Scheherazade and the King Ch. 03

"Until I get what you owe me, you're mine, you filthy whore," he says, slowly fucking her with his fingers.

He leans in towards her, burying his face in her neck: "All. Mine."

Scheherazade shot up in bed, her heart racing in terror at the nightmare she had awoken from. She had dreamt about him. She glanced frantically about the room and then gasped in fear as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream: There, slumped in the corner of the tiny room, was Shariyar.

She breathed in and out deeply as she stared at the sleeping king, trying to bring her heartbeat back to normal. Shariyar's arms rested on his knees, his head tilted back against the wall. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing put a simple pair of linen trousers.

Scheherazade climbed out of her bed slowly, her wounds still aching. She pulled the top blanket off the bed and knelt down beside Shariyar to drape the sheet over his sleeping form.

The king's eyes fluttered open as she began to lay the blanket over him.

"Scheherazade," he whispered, his voice low and dark.

The girl started at the sound of his voice and dropped the blanket, stepping away from him quickly.

"Sit with me," he said, pulling the blanket off and gesturing to the floor between his legs.

The girl stood, frozen in the moonlight.

"Do it," he said, his tone taking on a hardened edge.

Scheherazade walked back to him and dropped to the floor, her back to him. He looped a gentle hand around her waist and pulled her towards him. He pulled the blanket over both their bodies, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head against hers.

Scheherazade could feel Shariyar's chest rising and falling slowly behind her, each breath warming her neck. She almost dared not breathe lest she woke him again. She was torn between the warmth of his sleeping embrace and the savagery of his waking actions. It was like being cuddled by a tiger.

Shariyar's muscles twitched in his sleep, each involuntary movement setting Scheherazade's heart racing. Slowly, however, her exhaustion overcame her and she fell into an uneasy sleep.

++++++++

Shariyar's eyes blinked open and he winced at the brilliant sunlight that filled the room. He glanced down at the gypsy: Her head rested against his chest, her sun-kissed hair tumbling down his abdomen.

"Gypsy," he murmured. "Wake up."

The girl stirred at the sound of his voice, moaning at the pain the sudden movement caused her.

Shariyar's powerful arms hugged her closer and he pressed his lips gently against her neck, trying to ignore the way her body tensed at his touch.

"You owe me a story," he said softly.

Scheherazade nodded and cleared her throat softly before beginning: "As the desert swallowed the echoes of Qadir's laugh, the sand around Noor and Mo began to shake. Qadir's bandits rose up from the sand like the waking dead. Who knows how long they had been hiding in those shallow crypts, waiting underneath their sand-covered shields for their next prey to appear. Mo and Noor suddenly found themselves surrounded by not ten or twenty but forty thieves, their weapons gleaming in the midday sun."

"Their blackavised leader appeared at the head of the most prominent dune, laughing to himself as he slid down from its peak.

"But his laughter stopped suddenly when he saw Mo's face. His yellow eyes hardened as they raked over the young man.

"Noor sensed the change in Qadir's mood and became very agitated, stomping her wide feet in the sand to alert Mo. But her master was as useless as ever.

"'You must be the bandit king I have been sent to find!' He said, looking very pleased with himself. 'See, Noor? We found him right away!'

"'Who are you?' Qadir asked. 'Who sent you?'

"'I am Mo, and this brazen creature is Noor,' he said. 'We were sent to find you by the city council. We have come to offer a ransom and beg you to leave the city alone.'

"Qadir's men looked first at each other and then at their leader before breaking out into raucous laughter. Mo joined in without hesitation, even though he wasn't quite sure of how he had amused them.

"At one gesture from their leader, however, the troop of thieves suddenly stopped laughing.

"'You are a fool, Mo,' Qadir said. 'But you may prove useful yet. You and your camel are coming with us.'

"The forty thieves and their ruthless leader led Mo and Noor through the ever-changing desert. As soon as their feet left a print in the sand, the wind swept it away. There were no landmarks for Noor to remember and Mo was too busy trying to chat with the stony-faced bandits to pay any attention to their surroundings.

"Finally, however, the convoy climbed over a dune and found themselves staring at the half-buried ruins of an ancient building. Qadir led the men and their captives through the slanting building until they reached a great wall, blank except for a carving of a woman. The king of thieves motioned for his men to stay behind. He walked up to the wall and whispered something in the statue's ear.

"Suddenly the whole building began to shake as the wall opened, revealing a dark passageway. The walls ground closed behind the convoy, leaving them in darkness. No one moved for a moment. And then the walls of the tunnel began to glow, bathing its occupants in a mysterious blue light.

"'Is this magic?' Mo asked, running his fingers along the wall.

"'Don't be stupid,' Qadir scoffed. 'It's fungi.'

"The bandit led the group down through the winding passageways until they finally emerged in a great underground chamber filled wall-to-wall with the thieves' plundered gains.

"Mo's jaw dropped. Noor snorted, trying to seem unimpressed.

"'Welcome to the den of thieves,' Qadir smirked."

"Shh!"

Scheherazade stopped speaking at Shariyar's sudden interruption. She could feel his body tense behind her.

He moved his arms from around her and pushed her slightly: "Get up," he said sharply.

With some effort, Scheherazade pulled herself to her feet. Shariyar stood up behind her, smoothing his hair with his broad hands.

"What's wrong?" She asked confusedly.

"Nothing," he muttered. "I've just had enough of your stories for now."

He balled the blanket she had given him between his hands, tossing it onto the bed.

But then Scheherazade heard what the king had - footsteps.

Sure enough, Hazim entered the room moments later.

"Shariyar!" The doctor said in shock. "What are you doing here?"

He took in the king's naked torso and his eyes narrowed: "What have you done to her?"

"Nothing," the king snapped. "But it's clear to me now that she is not safe here. Anyone could have snuck in here while you were away."

"Safe?" The doctor asked incredulously. "The only person who has done any harm to her here is you!"

"Watch your tongue, Hazim," Shariyar glowered. "It is my will that she be moved somewhere more secure while you treat her."

The doctor threw his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat.

"She will be moved into the chambers adjoining mine," he said.

"What? Do you plan on making me your queen?" Scheherazade scoffed, sitting down on the edge of her bed.

Shariyar rounded on the girl, his hands balled into fists. Hazim leapt in front of him, guarding the girl from his anger.

"Calm yourself, Shariyar," he said. "I will do as you command."

Shariyar snarled beneath his breath but nodded, turning on his heel to stalk out of the infirmary.

Hazim sighed in relief as the door slammed behind Shariyar. He turned to face Scheherazade and shook his head at the defiance in her eyes.

"Do you enjoy tempting his anger, my child?" He asked in disbelief.

"No," she admitted. "But before you walked in he was listening to my story with his arms wrapped around me. You know, as if he was capable of human emotions other than anger and hatred."

Hazim sighed and motioned for the girl to slide back into the middle of the bed.

"I barely recognise the man he is now," the doctor said sadly, tucking the covers in around Scheherazade. "He has done unforgivable things."

The girl lay in silence as Hazim prepared another herbal remedy for her pain.

"I had a dream last night," she said suddenly.

"Oh?" Hazim asked, turning to bring her the cup of steaming medicine.

"Yes," she said, taking the cup. "Thank you."

"What was it about?" the doctor asked.

"The man who hurt me, he mentioned a name," she said, taking small sips of the potent mixture. "He talked about someone named Mikolas."

"Mikolas?" Hazim repeated thoughtfully. "That is not a name commonly heard in this part of the world, is it?"

Scheherazade shook her head and then downed the last of the medicine, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"I'm sorry," Hazim said, chuckling as he took the cup from the girl. "I don't know why all good medicine must taste so bad."

"It's worth it though," she said, smiling softly as the drink took its effect.

"I will look into that name for you," the doctor said, offering her a reassuring smile as her eyes blinked closed. "You just rest."

Hazim left Scheherazade to sleep and walked slowly back to his office, intending to get back to making copies of the drawings he had made of Scheherazade's tattoos. But he barely had the chance to sit down at his desk when Jafar burst in through the door.

"Hazim! How is she?" He asked earnestly. "Can I see her?"

"How dare you," Hazim glowered, rising to his feet. "Get out of here now."

The vizier's brow furrowed in concern and confusion: "What? What are you talking about?"

"You are the reason this girl is going to be scarred for the rest of her life and yet you have the gall to endanger her again?" Hazim cried. "Shariyar warned you what would happen if you tried to see her again and yet here you are!"

"I didn't mean for him to hurt her," Jafar said, his viridescent eyes wide and imploring.

"You are the reason she is in this mess in the first place," the doctor continued. "You can blame Shariyar and his madness but you have the blood of all those women on your hands as well, Jafar. And had you finally decided to be a man and face your death, perhaps Scheherazade would not be enduring torture."

"You don't mean that," Jafar gasped.

"I meant every word," the doctor growled. "I have a mind to do exactly as Shariyar commanded and report you to him."

The vizier took a step backward: "Hazim, please don't."

"If I don't, it's only because that twisted man might take it out on the wrong person," the old man snapped.

"I just want to know if she's all right," Jafar begged.

"She will be fine as long as you stay away from her," Hazim replied. "Now get out."

++++++++

Shariyar stood before the doors to his wife's chamber and took a deep breath before swinging them wide.

A breeze fluttered in through the open window, sending the gauzy curtains dancing. He almost expected to see Nasrin walking in from the balcony, flowers braided into her long, dark hair.

I wonder when she turned on me? He thought ruefully. How many fake smiles did she throw my way? How many nights did she pretend I was someone else as s-he moaned beneath me?

Shariyar shook the dark thoughts from his head and motioned for a team of servants to follow him inside.

"Clear everything out," he commanded. "Burn it all."

He watched for a few moments as the servants began to cart the heavy wooden furniture out of the room.

"I want this room to be stripped of all its fineries by the time I return from court this evening," he commanded. "And if I find that any of it has made its way outside of these palace walls, not one of you will live long enough to regret it."

The servants paused to bow and then continued their tasks. Shariyar turned on his heel and left the room. But, instead of heading to the throne room, he climbed the winding staircase that led to his father's old observatory. His father had charted the stars from the balcony that wrapped around the circumference of the tower. Just as with Nasrin's room, Shariyar had left it just as he had found it.

Not a scrap of paper had been moved in the time since his father passed. A thick layer of dust coated every inch of the room. Except, that is, for a wooden box that sat on the desk.

Shariyar opened it and stared down at trinkets he had taken from the gypsy. He picked up one of the shells and rolled it between his fingers.

A cowry. He thought to himself. Not surprising. Every man between here and Liguri has probably used these shells to barter with at some point.

The shell told him nothing about the gypsy's origins. The cowry itself probably came from the waters off Africa but it could have travelled thousands of miles and been passed through hundreds of hands. There was no telling where the gypsy came across it. He placed the shell on the table and picked up another charm. This one was a bright blue glass bead decorated with seven sets of circles, each filled with even smaller circles.

An Egyptian eye bead. He thought, examining the opaque glass closely before setting the bead carefully down on the table.

The next keepsake he pulled from the box was also a bead. This one, however, was long and thin. It was orange except for where it had been etched with black and white stripes etched around it.

Carved agate? He wondered. That would have come from Tibet.

Shariyar sighed and dropped the charms back into the box. The gypsy's mementos came from all over the known world. There was no telling which ones, if any, held clues to her past. He ran his fingers through the box, making a mental list of the peoples they represented: the Garamantes, the Yue, the Sabaeans, the Illyrians... There was only one trinket Shariyar could not identify.

He picked up the small silver coin, studying the marks stamped into it. It looked like a seal of some kind. A man's profile was embossed into the coin, and it was surrounded by three dolphins. He had never seen a coin like this before. There was a small hole in the metal and Scheherazade had looped a piece of string through it so she could weave the coin into her hair.

Shariyar placed the coin gently back in the box. He knew it would be useless to question Scheherazade about the coin - the gypsy had made it clear she knew nothing about the trinkets other than the fact that they were hers. He snapped the lid of the box closed and turned away from the desk.

He rubbed his temples with his fingers, wincing at the memory of Scheherazade's tear-streaked face as if it actually hurt his head to think of it. The gypsy had looked so heartbroken. But that was what he had wanted... To see the same pain that he had experienced after Nasrin's betrayal reflected in her eyes.

He rolled his shoulders, shaking off his weakness. Revenge was his road to salvation, and the gypsy would not be the one to get in his way.

++++++++

Scheherazade followed the guards leading her to Shariyar's chamber glumly. The marble floors were cold on her bare feet and her back throbbed.

Shariyar was waiting for her at the door to the queen's chambers. He pushed the door wide and the guards led her into the dark chamber. The room was empty but for a low bed. Moonlight shone in through the windows, which were securely bolted shut.

"I see you spared no expense," the girl said sarcastically. "What lavish quarters."

"Bite your tongue, gypsy," Shariyar snapped.

The king surveyed the room, seemingly satisfied that it was secure enough for his slave. Then he noticed oil lamp the servants had been left for Scheherazade.

"I don't think I can trust you with this," he said, stooping to pick it up. "You might try to burn this whole place down."

"Oh no, but I'm afraid of the dark," she taunted.

"You're just begging for another beating, aren't you?" He glowered. "Well the only thing you have to fear is the treatment I have in store for you in a few days."

The girl steeled herself from rolling her eyes.

"You're lucky I am a man of my word," he continued. "Had I not promised Hazim five days to treat you, your wounded back would be leaving bloodstains on my bed right now."

"You're sick," she hissed.

"So I've been told," he smirked. "But you are the one in the doctor's care right now. I suggest you rest while you can."

Scheherazade's upper lip curled in a contemptuous but silent snarl as she watched the king follow his guards out of the room, taking the only light source she had with him. The key turned in the lock and she was alone.

But she was not in the dark. Scheherazade smiled to herself as moonlight flooded the room in the absence of the yellow lamplight.

"Not even you can snuff out the moon, oh King of kings," she breathed.

Scheherazade crossed the room and lay down on the bed, staring at the silver-lit ceiling. Although the walls of the chamber were bare, the ceiling had been painted with a beautiful mural. Flowering vines wove in and around each other, creating an intricate geometric pattern. The gold paint glowed in the pale moonlight, illuminating the carefully plotted twists and turns of the foliage. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked softly as she settled under the covers, shivering in spite of the warmth of the chamber.

After all, this was the room that Shariyar's wife had plotted against him from. Had she lain awake at night, staring up at these same flowers while she dreamt of bloody daggers?

Scheherazade sighed in frustration and turned onto her side. She did not want to think about Shariyar a second longer. And yet she had done nothing but lie in bed all day... Pray as she might for sleep to take her, she doubted that it would anytime soon.

But sleep was merciful tonight and, in a few moments, she was dreaming deeply once again.

Her eyes blink open and she is back in that dark cabin. The ship creaks and rolls softly and she knows instinctively that the vessel is riding at anchor. There is no sound of anyone else aboard. She moves to stand but cannot. Ropes bind her wrists behind her back. Chains around her ankles secure her to the wooden floor.

She leans her head against the wall and watches the moon glinting off the waves outside the cabin window. Her eyelids feel so heavy.

The ship pitches violently, stirring her from the ocean's trance. She sees a shadow creeping up the window. It opens. The shadow walks inside.

She is not afraid of the shadow. It is not his shadow, so why should she fear it?

The shadow walks closer. Dark eyes gleam from behind a dark mask. He is a man after all. He is clothed head-to-toe in black. A sword hangs from each hip. Blades spark silver in the moonlight.

"Who are you?" She asks. Her voice is a million miles away.

The dark man does not answer. He kneels before her and cocks his head, those dark eyes appraising her. He reaches out a hand and she notices that his knuckles are tattooed.

"Wandering star," she reads.

His eyes glint and she knows he is smiling behind his mask.

"Yes," he says. His voice is like thunder in the distance. "I'm a lonely, wandering star."

He reaches behind her back and pulls her hands. The bindings fall apart and into dust. He holds her hands before his, running his tattooed fingers over hers.

"And you are wild waves," he says.

"I know that," she says, almost defensively. She knows she is from the sea. "How do you know that? I have never seen you before in my life."

"But I've seen you," he says. "Though I don't yet know where."

The man lets go of her hands. She feels a sudden and sharp loss in her heart when his fingers leave hers. He reaches up and pulls off the mask he is wearing. His angular features are familiar to her. Strands of midnight curl around his face. His eyes are like starlight, glowing fearsomely silver in the shadows.