Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  “Sons, the things I’d wish for . . .” Tavi looked off wistfully.

  “The biggest tent in the desert.”

  “The man with the biggest—”

  “Turban,” they snickered, careening off into wilder desires.

  “What if the wine was meant for the King?” I said, desperate to draw their attention away from the jinni.

  “Maybe,” Tavi agreed.

  How else would they try to get to Saalim? Everything before had felt separate from me, from my family. But the death of villagers, our attendants? It was too close, and I was scared. I hoped it was an accident, that the wine had been intended for my father. That it was not for the innocent, the Altamaruq hoping if enough of the King’s guards and villagers died, he would surrender his jinni to protect them. I prayed to Eiqab that was not their aim, because if it was, they did not know the Salt King.

  That night, I sat with Raheemah and in the firelight, unrolled my map.

  “Where does he live?” I asked, my throat aching as I fought my sadness.

  “He said something about how he came here using the southwest route,” she murmured, pointing unsurely at the map. “It is different there, he said. There are more trees and flowers.” She smiled. “He said they have mostly settled, because there aren’t dunes, and they have a large water source—I think he called it a river?—not far from his home.” After using snippets of what she described, I made a guess where on the map she might live.

  Dipping my reed into the ink, I drew a tree with small waves beneath it along the southwest trade line. Then, I handed the reed to my sister.

  “What is this for?” she asked, holding the reed awkwardly.

  “You must write your name, or, at least, the first letter. So I always know where to find you.”

  “I can’t . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how to write like you do.”

  “You will be a royal’s wife. You must practice.”

  Raheemah dipped the reed into the ink with an inexperienced hand, the ink dripping from its end. Let some drop off, I told her, so it didn’t smudge on the parchment. She waited, and then with a shaky hand, bent over the map and wrote a large R by the tree and waves. The reed was still a little too wet, and the first line puddled.

  “Perfect,” I said, wiping my cheeks. I took the map and blew on the ink.

  “Will you come see me one day?” The words were tight in her throat, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “I will.”

  Raheemah fell into me and sobbed into my lap. I bent over her as if to protect her from the world, trying, and failing, not to cry.

  “I believe you,” she said through gasping breaths.

  When the fire was doused and the ahiran had fallen asleep, I clutched Raheemah close against my chest. Tomorrow we would say goodbye.

  “I have never wanted to stay here as much as I do tonight, I have never wanted the sun to wake late. I don’t want to leave,” Raheemah whispered.

  “Yes, you do. It’s hard now, but it will be wonderful tomorrow. The Altamaruq won’t hurt us. Don’t worry.” I tried to believe my words.

  “It isn’t fair that I’m to be wed before you.”

  “That isn’t true. You deserve every happiness that exists in this world.” I combed her hair with my fingers and twisted it into soft plaits. I stroked her back and neck telling her how good she was, how lucky her husband was to have chosen someone so sincere.

  When she could not rest, too worried of the future, I told her Saalim’s stories. I threaded together his tales of magic and chance and freedom and love while she closed her eyes, finally at ease as she let her mind wander, let herself dream.

  When Raheemah’s breathing slowed to the familiar rhythm of sleep, I murmured one of my favorite stories of Saalim’s—one of a faraway place where there was a golden king with a powerful queen and vast pools of water that lapped against a castle of stone.

  To the center of the empty rama, I carried the oil-fueled lamp. Its flame was too small to serve as light or heat. It had only one use: sacrifice.

  A cold purple washed over the sky as the sun set. I pulled my heavy cloak tightly around my abaya as I set down the flame. I adjusted myself so that my back was to the guards, my cloak fanned so they could not see my hands nor the flame.

  Searching between the layers I wore, I found the sack of salt. I grabbed a large pinch between my fingers and closed my eyes.

  Masira, I give you my currency for freedom to protect my sisters, my mothers from the Altamaruq. Let them find nothing and move on, move away. Please guide the Altamaruq from here, let them pass us by.

  I dropped the salt onto the flame, but it was not enough. I took a fistful and slowly poured it onto the flames until it was doused, hoping the sacrifice was enough to be heard.

  Masira protect us.

  The salt was stuffed from view, so I grabbed my lamp and rose.

  Raheemah had left that morning, and all day I had avoided my home. I did not want to see her empty mat, some day to be replaced by a new, bright-eyed sister. It was the hardest goodbye. She was my half-sister, but she had my full heart. Despite promising I would try, I knew there was little chance I would see her again. So it was a forever farewell, and that was something I could not endure. I thought of what it would be like to say goodbye to Tavi, and I could not bear the thought. I thought of Saalim. No, that was enough thought of goodbyes.

  I stopped at the harem in the evening. My mother was sitting with a handful of the King’s wives, all surrounding one who cried into her scarf. Raheemah’s mother. She had lost her child when Raheemah left with the prince. Of course she was inconsolable. The other wives were quick to remind her of the blessing that having a daughter wed to a nobleman was, that she should be grateful, not sad.

  My mother sat with her hands on the woman’s knees. “It is okay to weep, to scream. Your only child has been taken from you.”

  I cringed and walked toward the women. “Mama,” I said, tugging on her arm, leading her away from the emotional women. “How are you?”

  She looked tired, dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. No makeup was on her face, her hair was unbraided and uncombed. Even her dress was dirty. She brushed aside scattered pieces of parchment covered in her handwriting, and we sat at the edge of her low bed. She stretched out her fingers, then curled them into fists. Again and again.

  Wrapping her arm around my waist, she said, “The days are shorter now.”

  “Yes, winter has come. Even the nights are cold.”

  “That is not what I mean. The days are going by quickly.” She rubbed at her eyes and brushed back her hair, the faint scent of frankincense wafting. Her foot bounced on its toes like she was excited, or nervous, or—

  It was Sabra. In ten days, she would be exiled from the palace. I would never see her again, and neither would my mother. I clutched my mother’s hand tightly. How could I tell my mother it would be okay that her first-born was soon to be gone from her grasp? I couldn’t. Just as none could tell it to Raheemah’s mother, not sincerely.

  “I feel like there is so much I want to tell you. So much that you need to know. But,” she looked up at me, “you keep so many secrets, how will I know what words you need to hear?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Tell me, is there someone that you see? Someone you love?”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “No!” My chest and neck grew hot. “I can’t believe you would believe Father’s lies.”

  She rubbed her hands on her knees and shook her head, mumbling to herself. “See, we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to be around all of this death. It is too much. I am scared. I’m—I’m worried. I need to go. Go somewhere and wait.”

  “What are you talking about? Wait for what?” Who was this woman, and why was she crazed?

  She looked at me sympathetically and cupped my cheeks with her palms. Kissing my temple, she said, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Go home, brave Emel.”

&nb
sp; Chapter Fifteen

  Saalim and I stole brief moments together when we could find them. Whether his warm hand softly nudged me awake in the unmoving night to ask me if I was okay, if I needed anything, to kiss my lips and touch my neck and hair. Or when I was walking to or from a courting, intentionally lingering behind, and my sisters suddenly froze before me.

  Our meetings were always brief, the furtiveness thrilling. Neither of us dared to give in to the temptation to spend longer together, to lay together, so that I could sleep in his arms. Even in a world where Saalim existed, I had a duty as the King’s daughter. I was not brave enough to wish my being an ahira away, and I feared things would become complicated if our relationship went farther. So instead, we shared sweet words and passionate kisses before Saalim would disappear, time would press forward once again, and I would return my thoughts to that of a successful courtship with a muhami.

  We thought we could endure that way, always ignoring reality, pretending that our relationship was easy, carefree. But we were fools. After all, I was an ahira destined to wed a nobleman. He was a jinni destined to be a forever slave.

  And one day, that reality was swept before us like a sand dune. I was requested by a muhami.

  The prince was a welcome visitor, the son of a monarch and long-time friend of the King. My father spent two days drinking and sharing stories with the young prince before we were finally called to court. The prince was drawn to me like a moth to flame, and when he chose me, I realized I was going to have to face a suitor for the first time since Aashiq . . . since Saalim. To fight my despair, I reminded myself that this is what I wanted. This was my way out. If I wouldn’t risk toying with Masira to gain my freedom, then I would earn it.

  Saalim had been locked in his vessel during the courting. He had no ability to stop it even if I had wished for it. I couldn’t understand what Father was thinking, keeping him locked away. When I saw the vessel, I wanted to berate him—who would protect us from the Altamaruq should they choose to attack? Who would protect me?

  I lay on the thick mattresses as my attendants worked my body with wax and oil. My mind navigated through the deep, dirty waters of infidelity, thinking of Saalim.

  I was clothed in carmine, golden whorls spinning throughout the fabric. My hair, pinned off of my face with flaxen barrettes resembling gilded palm fronds, flowed down my back, covering my scars. Braids of golden chains swung down to cover my nose and mouth. That night, I did not feel beautiful. I felt sick. This was the right thing, wasn’t it?

  After Aashiq, I had turned from drink and Buraq. I had not wanted that false comfort anymore. But that night, I allowed drink to be the crutch against which I leaned. Arak swam through me, and I inhaled the Buraq over and over. I hoped each breath would push Saalim from my mind. When I finally met the King, my eyes were glazed, and my words a sticky mess.

  “I am pleased to see that you are not a ruined ahira after all,” the King spoke icily as I bowed before him. “Omar is close to our family. You can expect I will hear about how things go tonight.” It was the first time he had spoken to me since he carved the marks on my back.

  “Your highness.” The words dripped from my lips. “I am here to please.” We were alone in the throne room except for a single guard and a slave who dutifully waved a wide leaf. My eyes fell to them several times, but they showed no indication of being something they were not. The jinni’s vessel was not visible beneath the King’s robes. Eiqab, let him stay locked in his prison tonight, let him not see me nor feel my thoughts.

  The King stared at me, watching me sway slightly as though the gentle breeze that flowed through the room was a sandstorm’s gale.

  “Careful, Emel,” he said, watching my drunkenness. “You don’t want to embarrass yourself with the monarch’s son.” The King rose, bored with me. Once a flame ablaze with promise of fortunes and high-bred connections, I was now a marked and tattered rug upon which he was forced to stand.

  “Isra,” he called. My mother came in slowly, clothed in a pale beige dress with a matching veil, strung with red beads. Dark rubies hung heavy down her chest, soldered into a thick gold necklace. It was piled on other beaded necklaces, all bright red like drops of blood in sand.

  The King paused in front of his wife and bent his head forward to kiss her brow. I watched, remembering the story Saalim told of a young ruler who once loved a wife. Did he love his current wives as much as he had loved his first?

  “Mama,” I said hesitantly as the King left with the slave, trying to see through her sparkling facade.

  “I have heard . . .” she paused, as though unsure of how to continue. There was a lucid urgency in her tone that snagged my wavering attention. It was so different from the anxious woman I had seen days before. “I need to ask you again. I must know if . . .” she hesitated and then spoke so quietly, I could barely hear her. “Who is the man you see? Do you know him?” This time, it was less of a question and more of an accusation.

  “What? I see no one. Why do you keep asking me these things?” The lie was easy. I certainly would not confess to seeing a magical jinni that belonged to Father, nor would I confess to leaving the palace and seeing Firoz. Not when the walls of the palace were made of cloth. I swayed from foot to foot. Did she know, or was it the vestiges of the rumor my father had started? Who was telling her, and perhaps more importantly, who was watching?

  My mother peered at me as if she were trying to see my thoughts. She reached beneath the layers of necklaces and pulled on a chain until a familiar golden medallion revealed itself from beneath her dress. She pulled the necklace over her head.

  “I want you to keep this now.” Her hand trembled as she gave it to me.

  The metal disc was warm in the palm of my hand. She had worn that necklace since my earliest memory of her.

  “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “So if Masira needs proof, she will see it. Carry it with you, on your neck, against your chest.” She tightly squeezed my hand that held the necklace. “Don’t be distracted by untruths. There are no such things. Give your heart to that which is real. Don’t think of me, of your sisters. Just go.”

  Confused by her words and dazed by drink, my feelings were volatile. I choked back a sob.

  “What is it?” She asked, her eyes swinging back and forth, trying to understand my upwelling emotion.

  I missed my mother. I didn’t want this person who kept pushing me away. I wanted to be a child again who fell into her Mama’s open arms and soft lap and cried about life: my father’s punishment, of Sabra’s cruelness, the deaths of the people around us, of Firoz, of Rafal and his map. I wanted to tell her how the pressure for me to be wed was too much and I was breaking under its weight, and how I wanted to be free of my life in the court just as she wanted, just not in her way. Tell her I wanted to see the desert that was hidden beneath our own, and tell her how I did see a jinni and he made me feel cherished. Tell her how I wanted to feel that again and again.

  Sobs racked me with each thought.

  “Emel, stop!” My mother said sharply. She grabbed my wrists tightly, too tightly.

  My tears quelled as her nails dug into my skin. I steadied myself, staring at her wild eyes.

  “You are an ahira of the King! You are behaving beneath your position. There are girls out there who do what you do and have nothing over their head, nothing to eat. Keep your head high, Emel. There is none here who will feel sorry for you.” She waved her hand around us furiously. “Remember that no matter how trapped you feel, you have control over this.” She tapped my chest with her fingers.

  As my mother spoke, I saw that beneath her anger, there was fear. She wanted me away. She wanted me safe. She wanted to shake the fantasies, the distractions, from me. Did she know I dreamt of real love in a world unlike my own? She wanted me married to power, to protection, someone she could trust.

  She was right. My deluge of emotions trickled away until there was nothing left.

  I was an ahira. I h
ad one purpose: bed, wed, and arm my father with a strong, loyal, lifelong ally. It was the only way I could protect my family, even Saalim, from the Altamaruq. I took deep breaths as my mother dabbed my cheeks, scared of the place my mind had been drifting. Those wistful hopes of freedom, of life without constraint—that was not my life, and it never could be.

  “I am sorry,” I said. My mother kissed my forehead gently then pulled me into a tight embrace. Her familiar smell filled my nose. I thought of my comfort in her arms, and then, unwillingly, thought of Saalim.

  “Do what needs to be done and be free,” she whispered into my ear. “I love you so, so much. Remember that everything I have done, I have done for you, your sisters and brother.”

  Finally the guard spoke. “He waits.”

  We separated, and I followed the guard. But something felt different, strange. I turned back around. My mother still stood there, watching me. Her cheeks were wet. She smiled sadly and raised her hand to me. “Goodbye,” she mouthed.

  “Come on,” the guard said. I waved to my mother, unease mixing with the liquor in my gut, and turned to follow the guard out of the room. I had to make my family proud. That night, I was determined to wed the suitor, so I let go of my desire for a life untethered to my father. Let it disperse like ashes in the wind. Wordlessly, I hung my mother’s chain on my neck.

  As we moved through a narrow hallway, a heavy hush fell upon me, and the fabric stilled. The air around us was static. If I had not been staring at the guard in front of me, I would have walked straight into his back. He was frozen in place, unmoving as stone.

  Sons, not now.

  “Sorry I was delayed,” Saalim said easily. “It’s not too late, though. I can still change his mind.”

  My gaze lingered on the guard. I didn’t want to turn around, to see him. I had a purpose and I had just resolved to fulfill it. I could not let lust and a pipe dream distract me. A wish for freedom was too complicated, too unknown. So then, what could Saalim do for me? What could come from the endurance of us? Love wasn’t enough. Not when it was fettered. I had to choose the simpler decision, the fate that was sure: the back of the guard leading to the suitor in bed.