The Storyteller's Daughter

"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 com-panionable 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.

"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 motherbefore 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.

Chapter 8

D I N A R Z A D S E T S T H E F U T U R E I N M O T I O N

“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 beselfish, 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.