The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 7

Dunya turned her head to look at Zahra, who said, “It’s not as frightening as it sounds, although it does have its share of dangers. The wares there are tempting, but the prices are often steep. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Dunya listened closely as Zahra continued to point out districts in the city, even the ones that were blocked by the Palace itself. The pieces formed a tenuous whole in Dunya’s mind, a map that she couldn’t wait to fill in.

  Part Two

  The Miserable Djinni

  It was a week later, and Dunya had not yet brought her plan to fruition. Zahra’s tale had branched out into several smaller tales within the tale—for instance, she was about to share a soldier’s story when a messenger came to the door.

  “Your Majesty, there is a courier sent here from Munir. Urgent news about the border skirmishes.”

  The Sultan swore by three prophets and four bodily functions and set off to meet the courier. After he had left, the messenger remained in the doorway, bowing towards the Sultan, and then he abruptly straightened up, adjusted his turban, and said, “Which of you ladies is Dunya, daughter of Shareef?”

  Zahra looked her way. Dunya got to her feet. “I am,” she said.

  “The courier brought this and said I was to deliver it to you, personally, without the Sultan’s knowing,” said the messenger. He presented a wrapped packet with a small scroll. “I would suggest you open it soon.”

  “Oh. Thank you… You’ll be wanting a gift?” Dunya had no jewelry on her, and if this gift came from who she thought it came from, nothing she had would be sufficient payment…

  Zahra removed one of her gold bangles and gave it to the messenger, who bowed, said, “Your loyal servant, ladies,” and quietly waited.

  Dunya unfolded the letter first. It read:

  Dunya, daughter of Shareef and explorer of bookshelves,

  I have prayed that the message I received from your father was in jest, or untrue, or that I had mistaken it somehow. Your father wrote to me some four weeks ago, saying that he had married you to the Sultan. I only received the message now, and it will take another two weeks for this letter to reach you.

  Please send word back with my messenger, whether to tell me if this news is true or false, but most important, to tell me if you can bear the way you are living, if indeed living you still are when you receive this (I pray).

  What I am giving you should be kept secret. It is a good luck charm and I have had it since I was a little boy. I like to think that it has protected me and I hope that it shall protect you.

  May God’s grace be with you,

  Munir, son of Junayd

  Dunya unwrapped the package. She was expecting something exotic, something obviously powerful and impressive, and was surprised to find a long chain with a simple, flat pendant of hammered bronze, shaped like a bird in flight.

  “This is his good luck charm?” she asked out loud.

  “He sent you a good luck charm?” Zahra asked. “May I see it?”

  Dunya held it out to her. “It’s not what I was expecting. He says he has had it since he was a child.” Dunya had few possessions of her own—her father’s house had provided all the necessities, but she was not, by nature, given to hoarding sentimental items. “Probably he has a whole room full of them.”

  “I do not think so,” said Zahra. “He brought it with him all the way to the borderlands. Perhaps it means a great deal to him.”

  That phrase struck in Dunya’s mind like a match. “You think so?” she asked, taking it back from Zahra’s hand. “Why would he give me something that’s so important?”

  “I have an answer for you. I advise that you hide that charm from the Sultan.” Dunya hurriedly unspooled the chain, set it around her neck, and tucked the bird between the layers of her robes.

  “But what’s your answer?” Dunya whispered.

  “First, dear, the messenger.”

  “Oh, yes.” Dunya turned to the messenger. “Tell Munir… ” she hesitated and looked at Zahra. “Tell Munir that I can bear the way that I’m living now. That I have a… a friend, I guess.”

  The messenger acknowledged this and quickly left. Zahra then turned to Dunya and said, “That answer will do for now. But it will not allay Munir’s fear.”

  Dunya paused. “Munir is afraid… of what?”

  “I should say of whom.”

  “Of the Sultan? His cousin?”

  Zahra nodded. “And afraid for… ” her last word was a whisper, and she completed her sentence by tapping Dunya on the forehead.

  Afraid for me, Dunya thought. The idea was intriguing, and she was not sure if she believed it. “Well, that’s very kind of him,” was what she settled on saying. “But he needn’t be afraid any longer. After all, you’ve eased the Sultan’s madness.”

  “I have not,” said Zahra, with a sudden sternness that made Dunya sit up. “Have you been too sleepy to hear the Sultan in the evening? Too tired to see him in the morning?” She leaned in close to Dunya, and her black eyes were arresting. “Think, little one.”

  “I’m not that little,” Dunya protested. But she tried to think. “Every evening, the Sultan asks that you finish the story you started.”

  “He asks, does he?”

  “No… he commands.” Dunya’s brow furrowed. “And every morning he’s in a bad mood to hear the story unfinished. And he leaves… but he always commands that you stay here. And he reminds the guards to kill you if you leave the chamber… ” She sighed and sagged onto the cushions. “He is still insane, then.”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “He could kill you any day. He could kill me next.”

  “So Munir is quite right to be afraid for you.”

  “Zahra… ” Dunya sat up again. “You knew that the Sultan was mad and murderous, did you not?”

  “Most of the Kingdom knows it by now, little one.”

  “But you still came. Why? Why did you put yourself right into his path?”

  Zahra opened her mouth, but hesitated. This in itself was so unusual that Dunya paid close attention when she did finally speak. “I have hope,” she said. “It is a new emotion in my heart.”

  “You never hoped before?”

  She closed her mouth tightly and shook her head, her eyes glittering. “Have I said too much? No. I have hope that my stories will help to calm the Sultan’s heart. Teach him wisdom and goodness and repentance. To see through the eyes of others.”

  “But the Sultan is so stubborn… they might not do anything. He might kill you. And then… ” Dunya closed her eyes. “And then I’m next. I’m next. I’m afraid, Zahra.”

  “Do not dwell on fear. How about your idea? I’ve sensed you coveting it the last few days..”

  Dunya pulled a long lock of hair down over her shoulder. “I want to go out into Al-Rayyan. And see how other people live.”

  “My stories are having a good effect on you.” Dunya opened her eyes and she saw Zahra smiling at her.

  “But there are so many dangers there. Father always warned me… so easy to get lost, and never find my way home… ”

  “Dunya. You are a prudent and careful girl, but I say to you again, do not be afraid. Life is short, especially life married to our supreme Sultan. Do you want to live all your life behind walls?” When Dunya didn’t answer, Zahra replied in a kinder tone, “If you would be advised by me, venture into Al-Rayyan. I showed you the city. It is waiting for you.”

  Footsteps sounded. The Sultan was approaching. Dunya clasped Zahra’s hands and said, “I will follow your advice,” before the Sultan returned and the story could continue.

  The Palace collectively began to adjust to the new order—Zahra, the Sultana-for-now, and Dunya, the girl with uncertain rank. One day, Dunya returned from the library to find her clothes from her father’s house, arrayed in a cedar chest
, in her bedroom. She had been wearing castoffs from the harem, and it felt good to run her fingers over the materials that she knew.

  The half-formed plan in her head began to take a firmer shape. The city beckoned.

  On one bright, clear day, Dunya dressed and wrapped Zahra’s blue scarf over her hair. She left the Sultan’s suite. Her slippered feet padded past the gardens, past the harem, and to the throne room, where the Sultan met with supplicants.

  Dunya paused, getting her bearings. A stray breeze tickled her cheek, and she gave a half-smile and followed it.

  She followed the air currents and the light until she came to a great door. Guards were posted at either side, but they gave her no notice. She stepped closer, but they made no move to stop her. As simple as that, she crossed the first door.

  Now she was on a promenade, wide enough for carriages and lined by cypress trees. The walls of the Palace lay ahead of her.

  Dunya started to run—remembering that running wouldn’t be seemly for a young lady—then remembering that no one took notice of her under the cover of magic. She darted forward. She passed the first cypress tree, and stopped to run her hands along its fragrant needles. It felt rough, a little sticky, and very real.

  She felt a new breeze, and all of a sudden, Dunya couldn’t wait another moment to be out of the walls and into the city. She walked towards the Palace gate. It was made of some metal, green with age, and worked with patterns as delicate as lace. There was a door set into the gate’s right hand side, and a guard by the door.

  Dunya stopped here. With an eye on the guard, she pushed the door open. A new breeze met her. She took it as a good sign. She passed through the door and closed it behind her.

  She was standing on a broad boulevard and could see many little streets winding off this one. Far ahead of her, the river glinted.

  “Let’s go there,” she said to herself, and set off.

  The streets were shadowed by tall houses on either side of the boulevard. As she progressed, the houses gave way to shops, and then to merchant’s stalls. The smells on the air—food vendors, spices, the horses of couriers—grew stronger. A passing herd of goats kicked up dirt, which made Dunya cough and rub her eyes.

  She reached the river and stopped there. The play of light on the water caught her eye, but when someone bumped into her, she drew her outer robe about her more tightly and began to observe the crowd. Everyone was walking with purpose, a place to be, and they had to be there soon. It was very different from the relaxed saunter that most courtiers in the Palace affected.

  She’d do her best to blend in, then. But in which direction to head? Arbitrarily, she went right.

  She tried to remember the neighborhoods that Zahra had pointed out. She could still see the Palace walls between buildings, so she wasn’t far at all. As long as she didn’t get lost, she’d be fine.

  “That’s the weaver’s street,” she muttered under her breath, “and that, the food markets.” Someone was roasting pine nuts. Her mouth watered, but she remembered she didn’t have any coins. She’d have to get back to the Palace before too long. Just as well, she told herself. Just as well.

  Archways of white stone or wood marked new neighborhoods. Washing lines crisscrossed between buildings, high above her head. Boats crowded the river. Striped awnings gleamed in the sunlight. Everywhere, there was activity and motion and so much light. It was a world away from the austere rooms and careful patterns of the Palace, or the stillness of her father’s house. Dunya didn’t know where to start—or even where to stop. Just don’t lose sight of the Palace, she thought.

  She stopped before an archway. The lower half of the archway archway, was covered with dangling blue-eye medallions, to ward against evil. There was graffiti, some obscene, some warnings to stay away from other parts of town.

  Zahra had called this part of town the Demon’s Market. But other than the charms on the archway, it seemed like any other stretch of the city.

  Dunya crossed under the archway. If there’s the first sign of danger, she thought, I’ll leave. Just turn around and return to the Palace. She proceeded swiftly, not making eye contact with anyone—and something to her right went thud. Dunya jumped, and was half-turned back when she saw the source of the noise. It was just a black cat, jumping from an awning.

  “Scaredy-cat,” Dunya muttered to herself.

  That noise, she realized, had stood out because the rest of the street was so quiet. Even the merchants at their stands were talking amongst themselves, rather than boasting about their wares. There was only one other person on the street—a tall girl about Dunya’s age, in a cinnamon-colored scarf. She slumped forward, towards an intersection and fountain. Dunya followed her—the girl looked ill, in need of help.

  When the girl reached the rim of the fountain, she sank onto its edge, breathing heavily.

  “Are you all right?” Dunya asked.

  The girl looked up at her. She had strong features and a desolate expression. Flakes of ash clung to her hairline and eyelashes. “No,” she said, “obviously not.”

  “You’re sick,” Dunya said. “Let me get help—”

  “Nothing can help me.” The girl’s fist clenched over the rim of the fountain. Ash shook from her sleeve.

  “Of course something can,” Dunya said. She knelt in front of the girl. “I’m Dunya. What’s your name?”

  “Upalu,” said the girl with the cinnamon-colored scarf. “There’s too much wrong. Just leave me be.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” Upalu asked. “The city is sick.”

  “Sick?”

  Upalu gestured with one hand towards the empty street. “Everyone here knows it. That’s why they left or are barricading themselves inside.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  Upalu looked at her. Her eyes were a surprisingly light hazel, almost gold. “You’re human,” she said.

  “Er… yes, I am.”

  “Humans are no good at sensing things. Promise-breakers. Heartbreakers. Leave me be.”

  She isn’t human, Dunya thought. That doesn’t matter. “Let me fetch a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “What do you need then?”

  Upalu’s breath hitched. “Nothing you can help me with.”

  “Try me.”

  “I need… my heart… damnation, it sounds so stupid.” She made a fist over her heart. Her clenched hand was shedding flakes of ash and embers.

  “What are you, if you’re not human?” Dunya asked. “I’m sorry if I’m rude… ”

  “I’m a djinni,” said Upalu. “The most worthless specimen of the djinn. My magic has dried up. One more disaster for this city.”

  Djinn. Dunya’s mind raced. Made from the blood of Allah. Fire spirits. The ash… “You’re dying,” she said, almost a whisper.

  “That’s a risk of my kind,” Upalu said. Now that Dunya knew what to look for, the djinni seemed to be flaking away before her very eyes. She looked bloodless, starved. “Get your heart broken, your fire dies, your magic dies, you die.”

  “Get away from the water.” Dunya got to her feet.

  “You trying to save me, or something?” Upalu snorted. “Let me guess, you’re a good fairy here to reverse my love fortune. Try someone else.”

  “No… but I know a kitchen, with enormous fireplaces. Surely the fire there could help… you… ”

  Upalu looked at her, eyes narrowed. Then she studied Dunya’s hands.

  “What?” Dunya asked.

  “You don’t work in a kitchen.”

  “I work in the Palace,” Dunya said.

  “I wouldn’t go there for a shipful of cedarwood. The Palace is too dangerous.”

  “I’ve survived it, and I’m not special at all,” Dunya said. “You don’t have to stay long, but come with me.
Don’t give up. Please.”

  Upalu stared blankly at the ground.

  “Please,” Dunya said.

  Finally, Upalu heaved a sigh. “I’ve already left her behind. Why not. Fine.”

  She got to her feet. Dunya said, “This way,” and Upalu followed without protest. The djinn only halted when they reached the archway of the Demon’s Market.

  “It’s all right,” Dunya said to her. “I know, it can be scary.”

  “What? Oh, no, I was going to say, if we’re going to the Palace, there’s a better route.”

  Upalu took the lead with no fanfare. The silence began to get to Dunya. She coughed and said, “This area of town seems really quiet.”

  “Most people have left.”

  “By people, you mean… ” Dunya almost said demons, but politeness stopped her. You never knew…

  “Ifrits, harpies, djinn, rusalka from up north, anyone passing through… you know, people.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry… ”

  Upalu snorted. Dunya asked, “Why have the people left?”

  “Because the omens are bad. Magic is blighted—not just in me, but in lots of people. This city isn’t healthy anymore.

  “You have to have a clue, even if you are just a human.”

  “When did it start?”

  “Around the time that the Sultana died. The first one, I should say.”

  After a pause, Dunya asked, “Where did it start?” afraid that she already knew the answer.

  Upalu gave her a disbelieving look. “In the Palace. Where else?”

  Now it was Dunya’s turn to be silent and think on what she was hearing. Upalu asked, “Did you leave by the main gate, or one of the kitchen gates?”

  “Um, the main gate.” At that, Upalu turned right. The main gate came into sight, with guards posted before it.

  “I can get past them,” Dunya said, fingering her blue scarf, “but you… ” She looked up. Upalu shrugged, as if she didn’t particularly care what happened to her.

  “Let’s just try,” Dunya said. She strode towards the gates and heard Upalu’s footsteps, very quiet, behind her. Dunya did not make eye contact with the guards, but walked forward, and soon she stood in the shadows of the cypress trees again. Upalu stopped beside her.