Scheherazade and the King Ch. 08

"I hated you," she whispered. "For a split second, I hated you."

"I deserved your hatred," the king said gravely as he helped her sit down on the sand. "That spell is very unforgiving."

Scheherazade shuddered and ran her hands along her arms: "That explains the visions, then."

Shariyar walked over to the camel and unhooked his pack from the saddle. He sat down beside Scheherazade and pulled out a small, wooden box.

"Here," he said. "I should never have taken them from you."

The girl opened the box and her heart leapt to see all of her remaining charms safely inside.

"Thank you," she murmured, running a finger over each memento. She looked up and Shariyar could see grateful tears in her eyes.

"There is one more," he said, reaching into the pack a second time. He pulled out a small square of cloth and held it out to her.

Scheherazade unwrapped the fabric carefully to reveal a small, gold pendant set with a blue stone flecked with gold.

"To replace the one I took from you," Shariyar said. "It was the first gift my father gave to my mother and she loved it better than any of the grander gifts that came after it."

"And what, now you've decided to give it to your slave?" The girl asked bitterly. She crumpled the fabric around the pendant and held it back to him.

He looked at her with heartbreak in his eyes: "Please accept it, Scheherazade."

"Do you give all your whores such expensive gifts?" She asked, her hand still outstretched.

"Please, Scheherazade, accept it as my apology."

Scheherazade sighed and placed the pendant in the box with her other charms. She looked around and noticed the absence of guards for the first time: "Where are your men?"

"I had to get you here as quickly as I could, they would have held us back."

Scheherazade's eyes widened: "You mean, you brought me all this way by yourself?"

The king nodded.

"Why?"

"I had to save you," he whispered.

The girl's lush lips parted in shock as she stared at him: "You risked your life and the security of your kingdom for me?"

"I mean, I — " He looked at her and then quickly glanced away.

"I needed one last story," he said weakly. "Unless, that is, you have run out."

Scheherazade's lips twitched and she smiled slightly as she accepted the olive branch the king's words offered.

"I know one thousand stories. You've only heard three."

"Including your own?" He asked. "Or does that one not count?"

"Fine," she murmured. "One thousand and one."

++++++++

The next few weeks passed by in a daze for Shariyar as his body worked to undo the damage years of excessive drinking had done. He spent days struggling to concentrate, fitful nights tortured by waking dreams, and evenings where the craving for a glass of wine drove him to distraction. Those were the times that he felt that it was only Scheherazade's stories keeping him sane. He clung to sobriety just to hear one more tale, one more happy ending.

Slowly, however, his life returned to a relative state of normalcy that he had not known in a very long time: He could surrender to sleep without needing a bottle of wine to do so, and he could wake up in the morning and function without needing to sneak a taste of liquor.

"Can you believe that tomorrow will mark six weeks since I had a drink?" He asked Jafar one morning before the day's agenda began.

Jafar smiled: "Six weeks? I'm proud of you, Shariyar."

Shariyar beamed, unabashedly pleased with himself: "I know! I feel like a new man, as clichéd as that sounds."

"You should celebrate," Jafar said.

"Do you think?" The king said, somewhat nervously. "Shouldn't I stay away from temptation?"

"You honestly think I'm going to let you touch liquor again?" The vizier scoffed. "Not on my watch."

"Navasarda is coming up," Shariyar said, idly stroking his beard.

"You haven't celebrated the new year in a long time," Jafar rejoined.

"That's true — why, it's high time that the Hundred Columns Hall saw some life!" Shariyar exclaimed.

"I think it's fitting," Jafar said, his green eyes shining. "A new year for a new man."

That evening, Shariyar burst into his chamber full of excitement and carrying several gigantic scrolls.

"Scheherazade!" He called. "Are you there?"

Although he had threatened to have the former queen's room walled off and levelled, the palace architects had managed to convince him otherwise and the room had been transformed into a terrace instead. Only the most essential pillars had been kept in place, the rest of the walls had been dismantled and replaced by wooden trellises that were already covered in flowering vines.

One other important change had occurred in the king's chamber — though he still kept her close, Scheherazade now had her own bed, a small cot in the corner of Shariyar's room sequestered by a curtain.

She was sat cross-legged on her bed, strumming lazily at the king's oud, when Shariyar entered the room. Her fingers paused on the strings and she sat up straighter: "Yes?"

"Ah, good!" He said, dumping the contents of his arms onto his desk unceremoniously. "I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" She asked as she rose from her bed.

"I've decided I'm going to host Navasarda," he said, his white teeth bared in a magnificent grin.

The instinctual butterflies in Scheherazade's stomach settled.

"What's Navasarda?"

"It's the biggest festival of the year!" He exclaimed. "Have you never heard of it?"

The girl shrugged: "I don't think so."

"It's a celebration of the new year," he explained, pulling open one of the scrolls to reveal the long list of supplies that had been ordered. "Nobility, royalty from other kingdoms in the empire, even royalty from other countries will travel to be here at the equinox. Our astronomers calculate the time precisely so that we may celebrate the exact moment of equilibrium between night and day. There will be music, dancing and more food than you've ever seen in one place. You're going to love it, Scheherazade."

"You intend for me to go?"

"Of course!" He said, his broad smile deepening.

The girl smiled sadly: "Shariyar, you've been very kind to me these past few weeks but you and I both know that that doesn't change anything."

"What do you mean?" He asked, his handsome brow suddenly furrowed. "How can it not?"

"Slaves do not dine with princesses and gypsies do not dance with kings."

Shariyar set the scroll down on the table and walked towards the girl slowly: "Scheherazade, there's something I've been meaning to tell you... I've been searching for your family."

"What?" Scheherazade's legs suddenly threatened to give way beneath her.

"I did not want to tell you in case nothing came of it," he said. "I sent out Hazim's drawings of you the very day we returned from Maharlu."

"And?"

"It is as I feared — none of the responses I've received have yielded any information," he said.

The girl's shoulders slumped and Shariyar quickly added: "But I am still waiting on a few more replies."

He lifted her chin gently and offered her a smile: "I haven't given up hope yet. You are neither a gypsy nor a slave, and I am going to help find out who you are."

"But what if you don't?" she asked. "What if I never know where I'm from or who I am?"

"Then you are free to leave," he said softly. "You can leave whenever you want, Scheherazade, but it is my hope that you'll stay here until the last letter comes back."

"Thank you," Scheherazade breathed, wrapping her arms around the king's neck suddenly. "Thank you so much."

Shariyar's powerful arms held her close: "You can thank me by joining me at Navasarda."

Scheherazade laughed, wiping away a tear as she pulled away from the king: "You are relentless."

"Slaves may not dine with princesses but guests of the King of Kings certainly do," he said, gently brushing another stray tear from her cheek. "And, from now on, you are a guest in this palace."

++++++++

As Navasarda drew closer and closer, the palace was increasingly abuzz with a level of activity it had not seen since Shariyar's wedding. In the final days before the festival, the palace gates were constantly opening for noble visitors who took up residence in the palace. Men, women and children of every age and class gathered along the streets of Persepolis to watch as magnificent royal caravans led by horses and camels wound their way towards the palace.

Many of the visiting dignitaries had come by ship and Scheherazade watched every day to see more and more sails fill the harbour, each ship decorated with brightly coloured pennants and flags to distinguish what port they hailed from and what nobility they carried.

The sun was setting when she heard Shariyar's steps on the stairs.

"Still up here?" He asked, coming to stand beside her at the rail.

"What's that one with the sails like fans?" She asked, pointing across the harbour.

"That is the delegation from Jicheng," he said. "They are our most distant trade partners to the east."

"I've never seen a ship like that before," she murmured.

"Few on this side of the world have," he said, leaning his forearms on the wall. "But the new year is a very important celebration for them as well so, once every few years, they make the journey to join us."

"Have you ever been there?"

The king shook his head, staring wistfully out at the quay: "Perhaps when I was just a prince, the journey would have been feasible. These days a journey of that distance would be almost impossible. It would keep me away from my subjects too long."

"You must have been busy all day taking care of the final preparations for tomorrow," she said, quickly changing the topic to something livelier.

"I was," he said, his tone brightening instantly. "In fact, that's why I came up here to find you. I have something to show you."

"What is it?" She asked bemusedly.

"Come see," he said, stretching out a hand towards her.

Scheherazade rolled her shoulders and held out her own hand, letting him lead her down the winding stairs and through the palace. The whole way, the king spoke animatedly about the upcoming celebration and of all the old friends and acquaintances he was anxious to see.

As they reached the doors to his chamber, Shariyar caught Scheherazade's gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He asked, pausing with one hand on the door.

"I've never seen you like this," she said. "You seem... happy."

Shariyar's lips parted to reveal a broad grin: "I am happy."

Scheherazade's own mouth curved into a smile, a dazzling sight that set the king's heart racing.

"I never thought I would ever be this happy again," he confessed. "And it has everything to do with you."

Scheherazade's eyes widened and her bottom lip fell open but Shariyar did not give the girl the chance to stutter out a protest before pushing the heavy wooden doors open.

A booming voice from inside the room: "Ah, there you are!"

The girl struggled to tear her eyes away from Shariyar — shocked as she was by his confession — but the thunderous voice demanded her attention.

She felt Shariyar's hand on her lower back, gently pushing her into the room, and she reluctantly turned to face the unknown visitor.

The man who stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by boxes and two flittering servants, was taller than any man Scheherazade had ever remembered meeting before. But something in the cadence of his voice struck her as familiar.

"You're from Kuša!" She exclaimed, unable to keep herself from voicing the sudden realisation.

"She has a good ear, Shariyar," the man said, stalking across the room in a few, wide steps. "Yes, my dear, I am."

"Scheherazade, this is Tariku, the most famed merchant in this world and the next, most likely," the king said with a laugh. "Tariku, meet Scheherazade."

"Ah, the woman with the Daarkan tattoos," he said, reaching out his hand to greet her. "I wondered when I might meet you."

Scheherazade instinctively clasped her hands to her forearms, wondering how the trader could have seen the markings through her sleeves.

"Tariku translated your tattoos for me when you were sick," Shariyar explained. "He helped save your life."

"Yes, though I did not know that was my mission at the time," Tariku said, looking reproachfully down his long nose at the king.

"You can read Daarkan?" The girl interjected nervously, her arms still clutched around herself. "You know what my tattoos say?"

The mood in the room suddenly shifted and Shariyar's smile faded in an instant. He had not considered the consequences of sharing the girl's story with Tariku.

Before he could speak, however, the merchant smiled gently and placed his hands on Scheherazade's shoulders, leaning down to look her squarely in the eye: "I can, and what those tattoos told me is that you are the most remarkable young woman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

The girl's furrowed brow softened and she smiled, first at him and then at Shariyar.

"That is why only the most magnificent dress would suit you," the trader said, straightening. He clapped his hands and the two servants quickly placed an elegant wooden box on the table before them.

"Dress?" She asked, looking between the merchant and the king in confusion.

"Open it," Shariyar said, nodding to the box.

Scheherazade walked slowly towards the table and lifted the lid of the case. She gasped audibly when she saw the garment that lay inside.

"Shariyar," she looked at the king with tears in her eyes. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," he said, instantly crossing the floor to wrap her in his arms.

"No, please be reasonable," she said, her tone hushed. "You may have treated me as a guest these past few weeks but, to many others in this castle, I am still a slave and a whore. The palace gossip is bad enough as it is!"

"Have you ever known me to be a reasonable man?" Shariyar said, not bothering to lower his voice.

"More and more often, yes," she whispered. "You're turning over a new leaf, why would you want to draw attention to someone upon that even the servants look down on?"

"The only reason I am able to celebrate Navasarda this year is because of you," the king said, clasping his hands around hers. "I am a new man because of you, and you deserve to be at my side tomorrow night."

Scheherazade tried to slip her fingers from his: "Gypsies don't dance with kings."

But Shariyar was having none of her protests. He smiled at her: "So you keep saying. But you have already danced with a king. Or did that night beneath the lightning mean so little to you that you've forgotten?"

"I can think of no other woman I'd rather have by my side, Scheherazade," he continued. "Who knows how much longer you will be here with me? Why not enjoy what's left of it?"

"Listen to the man," Tariku said. "And as for the gossipers, do you know what we say to them in my country?"

The girl shook her head, a smile slowly turning the corners of her mouth.

"Tebeda!" The merchant cried, stretching his arms wide. "Fuck off!"

++++++++

Scheherazade stepped up to the mirror slowly and stared at the ground, not daring to face her reflection just yet. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath the scalloped hem of her gown. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to raise her gaze one inch at a time. At the base of the dress, the fabric was a deep, royal blue but, as her eyes rose, the fabric faded into such a pale blue that it was almost white at the neckline. The lapis beads that decorated the hem of the dress slowly turned to turquoise ones, then aquamarine, then sky-blue larimar, then opals until, finally, asymmetric river pearls glittered along the line of her breast.

The sleeves of the dress were thin enough to reveal her tattoos but, at Tariku's suggestion, strategically placed beads had been sewn in to the fabric, making the ink on Scheherazade's arms seem almost part of the dress itself.

Her gaze rose a few inches more and she smiled when she finally caught sight of her own face in the looking glass. Tonight she wore no kohl, no rouge... she was just herself, in a beautiful dress.

"Just a gypsy after all," the murmured to herself, running her hands lightly over the intricately beaded bodice.

A knock sounded at the door and Shariyar stepped into the room, tugging at the embroidered sleeves of his tunic absent-mindedly. His own outfit was entirely blue — the same royal colours as the base of Scheherazade's gown — except for his cuffs and sleeves which were embroidered with gleaming white thread and beaded with howlite.

"Scheherazade, are you —" The king stopped mid-sentence and mid-step when his eyes lit on the young woman.

She turned and looked at him with one brow raised, waiting for him to finish his question without a hint of coyness.

"You look —"

His throat caught in his throat again.

"I feel like a girl from a story," she said, ignoring his speechlessness.

"What girl and what story?" He asked. "Is it one I've heard?"

"I haven't told it yet but I'm sure you know it," she said.

"If it's not a long story, I think we have time," he said, sitting down on one of the chairs and sprawling his legs out.

"Well, Yeh-Shen was a kind, beautiful young girl," Scheherazade said, trying to keep the story to only the most necessary details. "And, for a while, she lived as if in a fairy tale... Her mother and father loved each other deeply and her family was respected throughout the land. But her mother took ill and passed away, breaking her father's heart and shattering the idyll forever. A few years later, her father decided to marry anew. His new wife was as cunning as she was beautiful, though her daughter was neither. In local circles, it was said that Yeh-Shen's new stepmother was a witch and that she had used her dark magic to bind the girl's father into marriage for his wealth. Whether or not the rumours were true, however, none can say for Yeh-Shen's father passed away a few months later.

"After her father's passing, Yeh-Shen was treated no better than a common servant and almost certainly worse. Her only solace was when, forced to wash her stepmother and stepsister's clothes, she would sit and sing to a huge, golden fish that greeted her each time she visited the river. One day, her stepmother followed her to the river. Witch or no, she recognised the golden fish for what it truly was — a guardian spirit sent to watch over Yeh-Shen from her family beyond the grave. That night, the stepmother stole Yeh-Shen's clothes and went to the river. The moment the fish appeared, she speared it and carried it home for her stepdaughter to cook in the morning. When Yeh-Shen awoke and saw her only companion dead on the kitchen table, she was inconsolable. Her stepmother beat her mercilessly but she refused to work until the fish had been given a proper burial. Eventually, her stepmother relented. Every night Yeh-Shen sang to the grave of the golden fish, praying that each hushed note could be heard in the spirit world.

"As the day of the new year festival approached, Yeh-Shen's stepmother became increasingly fixated on securing a rich husband for her daughter. She had squandered all of her late husband's wealth and was on the cusp of destitution. She poured all that remained of Yeh-Shen's inheritance and dowry into purchasing the most expensive gowns for her daughter and herself.

"Yeh-Shen watched helplessly as they left but, instead of giving into despair, she carried on with her chores and then sat in the garden to sing to the golden fish's grave as had become her nightly ritual. This time, however, her song was heard... the spirit of her late mother appeared and clothed her immediately in a gown of golden silk, a cape of egret feathers and slippers of glass. Her mother's spirit carried her to the festival but she warned her that the spell would only last until the first ray of dawn. When she arrived at the festival, Yeh-Shen was instantly sought out as the most beautiful young woman there. Every prince vied for a dance with her and every woman sent seething glances her way, including her stepmother. When Yeh-Shen saw her stepmother looking at her, she was certain she had been discovered. She raced away from the festival, not realising she had lost one of her glass slippers along the way until she was home. She sat awake in her tiny room, dancing to the memories of melodies until the first rays of sun appeared and turned the dress and cape to dust. All the young girl had to prove that she had not made the entire evening up in a dream was the remaining glass slipper."