The Storyteller's Daughter

The days following the great massacre in the courtyard were the darkest days that land ever saw. On these days, or so it was said in later years, it seemed to many that the sun did not rise at all.

Then slowly a change began to occur so gradually as to be almost u

Sometimes he spoke, but mostly, he listened. And so he began to learn that in spite of all the evil being perpetrated upon them, the people were begi

Food was begi

Now that he had done so, there was room for hope to return with the help of Nur al-Din Hasan and Shaaaman.

'Ajib's brothers might have believed the people had ceased to riot because they had been cowed. But Ajib knew that in this, his brothers were wrong. The people's bellies were begi

When 'Ajib realized what was happening, a horrible battle began to rage within his heart. Should he not tell his brothers what he knew? Surely they had first claim upon his loyalty, for they were his kinsmen, were they not?

But as he stared down at the palace courtyard, stained now and for all time with blood, 'Ajib felt his heart break apart and scatter like food for carrion birds. How could he tell his brothers what he knew when to do so would provoke the shedding of yet more blood? And there came into his mind thoughts which, once planted, could not be rooted out: His brother was no true king. In helping to place him upon the throne, 'Ajib had done a great wrong.

In that hour 'Ajib longed for Nur al-Din Hasan, for the vizier had always treated him kindly—not like a servant, but like a son. But he was far away in Samarkand with Shazaman. Kept away by the very acts that now brought 'Ajib such despair.

Finally, worn out and confused, 'Ajib made his way to his second brother's quarters. For he was the only one of his brothers in whom 'Ajib thought he might confide. But when he arrived there, he learned a bitter thing: His brothers were in conference without him.

And they plotted the death of Shahrayar.

"We must delay no longer," the third brother said. "Every day we allow this Shahrayar to live, he is a danger to us."

"We should have killed him at once," the eldest, now king, concurred. "I would have done it had 'Ajib not stopped me."

"Where is 'Ajib?" the fourth asked. "Why is he not here?"

"You know why he is not here," the second spoke up finally, and the sound of his voice was like an arrow in 'Ajib's heart. "He protected Shahrayar. We can trust him no longer."

And in this way did 'Ajib learn that his struggles over whether to betray his brothers had been for nothing. For they had betrayed him with no struggle at all. He stayed long enough to overhear the plans they made, the likes of which made his blood run cold. Then swiftly he returned to his quarters and wrapped Maju's trunk up in a cloak. For he had taken it and kept it safe, his brothers not recognizing it for what it was.

Then he took his swiftest horse from the stables, lashed the trunk behind him, and set out with all speed for Samarkand, spurring his horse on with need and hope.

Chapter 20

T H E E Y E S O F T H E H E A R T

But what, you wonder, in the Days Without Light, came to pass in the hearts of Shahrayar and Shahrazad? For they had parted in bitterness, in fear and in sorrow, their hearts still hidden each from the other. Yet the time was coming when all would depend on what their hearts might decide. Or, had perhaps decided already, but had not yet recognized.

The day after 'Ajib had left the city, great trumpets sounded, the palace gates opened, and the new king's herald went forth. Throughout the city he passed crying the king's will, and it was this: The lady Shahrazad was to undergo a trial. She was a sorceress, and so must lose her life. But if she could perform one good deed before her death, she might save the life of her husband, Shahrayar. In three days' time, the trial would take place. Once the sorceress no longer lived among them, peace and prosperity would flow into the land once more.

All through that day, and in the days that followed, the herald pronounced the king's will throughout the city, returning to the palace only at the sinking of the sun.

The day before the trial was to take place, the second brother's curiosity got the better of him, and he made the climb to Shahrazad's tower. How had she taken the news that this time she must surely die?

"I would make peace with God, if I were you. Lady," he advised. "For it ca

Though she had shed many tears over the fate of her husband, his people, and his kingdom, Shahrazad let no tears fall now. For the others, her tears were all spent. And she had promised herself before she wed Shahrayar that regardless of the outcome, never would she weep for herself.

"What I have to say to God is for His ears alone," Shahrazad replied. "I would look to your own soul, if I were you. It is your deeds that are black, not mine."

At this, the second brother became angry that he could not shake her composure, and he went back down.

Shahrazad did not sleep that night. Sometimes she paced back and forth upon her balcony so that she might feel the wind upon her face. Other times she sat by her brazier, still as stone. And in those hours, the darkest that had come to her since Maju died, Shahrazad waged her own battle: the one to see and understand her heart. For she did not want to leave the world without knowing herself. Did not want to perish knowing that she had been a coward while she lived. How could she face death unafraid if while she still breathed, she had feared to face herself?

In the still hour just before dawn, when all the world holds its breath, fearing that this may be the day when the sun fails in its promise to return once more, Shahrazad grew so weary that she lay down upon the cold stones of the tower—just as Shahrayar had done before her not so very long ago. And as she did, she relinquished her struggle, just as he had relinquished his heart. And as she did, a thing happened that she did not expect, for she saw what her heart contained for the very first time. And what she saw was this: She loved Shahrayar—heart and body, mind and soul.

She did this knowing full well that he might not love her. For now she also understood a thing she had not before: The words the first queen had uttered before her death had been a curse indeed, for they had spoken only that Shahrayar must find a woman who could know his heart truly and be unafraid to have her own heart known. Nothing had she said of love. But with her words she had placed the fear of love over Shahrayar's head, even as she had kindled the desire for it in his heart. And in this she had shown that she knew her husband well. For he had come to fear nothing save the things she had planted within him: Not death or mischance, but betrayal and unrequited love.