The Storyteller's Daughter (8 page)

“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 mother before 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.

“Very well, little one,” Shahrazad said to her sister after the trunk had been brought. “You know what to do by now. Open the trunk and hand me the length of cloth you will find inside.”

But to Shahrayar’s surprise, Dinarzad did not at once obey her older sister’s instructions. Instead, she pulled Shahrazad’s head down. Then, she whispered something Shahrayar could not hear, her dark eyes flashing to his face and then away.

“If that is what you wish,” Shahrazad said, when her sister was finished.

“It is,” replied Dinarzad.

“Will you ask him, or shall I?”

“You do it,” Dinarzad said.

“My sister wonders whether or not you would like to choose tonight’s story, my lord.”

“Me?!” Shahrayar exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “But why?”

“Tell him,” Shahrazad urged gently. “Don’t be afraid.”

“It’s just—” Dinarzad faltered. T wondered—” She pulled in a breath and plowed on. “My sister has told me many tales, one every night since I was strong enough to open Maju’s trunk. But it does not hold stories just for me. It holds tales for all. Do you not wish to hear one?”

“I do wish it,” said Shahrayar. And found with the saying of it that it was true.

You have raised this child up well, Shahrazad,
he thought. For, like the rest of the court, he had heard the tales surrounding Dinarzad’s birth.
She is generous where others would find cause to be selfish, just as you are.

“Then, if you please, my lord,” said Dinarzad, and she gestured to the trunk.

So Shahrayar knelt and opened the ebony trunk that had once belonged to Maju the Storyteller. As he did so, he heard a sigh like the final gust of a windstorm pass through Dinarzad. He glanced up to find her dark eyes regarding him solemnly. He smiled, and she smiled back. Then Shahrayar gave all his attention to the trunk.

Deep inside he thrust his hands, reaching down, down, down—a very long way it seemed to him— until his fingers touched the very bottom. Then up and down and back and forth Shahrayar swept his hands until he was certain he had covered every inch of the trunk’s interior.

Nothing. There was nothing.

Ah God, I cannot bear this’,
he thought.

What if his true destiny was this: Always to be unable to obtain what others seemed to come by without thought.

What had Dinarzad said? That Shahrazad had told her a tale each night since she had first grown strong enough to lift up the lid of the trunk. How many times had she reached in and pulled forth the thing she longed for, each time successful though she was just a child?

But for the king, it appeared, there would be nothing. No tale, just as there had been no trust.

No love.

No! Not this time!
thought Shahrayar.
This time will be different. This, I vow.

And as if his vow contained the power of a wish, his hands found the thing they had been searching for.

Shahrayar seized the piece of cloth in his hands as he drew it forth as if he were afraid it might escape him now that he had found it. Then almost at once, he relaxed his hold. Passing the cloth from hand to hand as if trying to learn its texture. To figure out how Shahrazad would be able to perceive and decipher what he could not.

Though the finding of it brought him wonder, to Shahrayar it still seemed but a simple piece of cloth. It was thick and heavy, its texture rough in some places and smooth in others. It seemed to cling to his hands, then slip away all in the same moment. Even its color seemed changeable, so that he could not truly say just what color it was.

“This is all that I could find,” he said at last. He sat back upon his heels and raised the cloth to Shahrazad.

“That is as it should be,” Shahrazad answered as she stretched out her arms. Shahrayar laid the cloth across them. “For it means this story is yours. Will you hear it?”

“I will,” said Shahrayar.

At these words, Dinarzad sighed once more. Shahrayar closed the lid of the trunk, lifted it, and set it aside. Dinarzad then curled up at her sister’s feet. Shahrayar retired to a nest of cushions nearby.

For many moments Shahrazad did nothing but sit silently, her head bent, as if listening to the story within the cloth. Then she began to move her fingers from side to side across it—on one end only, Shahrayar noted. Not from end to end, as if to learn the tale in its entirety, but only the place where it would start. Though how she knew which end was which Shahrayar could not even begin to guess.

“This tale is subde. It has many twists and turns,” Shahrazad said at last. Then to Shahrayar’s secret delight, she smiled.”As befits the mind of a king, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Shahrayar.

“It is long, as the life of a king should be,” Shahrazad went on. “Are you sure you have the will and the patience to hear it through to the end?”

“I do,” Shahrayar vowed.

Though he expected her to begin at once, Shahrazad sat perfectly still for the count of a dozen heartbeats.

“Then I will give you its name and begin,” she said at last. “The story you have chosen is called …”

“Once, in a country so far away that you and I will never visit it, there lived a king who desired one thing above all others: to have a son. He had a wife of many years whom he loved dearly, but, because she had given him only daughters, he divorced her and set her aside. He then chose a new, young wife who was beautiful and virtuous, as his first wife had been in her youth, a thing the king had conveniently forgotten.

Surely,
he thought,
a wife such as this will give me the son I
have desired for so long.

“But this marriage proved more disastrous than the first. For, while the king’s first wife had at least given him daughters, his second wife gave him no children at all. Finally the king decided to consult an oracle. Something in the stars was working against him. This much now seemed certain. He needed to discover what it was and what sort of sacrifice might be required of him. Not a very great one, he hoped. So he kissed his wife the queen and set off.

“For many days the king traveled, making his journey to the oracle on foot, for so it had always been done. For all in this country knew that those who see what no one else can care nothing for the trappings that make others so proud. And so the king took no servants or retainers; he wore no fine clothes but only simple pilgrims garments. After several days of traveling by both day and night, he reached the foot of a great mountain. Its top was shrouded in clouds. None could remember when it had last been seen. But there, all knew, stood the oracle and the seer who could read the stars.

“Now, at the foot of this hill ran a stream so clear you could see every stone in the streambed. Its water was as pure as starlight itself, and so cold that people did not drink there to slake their thirst for fear the water would freeze their throats closed. For many hours the king walked alongside this stream, searching for the place where he might cross it and find a way up the mountain. Just as the sun began to sink in the sky, he realized he had walked the entire way around the mountain’s foot and arrived at the place where he had started. And still he had not found the way across the stream and up the mountain.

“Discouraged, the king sat by the streamside to rest himself while he considered what to do next. Try as he might, he could reach no other conclusion than that he would have to brave the icy water in order to reach the oracle.

“No sooner had he reached this conclusion than the king heard a rustle and a stomp behind him.  Leaping to his feet, he spun around and beheld a woman so old she was bent over nearly double. Her features were folded in upon themselves like a piece of fruit left too long in the sun. A milky-blue film covered the surface of her eyes. The king found the sight of her revolting. He was not accustomed to such ugliness.

“His first thought was to drive the old woman away. But at the last moment, the king remembered that he stood at the foot of the oracle. If ever he should be on his best behavior, this was the place. So he resisted his first impulse and spoke to the old woman kindly.

‘“What do you here, Mother? he asked. ‘Do you come to consult the oracle?

‘“My business is my own and none of yours,’ the old woman replied in a voice as dry and scratchy as a sandstorm.

“The king felt a spurt of anger at her words, for no one had spoken so to him in a very long time, if they ever had at all. Yet he mastered himself a second time, for now he remembered something else: It was said all were equal in the eyes of the oracle.

‘“Though you will not reveal it, I will aid you in your business if I can,’ he promised.

“‘Excellent,’ the old woman replied at once.  ‘Then take me upon your back, and carry me across the water.’

“When the king heard this, he was greatly dismayed. For though he had been growing accustomed to the way the old woman looked, that was hardly the same thing as being willing to touch her. Still, he knelt and took her upon his back as she had demanded, for he could see no other option. Then, binding up his robes so that they at least might stay dry, the king waded out into the water.

“It was cold. So cold it sucked the breath from his lungs and made spots dance before his eyes. A cold that made his legs burn like fire. The stones of the streambed were slick as glass beneath his feet. At any moment, the king feared that he might slip, tumble all the way into the swift-moving current, be pulled under, and drown.

“His back itched with the desire to fling the old woman from it and plunge alone toward the opposite shore. But again, the king mastered his impulse. What he had started, that he would complete. No sooner had he thought this than he felt his feet touch the far bank. Up, up, up, the king climbed. Until his head was spinning and his ears rang. Until it seemed to him that he would climb as high as the very stars themselves.