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"I pray you, Father, peace!" interrupted Shahrazad, as she stepped to the viziers side."Truth or no, to speak so now does nothing but pour oil upon a fire. No will but my own has brought me to this place. This you know, for this I have spoken. Let this fact content you now, and King Shahrayar also."
There was a second pause.
"Your daughter speaks wisely, Nur al-Din," Shahrayar observed after a moment. "For her sake, I will set aside my anger and forget your rash words. But guard your tongue well, remember your younger daughter, and do not expect me to show such mercy a second time."
"Mercy is a thing I have ceased to expect from you, sire," the vizier answered.
"Enough!" cried Shahrayar. "Bring forth the holy man, and let there be an end to talking."
At a signal from the chamberlain, the holy man who was to perform the marriage ceremony stepped forward. The chamberlain himself took Shahrazad by the hand, guided her up the steps, and placed her hand in that of Shahrayar. And it seemed to her that the grip of his fingers felt as tight and cold as prison bars.
And so it was that King Shahrayar and Lady Shahrazad were wed. With the full moon shining down upon them like a plate of silver polished by the vigorous hand of God.
Chapter 7
I N W H I C H H I D D E N T H I N G S B E G I N T O R E V E A L T H E M S E L V E S
Then finally, the moment came when Shahrayar and Shahrazad were left alone.
The ceremony was over, the courtiers dismissed. Last to say farewell to the new queen had been Nur al-Din Hasan, the vizier, her father. She would not see him again until the morning. If she had been successful, he would embrace her with joy when the sun arose, for she would live—if only for one day longer.
If not, father and daughter would embrace in sorrow. Then, the vizier would perform his final duty for King Shahrayar and lead his own daughter to the executioners block.
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 saysomething?
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 ca
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 i
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.