Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  Firoz grew serious. “Will he propose?” There was worry in his voice.

  “Maybe.” I did not hide the hope from my voice well. I stared fixedly at the people who passed.

  He whipped his head to me. “Do you think?”

  I nodded, and when I saw Firoz’s face, I wished I had said nothing.

  “Oh . . . that will be great. If you liked him. Was he alright?”

  Nodding, I could only think of leaving Firoz, and the ache in my chest was much too great.

  He glanced at me and shook his head.

  “Don’t, Emel. This is great news. You deserve it. Really, you do. I am very happy for you.” It sounded more and more as if he were trying to convince himself. “Good.” He clapped his hands together. “Well, I’ve sold enough.” He poured what remained in the large bowl into his goatskin and then into the small bowl I’d emptied earlier. I finished that one, too. He rolled up the blanket we had been sitting on. He would leave his empty tent behind and claim it again once the traders had left. Using well-worn rope, he slung his entire shop onto his back. Already, a woman with a small basket of iron spearheads, finely honed, was shuffling in to take his place.

  The crowd was densely packed when we arrived, and excited gulps of air filled my stomach when I saw Rafal standing at the center of it all. Firoz grabbed my hand and we pushed through the people to get closer.

  Atop a large basin turned on its head, Rafal stood in all his enchanting splendor—a bright green tunic over red and white sirwal, golden chains from his neck, and an indigo turban upon his head. With sparkling eyes wide, he surveyed the spectators and danced his fingers through the air, telling his story. Beside him, sitting on a sun-dulled cushion, was his friend. I did not know his name, but he was always there, tapping his darbuka to dramatize Rafal’s stories.

  His stories. That was why people went to Rafal. None knew the desert like he did.

  “And there were trees as high as the Salt King’s palace! With tiny animals that swung through them eating from their branches. One picked up my bawsal,” he held up his dulled, silver way-finder, and I squinted, trying to see where its spinning hands pointed right then. “And banged it on my head!” The crowd gasped and laughed. The friend happily percussed along with the laughter. I had heard this story, of his travels to the south, but still, I felt as though every word was new.

  He barely finished his tale before people began calling for their favorites again. Request after request shouted at him: The oasis with no water! The dunes that shifted only in the night! The salt mine guarded by jinn! I remembered last night with Aashiq and my map, empty to the north.

  “But what about you?” I called. “What of where you come?” He never told stories of the north.

  “It is like here.” He shrugged.

  “How far north have you been?” I said over the muttering voices that grew bored.

  He pivoted on his heel and swirled to face me, eyes fixing on mine. He smiled slowly, teeth opalescent behind his mustache.

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he said.

  The people disputed, the excitement growing again, and they begged that he share.

  “Okay, okay!” He held up his heads in defeat. “But you must listen close, for I will tell this only once.”

  Everyone hushed. The friend rolled his fingers along the drum.

  “It is an inhospitable place.” He looked into the swarm of tent peaks. “I have been once and will never return.” He leaned over the crowd that stood beneath his hands. “I am referring, of course, of the desert’s edge.”

  My mouth dropped open, and Rafal looked right at me with an eyebrow raised, daring me to believe.

  A man standing in front shouted, “Lies!”

  Another called, “It isn’t real!”

  Rafal shook his head. “It is.” He pointed behind him with his bawsal, the little arm directing north. “Travel for forty days that way, but be careful that you navigate closely.” He draped the bawsal over our heads. “If you miss one oasis, Masira’s death birds will feast upon your flesh.

  “Go as far as your camel will take you, until you hit the rocks—sharp cliffs, navigable only with foot and rope and faith.” He paused, and the friend pattered away. “It takes the length of the day to descend the rock cliffs, and then after two days on foot, you’ll reach it.”

  “You’ve not been!” a woman shouted. “It’s impossible.”

  Another woman chimed in. “No man can carry enough water on his back for a foot-journey like that.”

  Rafal’s lip twitched in amusement, but he ignored them. “There, the rocks sparkle like they’re encrusted with diamonds, salt shining in the sun. And there, too, is the grave of a city. Buildings colored like beautifully feathered birds have been torn apart by the hands of Eiqab. They lie in pieces, half buried in the sand.”

  I said, “But where does the sand end? What is at the edge? Is there magic like the stories say?”

  “Magic? Maybe. But I found none. At the edge, I found water so angry it roared. It was as wide as the horizon’s mouth.” His eyes grew misty before he blinked it away.

  I believed none of it.

  He stepped off of his stage. “That is all for today. If I tell you more, I will never see you again. If the price is right . . .” His eyes darted down to his stage toward the basin his friend was turning over, “tomorrow I will be back to share more.”

  I nudged Firoz, and he grudgingly tossed two fid into the basin. Others followed.

  “You have to come tomorrow,” I told him as we dispersed with the rest of the crowd. “Remember everything he says, that way I can—”

  “Yes, yes, your map,” Firoz said. “I know. Why don’t you run off and ask Rafal to fill in the rest, eh?”

  The bright green of Rafal’s tunic grew distant as he walked away. Even if I had the courage to ask him more, I feared mentioning my map. What if he wanted it back?

  Years ago, after the first time I saw him tell his tales, Rafal had dropped his sack as he was packing to leave, spilling rolls of parchment onto the ground. All was returned to its place, except the one that had fallen just beside my foot, hidden beneath the hem of my abaya. It was the first map I had ever seen, and though it was more parchment than ink, I treasured it. He had not finished it, empty as it was, so I decided that I would take on the task. It was my obsession.

  “Rumor is that a prince arrived with the caravan today. Likely seeking an alliance with the King,” Firoz said as we walked through the congested paths. Firoz’s business with traders provided him ample opportunity for discussion with travelers on the road. “It’s strange, though. They don’t usually arrive with the caravan. They’re wealthy enough to come privately escorted. Hire their own runners.”

  Runners went ahead of the caravans to scout the oases, retrieve water to bring back to their crew, and receive approval to come into the settlement. Nassar met the runners at the oasis to see if they were bringing goods worthy enough to trade and to grant them allowance to access the oasis for water. If it was a muhami, he’d send word that the palace need prepare for a guest.

  “Yes . . .” I said distantly, staring at my reflection in a polished copper vase.

  “One of the nomads said he and his men kept to themselves for the journey, paying handsomely but speaking to none. Seems strange.”

  Silk adorned with thick bronze thread sat in waves upon a smooth wooden table. “A challenger to the throne, surely,” I said absently, fingering the soft material, cold in the shade of the tent.

  “It’s what I fear.”

  “Firo!” I said incredulously, the allure of the goods vanishing like an ahira’s frown. “There hasn’t been one in years. It is probably two dozen princes coming to snatch up every one of my sisters. I will be the only one left, and I will lay around in my tent by my lonesome. Withered and pale like a sick goat. Muhamis will poke sticks at me to see if I stir.”

  He grunted, indignant, and waved his finger at me. “You’ll see, I�
�ve got a feeling about this.”

  A platter of shining desserts with sticky red filling caught my eye. My stomach grumbled, and I rubbed my hand across my middle. We exited the bazaar, still surging with feverish frenzy, and Firoz set down his things to adjust the sash around his hips and tie his turban.

  “You’ll join me for a meal, then?” Firoz asked. The sun began to sink behind the tents.

  “Only if you’re paying.” I smirked as I helped him with his turban, smoothing the folds. Firoz knew I gave all of my salt to bribe my way out of the palace.

  “Today, I’m wealthier than Aashiq!” He bounced on his sandy toes, and the many coins in his pockets clinked together.

  I bowed. “Then, Your Highness, I accept your proposal.”

  We walked toward Firoz’s home, the lanterns and cooking fires brightening the lanes at twilight. He called out to his mother when we arrived that he would not be home for dinner. She hustled out of the tent, clucking disapprovingly until she saw me standing beside him. She stopped and smiled before she hugged him, then slapped his shoulder.

  “Who is your friend? Invite her in, you disgusting brute.”

  Though I had met her several times, I knew Firoz had many friends. She would not remember me.

  “Ma,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “She is in a rush, and we must get going. I will be back before the stars are bright.” He kissed her cheek before depositing the basket at her feet and dropping three-quarters of the days’ earnings into her waiting palms, taking extra care with the salt. Firoz grabbed my hand and we walked away. His mother watched us go, affectionate hope in her eyes.

  “You are cruel,” I whispered to him.

  “No, no. It is a kindness. She wants me to wed, but we know that will never happen.” He squeezed my hand. “Let her have these few moments of hope. They give her happiness.”

  “She will only be disappointed.”

  When out of his mother’s sight, our hands fell back to our sides.

  “Perhaps you should leave with the caravan, find a Si’la out in the desert.”

  Firoz laughed uneasily. “I’ve already found one.”

  Gasping, I smacked him like his mother had. “I am no demon! Though, truthfully, I wouldn’t mind the shape-shifting powers, eh? I’d turn into a guard and strut out of the palace with my chest puffed, yelling for no reason at all.”

  We turned into a small tent. A placard strung beside the entry read, “Food.” The cramped space had three low tables with cushions scattered near. We were the only two inside. Firoz called out, and soon, a woman as wide as she was tall stepped in from the back. The smell of smoked lamb streamed in behind her.

  “Two meals?” she asked, stepping toward us with a cheery face framed by wild hair.

  Firoz nodded.

  She grabbed two chipped ceramic cups and roughly placed them on the table we stood beside. She filled them each with tepid tea before stepping out, rattling off instructions to a poor soul working the fire.

  “This is pleasant.” I looked around the small space.

  “It is. They’re very discreet.” He nodded toward the closed entrance providing privacy for the patrons. “We can stay here to eat if you like, but I figured you’d want to go to our usual.”

  “How’d you find this place?”

  Before he could respond, the woman returned with two small sacks that Firoz would return when emptied in exchange for a few extra nab. Oil dripped through the fabric. Firoz set a single golden dha on the table and collected our dinner. The scent of roasted meat and flatbread made my mouth water.

  We walked up to the village edge, squeezing between two homes, until we faced the open desert. Well away from the ears of the people in their homes, we sat in the sand, still warm from the day. My eyes traveled along the dunes that never shifted. Like Aashiq’s, most settlements had to move their homes regularly to avoid the dunes swallowing their tents, the wind pushing the sandy hills on their ravenous path. But the dunes never came close to us. We were lucky.

  The caravan’s camels—dozens and dozens of them—were off in the distance, specks of humped black. Their water was already filled, waiting to carry on their journey in the coming days.

  There was a huddle of trees not far in the distance. One of the King’s men led a small group of camels to it, each carrying enormous barrels between their humps. They would return to the village after filling them with water from its pool that never emptied.

  “The oasis,” I whispered, remembering how Aashiq described his oasis when we watched the horizon as Firoz and I did now. I couldn’t wait to see the pool that was so large, half his people could sit inside.

  “I’ll race you to there,” Firoz said as I sat beside him. He handed me my food and reached into his own bag using a piece of the bread. He pulled out roasted lamb with globs of yellow millet stuck to it.

  “I would run like the wind,” I said. Sons, it would be a dream to sprint through the sand. If guards weren’t lining the perimeter of the settlement, I might have.

  “What do you think it’s like?” Firoz asked through a mouthful of food.

  I untied my veil. The air touching my sweaty face felt cold. I closed my eyes.

  “Cool. Quiet.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he murmured, then hesitated before asking, “Would you run away? If you could?” There was pity in the depths of his eyes.

  I took a bite of food. Once, I might have said yes. But now, with Aashiq, the answer was no. I would wait for him, for my future, to take me away.

  “Of course not.” I tried to laugh, but the sound was wrong. The bread turned into mush between my fingers. Firoz wouldn’t understand Aashiq. He wouldn’t understand how different he was, nor how he was the best thing for me. “I couldn’t run away. Where would I go? How would I survive? And anyway, why would I run away? My family is here, you are here . . .” My voice was flat, emotionless.

  My family was here. Firoz was here. And I would be leaving. The twisted ache in my chest cinched down.

  “I would,” he said quietly.

  “Can’t you?” I said after a pause. “Can’t you go with the caravan?”

  “I have asked already,” he said.

  My stomach dropped. No. I did not want to lose Firoz to the north. I would never see him again. Selfish, I knew it was, but I wanted him where I knew I could find him, where I could return happy and soft in the middle, with beautiful children and a husband who said yes, we will travel to your home together to see your family and your friends.

  Firoz continued. “But they want a quarter brick of salt, or eighty dha! An impossible price.” I thought of the salt bricks that lay stacked in my father’s palace. Firoz let out a long breath. When he looked back at the horizon, I turned to him. His brow was furrowed, his shoulders hunched forward. I wanted to ask him if everything was okay, if he was happy at home. But I didn’t dare. If there was something wrong, knowledge of it was a load I could not bear.

  I leaned over to him, my shoulder touching his, and whispered, “His snake was long, but he didn’t have the stamina.”

  A loud guffaw burst from him, breaking the melancholy silence. We ate our food quickly. Rarely did I eat meals as delicious and abundant. I consumed everything with fervor, Firoz making fun of my eagerness.

  “Thank you for this,” I said as I gestured to the empty food sack and the desert.

  “You are always welcome.” He reached over and clasped my shoulder. “Since you’ve decided not to race me, I suppose I should take you home.”

  The sun dipped out of sight, and only its muddy trails of orange remained in the sky. I looked at the desert once more before we turned into the village. Was north that way? I squinted, trying to see if there was angry water where the sky met the land. I saw nothing.

  Walking toward the palace, the smoke from fires wafted in the air as meals were cooked. Laughter and chatter of villagers mixed with the brays and neighs of animals. Near the palace, we found a small, secluded space. A stray chicken pecking
through the sand ran away at our arrival, clucking and spreading its wings in indignation at the interruption.

  “Take care these next few days,” Firoz said.

  “There is no threat, you know that. I will be fine.” I waved him off, but he was so intent that I grew uneasy. “If it will make you feel better, I promise I will be careful.”

  We grasped each other in a long hug.

  “Oh, and Emel?” He said as he pulled away. “If he . . . if you . . . come see me once more before you leave.”

  “I promise.” I squeezed his hands in mine. “Find peace in the shadow of Eiqab’s sun.”

  Discreetly, I waited by the servants’ access, leaning against the sturdy date-palm fence. I was growing impatient as one or two servants approached at a time, worried that I would not have the opportunity to sneak in. It was the risk I took when I returned home late. Finally, a cluster of empty-handed servants strode up, having sold all their goods at the market. I fell in with them, and after questioning the few at the front of the group, the guards waved us in.

  When I approached my home, I was surprised to find a third guard standing with the night watch.

  “Jael?” I asked, reaching out my hand. “What are you doing here? You should be home.” I could just as easily collect my leather sack from him tomorrow.

  Swiftly, he took my hand in his, returning the sack to my palm, and mumbled, “It was growing late, so I almost left, but I wanted you to know a new suitor comes soon. Even if the ahiran aren’t requested tomorrow, it’s best to stay here the coming days.”

  It was a strange warning, and Firoz’s caution echoed in my mind.

  Chapter Four

  The King summoned us to midday court two days later. The ominous words of Jael and Firoz had at first worried me, but the days that followed were ordinary, and the summons was typical for a muhami. We were prepared in the zafif, and the guards escorted us to the King smelling like crushed roses and looking like freshly plucked petals.