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The vizier's head swiveled back and forth as he watched the exchange. They speak to each other as if they have been married for years, he thought.
"They came to see an execution," Shahrazad said simply. "And they have refused to leave because they do not understand why there has not yet been one."
There was a beat of silence. In it, though Shahrazad could hear her own breath and—she thought—her father's, it seemed to her that Shahrayar breathed not at all and that even the voices in the courtyard below had fallen silent.
"You mean they came to see your execution," Shahrayar said at last. "Merciful God. What kind of a king am I that my people are so bloodthirsty?"
"It may not be that," Nur al-Din put in swiftly. "My first thought when I beheld this crowd is that I had not seen so many assembled since the passing of your father. Perhaps they do not come because they think my daughter's death will be a sport, but to pay witness and to honor her. By her death, many will live."
“I think that they are afraid," said Shahrazad.
"Afraid," Shahrayar echoed, struck. "By your actions, they have been spared. What have they to fear?"
"Your actions, my lord. What you have proclaimed must be has not come to pass. Does this bode well or ill? You alone can tell them."
"You think I should explain myself to my own subjects," Shahrayar said.
"I think you should allay the fears of the people who loved your father, and who love you, also,"
replied Shahrazad. "Fear makes people unpredictable. They become like—"
"Children," Shahrayar interrupted, for now he saw which way her thoughts were going. "Their fear makes them think of themselves alone. But I am king, and I must think of all."
"It is a wise king who thinks so," agreed the vizier.
Shahrayar gave a snort. "So you agree! I should have known. Very well. I will tell my people what is in my mind, for to me this course seems right and just. But I shall not do so alone. Let us stand together upon the balcony, Shahrazad, that all may look upon you when I proclaim that you are to live as long as your story does."
"As the king commands," Shahrazad said, and she moved to take her husbands hand and stand by his side.
And Shahrayar told his people what had taken place the night before. That Shahrazad had begun to tell him a story of such wondrous deeds, he could not bear to end her life until the tale was over. For as long as her story lasted, so would her life.
Upon hearing this news, the people wept with amazement and joy. For, in showing such mercy, it seemed to them that the king they had so loved had returned to them once more. And they laid this miracle at Shahrazad's door. So they shouted all together, with one great voice, "Long live Queen Shahrazad!"
But even though they lifted their voices as high as the rest, the former queens brothers looked at one another in triumph out of the corners of their eyes. For it seemed to them that Shahrayar had just put a weapon into their hands—one they had never expected to find there.
He had a weakness, and her name was Shahrazad.
C h a p t e r 1 3
S H A H R A Z A D R E S U M E S H E R T A L E
“Now," said Shahrazad that night, "where was I?"
"I know! I know!" Dinarzad cried. "You were telling about the king, and how he was well and truly. . . "
"Dinarzad," Shahrazad interrupted, laying a hand on her younger sisters head, for Dinarzad sat at her feet just as she had the night before. "Remember that this is not your story, but Shahrayar's."
At Shahrazad's words, Dinarzad caught her breath. How could she have forgotten herself so? she wondered. Her relief that her sister had been spared, her delight that Shahrazad's plan seemed to be working had driven every other thought from Dinarzad's mind. It had even made her forget her awe of Shahrayar.
I ca
She hung her head. “I beg your pardon, my lord."
"I wish you wouldn't," Shahrayar said easily from where he stood near the trunk. Never guessing what was in Dinarzad's thoughts, knowing only that he was secretly delighted that she was as interested in the story as he was. "To tell you the truth, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one who is so eager."
At his words, Dinarzad's face lit up in a surprised smile. Shahrayar smiled back. This is how it should be, he thought. Comfortable. Like a family. And suddenly his whole body was flooded with so many different sensations that he could make no sense of any of them, and he sat down upon the lid of the trunk.
"My lord!" Dinarzad cried in alarm. "Are you all right?"
"I think so," Shahrayar replied, though the truth was, he was far from certain. When had the room grown so warm? "It's just—perhaps a glass of something cool to drink?"
"Dinarzad," Shahrazad said. "Ring for a servant, and have him bring His Majesty a cup of water from the deepest well."
Dinarzad did as her sister instructed while Shahrayar sat motionless upon Maju the Storyteller’s ebony trunk, a great tingling filling all his limbs, but most particularly the region of his heart. The room around him began to shimmer, and suddenly it seemed to Shahrayar that he could see his future unfurling like a great silk ribbon before him.
He blinked, for his eyes were all but blinded by the vision's textures, its richness, and its color. The life he suddenly envisioned blazed with possibilities, and the greatest one of all was the one he least expected: the possibility for love.
But as yet this chance was nothing more than a bright glimmer in the distance. To reach it, Shahrayar perceived that he would have to pass through places where he could not see his way straight, if at all.
Places where the road was filled with traps and shadows. With a thousand nameless, faceless, unguessed-at things that could deprive him of the love for which he suddenly so longed. And just the thought of these dangers twisted like knives in his heart.
For the first time, he began to understand just what he had made of himself in his high tower. For the first time he began to perceive just how terrible it would be to live a life that was truly without love. Worse than terrible—it would be impossible.
Then Shahrazad spoke, and the vision wavered and vanished.
"Here is some cool water, my lord."
Shahrayar blinked again and saw Dinarzad's concerned face bending over him. "Thank you," he said.
And he took the cup and drained it in one long swallow. "Now," he went on, rising to his feet and tossing his cup to the young serving boy hovering in the background, "let us have our story."
And so saying, he knelt and opened the trunk. The cloth came to his hand as if it had been waiting for him. He took it out and brought it once more to Shahrazad. And as he placed it in her hands, he thought he heard her sigh. Shahrayar took up his same place among the cushions. Dinarzad curled at her sister's feet as she had the night before.
"Now, let me see," Shahrazad said as her fingers roamed the cloth. "Oh, yes. The king was well and truly. . . "
Lost, Shahrayar thought.
"Lost. Or so he feared when he realized he had been walking for as long as he could remember, yet seemed no closer to reaching the stream at the bottom of the mountain than he was when he had left the seer and started out. And in all that time, the sun had neither risen nor set, but the king had walked through a pearl-colored twilight.