The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 3

  Grandmother died well, surrounded by family, sleeping, and at peace.

  And as for Dunya, what she feared came to pass. Without Grandmother to look out for her, she fell into the cracks of the household. First Wife Noora moved into Grandmother’s quarters, and Dunya moved into another room, then another. She had no place any longer, if indeed she’d ever had one.

  While her family was sequestered in mourning, a message came from the Sultan. The messenger recited familiar words of condolences for the family—and then he asked for Dunya, by name. To Dunya, he handed a slim book.

  “A volume of poetry, from the Sultana’s hand,” he said, “with her good wishes. She asks that you return it within the fortnight.”

  “T-thank you,” Dunya stammered. She stared at the book in her hands. Even with the eyes of her family heavy on her, she couldn’t stop smiling.

  One Feast of the Sacrifice passed, and then another. Two years passed slowly, and Dunya watched her sisters get married off and move away to their new husbands and homes. Dunya half-heartedly wondered when it would be her turn, if she would ever have a turn. Her oldest two brothers married, and their wives entered the household, and they were happy to boss Dunya around, just as their husbands did—there was always at least one person below them in the family pecking order.

  The books that the Sultana sent were Dunya’s best consolation. She returned them with her father or by Palace messenger. Notes—small, very polite, but enthusiastic on Dunya’s part—passed with the books. She did not see the Sultana in person again, but cherished a hope that, someday, she might.

  She never did get to visit the olive grove. She was too shy to ask her father to take her.

  Dunya was sitting up one night—not reading, but thinking. Her sixteenth birthday was approaching. It was past midnight when she heard the sound of beating hooves—her father’s gelding. Servants hurried to greet him properly. But why was he home so late? Dunya went to investigate. She slipped into the room where he slurped at passionfruit sharbat and rubbed his forehead, ignoring the anxious family around him. Second Wife Amira asked him what was wrong.

  He looked at her and said, in a low voice that carried through the room, “The Sultana is dead.”

  First Wife Noora gasped. Into Dunya’s vision flashed the most recent gift from the Sultana, a prayer book with vivid illuminations. Dunya’s heart seemed to turn empty in her chest—the Sultana would never see those paintings again. The jasmine-pale woman with her kind notes and—Dunya pressed cold fingers into her forehead. This couldn’t be. She would never see that rose-like smile again. Dunya wanted to ask how, but her father’s look forbade it.

  Dunya returned to the chamber she shared with two sisters—but she didn’t think she would sleep. She went through the collection of notes from the Sultana—there was a unique message to go with each book.

  “Of all these tales, I like the tale of Saturn the best,” said one note.

  “I try to copy this calligraphy, but my form is poor. Maybe you’ll have better luck,” said another.

  “Look at the illustration on page twenty-one. What a sweet child!” That one brought the tears. The idea pressed on Dunya’s mind—the Sultana had died in childbirth, perhaps bringing to the world a child she’d wanted and loved.

  When Dunya began to cry, she could not stop. The hand that wrote these notes was stilled forever—and—

  “Dunya, go to bed already, it’s almost morning,” said one of her sisters.

  Dunya crawled into bed, and stifled her weeping as best she could. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. How could this happen?

  The next day, the Vizier’s family wore black to mourn the poor woman. But, oddly, there were no citywide showings of grief, as befitted a deceased Sultana. If Dunya stretched her memory, she could remember the death of the Sultan’s mother—that had merited a day of mourning, and a procession over the main streets and bridges of Al-Rayyan.

  The second day after the news came, Dunya approached her father and said, “I want to return the book that the Sultana loaned me.”

  Her father looked at her and shook his head. “Consider the book yours. I would not return it to the Sultan now for the world.”

  “But it belongs to the Palace. Perhaps, during her funeral—” Her father waved her away, but Dunya persisted, “Father, when is the funeral?”

  “The woman is buried already,” her father snapped, “and if you love your life, don’t speak that woman’s name out loud—ever.”

  “But—”

  “Not another word! Do not bother to arrive for supper tonight,” he added, and his eyes flashed.

  Dunya bowed her head and left, but she quietly seethed. She was almost sixteen, practically a woman, and her father was wrong to treat her like a child. But he was in a mood, and his wives would side with him.

  That night, Dunya snuck out of her bedroom into the kitchen, intending to find food. But while she was crossing the courtyard, she heard noises. She found a hiding spot, crouched among the birds of paradise and palm fronds in one corner of the courtyard. There she watched, wide-eyed, as her father brought strange men into the house, from the servant’s entrance. They gathered in the kitchen, where her father served them tea with trembling hands. There were seven men, including her father, and their voices batted back and forth, difficult to distinguish where one ended and the other began.

  “His orders are insane,” said one of the men. “He won’t listen to any of us. If the Viziers can’t succeed, what chance has the rest of Al-Rayyan?”

  “He might listen to Munir,” said another.

  “Don’t be absurd! That man is a coward, and everyone knows it. We need to show force. Force is what the Sultan respects.”

  “Your ‘force’ will see us all thrown into the dungeon, or worse,” said another voice, quavering with age. “This wildness of his won’t last. All things will pass away in time. You’ll see.”

  “But what of his command? To marry the women—?”

  “Let him marry one from his harem,” came Dunya’s father’s voice, solid and confident. “The most beautiful, or the most pleasing. For most men, that would calm them well enough. Let him try it.”

  “But what if he really orders her dead?”

  There was a pause, and then Dunya’s father said, “That is a risk we must take. After all, it’s only one courtesan.”

  The finality of that phrase chilled Dunya, and, forgetting her hunger, she crept off to bed again.

  The next morning, her father presided over the breakfast table, as lively and keen-eyed as if he had slept the sleep of the just. Dunya tried to tell herself that it had been a dream, but her knees were sore from where she had been crouching.

  That night, he did not come home. His feet did not sound in the foyer until mid-morning. He called for tea, then for First Wife Noora. He spent hours in conference with her, and emerged looking none the better for it.

  “This will pass. It must,” said First Wife Noora.

  “It must. It must,” repeated Shareef.

  Whatever it was, it did not pass. The days brought only greater stress upon Shareef, and he paced so late into the night that Dunya doubted he got any kind of sleep. Finally, a kind of stoniness seemed to settle upon him: his eyes remained wide, his mouth set in an imperious frown, and he moved through life like a horse with blinders, limited in scope—and that scope was the Palace, and his home was merely where he slept.

  A couple of months later, Dunya was up late, reading through the Sultana’s prayer book again. She knew the prayers by heart now, but they were a little comfort. She had reached the end of the book when she heard her father stagger in.

  Dunya very carefully tucked the book into her meager collection, and crept through the house until she found her father. He looked haggard and worn. Dunya was shy around him, but she could not let him sit there, so melancholy, without help
ing. She brought him a glass of sharbat and a plate of flaky pastries, and while he ate, she ventured to ask him what made him so afraid.

  “I am only a daughter,” she said, “and I know little, but perhaps I can help.”

  Her father spoke as if to himself, or to the empty air, as if he could not believe the words he was saying. “The Sultan has gone mad. His madness would destroy a lesser man; in him, it may destroy our Kingdom, too. He demands a gift from each of his Viziers, to show our heartfelt loyalty to him.”

  “Is there anything I could do?” Dunya asked.

  As she said that, her father looked up at her. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, but a cunning look, the look of a politician, gleamed within them. “What would you do,” he asked, “to help your father?”

  “Anything,” Dunya said. “I only want to help.”

  He stared somewhere past her, beyond her. “I must prove my loyalty to the Sultan,” he said. “And you, with more filial piety than any other child of mine… you will help me.”

  “How?”

  His eyes flitted to her and away. “Never you mind that. Go to bed. Tomorrow, wear your best. I will take you to the Palace.”

  Dunya’s first thought was that she could return the book. It wasn’t until she was safely in bed that she looked her fear in the eye. Her father had spoken of wildness—a wildness in the Sultan. And whatever had infected the Sultan might have infected the entire Palace.

  “I must be brave,” Dunya whispered, curled up close. “I must be brave.”

  In the morning, she dressed in the same blue dress and veil she had worn for the Sultan’s wedding. She tucked the Sultana’s prayer book into her belt and hated how her hands were shaking. She joined her father in the entrance hall, and they left her family’s compound.

  He led her through the gates, past the main building of the Palace with its screened windows, past the fountains and the glorious gardens. She was brought to a pavilion set apart from the main Palace, small and ivory-colored among the roses. Before the door there was an uneven stump of a small tree, the only ugly thing in sight. Dunya had a hard time tearing her eyes off of the stump—what was it doing there?—until her father dragged her into the pavilion.

  Inside, the air was heavily perfumed, the sounds muffled by damask curtains and pillows. Screens were artfully arranged, blocking any way out.

  Shareef’s feet never strayed from their course. He found two women sitting opposite each other, a chessboard between them. He sat Dunya on the couch by them, forcibly.

  “Now be good,” he told her, “obey the guards, and listen to this woman here. Remember, you are doing your family, and your father, a great favor.”

  Dunya was so stunned she could not speak. She watched her father leave.

  When the door shut, Dunya looked around. The two women stared at her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed lamps—mostly small, handheld lamps clustered in threes and fours on any available table. Not a single one was lit. Dunya drew her veil closer around her, and found herself hugging the Sultana’s prayer book. She didn’t belong here; she felt little and lost. She looked at the woman that her father had given her to. She had silver hair.

  “I know you!” Dunya said with a gasp. “Morgiana!”

  “Why, it’s Munir’s little find,” said Morgiana. “I never thought I’d see you here.”

  “Please, ma’am, where am I?” Dunya asked.

  The old woman laughed. “Such manners! Call me by my name. And you are in the Palace harem.”

  “The harem?” Dunya repeated. “Why would my father leave me in the harem?”

  “Was that really your father?” asked the other woman, who knelt across the chessboard from Morgiana. “The Grand Vizier? I thought you were a girl he pulled in off the street.”

  “Now, now,” said Morgiana.

  She fetched tea, and when she returned, Dunya said, “Last night, my father said that the Sultan had gone mad. Today he brought me here. Someone, please tell me what is going on.”

  So Morgiana explained. “The Sultana betrayed the Sultan. He found her in the arms of another man—her bodyguard. He slew her on the spot.”

  Dunya went cold, to the tips of her fingers. This was worse, much worse than the death she had imagined.

  “I heard tell,” said her opponent in chess, toying with a rook, “that the Vizier found the Sultan drenched in blood. I heard that the Sultan’s only words to him were, ‘It was over too quickly.’”

  “Hush, Shirin,” said Morgiana. “The Sultan has gone mad indeed. Having killed his first wife, he now picks his way through new brides. He takes one woman to be his Sultana each day; the concubine chosen is imprisoned in his bedchamber, until he visits her. At the next dawn, the Sultan leaves his chamber and orders his Sultana executed.”

  “But why?” Dunya asked.

  “Because he is the Sultan,” answered Shirin.

  “Because he wants to continue punishing his wife,” Morgiana said.

  “Because we are all the same to him,” Shirin added.

  “Because he is enamored of death,” Morgiana finished. “The Sultan first married his female prisoners, and when he ran out of them he turned to the women of the harem. There have been ninety-six women made into martyrs so far, including poor Yasmeen, taken just an hour hence. Before her it was Lironi, the prize of Jerusalem, and before that, Zumurrud of Samarkand. If the Sultan trusts his concubines so little, he must be demanding great shows of loyalty from his Viziers.”

  “You’ve just become a show of good faith, little girl,” Shirin said, capturing a pawn.

  In a small voice, Dunya said, “I am sorry for your plight.”

  “Do not be sorry for me,” Morgiana replied. “I am not afraid. I am only sorry that your father used you in such a way.”

  “At this rate,” Shirin observed, “you will be the ninety-ninth of the Sultan’s brides. How auspicious!”

  Dunya started to cry. She would be sixteen in a month’s time, and her own father had given her over to be a prisoner in the keep of a madman. Shirin stood up and walked to the window, and though Morgiana tried to comfort Dunya, she no longer told her to be brave.

  Dunya barely slept that night. She woke up to the cricket-like sound of an ancient servant tottering into the harem before dawn. She lay where she was, curled still, and she heard Morgiana greet the serving-woman, who said, “Allah smiles upon you. The Sultan has announced that he will go hunting for lions and wild donkeys, on the advice of his Viziers. He will take no wife today.”

  “Not until he returns,” said Shirin, sounding startlingly close to Dunya.

  “What of Yasmeen?” Morgiana said. “Did the Sultan… ” she trailed off.

  “She died just a few moments ago,” said the old woman. There was a pause, and she went on, “But you are spared! The hunt begins today and will last for two weeks, at least.”

  “And as long as the Sultan kills lions, his bloodlust is satisfied,” Shirin spat.

  “Shirin, you must curb your tongue,” Morgiana said. “Perhaps the time in nature will soothe our Sultan’s heart.”

  “There’s more,” said the old servant. “The other Viziers are putting out vast sums. I would guess they’re trying to bring gifts, to buy themselves some security. You’re not the only ones on the cutting block.”

  “In a very literal sense, we are,” said Shirin, and Dunya felt inclined to agree with her.

  “Grand Vizier Shareef has already given one of his most prized possessions. Can you guess, Nadirah?” This was Morgiana addressing the servant. “He has added his daughter to the harem.”

  “I’m not Father’s prize possession,” Dunya whispered into her hand. No one heard her.

  “He’s a smart man, then. But so are the other Viziers. Vizier Tariq has sent word to Munir, and asked him to bring back all the female prisoners from
the border that he can muster.”

  “To give the Sultan more wives to slay?” Shirin asked. “That’s not smart, that’s cowardly!”

  “Well, when you bite the King appointed by Heaven, I’ll take you seriously, little viper,” said Nadirah. “Now, what’s my prize?”

  There was a clink, clink, like chains or coins settling into place. “Allah bless and keep you,” said Nadirah. “I will be back at nightfall.”

  Her footsteps faded away. There was a very loud rattle and clatter.

  “Shirin!” Morgiana exclaimed. Dunya sat up to look. Shirin had taken the box that held a complete chess set, and spilled it out onto the floor. Then she picked up a second chess set, and spilled that out. She had just uncovered a third set under a pillow when Morgiana seized her.

  “Stop that! You’ll lose the pieces or break them. What are you doing?”

  “What does it matter if they break?” Shirin replied. “My life has been nothing but misery ever since I entered this harem, and now I’m going to die without ever having known the slightest bit of liberty—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Dunya. Both of the women turned to look at her. “I thought my father was the only Vizier. Who are these others who are out writing letters and buying bribes?”

  Shirin, still holding a chess game in one hand, started laughing. Morgiana joined in, and soon the two women were laughing so hard that they were crying and sitting down on the floor.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” Dunya said, miffed.

  “When I’m this afraid, everything is funny,” said Shirin.

  “You don’t make any sense,” said Dunya.

  “And nor do you, little Miss Know-it-All,” said Shirin. “Fancy a Vizier’s daughter not knowing anything about politics!”

  “Well, I don’t!” Dunya could feel the tears starting up. “And I’m not my father’s most prized possession. He only brought me here because I asked if I could help. What are you doing?”