The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 2

  When they passed a room full of books and scrolls, Dunya felt the needling voice of temptation and, since there was no one to stop her, gave in at once—she slipped away. The Vizier’s family would dine with the Sultan himself and the very highest nobility in the land. So that room would be easy enough to find, right?

  Gold glittered in three different alphabets on a hundred different spines. Dunya ambled down the corridor between books, and took a turn here, and a turn there, content for now simply to read the spines. The books’ subjects ranged from a dissertation on the human eye, to the engineering of the Venetian canals, to the composition of soil in China. There was so much to learn! Dunya felt dwarfed, awestruck by how much there was to know, especially compared to her small knowledge, the little world she lived in. But something in her railed against this overwhelmed feeling. Why should I know so little? She thought, frustrated. Why should I almost never get to leave my father’s house?

  She took another turn, then looked back. She suddenly realized she wasn’t sure how to get back to her family.

  That was bad.

  She turned back and tried to retrace her steps. At first the books helped her—there was the section about botany, there was the section about theology—but eventually her steps faltered, and she came to a star-shaped intersection and didn’t remember at all where her eyes or feet had been.

  She heard footsteps nearby. Oh, no. As if this couldn’t get worse. She was going to be caught and punished, no doubt.

  She tried to duck behind a shelf, but instead of an alcove, she found she was in a larger, more open gallery—and there was a strange young man, rather close, and Dunya wanted to die.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I’m no one,” she said, trying to find a way out, trying to hide her face, trying to be modest, for the love of God.

  “I won’t hurt you,” said the man.

  Dunya stopped trying to shy away, and looked up—and up. The man was very tall, and a little older than her. He was dressed, she saw, for hard horseback riding, and looked quite tired. He held a book in one hand.

  “Are you lost?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m here for the wedding,” she stammered, feeling some explanation was needed.

  He nodded. “I figured. What is your family?”

  “My father is Shareef, the Grand Vizier.”

  The man lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t know old Shareef had any daughters your age,” he replied. “I’m Munir. You must have a name,” he prompted.

  She gave a rushed bow. “Dunya. Dunya is my name.”

  “We should return you to your father,” said Munir, to Dunya’s great relief. “But first, I must return this book… It’s had an adventurous three months!” he said, half to himself, as he turned to scan the bookshelves. “Let me see… yes, it went just here. Very good. Now I can get ready. But first, you are my guest, and I must take care of you.”

  “I’m not your guest,” Dunya said. She didn’t like to speak, but she had to correct him. “You just happened to find me.”

  Now the man smiled at her, with some surprise. “We wedding guests must look out for one another.”

  “There you are!” came a man’s voice from the other end of the gallery. Dunya flinched, but it was Munir who turned.

  “Ah. Hussein. Were you looking for me? I told everyone I would return the book first.”

  “You’re not even dressed yet!” said Hussein. He was an athletic-looking man, dressed elegantly, but there was a shine and disarray about him that suggested he had only barely washed up and threw some clothes on. “We cannot enter the hall without you! And who is this? A girl from the harem?”

  “I should think not,” said Munir. Dunya hid a giggle with her hand. The harem? Did she look like a courtesan? Or a royal aunt? Munir went on. “She’s a daughter of the Vizier. Show her some respect.”

  Hussein made a creditable bow. “My lady.” He glanced up at Munir. “I shouldn’t have to warn you about the Sultan’s temper, your Highness.”

  “And you don’t need to insult my intelligence by doing so,” said Munir. “He won’t kill me for being a few more minutes late.”

  “Are you sure?” Hussein muttered, but Munir had turned back to Dunya.

  “Who are you, to the Sultan?” Dunya asked him. He must belong to the Palace—this library was his to use. That’s why he knew the books like old friends.

  “I am the son of the late Vizier Junayd, and a cousin of the Sultan’s, some two or three times removed… and we were playmates,” he added. “Years ago.”

  “Was it necessary to add that?” Hussein asked him.

  “The lady asked,” Munir said, “and remember your rank; we are not in camp anymore. Now, to you, young lady. Shall I send you back with a servant? How would your father react to that?” There was a pause.

  Dunya realized he was waiting for her to answer. “You can’t be asking me, sire—sir… ”

  “I am asking you. And don’t worry about my title.”

  “My father would be ashamed of my impropriety, I think,” Dunya’s replied. “But no one misses me, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, someone must,” said Munir, waving his hand. “Do you mind waiting a few more minutes?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I have an idea.”

  Dunya followed Munir and Hussein to Munir’s quarters. There was a woman waiting by the door. Her hair was silver and her gaze slightly amused, and Munir called out when he saw her.

  “Morgiana!” he exclaimed. He hugged her and said, “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

  “Oh, you wanted to welcome your old auntie as soon as you came back from the border?” she asked, with a smile.

  “No—I wanted you to serve as a chaperone. There’s a little girl here whose reputation is in serious danger.”

  “Oh, very funny,” Morgiana replied, pinching the tall man’s cheek. “I feel very appreciated.”

  “I’m sorry, Morgiana, but I’m already late. I’ll have to visit you later.”

  “Be sure you do. I’ve missed you greatly, my boy.” She nodded at Hussein, “I’ve read good things about you in my Lord’s letters. You are a good Captain.”

  Hussein actually blushed.

  “Morgiana, if you could do me a favor, I need to get ready for my Lord’s wedding party… ” Munir sighed. “Could you please look after Shareef’s daughter for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” said Morgiana. When Munir disappeared into his rooms, Morgiana looked at Dunya, who had been standing silently, observing the entire exchange. Dunya’s head was spinning with all of these new people to know. Perhaps Morgiana could infer that from the expression on her face, because she simply asked if Dunya could play chess.

  Dunya said no, but that she was willing to learn.

  She had only just gotten as far as the movement of the war elephants when Munir re-emerged, dressed in deep blue robes, looking somewhat refreshed, though still weary. He also, Dunya realized, was rather handsome, in a stretched-out sort of way. She felt silly for having not noticed earlier. She tried to swallow and clear her throat, but her ability to talk seemed to have left her entirely.

  Fortunately, she did not need to talk. Munir’s cheer had deserted him along with his riding gear, and he barely spared the women a glance as he called up his men—a small company of cavalry officers—and asked for Morgiana and Dunya to walk directly behind him. For the second time that day, Dunya was in a procession, but this time, she was nearly at its head.

  Munir led the way, his steps never faltering as he made his way through the very heart of the Palace, to a great courtyard where flowers spilled down over the walls and hundreds of courtiers and diplomats chattered over plates of food and drink. A hush fell over the crowd when Munir and his company arrived in their midst.

  The
re was a great table at one end of the courtyard, where Dunya spotted her father, beside the Sultan and his wife. The procession made its way to the head table, marching around the grand fountain at the center of the banquet. Dunya eyed her family nervously, stealing glances but then looking away at the ground when she saw the looks of shock on their faces. She made a kind of squeaking noise, horrified at what they must think—

  “Show no fear,” said Morgiana. “Be as scared as you like, but these hyenas will pounce on weakness.” When Dunya looked up at her, Morgiana winked.

  Now Munir and his entourage stood before the head table. And Munir spoke, addressing himself to the Grand Vizier.

  “Vizier Shareef, there was a strayed member of your party.” Munir held his hand out towards Dunya, and she approached and made the deepest bow that she could. She didn’t dare look at her father’s face. “I found her in the library, seeking out the wisdom of the ages. It is a thirst you would do well to slake.” Dunya glanced up at him, and he smiled at her. Her pulse quickened.

  “You pay your respects to the Vizier before you greet me?” came another voice—a man’s voice, but seething with anger.

  “My Lord,” said Munir, “I meant no disrespect.”

  Everyone bowed, except for Dunya. She was a minute late, and she saw who spoke—it was the Sultan.

  “You meant no disrespect? Somehow I doubt that.”

  “This young lady is my guest,” Munir continued. “I must treat her honorably.”

  Dunya prayed that she would be left out of this.

  “She is my guest, and I am your host,” said the Sultan. “You should have honored me first.”

  And then Dunya heard a new voice: “Darling, be at peace. Your cousin just made a little mistake, I’m sure. How many miles did you ride today, Munir?”

  Dunya dared to look up now. The speaker was the Sultana, wearing silver robes embroidered with the moon. She looked like no one that Dunya had ever seen before—her hair fell in a yellow sheet past her waist, and her skin was pale as jasmine petals. But her smile was beautiful, and she smiled at Dunya as Munir spoke.

  “We set out at first light today, and just reached the Palace,” said Munir. “It has been a five day ride. I wanted to return a book to the library, and there I found her.”

  “There, you see, husband?” the Sultana asked. “He must be tired. And all his intentions are good. It’s our wedding night. Shall we drop this little quarrel?”

  The Sultan turned to her and smiled reluctantly. “Fine. Nothing but goodwill on this night. You can sit beside your father,” he said, gesturing at Dunya. She recognized this as a dismissal, and hurried to sit beside her father, bowing every other step or so.

  Shareef, sitting beside the Sultan, looked furious, but the Sultana smiled across her husband at Dunya. It was a conspiratorial grin, the kind that said, I’m so glad you’re here, it was so boring until you arrived.

  And so, Dunya found herself eating at the high table, with a fine view of the best of the wedding proceedings. She was on her very best manners for the entire evening, and her father had no more reason to be ashamed of her. After a while he nearly forgot her, as she knew he would.

  Dunya took a chance to observe all the people around her. The Sultana spoke only to her new husband; Munir kept sneaking glances over at Dunya, and at the Sultana.

  The first gifts to be presented came from the Sultana’s family, as part of her dowry. Her father explained the gifts in accented Arabic, and attendants scurried to and fro, bringing one gift after another. All of them were dressed in the strange costumes of the far North.

  The gifts included fine saddles and weapons, and Dunya saw her father frown—he didn’t like the prospect of war, she thought.

  It was the final gift that made Dunya gasp—a huge clay pot, and in the pot grew a small tree. Everyone fell silent at the sight—or rather, the sound. Every leaf had a tiny face growing on it, and each leaf sang softly, so the leaves, as they shifted, created a beautiful chorus.

  “The Singing Tree,” explained the Sultana’s father, “is the jewel in the crown of our realm. This sapling, this magic made tame, will show our esteem for Al-Rayyan, and our hope for this union.”

  The guests applauded and the Sultan rose to his feet to express heartfelt thanks. The Sultana, Dunya noticed, kept bright eyes on the tree, until it was taken out of sight.

  Next, dinner was served. As the company ate, more ambassadors came before the Sultan and presented their gifts. Dunya enjoyed watching them, not that they were meant for her, but it gave her a sense of being connected to the wide world, to see people who had come from so far away. There was a general from Ethiopia; there was a scholar from China; there was a prince from India. All presented dazzling gifts—a squadron of soldiers, a jade statue of a dragon, an encyclopedia of medicine—and at some point Dunya saw Morgiana slipping away, out the back of the courtyard.

  She must be returning to the Palace harem, Dunya thought. It was a lonely life for the women there—some of them had barely any status outside of the harem walls. There lived some future consorts of the Sultan, and some older members of the nobility, waiting out their days. She shook her head, and her first thought was that the possible influence would not be worth the isolation. Then she looked at her father, and the way he steadfastly avoided making eye contact with her, and she reconsidered…

  The Sultan stood up abruptly, and all the men in the courtyard immediately got to their feet. He nodded at them and then departed, his gold and red robes fluttering behind him.

  “Shareef,” said the Sultana, who had lingered at the table. “I would like to talk to your daughter.” Her voice was musical and strangely accented.

  This took him completely by surprise, but he gestured quickly to Dunya. “Well, then, go on!” he snapped at his daughter.

  Dunya obeyed, and went to the Sultana. She smiled at Dunya, and it was a smile like that of a rose—curled up tight and promising secrets. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.

  “I am. Thank you for asking,” Dunya replied. The Sultana’s beauty was dazzling, and Dunya couldn’t hold onto her thoughts, except the idea that she must not let her family down.

  “You were exploring the library?” the Sultana asked. Dunya nodded. “I hear it’s a wonderful archive.”

  “It is!” Dunya replied. “But I only got to see the tiniest part of it.”

  “Perhaps, a little later, I can invite you over and show you more of it,” said the Sultana. “Would you like that?”

  Dunya nodded eagerly, just as the wave of men standing up told her the Sultan had returned.

  “Until we meet in the library, then,” said the Sultana, and Dunya went back to her seat.

  She could barely see the stars for all the lanterns in the courtyard, but she also had the best view for the fireworks. It was a good night.

  The Mad Sultan

  Dunya’s grandmother died shortly after the Sultan’s wedding.

  A month prior, First Wife Noora had declared that Grandmother Aaliya was too weak to attend the festivities. Grandmother had spent the entire month complaining that this was unjust. It was disrespectful of her age, and wasn’t she the premier woman of the house? The day that Grandmother abruptly stopped complaining was the day that Dunya had to hurry to find First Wife Noora to inform her that Grandmother had fallen ill.

  Dunya tried to be a patient and good nurse to her grandmother, but her fear ate at her, making her clumsy and more awkward than usual, especially around her older sisters as they chattered and went about their chores as if the world wasn’t ending. One day, Dunya snapped, telling her older sisters to be quiet, for God’s sake, because Grandmother would be dead soon.

  First Wife Noora scolded Dunya in front of the entire family for her thoughtlessness. Dunya never knew that Noora and the other wives had to laugh about it later that evening, or else they would h
ave all cried—Dunya had to spend the rest of the day in bed sobbing, burning with mortification and the belief that she’d somehow sped up her grandmother’s demise by voicing the unthinkable.

  But Grandmother would be dead soon. Dunya had seen many of Grandmother’s friends pass away over the years, one at a time. Their voices were silenced, their houses were closed up, and Grandmother stopped mentioning their names because they made her cry. There was no point, as Dunya saw it, in dancing around the fact.

  Grandmother Aaliyah called Dunya to her the next day.

  “I’m sorry, Sittou,” said Dunya.

  “You think you’re the only one with something to be sorry for?” Grandmother asked. “Come here. Take my hand.” Dunya slipped her hand into her grandmother’s, which was quite cold. “I am sorry that I told you to be so quiet. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more things about your mother. She was a good woman. Rashida was her name. There is a plot of land—an olive grove, I believe—and it belongs only to your mother’s bloodline.” The old woman smiled at her grandchild, wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. “It belongs to you now, and I hope you visit it someday.”

  Dunya was quiet.

  “You’re not getting sentimental now?”

  “I don’t have anyone in the world but you,” said Dunya. “I’m selfish, I know, but I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You won’t be alone,” said Grandmother. “God and His angels are all around, working in mysterious ways… ” Her voice grew distant and hazy.

  “Sittou, I don’t want you to die.”

  “Do not be afraid. To me, Death is as an old friend. Death comes for all, the high-born and the meekest mouse… you, too, will meet Death, whatever station you find in life.”

  “I have no station. I have no place, Sittou.”

  “You will find one. You will grow to meet whatever is demanded of you. I have faith in you, Dunya… Rashida?”

  As Grandmother began to call for people who weren’t there, Dunya called for the people who were—her father, First Wife Noora, anyone who would listen.