Текст книги "The Storyteller's Daughter"

Автор книги: Кэмерон Доки

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Chapter 6

T H E K I N G T A K E S A W I F E B U T R E C E I V E S A S U R P R I S E

Just as the full moon began to climb in the sky, the vizier strode through the palace, Shahrazad at his side. The vizier was attired in cloth of silver. In one hand, he held the great curved staff, which was his badge of office. Through halls as dark as midnight, the vizier and his daughter walked together. And halls as white as a scorching noonday sky. Halls as green as the limbs of cedar trees, and as golden as the sand that stretched around the palace for countless miles.

Each place they passed was thronged with people, all longing to catch a glimpse of the woman who had come forward to be King Shahrayar's bride. But in this they were disappointed, for Shahrazad had drawn a veil across her face to avoid all chance that anyone might realize who she was.

At length the vizier and his daughter reached their destination: Shahrayar's great audience hall. Here the stones were clear as river water. Great columns of porphyry as purple-red as the flesh of plums flanked the entrance. Guards clothed all in white and armed with gleaming scimitars stood motionless on either side.

Three times the vizier struck his staff of office upon the stones to announce his presence. On the third strike, the king's chamberlain stepped before the vizier and Shahrazad, placing his body between the newcomers and the king and making himself a shield, for he was charged with keeping the life of the king secure, even if it cost him his own.

"Who seeks an audience with King Shahrayar?' he demanded.

And the vizier answered, "She who would be his bride."

At this, a sound filled Shahrazad's ears, a sound like bees buzzing in their hive.

"Does she come of her own free will?” the chamberlain inquired. "Let her answer with her own voice.

By the king's command, in this, no other can speak for her."

And Shahrazad answered, "By my will and no other's."

Now the sound that came to her ears was like wind moving across the sands—a long, low sigh.

"Enter and be welcome," the chamberlain said. And he stepped aside. Together, Shahrazad and her father entered the audience hall, for the doorway was so vast they could move through it the same way they had arrived before it: side by side.

Down the length of the audience hall, the vizier and Shahrazad paced, over a floor as smooth as glass.

A vast domed roof sprang up over their heads, so cleverly made that if you looked up, there were places where you could see the sky. Already the first of the evening stars were shining through it. Smooth gray columns stood straight and tall as trees along the chambers sides. Between them, packed as tightly as salted fish in a barrel, were the members of Shahrayar's court.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense, of the agitated breath of courtiers, and something Shahrazad could not quite identify. Anticipation, she thought. And perhaps fear, also. Though the room was filled with people and the day had been warm, the air burned with cold as it struck Shahrazad's nostrils.

And so, for the first time since she had known in her heart what she must do, Shahrazad felt its steady, constant beating stumble. For it seemed to her that the cold could have its source in just one place—and that place was the heart of King Shahrayar, who soon would be her husband.

At her side, Shahrazad felt her father's footsteps slow. She slowed her own to match his, then stopped at the exact same moment he stopped. And thus it was that Shahrazad knew that her destiny was now at hand, for she had come at last to stand before King Shahrayar.

He was seated on a raised dais upon a throne of cedar, polished until it gleamed as red as an ember. On his fingers flashed rich jewels. His body was adorned in cloth of gold. As he stared down upon the vizier and the woman who stood beside him, his eyes glittered as bright as newly struck coins.

As the king's gaze moved over him, for the first and only time that he could remember, the vizier discovered he was glad that Shahrazad was blind. For he had never seen a man's eyes look as Shahrayar's did

– empty of all emotion save a fierce determination to continue on the path that he had chosen. But this determination burned not hot, but with a hard and icy cold.

"You are welcome, my lord vizier," Shahrayar said, and at the sound of it, Shahrazad felt her stomach muscles clench, for never had she heard a voice so empty of emotion.

What will I do, she wondered suddenly, if the truth of things is even worse than I supposed?

What if it wasn't that Shahrayar's heart had been turned to stone as all had whispered? What if the king no longer had a heart at all? To see a thing that wasn't there was beyond even Shahrazad's skill.

And then it came to her that she already knew the answer to her question: If King Shahrayar's heart had left him entirely, then in the morning she would die.

"Who is this that you have brought before us?" the king asked.

And the vizier answered, "One who would be your bride. This is the hour you did appoint for a maiden to come forward and offer herself, if she would. As you proclaimed it must happen, so it has come to pass."

"Then let me see her face and know her name," commanded Shahrayar.

At these words, Shahrazad felt her father tremble, he whom she knew had never trembled in his life till now. And her fathers fear helped to steady her, though Shahrazad was surprised by the knowledge that this could be so,

I have not come to die, she thought. But to do what must he done.

And so, before the vizier could reach for the veil that concealed her features, Shahrazad grasped it and threw it back over her head herself. Up it flew, like a bird taking wing, then settled upon her shoulders as softly as a butterfly. But Shahrazad's voice was strong as iron as she proclaimed her name.

"I am Shahrazad, daughter of Nur al-Din Hasan, the king's vizier, and Maju, called the Storyteller."

And in this way did King Shahrayar and all he had assembled within his great hall learn who had come forward to be his bride.

Absolute silence filled the audience hall. Even the courtiers were too stunned to gossip. It was a terrible silence—one that stretched on and on. Until Shahrazad lost track of how long she stood facing the king, her face bare, her body motionless, with her father quivering at her side like a horse before a race.

The longer the silence stretched, the colder the air in the audience hall became, until it seemed to Shahrazad she was wrapped in the cold hand of death himself.

"What trick is this, Nur al-Din?" Shahrayar demanded finally, in a voice both strained and harsh. "Do you think to thwart me? Do you hope, because she is yours, that I will turn aside from what I have proclaimed and, though I wed her, not require that she die tomorrow morning?"

"There is no trick," the vizier answered, and Shahrazad felt her father's trembling cease as he replied.

As if the king's anger had steadied him the way his own fear had steadied her. "Nor is there any hidden design. My daughter came to me and asked for a boon. I swore to grant it before I knew what it was that she desired. If I could have found a way to deny her, believe me, I would have done it."

Then, to her surprise for they had not discussed it, Shahrazad felt her father step forward.

"Hear now what I shall proclaim, sire," the vizier said, his words coming hard and fast, as if a great dam had burst inside him.

"The moment my eldest daughter breathes her last is the moment I serve you no longer. I will take the daughter who remains to me and leave this land to travel far and wide. Everywhere I go I will proclaim to all who will listen the cruelty of King Shahrayar. And I will proclaim that your land could have no greater gift than that your heart should beat no more.

"If I had not my younger daughter in my care, I would cut your heart out and feed it to the wild dogs of the desert myself"

At the vizier's words, a sound like a flock of panicked birds rose from the courtiers. Shahrayar rose to his feet and the sound cut off.

"Be careful what you say, old man," he warned."To plot the death of a king is treason, and it is your life, not mine, which will be lost."

"Then so be it," the vizier answered. For he found that not even the love he bore to Dinarzad could still his tongue now that he had begun.

"Take my life if you will, but I will not take back what I have spoken. All here know that I have served you well, King Shahrayar, as I served your father before you. And always by speaking the truth. I have done nothing more than speak it to you now. If you have not the ears to—"

"I pray you, Father, peace!" interrupted Shahrazad, as she stepped to the viziers side."Truth or no, to speak so now does nothing but pour oil upon a fire. No will but my own has brought me to this place. This you know, for this I have spoken. Let this fact content you now, and King Shahrayar also."

There was a second pause.

"Your daughter speaks wisely, Nur al-Din," Shahrayar observed after a moment. "For her sake, I will set aside my anger and forget your rash words. But guard your tongue well, remember your younger daughter, and do not expect me to show such mercy a second time."

"Mercy is a thing I have ceased to expect from you, sire," the vizier answered.

"Enough!" cried Shahrayar. "Bring forth the holy man, and let there be an end to talking."

At a signal from the chamberlain, the holy man who was to perform the marriage ceremony stepped forward. The chamberlain himself took Shahrazad by the hand, guided her up the steps, and placed her hand in that of Shahrayar. And it seemed to her that the grip of his fingers felt as tight and cold as prison bars.

And so it was that King Shahrayar and Lady Shahrazad were wed. With the full moon shining down upon them like a plate of silver polished by the vigorous hand of God.

Chapter 7

I N W H I C H H I D D E N T H I N G S B E G I N T O R E V E A L T H E M S E L V E S

Then finally, the moment came when Shahrayar and Shahrazad were left alone.

The ceremony was over, the courtiers dismissed. Last to say farewell to the new queen had been Nur al-Din Hasan, the vizier, her father. She would not see him again until the morning. If she had been successful, he would embrace her with joy when the sun arose, for she would live—if only for one day longer.

If not, father and daughter would embrace in sorrow. Then, the vizier would perform his final duty for King Shahrayar and lead his own daughter to the executioners block.

But which outcome it was to be had yet to be decided, though Shahrayar knew it not.

"I bid you welcome to my—our—quarters," Shahrayar said as he held aside a tapestry and ushered Shahrazad inside. For these rooms would, indeed, be hers, if only for this night. Gently, Shahrayar seated Shahrazad upon a low divan, then roamed the room, unable to settle, certainly unable to sit at her side.

Shahrazad could hear his agitated footsteps moving back and forth.

What sort of sign is this? she wondered. At this very moment, what was going through her husband's mind?

God help me, Shahrayar thought as he prowled the room like a caged tiger. Why doesn't she saysomething?

For it had come to him suddenly as he beheld Shahrazad sitting in his own rooms that, although his will had carried him this far, it would carry him no farther. Even his imagination seemed to have deserted him, for he could conjure up nothing beyond the present moment.

What on earth am I supposed to do now?

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Shahrayar reached up to tug at the neck of his golden robes. When had they grown so uncomfortable? he wondered. For the fine cloth felt like sand against his skin, rubbing until he was raw and smarting. The collar felt like hands around his throat trying to choke him. Above it, Shahrayar's face felt brittle, as if made of cold, thin glass. He half feared to speak, lest his features should splinter and slide right off.

What is the matter with me? he thought. He had done nothing but carry out his own will. Match his footsteps to the path that he had chosen. The only one he had been able to see. Since he had first come down from the tower, it was the path that had steadied and guided him. He was sure it was the right one.

Why, then, did he suddenly seem to have lost his way? Why did everything that once seemed so right, now suddenly seem to be so wrong?

"Will you eat?" he asked abruptly. The thought of food made his stomach turn, but anything would be better than to continue dwelling on his own thoughts. Turning toward Shahrazad, Shahrayar gestured to a series of small tables near the divan. They were loaded with every kind of delicacy the palace cooks could prepare, as if they had wished the new queen's last meal to be a particularly fine one.

"Please, choose whatever you like."

At his words, Shahrazad shifted position ever so slightly, turning her body toward the sound of his voice. Shahrayar scrubbed his hands across his face. Fool! Idiot! Imbecile! he chastised himself. How will she choose when she cannot see?

How could he have forgotten that Shahrazad was blind? But there was something about her that encouraged him to forget, so sure did she seem of herself. And thus it was, so wound up was Shahrayar with his own inner turmoil, he failed to see the turmoil in Shahrazad.

He saw the pallor of her skin, but not the fine sheen of perspiration upon it, like dew upon a rose. He saw the hands clasped tighdy in her lap, but not the way they gripped each other till the knuckles gleamed white as mother-of-pearl beads. He saw the fineness of her garments, but not the way they quivered in time to the too-quick beating of her heart.

Cool and remote Shahrazad seemed to him. As unafraid as she was untouched. And suddenly Shahrayar was angry that she should be so unmoved while he was not. And he welcomed his anger, for it was clean and simple. Here, at last, was a feeling he recognized.

"Your pardon," he said, his voice sounding ugly even to his own ears. "With your permission, I will change my robes. You may do so also if you wish. Shall I summon a servant to attend you?"

"No, thank you, my lord," Shahrazad answered simply. "But make yourself comfortable, by all means."

At her answer, Shahrayar bit down, hard, upon his tongue. Of course she would not change, for she had brought no other garments with her. Why should she when she would die with the coming of the sun?

J must get away from here, he thought.

"For a moment, I will leave you, then," he said. Turning, he pushed aside a hanging and vanished into the depths of his apartments.

For several moments, Shahrazad sat perfectly still, her only movement her steady breathing in and out.

At first this brought no peace, for with every breath she took, her mind repeated the same phrase, over and over:

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

And, just as swiftly as her mind posed the question, her heart gave the reply: What I must. What I must. What I must.

For years she had unconsciously schooled herself to face this test, teaching herself to rely upon herself alone. Now she would be up to the task that lay before her, the one Maju had told her was her destiny, or she would not. And if not she, then no one.

But it will be hard, she thought. Ah, God! Much harder than she had thought. For though she had listened for it carefully, it seemed to her that she had heard no warmth in Shahrayar at all. He was cold, through and through. So cold that Shahrazad could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.

With a jerky motion she unclasped her hands, ran one of them nervously over the fabric of the divan, then paused. Slowly, more carefully now, Shahrazad explored the fabric beneath her fingers. At the unexpected feel of what she found there, she felt her thoughts steady and her courage revive.

For what she felt beneath her fingers wasn't the subtlety of silk. It was the simplicity of finely woven cotton. Here, in this place that was most truly his, Shahrayar surrounded himself not with things to compel and impress, but with things to make a refuge and a home. And the knowledge of this warmed Shahrazad's heart, as she hoped to find the way to warm Shahrayar's.

And so she sat, her fingers stroking the fabric of the divan. And thus it was that Shahrayar found her.

Coming back into the room, certain now that he had himself under control, he caught the gentle motion of Shahrazad's hand and stopped short. For the first time he thought he saw Shahrazad's mother in her. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if, like Maju, Shahrazad could see things that others could not.

And at this wondering, Shahrayar felt something move within him, even within his heart that he, himself, had turned to stone. But what it was, he could not tell. So he continued into the room and watched the way Shahrazad heard the sound of his coming and turned her face toward him once more.

"Ah!" she said, and he saw the way her face lit up. "You are much more comfortable now."

"I am, indeed," Shahrayar answered. "But how can you tell?"

"By the sound of your movements," Shahrazad said. "You walk with more ease than you did before.

And the sound of the fabric is gentle as it brushes against itself." She cocked her head, as if considering.

"You are wearing a caftan, and your feet are bare, like a boy's."

"That is so," Shahrayar said, his tone astonished. At the sound of it, Shahrazad gave a laugh like chimes in the wind.

"There is no magic in this, I assure you," she said. "More like a lucky guess, my lord. My father often dressed this way when he came to see me at the end of the day after his court duties were done. He told me he had acquired the custom from the old king, your father. I simply thought you might have done so also."

At the mention of her father and his own, Shahrayar sobered. "I have no wish to speak of fathers."

"As you desire, so it shall be." Shahrazad's smile faded away, and the room was filled with silence once more. At this, Shahrayar felt the thing inside him stir again, but this time he thought he knew its name: It was called sorrow.

" What will you have to eat?" he asked, after a moment. And now I am back where I started, he thought, only this time, he discovered he was hungry.

"I would like to try whatever pleases you," Shahrazad answered promptly.

Shahrayar felt his face color and was glad she could not see it. He simply did not understand the way she treated him. Where was her anger? Her resentment? Her fear? Her hate? Was she so cold and untouched that she felt none of these things?

"Why?" he inquired.

"So that I may get to know you better," Shahrazad said, as any new wife might. As if the meal she and Shahrayar were about to take was merely the first of many they would enjoy together, instead of the only one. And now the thing within Shahrayar was called pain. And as he recognized it, it burst forth.

"Why?" he cried again. And, though the word was the same as he had used just moments before, both he and Shahrazad knew the question he posed was not.

"For the love of God, Shahrazad! For years you have kept yourself apart, since you were nothing more than a child. Now you come forth for this. I do not understand you."

Nor I you, my lord, thought Shahrazad. How can you travel so far from yourself and not evenperceive that you are lost?

But she spoke none of this. Instead she said, "Because it is what I wished, Shahrayar."

He gave a sharp, unbelieving laugh. "What you wished," he echoed. "Do you mean you wish to die?"

"Of course not," answered Shahrazad. "I wished—" Her throat closed suddenly, and she cleared it. She knew that she must speak the truth in this, but it was a difficult one to tell,

"I wished to be the one to truly see, to come to know your heart. At least, I wished to try."

At her words, Shahrayar felt his stone heart give a crack, and the pain surged forth into his veins, scalding as lava. Too late. Your wish has come too late, he thought.

"How will you see it?" he asked, his tone bitter. "How will you see anything truly? You are blind, Shahrazad."

The words hung, awful, in the air. And Shahrayar discovered he could hate himself.

"That is so," Shahrazad answered, her voice calm. "Do you think that is the most important thing about me? If eyes are all one needs to see and know another's heart truly then answer me this: When you look at me now do you see and understand my heart?"

Shahrayar was silent for so long, Shahrazad feared he would not answer. But at last he replied, "No, I do not, Shahrazad."

"Then perhaps you should not be so quick to judge what I can do, though my eyes see not as yours."

"You think that I'm a monster, don't you?" Shahrayar asked, the words tumbling forth before he even knew they had been formed.

"No," Shahrazad answered swiftly. "Not that."

"What, then?" asked Shahrayar.

This time it was Shahrazad who paused before she answered, for had she not just told herself she would not speak of this? But he had asked, and so she answered truthfully.

“I think that you are . . . lost."

"Lost!" Shahrayar cried, stung. "Do you think I am a child, then?"

"No," Shahrazad answered steadily. "Only that you act like one. A great kingdom is in your hands. All look to you, yet you see only yourself, Shahrayar."

A shocked silence filled the room. Not since he had truly been a child had anyone spoken to him in this manner, Shahrayar thought.

"I am the king. How dare you speak so to me?"

"And I am the queen, if only for this night," Shahrazad answered, as her chin came up stubbornly.

"What will you do to punish me for answering truthfully when you bid me speak? Kill me before my time is up?"

"Enough!" Shahrayar exclaimed, for her words horrified him. Did she truly think him capable of such a thing? But why not? he answered himself. Had he not proclaimed that she would die tomorrow morning, and for even less cause?

"I have no wish to quarrel, Shahrazad."

"Nor I," said Shahrazad. Then, to Shahrayar's amazement, her mouth quirked up. "But you make it hard not to, you know."

Shahrayar gave a startled bark of laughter, all his anger suddenly gone. It felt good to be with someone who was not afraid to speak her mind, he realized to his surprise. His first queen had certainly never spoken to him so. Now that he thought about it, they had barely conversed at all. Perhaps if they had . . .

No, Shahrayar thought. He would not travel down that road. There was no sense in comparing the one who had betrayed him to Shahrazad. That much, he could already tell.

"I will make you a bargain," he said now, careful to keep his tone light. "I will admit that I am quarrelsome if you will admit that you have a sharp tongue."

His first wife would never have taken such a bargain, Shahrayar thought. She would have denied his faults, for was he not the king? And, in denying his, she had hidden her own.

"Well, of course I have a sharp tongue," Shahrazad said, as if Shahrayar had but stated the obvious.'!

am the daughter of a storyteller, am I not?"

"That is so."

"Well, then," Shahrazad said, and she extended her hand, as if to seal the bargain. Shahrayar took it between his own. For the first time, he learned how soft Shahrazad's hands were. And how warm. And he felt the way her fingers trembled within the cage of his.

"All this bargain-making has made me hungry," Shahrazad said as she slid her hand from his. "I thought you promised me food, my lord."

"So I did," Shahrayar admitted. He filled a plate, sat down at her feet, and they shared a meal in com-panionable silence.

But again and again as they shared the food, Shahrayar's fingers met those of Shahrazad. Until he found himself craving her touch more than the food. What it would be like to set the meal aside and simply-touch her? To run his fingertips across her palm and up her arm until he had coaxed her head down upon his shoulder. What would his own head feel like resting on her heart? he wondered. Could the very beating of it have the power to warm him?

When he realized the direction his thoughts had taken, for the first time since the night he discovered that he had been betrayed, Shahrayar realized how weary and confused he was.

Shahrazad is right, he thought. J am well and truly lost.

And for the first time, he realized how cold he was.

But just when his thoughts would have given him over to despair, he was pulled back by the sound of Shahrazad's voice.

"Might I beg a boon of you, my lord?"

"Do I get to know what it is ahead of time?" Shahrayar asked, glad to be distracted from his thoughts.

But as he turned his head to look up at her, he caught the line of worry between Shahrazad's brows, and he was sorry that he had teased her so." You may have whatever you wish," he promised swiftly, "if the granting of it brings no stain upon my honor."

“I swear that it will not," said Shahrazad. "You know I have a sister, who is but ten years old."

Shahrayar nodded, though he felt his stomach sink. "Dinarzad."

"It has always been my custom to say good night to her each evening," Shahrazad went on. "Might she be permitted to come to me here, so that I might wish her both good night and farewell?"

"Such a thing is easily granted," Shahrayar said. But his throat felt thick, for he remembered the grief that he had felt upon his first parting with his brother, Shazaman. This parting of the sisters would be both first and last, and he himself would be the cause.

"It grows late. Do you wish to send for her now?"

"If it pleases you," said Shahrazad.

"Stop doing that!" Shahrayar burst out before he could help himself. He rose, and set their empty plate upon a nearby tray.

"Stop behaving as if you were my servant. It does not suit you, Shahrazad. I like the sharp edge of your tongue better than the dull one. I seek to please you in this. Just say what you want."

God knew, there was little enough else by which he could please her, and he had suddenly discovered that pleasing her was a thing he wanted, very much.

If Shahrazad was distressed by this outburst, she did not show it, answering merely, "Then it would please me to send for her now."

So Shahrayar clapped his hands to summon a servant to fetch Dinarzad. When she was brought, she threw herself at once into Shahrazad's arms. Her tears flowed freely, for she had yet to learn the way to conceal her feelings, being but a child. And Shahrayar was moved at her grief.

"Would you like me to leave you alone?"

At his words, Dinarzad's head shot up. "No! You must not!" she cried.

"Dinarzad, remember you are speaking to the king," Shahrazad remonstrated softly.

Dinarzad's face colored and she bit her lip. "That is . . . I beg you to stay with us, my lord. There is something I would ask of my sister, but you alone can answer yea or nay."

"What is it that you wish?" asked Shahrayar, intrigued.

"My sister tells me a story each night before I sleep," Dinarzad explained and, though her eyes managed to meet Shahrayar's without flinching, her voice was soft and small. "She reads the cloth in the way of her mother, Maju the Storyteller. For as long as I can remember, she has done this, but after tonight

–"

But here her eyes filled with tears once more and she was unable to go on.

So the rumors are true, Shahrayar thought. Shahrazad has become a storyteller, like her motherbefore her.

"You would like her to tell you a story," he said. One last story.

Dinarzad nodded.

"By all means," said Shahrayar, pleased that he could grant her wish. At his words, Dinarzad gave a great sigh. Her distress seemed to leave her, and she nestled her head upon her sister’s shoulder.

Above the young girl's head, Shahrazad's eyes met those of Shahrayar. In that moment, it did not seem to him that Shahrazad was blind. Instead he thought she saw him very well. Though what she saw when she looked at him, Shahrayar could not tell. Then Shahrazad looked down, and the moment passed.

"Thank you," Shahrazad said softly. "Will you please send for my trunk? Only then will I be able to do as my sister has asked."

And Shahrayar said, "I will do so at once."

And now it was Shahrazad who sighed, for though she knew her greatest test still lay ahead, she was satisfied that it was well begun.