, because I wore her priestly clothes.

  The boy brought me a slice of melon. It soothed my throat, and I thanked him. He ran away from me, hiding behind the old woman. She took him in her lap again—this time he did not fight her—and began to sing. It was a song about the morning, and even though the sun was still hours from the sky, I was glad of it. I did not want to be thinking dark thoughts.

  A buzzing sound came close to my ear. I looked, and there was one of my bees, a bee no longer. It was still golden, but it was person-shaped. It held a tiny staff in place of a stinger, like a shepherd for tiny sheep, and it trailed fine golden dust behind it. A wadi toad crouched by my feet. Its hands were webbed, but not quite toad-like, and its knees bent, like an old man’s. It held a water jar, but before I could take it, one of my goats did instead. It walked on two legs now, fine limbs white and gleaming in the lamplight, and poured the water on Lo-Melkhiin’s face. The other creatures could not fit inside the tent, but I heard the scream of a fiery sand-crow, and smelled the brimstone it left in the air as it flew. I heard the stomp of my new-horned horse, and felt the heat that came from the belly of my lizard. My creatures were still with us, and they would do good.

  Lo-Melkhiin coughed, and his eyes opened. I looked into them, afraid that I might see a hollow thing there. If there was madness or cruelty, I would have to kill him, and I did not know if I could. The eyes that looked at me were kind. I could see his mother in them, the way she hoped and wished. I could see what must be his father, the foolish king that everyone had loved anyway. And I could see the wisdom and peacefulness that were his alone. Though we had been married for nearly three moons and I had seen him almost every day, I felt that I looked upon my husband for the first time.

  “Al-ammiyyah,” he said to me. Common. The old insult had no edge, and I judged it a good beginning.

  “Lie still,” I said to him. “You must rest, and drink more water.”

  The wadi toad waddled more than it hopped now, but it went to fill its jar and returned without spilling any, like my sister and I had done when we carried one jar between us.

  “Go,” said Lo-Melkhiin’s mother. “Tell your people what you have seen.”

  I went out from the tent and saw them. I told them that Lo-Melkhiin would live, that his heart was restored, and that he would be the good king they remembered. I told them that when the dead were buried, they could go home, and tell everyone they met that peace had come. I told my sister that her wedding would be a sacred day now, the day that men remembered how peace had been won. My new bees flew around me as I spoke, trailing their golden dust through the air, and no one doubted my words.

  I went to my father and to my living brothers, embracing them. My mother and my sister’s mother labored still, so I would have to wait to speak to them, and my sister had gone with her husband into their tent, so we could not put our heads together and talk as we once had. Those days, I knew, were past. We would have other secrets now, and other tasks to tend as we whispered them.

  For three nights, my mother and my sister’s mother buried the dead, and for three nights, Lo-Melkhiin recovered. At last, their work was done, and he was well. I went to them and thanked them, and they put their arms around me and wept. They knew then that they would lose me again; but this time, I would go because I wished it.

  I traded three pots of the golden dust for five horses. The boy had collected it for me, chasing the bees like it was the greatest game he had ever played. Lo-Melkhiin took the gelded male, putting the boy in front of him as he rode. I had a black mount, and Lo-Melkhiin’s mother and the two other women rode mares that were brown. We set out across the desert as we had before, except this time my sister did not pray as we went. This time, I looked back at my father’s tents until they were gone from my view, and when Lo-Melkhiin promised me that I could visit, I knew he meant to keep his word.

  We came into the city as the sun was setting. The guards at the gate were surprised to see us. They said they had seen strange lights over the desert on the night when we had battled, and that they did not think Lo-Melkhiin would ever return. A few of the city lords had clearly thought so too, but once it became clear that the
king had come back, they behaved themselves.

  Lo-Melkhiin called Firh Stonetouched to him, and said that he no longer had to carve stone if he did not wish it. He also gave the carver all of his statues back, and said that Firh could do as he wished with them. I did not ask what became of them, but the statues disappeared from the gardens overnight, and I hoped he had turned them into dust. A statue appeared in my water garden at the same time. It was another great cat, but this time it was a lioness, not a lion, and her eyes were not haunted as the other statues’ had been.

  “This one is yours, lady-bless,” Firh Stonetouched said to me. “I carved it with your blessing, and I will do no others.”

  “It is beautiful,” I said to him, because it was. “And I am grateful.”

  He bowed, and left me. I sat staring at the statue until another shadow came into the garden, and Lo-Melkhiin was there.

  “Will you stay with me, Al-ammiyyah?” he asked me. “I will not make you. The Skeptics say the wedding does not have to stand, and that you can return to your father’s tents, and to a match of his making—or none at all—if you choose.”

  “I will stay, husband,” I said to him. “I have become accustomed to the qasr, and to the people here. I thought the desert was my home, but it is no longer. Your home is mine now, and I will live in it.”

  “Let me make you the queen in truth, then,” he said to me. “Marry me again, if you will. I will give you a crown and a place on my council.”

  “The petty lords will never allow that,” I said to him.

  “They are afraid of you,” he said to me. “They are afraid of what the palace women say you have done. If we tell them now, they will do it.”

  I considered his words. When I had lived here before, I had had little to occupy my time. I did not wish for the same thing again, but I had thought I would take part in running the household, only. A seat on the council—to hear petitioners and advise judgment—was much more to my liking, though I had not thought it was within my grasp. A golden bee flew amongst the flowers of my water garden. My creatures had followed me to the city, and lived even inside the qasr walls. They would remind everyone what I had done.