The Storyteller's Daughter (7 page)

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 say something?

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 even perceive 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 companionable 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.