Scheherazade and the King Ch. 08

The vizier smiled slightly and offered the wine to Shariyar. The king nodded, setting down the pipe to fill his own glass.

"You hid it well," Jafar said. "And I didn't even have to remind you about Shahnaz."

Shariyar groaned into his hands and began to laugh: "That I even know the name of his favourite peacock... If he wasn't responsible for one of the largest oil-producing estates in this kingdom, I would have the damn thing stuffed."

"No you wouldn't," the vizier chuckled. "You said yourself he was the whitest peacock you'd ever seen."

"And you've never let me live it down!"

"'As white as the snow-capped peaks of the Zagros' were your exact words, I believe," Jafar taunted.

Shariyar laughed: "Oh god, was that what I said?"

"You did!" Jafar nodded. "The way you went on about it, I'm surprised he did not bring you a peachick or two."

"That would be just what I need," the king scoffed good-naturedly. "Took me damn near six months to get rid of all the peacocks Nasrin kept."

Jafar's eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments, trying to see what effect the name of his dead wife would have on Shariyar. But the king's eyes were bright and his smile never wavered.

"You should have sent one to Omid," the vizier joked, without missing a beat.

"I should have!" Shariyar exclaimed, slapping his open palm on the table.

A pair of servants entered suddenly, one carrying a steaming pot of khoresh-e fesenjān, and the other a tray laden with rice and bread.

"Thank you," Jafar murmured as the women set the food down.

The servants bowed to Shariyar and then left the men to their meal.

"This was always my favourite dinner," Shariyar said, spooning a heaping serving of the stew onto his plate.

"Your brother's too," Jafar said as he helped himself. "Though you know I much prefer a good bowl of āsh-e anār."

"How about kaleh pacheh?" Shariyar asked, looking up from his meal with a playful smile.

"Ugh you know I can't stand the sight or smell of it!" Jafar exclaimed.

The king laughed, knowing full well his friend had never been able to stomach the sight of a sheep's head staring up at him from the broth.

"Do you remember how Shahzaman chased you around with the brain once?" He chuckled.

"Once? Try three times," Jafar said with a shudder. "I'm still scarred."

The men continued to enjoy their meal, reminiscing over their shared memories of happier, more carefree times. Slowly, however, the conversation turned to the political happenings of the day. Though Shariyar pressed Jafar for his opinion on several matters, the vizier grew quiet.

"What is it?" Shariyar asked.

Jafar swallowed his mouthful and shrugged: "It's been a long day. Don't you think we've talked enough about matters of the crown?"

"No rest for the wicked," Shariyar said, refilling his wine glass for what must have been the third or fourth time that evening. "Just tell me what's troubling you."

"Fine, but you aren't going to like it."

"Just tell me," the king laughed.

Jafar sighed: "I think you should reconsider your stance on the Parni."

"You know very well I can't," Shariyar said. "My father imposed those trade sanctions on them for a reason."

"Yes," Jafar agreed. "But that was many years ago. The men responsible for the uprising are all dead."

"That did not matter to my father, why should it matter to me?" The king asked with an air of hardened indifference.

"Why should they suffer for sins they did not commit?" The vizier countered.

Shariyar raised one dark brow: "Are we still talking about the Parni?"

"Well I am," Jafar said defiantly. "You are not your father and you are not bound to his decisions. You can lift the ban and give those people back their way of life."

"I will not be a weak ruler," Shariyar said. "Weakness is easily taken advantage of and this empire needs a strong king."

"Mercy is not a weakness, Shariyar," the vizier replied. "Lifting the sanctions would not be seen as anything other than an act of kingly compassion."

Shariyar set his wine glass down and began to twist the stem absent-mindedly. His gaze was hard when it finally returned to meet Jafar's: "Do you really think that?"

The vizier nodded.

"It has been a weight on my soul," the king murmured. "Every six months Arsaces sends me a letter begging me to lift the sanctions and each time I must ignore it. I know his people are hurting."

"Then lift the ban," Jafar pressed. "Let them trade freely. They are in a prime location to do so and the benefits of restoring them to their former glory would be felt across the surrounding region."

"Their wealth was what led to their insubordination in the first place."

"They will be grateful for your mercy and respect you all the more for it."

"My father decreed that the trade embargo should last for fifty years," Shariyar reminded him. "What does it say about me if I can barely stand to hold the ban for ten?"

"I doubt that your father truly intended for the Parni to suffer for fifty years," Jafar said. "Sometimes we do things in anger that we never meant to."

"Sometimes we do exactly as we intended."

"You just admitted the toll this is taking on your soul," Jafar said, growing frustrated. "Do you really want to continue down this path?"

Shariyar threw his arms wide: "How can I do anything else?"

"You can change your mind anytime you want and do the right thing."

"It's not that easy."

"It is," Jafar implored.

"It isn't," Shariyar insisted. "How can I change course now without being perceived as weak?"

Jafar looked at his friend sombrely. Now it was his turn to ask: "Are we still talking about the Parni?"

"Yes," Shariyar snarled, downing his wine in a single gulp.

Jafar sighed and lowered his head, chastising himself mentally for having brought up the subject in the first place. For several minutes, the pair sat in icy silence.

Finally, the king sighed and acquiesced: "I will consider it."

"Thank you," Jafar murmured.

"Why are you thanking me?" Shariyar snapped. "This does not impact you. The Parni could be wiped out tomorrow by a landslide and it would have no bearing on your life whatsoever."

"But it would on yours," Jafar growled. "And, even though you are a drunk and an absolute ass most of the time, you are still my friend and I care about you."

With that, the vizier stood up and bowed his head curtly. He strode towards the door and then paused, turning on his heel to grab the pitcher of wine and his glass from the table.

"I think I need this more than you do," he muttered angrily before disappearing through the door.

Shariyar sighed and sent his empty glass flying with the back of his hand. The sound of shattering glass brought a trio of servants to his side quickly.

As one cleared the meal from the table and the other attended to the broken glass, the third asked if there was anything else that they could provide.

The king stared across the empty table and looked up at the woman: "More wine."

+++++++

A few hours — and several more glasses of wine — later, Shariyar staggered out into the courtyard, one hand still wrapped around the neck of a bottle.

He surveyed the night scene and took another swig of liquor, contemplating briefly whether or not his wine-soaked limbs still possessed the dexterity required to climb over the castle wall. Suddenly, however, over the seemingly deafening sound of crickets, came Scheherazade's voice.

Shariyar quickly pressed his back against the palace wall and walked as quietly and carefully as he could until he was underneath the balcony. He let his knees go weak beneath him and sank to the ground, the earth cold under his hands. He listened to the girl's soft, melancholy song, mentally cursing each breath of breeze that carried a word away from him.

When he heard the song end, he scrambled to his feet, abandoning his bottle of wine in the flower bed.

"Scheherazade!" He shouted up at the empty balcony. "Come back!"

The girl's face appeared from the darkness and she looked cautiously over the railing: "Shariyar?"

"Yes, come forward," he said. "Let me see you. I haven't seen your face in days."

The girl stepped forward and leaned over the railing.

"Beautiful," the king murmured. "So beautiful."

"What are you doing?" Scheherazade asked.

"Listening," he mumbled, struggling to steady himself. "Sad little bird."

"Who taught you that song?" He called out.

The girl shrugged: "It's a mystery to me."

"I can't hurt you," he yelled. "The guards won't let me in. I told them not to."

"Is that why you've been avoiding me?" Scheherazade asked. "You don't want to hurt me?"

"Yes, but I want to see you," he said. "I want to see you."

"You can see me now."

"You know what I mean," Shariyar growled. "Tell them to let me in so I can see you."

The girl paused for a moment, considering him.

"Three charms," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Bring me three of my charms and I will tell the guards to let you in," Scheherazade said, her tone firm.

"Done!"

As Shariyar stumbled away, the girl felt her own legs grow unsteady. Even if he truly did not intend to hurt her, she had just traded her safety for three trinkets. As she walked to the door, each step seemed like a mile. She felt like a prisoner willingly walking to her own execution.

She steeled her reserve and knocked on the door, jumping backwards when it suddenly opened.

The captain of the guard poked his head inside the door: "What is it you need?"

"Let him in," she said. "When Shariyar comes, let him in."

"The king commanded us not to let him near you," the guard said. "If we were to disobey him and something were to happen to you, it would be our heads."

In the distance came the sound of boots on marble.

"Please, just do as I ask and let him in," she begged.

"I cannot do that," the guard said through gritted teeth.

"Then let me out!" She replied. "He wants to see me and if he doesn't get what he wants — "

The sound of Shariyar's stumbling footsteps grew louder.

"Please let him in," the girl whispered.

"No!" He hissed, making to pull the door closed.

Before he could, however, Scheherazade quickly wedged herself between the doors, refusing to let him close them.

"What is this?" Shariyar's voice came thundering down the hall. "Gypsy, you said you would tell them to let me in."

"I did," she gasped, struggling against the guard who was still trying to close the doors.

"Don't make me hurt you," the guard growled under his breath. "Get inside."

"No! Please!" She cried. "You don't understand. Either let me out or let him in!"

"You heard her," the king snarled, attempting to shoulder past the remaining guards. "Let me through!"

"Your orders were clear, your highness," the captain of the guard said over his shoulder. "We cannot let you inside."

"I never said you couldn't let her out!" he cried. "I need to see her. Gypsy, tell them!"

With the memory of Shariyar's previous threat to destroy her mementos fresh in her mind, Scheherazade pleaded with the guard.

"Please, listen to me! Let me out!" She cried, wincing in pain as the guard pulled the door harder.

"I cannot," the guard whispered.

"You don't understand," she gasped, "he might break them."

"Whatever they are, are they really worth your life?"

"Please," she begged again.

Finally, the guard relented and gently stepped back, opening the door slightly so that Scheherazade could pass. The guards holding Shariyar back, however, did not loosen their grip.

"Let me go," he snarled.

"Hold him, men," the captain of the guard said sharply. "My King, you do not want to hurt this young woman. Please, command yourself."

"Me? Command myself?" He laughed. "Others follow my commands."

"You are not in your right mind," the girl said, her voice quiet but firm. "They are just doing as you instructed them."

"And the voice of reason chimes in again," Shariyar said with a slight roll of his eyes.

"Well someone has to be!" She snapped.

"Careful, gypsy," the king said. "Don't forget what I've got in my hand."

Scheherazade's eyes darted to the king's clenched fist: "You know what those charms mean to me."

"They are the keys to your past, the only clues to your identity that you possess."

"Then you will give them to me?"

"I cannot, not accosted the way I am," he said, looked at the guards flanking him.

Scheherazade turned to the captain of the guard, her eyes imploring, and whispered: "Please?"

The guard sighed but nodded to the other men. They let the king go but did not move from his sides.

Shariyar rolled his shoulders and stood up taller, extending his hand to the girl. Cupped in his palm, she saw a piece of carved bone, a long, green glass bead and a charm made of polished seashell. She reached forward but the king quickly closed his hand and pulled it back, instead using his other hand to grab hers and pull her forward. The girl gasped as she fell against him and the guards suddenly sprang into action. The two guards flanking Shariyar grabbed his arms, wrenching him away from the girl. The captain of the guard's arms suddenly wrapped around Scheherazade from behind, pulling her back towards the door.

"Unhand me!" Shariyar roared, his voice echoing like a clap of thunder down the hallway.

As he struggled against the guards, the charms went flying from his hands. The bone clattered to the floor, the piece of shell spun across the marble and the green bead bounced across the ground, rolling under the feet of the struggling men.

Time seemed to move in slow motion and Scheherazade's breath caught in her throat as she watched her precious mementos scatter across the floor. But the bone did not shatter, the bead did not break, the shell did not crack.

As the guard hauled her roughly away, he shouted to the other men. They pushed Shariyar to the floor and then began to back away, their weapons drawn to defend their retreating comrade and the girl. The king's eyes were molten amber as he howled obscenities at the guards.

"Get her inside!" One of the guards yelled.

Suddenly, Scheherazade saw Shariyar's eyes dart to the green bead. She gripped the doorframe, refusing to let the captain of the guard pull her inside the room. She watched the king scramble on his hands and knees to pick up the bead. He stood up slowly, his fiery eyes never wavering.

"I don't have to touch her to hurt her."

She heard the words as if they were being yelled from miles away.

In one fluid motion, Shariyar bent down, placed the bead on the floor and then stamped his boot down with a grunt, crushing the glass beneath his heel. For the briefest moment, time stood still and the girl could see nothing but the anger and hate bubbling in his eyes.

The strength in Scheherazade's fingers suddenly left her and she screamed as the guards pulled her inside the chamber. She suddenly began convulsing wildly, her limbs wracked with pain.

The captain of the guard cried out and let go of her, staring at his hands as if the touch of her skin had singed him.

Shariyar's fist was on the door: "What is happening? What is wrong with her?"

The girl screamed and rolled around on the floor, sweat pouring from her brow.

"Get a blanket!" The captain of the guard yelled. "We have to get her to Hazim!"

The men wrapped her body up tightly in the blanket, trying to keep themselves from being burned by the heat of her skin. They pushed through the doors, sending the king sprawling. He scrambled after them as they carried the howling girl through the palace.

"What is wrong with her?" He yelled.

"Something has happened," one of the guards cried, "she's burning up."

The king stopped in his tracks and watched as they rushed her down the stairs. He spun on his heel and ran back to his chamber, frantically searching the hallway outside for the piece of bone and shell that had been left behind. He clutched the trinkets to his heart and raced to the infirmary, bursting in just as the girl's head hit the pillow.

Hazim, still in his nightgown, was ordering the guards to hold the girl's limbs as still as possible as he mixed a batch of medicinal tea.

"What's wrong with her?" Shariyar asked. "Hazim?"

"Get out of here!" The doctor snarled.

"I am not leaving her!" The king yelled.

"Then at least be useful and grab her ankle" the captain of the guard grunted, nodding to the girl's flailing leg.

Shariyar wrapped his hands around the girl's ankle and then pulled his hands back: "She's on fire!"

"Hold her still!" Hazim yelled.

The king grimaced but wrapped his hands around the girl's ankle again and held her leg as still as he could.

Hazim tipped the girl's head back and began to pour the frothing concoction down her throat. The girl coughed and sputtered but she drank most of it down. Slowly but surely her limbs stopped moving and her eyes closed as if she were asleep. The men fell backwards, each expecting their palms to be scorched from the heat of Scheherazade's body.

"What did you give her?" Shariyar asked, trying to catch his breath. "Will it heal her?"

"No," Hazim said, wiping his brow. "That is a simple herbal mixture, all it did was render her unconscious."

"Fix her," the king growled. "Make her better!"

"I don't know what's wrong with her!" The doctor cried. "Just look at her arms!"

Shariyar's eyes followed the doctor's pointed finger and gasped — the girl's tattoos were glowing like coal and the skin around the black ink was red and blistering.

The king groaned and turned away from the girl, smashing his fist into the wall.

"You need to do everything in your power to help her," Shariyar said, rounding on the doctor. "Everything. I do not care if you have to summon the devil himself to save her. Nasrin cannot be right!"

++++++++

The sand crunched softly beneath Shahzaman's elbows as he pulled himself along the ground on his stomach, following Cas as he crawled up a dune.

"There," Cas whispered as the pair poked their heads above the peak of the dune. "The Irlazken camp."

Nestled in the valley between two dunes, a small fire glowed.

"Signal the others," Shahzaman murmured. "We attack on my lead."

"Really?" Cas hissed. "Which of us tracked a glimmer of light twenty leagues? Which of us instinctively knew they would favour a southern route past Lake Hume'rami?"

"Fine," Shahzaman whispered, trying to contain a chuckle. "On your lead."

"That's what I thought," the soldier whispered contentedly.

He cleared his throat softly and whistled out the call of a desert owl: "Hoooo-ho-ho-ho-ho!"

The pair slipped quietly down the other side of the dune, the sand whispering beneath them as they moved like shadows across the desert.

"How come when you signal that I will lead, the owl call sounds so much deeper and less distinct?" Shahzaman whispered as they crawled up another sandy peak.

"Because your signal is the girl owl," Cas said, his grin flashing in the dim starlight.

The prince scoffed under his breath.

Slowly, the shadowy warriors converged on the fire-lit camp, surrounding it from all sides.

The "cuik cuik" call of a nightjar sounded — the signal that one of the warriors had silently dispatched a watchman.

The murmurs from the camp did not modulate; if they noticed the bird calls, they paid them no mind.

Shahzaman and Cas peered over the final dune: the white- and blue-clad men below were lounged lazily around the fire. Though some still wore their swords at their hips, most of the men had sheathed their weapons for the night. After all, by all accounts, they were alone in the desert. They had neither heard a whisper nor seen a shadow that betrayed the presence of other humans — the rogue band of Persians had made certain of it.

Cas took a breath, preparing to lead the charge, but Shahzaman's sudden hand on his arm stopped him.