Pulling my cloak over my fustan, I slipped out of our tent with Tavi at my heels. It was cold outside, and I could see my breath. I almost spoke, almost scolded him for shrieking and waking the entire section of the palace. But then I saw his face.
“No,” I said, shaking my head and backing away.
Quietly he said, “We should speak in there.” We looked to Alim and Jael, who shrugged.
He came into our home, expression strained. His gaze trailed along the girls scattered around the floor in the dark tent, blankets pulled over them. The filtered morning cast dark shadows under their eyes and onto the hollows of their cheeks.
“Mama?” I asked, my voice thick.
Lateef’s face fell. He nodded. It was a small nod, barely any movement at all, but it cut like a sword. His eyes were wet, but he was composed. A cry tore from my chest, and I fell to the ground, Tavi clutching my shoulders. We sobbed into our hands, barely hearing Lateef’s stumbling explanation to the sisters who asked.
During the party, four wives had fled. They escaped with the help of kitchen servants, easily missed in servant’s robes. The women went to the village edge to meet a caravan that would be leaving with the Altamaruq, so sure that this final attempt at the Salt King’s life would be successful, so sure they would finally get that which they desired. Lateef did not speak of the jinni, perhaps he did not believe in his existence. But I knew it was what they wanted even more than they wanted my father dead.
But the men who tried to steal Saalim had failed and were killed. They would not know that the King was a step ahead of them. The jinni could never be taken while Saalim was out of his vessel. The King’s wish that Saalim protect him would always prevent his death, and if they tried to take the vessel as they had, the King could easily wish for their demise. Just as he had. Matin was their one chance, but Aashiq had stopped him. The King would never let his guard down again.
I slammed my fists into the sand thinking of Aashiq. Sons, if he hadn’t intervened, if he’d let Matin win, I’d be with him now, never having met Saalim. The Altamaruq would have won. Mama would still be here. All would be fine.
But there was no relief to be found with that conclusion. Fine was not good enough.
After the two men were killed, the King’s guard had left the party to find if others of the Altamaruq were close by, waiting to do that which the first men had been unable to do.
None should have been assembled at the camels that time of night.
So when the guards saw people huddled around their caravans, throwing their packs onto the camel’s backs, they knew something was amiss. The wives saw their approach and in their foolish panic, fled into the desert.
“Nothing signals guilt like fleeing,” Lateef said, his voice trembling. “They were killed. The guards didn’t know they’d slain the King’s wives.”
I could not concentrate on his words. The breath was pulled from my chest, and I struggled to keep it, wheezing and choking and crying and spitting.
She planned this. She had known she would leave. It must have been why she gave me the mutinous necklace. Suddenly, I was furious. I stood oblivious to Tavi still leaning on me. Had sanity fled with the summer? How could my own mother leave her children, leave her husband, her security for a wild dream? Briefly, I thought of how unhappy I would have to be to leave my family, my home. It was an unwelcome thought that smothered my fury. I wanted—needed—to be angry.
Of course, I had thought to do the same—wish for freedom. But I had chosen to stay, because I could not leave them behind. I was not so selfish. Pacing through the room, I rubbed at my cheeks, angry at my mother for what she had done. Angrier at myself that I had not been brave enough to do it myself.
“The King wants them burned.”
I spun to Lateef, aghast. “His own wives?” To burn them instead of giving a sky burial was the greatest show of disrespect.
Solemn, he clasped his hands and looked at his feet. “But I will not let our mother burn, Emel. That’s why I came. Today we send her to the sky at the sun’s peak. South of the village.”
If the guests of the Haf Shata party believed the King’s lies about the men’s deaths being an act, they beheld the truth when they learned of his missing wives. When they saw his mask fall. Word spread through the village, and panic ensued. Guests promptly packed their things and were gone by midday. The Altamaruq were wild, ruthless. None wanted to be caught in their fray.
Being out of the palace that day was like moving through a terrible dream. It was so unlike what it had been the days before and even worse than what it had been in the autumn. Shops and homes closed and people quiet behind their walls. No one walked the lanes, no children sped between homes. It was the largest threat to the king yet, so they would hide away until the rift was gone and wait for the traitorous hope—yes, surely this was the last time—to settle in.
At the southern face of the village, there were four bodies wrapped in pale cloth placed next to each other. It was a great risk performing a sky burial for the King’s wives when he demanded otherwise. But Lateef was brave, just like his mother. Just like I was learning to be.
Eight guards, surely sons, clustered around the dead, unwrapping them carefully. The vultures were already circling, knowing a feast when they saw one. Deep and slow, the men—the boys—sang their plea for Masira, beseeching that She take their mothers to Her sky, take them into Her arms.
Tears were a resource I no longer possessed. Exhausted, I slid to the ground. Tavi did not want to be there, she said. Never having seen a burial before, she did not understand what I knew. That it was beautiful and elegant. That each time the vulture landed, it felt like Masira herself was there, collecting the soul for safe-keeping. The ache would dull, the sadness would be stripped away like the vultures’ meat. In its place, relief and peace would come. I waited for the vultures to land. Waited, and waited. Come, birds, give us a rest from this grief.
I wished Saalim was there to sit beside me so that I could rest against him. So that I could say, let us forget. Let us forgive.
A golden eagle cried above me, joining the vultures. It circled with them, once, twice, three times. Then, as if it had spoken, it flew away, and the circling vultures fell into a glide, fluttering feathers and outstretched wings, onto the dead. Piece by piece, the brave, foolish women were carried to the mother of gods.
Days passed, and there was no word from the King. If not for Lateef, we still would not know of the passing of our mothers. My grief at my mother’s loss was surpassed by my anger. We should have been told by the King himself. By our father. I felt as though my days were fueled by my fury. I seethed at his neglect, at everything.
The ahiran wallowed in their sorrow, in their fear. Those who had not lost their mothers were careful and quiet around those of us who had, and our home became a strained and volatile place. If one tear fell, it brought on a deluge of others. They expressed their pity for what we’d lost, then babbled about being next. Surely, the ahiran would be targeted by the Altamaruq. They implored we all stay within the walls of our home, but others had shaken their heads. Our father did not care enough about us for our deaths to be worthwhile to those soldiers.
Listening to their ceaseless fears was insufferable. I knew their ignorance about what the Altamaruq were really after was our father’s fault, but still, I paced through the palace as much as I could, praying at the rama, watching men spin pots on the heavy stone wheel, or listening to the clanging of metal as swords were forged. But there was only so much I could take.
Saalim had not come to me, and I had not called to him no matter how much I wanted to. Where did we stand now? Did he know of my mother’s rebellion, of her death? I grew anxious again thinking of my mother, of Saalim. I managed to lose so many things in such a short amount of time. Now there was only Tavi, only Firoz. I pushed the palm of my hand into my brow, closing my eyes and rocking on my hips as I sat on my mat.
I was suffocating. It was too much. I needed
to leave the palace.
Tavi said nothing as I rose. The others watched me silently, surely thinking me idiotic or cold-hearted or selfish or any number of things I did not care about. I had not seen Firoz in days, and I missed him.
It was nearly sunset, so I was not surprised when I found Firoz’s shop empty, but I was disappointed. Undeterred, I went to his home. The intrusion would be highly improper, but I was desperate. I wanted to see him smile, wanted to hear someone talk about anything else. I didn’t want to think about Mama. I was tired of the Altamaruq and its disruption of our lives. I was exhausted by the panic—however appropriate it might be.
His mother was outside tending a pot that sat above the fire in front. Her soft, worn face glowed in the orange light.
“Excuse me,” I said, carefully lifting my voice so it sounded sweet and harmless. “I am looking for Firoz.”
“Firoz, eh?” she said as she surveyed me. Little faces poked from the tent when they heard their mother speaking. “Who are you?”
“My name is Isra.”
“He hasn’t mentioned you,” the woman said, not unfriendly, “but he tells me that if anyone were to call when he’s not in, he’ll be in ‘his talking place.’ He said his friends know where that is.” She raised her eyebrows at me, as though trying to discern if I was a real friend and knew this place. Luckily, I did.
“Thank you, I will search for him there.” I nodded gratefully and turned away. The children screamed goodbyes at my retreating back while Firoz’s mother aggressively shushed them and told them to get back inside.
Even the baytahira seemed subdued. Though the music still floated into the sky, it was quieter, and I could not hear it until I was nearly within the quarter. I always visited this place with Firoz, and being here by myself was unsettling. It was unusual for a woman to be by herself here for any reason other than the obvious. I could not be caught.
Uneasily, I walked down the passageway, carefully scanning the people I passed in hopes of finding Firoz. Men and women called to me, desperate for coin. The shouts were sickening as I was reminded of the King’s party and everything that happened in its aftermath. I passed quickly, heading toward the tents for hire. Firoz and I had used those to talk many times. Was he with a friend there? I scanned the handful that were closed.
No, this was absurd. If he was with a friend in one of the tents, I could not go and interrupt. What if he was with the woman he loved? I had never asked him about her, unsure that I wanted to know who I shared Firoz with.
I squeezed my temples with my fingers, feeling incredibly foolish. I needed to return home, but I decided to check the last place I could think of. I walked through the rest of the baytahira and turned between the familiar two tents until I was at the square with the table at its center.
A pair of men locked in a fervent kiss clutched each other on the ground, leaning against the table.
Their flagrant disregard for propriety and their enthusiastic passion was so intimate, I felt as an intruder. Yet I could not turn away. In our settlement, it was frowned upon for people to display their love so openly—though, of course, this part of the village was itself discreet. These men’s maverick behavior was dangerously thrilling, and I smiled beneath my scarf. They were lovers, I could tell, and I yearned for the same. Could Saalim feel my thoughts reaching out to him, the small flickers of my heart before I stamped them out?
The men unabashedly ground their hips against each other, their hands clasped furiously at each other’s backs and thighs. Finally, they parted for breath, and one of the men looked right at me.
“Oh!” I gasped and turned, about to scurry out. But then I realized that I recognized his face. “Firo?!”
The men separated rapidly, and Firoz, hair messily trussed by his lover’s hands, turned toward me, fear etched into his face.
“It’s okay. Just me.” I raised my hand and lowered it back down.
“Emel?” he mouthed silently, tactful for once.
I nodded, and he laughed with relief. “What are you doing here?” He turned toward the man. “Rashid, come with!”
“Rashid?” I choked, looking beyond him at the man I now recognized. “I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t know . . .”
“Nice to see you.” Rashid nodded, brushing back his hair and readjusting his tunic.
Firoz chuckled at my bewilderment. “Rashid is the one I was telling you about . . .” The one he’s in love with, I realized. Firoz wrapped his arm around Rashid’s waist as Rashid brought his arm around Firoz’s shoulder. “I met him a while ago, in the market. Rashid introduced me to the others. He’s one of the Dalmur. He keeps us informed of what they’re doing, what they plan, so we can be prepared.”
I groaned and looked at the tents around me. Firoz spoke too loudly.
“I don’t want to hear about that,” I said.
“Don’t worry, it’s safe here,” Rashid said. His voice was deep and strong. I could see how Firoz would be comforted by it, how he could listen to his words and believe each one.
“So, what’s going on? Why’re you here?” Firoz asked.
“I was looking for you,” I said quickly, feeling foolish as I explained my convoluted and desperate path to him.
Firoz saw my face, certainly heard the ache in my voice. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
I wanted to tell him then that Rashid’s people attacked my father, were the cause of my mother’s death. But I bit my tongue. I watched the pair, teeth gleaming in radiant smiles, and realized how selfish it was of me to come see him, wanting to offload my pain. It was not Rashid nor Firoz’s fault that my mother was dead. That the village was locking themselves away. That everyone was scared. It was not their fault that I was an ahira. I could not blame them.
Sighing, I shook my head. Firoz was ebullient with Rashid. I would not be the one to tarnish his happiness with the strain of my troubles. “Nothing, Firoz. Just wanted to say hello, tell you about the party. We will see each other sometime soon.” I leaned forward to hug him goodbye, and as we embraced, I could smell the other man’s spicy scent on him.
“Be careful, Firoz,” I whispered in his ear. “People listen.”
“I’m always careful. Come find me again soon. You know I want to hear all about it.” He planted a wet kiss on my cheek before sending me off.
So Rashid was the man who held Firoz’s heart. Though it was unfair of me, I could not help feeling territorial, like Firoz could belong to none else. I looked at the man again, trying to fit my new understanding of Rashid into the place of the man I thought I’d known. Rashid stood confidently, his arms crossed as he watched me and Firoz. His lips were curved in a soft smile that widened as Firoz approached him again. I hoped Rashid was kind, but more importantly, I hoped he was right about their safety.
Walking back through the baytahira, I had a vague sense of unease. That someone watched me.
I looked around, but Firoz and Rashid were back in the private square. Continuing my search, my gaze fell upon a woman sitting quietly amongst a group of moving and jeering people. This woman did not holler, did not cry out, did not stir as I met her stare. She simply sat still, looking at me. Despite the cold, her body was draped immodestly in the thin clothing of her profession, alerting the pleasure-seekers to what she did, of what she could be paid to do.
I was pinned by her stare and felt as though quicksand pulled my feet into the ground. With all of my effort, I tore my eyes from hers. Movement returned to me, and I walked away as fast as I could. I prayed she did not recognize me. Prayed she had not seen from where I’d come.
Because even in the dim light, I could see that it was Sabra.
Chapter Twenty
Storming through the settlement, I could only think of Sabra. My own sister in the baytahira doing exactly what she had wanted to escape from. Vexation spilled from me, oozing out of my fingers and my toes, seeping into the sand and pulling me down. I walked on, my heart beating thunderously.
A baby
cried in a nearby home, and a tired mother cried in echo. Sons, why was there so much sadness everywhere?
What a fool I had been to want a few moments away from the palace. Away from thoughts of my father, my mother, my life as an ahira. Even when I fled the palace to be away from it all, I had walked right back into it. My father’s influence was everywhere—in Sabra sitting destitute as a giver of pleasure, in Firoz having to love Rashid in secret while wishing for a better life, in families that tucked away because they didn’t feel safe. He was the fabric of our settlement, and no matter how much I wanted to shred it into pieces, I was powerless to do so.
Sure, I could say no to the suitors, reject my father’s rules. But to what end? I had a thin line to toe—he could not catch wind of my rebellion or I’d be finished. No matter the choices I made, even if I owned them fully, I was still bound by silk chains. Running away was no option either. Even my mother died trying. A muhami choosing a scarred ahira was impossible. So what was left for me to find my freedom? Magic?
I needed something, anything, to distract me from my life and the brutish father that controlled it. Something to shake from me the images of my mother, bloodless in the sand; the feeling of unwelcome lips and hands on my face and body; the gloom on my sister’s faces when they returned from their suitors or when they learned of the death of their brother, their attendant, their mother.
We were supposed to be happy, appreciative. To relish the life of an ahira. But there was no amount of untruths we could tell ourselves to feel happiness at the prospect of being pawned off like precious stones.
I wanted something that I truly loved. A life that was my own, something where I was in control. Life as my father’s ahira was not endurable. My mother was gone, Raheemah wed. I had Tavi, yes, and my other sisters, of course. I loved them, but did I stay for them? Or do I do as my mother did? As my mother said—don’t think of anyone but myself. Could I wish everything away? I was beginning to think I should.
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