The Sultan and the Storyteller by Lichelle Slater
Three
The setting sun spread hues of purple across the sky and the dark shade of night blue swallowed the bright colors of daylight. Not knowing if I would see the sky or stars again, I kept my gaze heavenward until the palace obstructed my view. Once, the grand structure had been a symbol of power and pride. Our people spoke of building it and the celebrations that took place inside under Sultan Zayne’s father, Sultan Hashem. It no longer centered around that excitement and joy. People now feared the palace and the sultan protected by its walls.
And I walked willingly into its belly, where it would devour me.
A chill of nausea washed from my head to the bottom of my stomach, but I somehow managed to swallow it down. I should have been closing up the shop and delivering the hand cream to Madame Omid. I should have helped Kiara make dinner. There was so much more to my life.
My hands trembled in spite of the braveness I’d shown only moments ago. It wasn’t like I had a plan to slip in, cure the sultan with a prepared spell or potion, and get out. I had acted brazenly, and my father’s warning about my “tongue getting me into trouble someday” had come true.
My father walked several paces behind me with Kiara at his side. I heard Kiara whispering to him, but I couldn’t make out what they said to each other. I imagined she was asking if he could convince the sultan to choose someone else. With my father being so close to the sultan, he had inside knowledge regarding everything happening in the palace.
But with my father’s background, I had little faith he would stop the sultan.
We were greeted by a guard with his helmet tucked under his arm, and he nodded to my father. “Vizier Khorshid.”
“Captain Nadeem.” Father bowed his head in return.
Captain Nadeem led us down the veranda, past open windows with sheer curtains dancing in the hot breeze, and to a side door standing close to the high walls. A man held the door and I entered a hallway gleaming with riches. From there, he led me up a flight of stairs—giving me no time to stop and gaze at the gold-foiled ceiling, mosaic floors covered in rugs, or statues decorating the palace where I would die.
On the second floor I looked down over a railing into a little courtyard and garden below. We stopped at a golden door. Without knocking, the captain pushed it open and revealed the room in which I would be prepared for my wedding.
If this were my real wedding day, had it been Kasim I was marrying, I would have felt very different butterflies in my stomach. I might have actually found everything in the room romantic—from the petals strewn on the floor to the jasmine incense burning somewhere nearby. It would have been any bride’s dream. But it wasn’t Kasim who would stand under the canopy at my side, and the heavy solemnity made everything feel more like my funeral than my wedding night.
I turned to face my father. “Maybe now you finally have motivation to try one last time to stop this from happening. Stop the sultan. For my sake. If not, then I accept the role I volunteered to fulfill.”
Father stepped on the wilting flower petals and kissed my forehead. It was the first form of affection he’d shown in weeks, and his hands held on a little longer than normal. He came and had dinners with us one night a week, but his affection was typically a nod of the head or wave as he left. If he couldn’t stop the sultan’s nightly murder spree, he would never see me again.
I said a silent prayer that my father would succeed.
He stepped back, put on a smile, and left the room with the palace guard, leaving Kiara to help prepare me for my wedding.
A servant entered from the side room and curtseyed. “My name is Mazzy. Please come and bathe.” She gestured to a bathtub behind a wooden partition.
After my bath, she uncoiled my black hair from its bun and combed through it. When the tangles were out, she dipped her fingers in a purple powder that smelled like lavender and sage, and ran her fingers through my hair to freshen it.
I stared at my own reflection in the mirror, being prepared for my wedding. Wedding. The word was synonymous with joy, prosperity, a future. There was no future for me here, unless I could do something thirty-nine other women before me had been unable to do—stop the sultan from killing.
My gaze drifted to Kiara, who was starting with a pale gray hue to her face.
“I am going to be okay,” I said, trying to comfort her.
She blinked and seemed to finally focus on me. “How can you say that knowing what is about to happen?” She knelt at my side and put her hand on my knee. The dam of tears broke and she began to sob. She pushed her forehead against my thigh. “You shouldn’t be here, Shahira!”
“Would you like to help me dress her?” Mazzy asked comfortingly.
I placed my hand on my sister’s head. “Shh.” I should have been comforting her, but my own tears welled in my eyes. My life would soon be snuffed out. “You’re safe, Kiara. Kasim and Jade will take care of you.”
She finally lifted her head and I cupped her face.
“You’re brave and strong. You would have done the same for me.”
“But I didn’t. I just stood there and watched.” Another sob broke from her lips. “Why did you have to volunteer?”
“Because I have to believe that if anyone can stop him, maybe it’s me.”
Kiara scoffed and then shook her head. “You haven’t told a story in years.”
“Now is better than never.” I offered her a weak smile, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Fetch the dress.”
Kiara dried her face and turned to Mazzy, who stood behind her, holding the dress across her arms. I rose to my feet and Kiara to help me dress in the wedding kaftan that had been hanging on the wall. It was a dress of midnight blue with golden stars stitched into the garment. Two golden bands with pink ribbon between them stretched around the hem, up the middle seam, and around the collar.
It was beautiful.
The most beautiful wedding dress I had ever seen. A dress for a queen. It shimmered in the candlelight and I could tell it was made of the most expensive fabric. And then I couldn’t help but wonder if each of the thirty-nine women before me had worn that same dress on their wedding night.
“You look absolutely radiant,” Kiara said, looking at me in the mirror while Mazzy painted henna on my hands. Kiara hugged me from behind. “I hope you’ve started thinking of a story to save you tonight,” she whispered in my ear. “If there was ever a time to use your magic, it is now. You have power, Shahira. You’ve just got to tell a story.”
I set my free hand over hers, but couldn’t bring myself to answer. The last time I’d told a story, my mother had died. Now I was to pretend that hadn’t happened and weave a tale that would stop the sultan from killing me and all of the other girls in the kingdom? Coming up with a story like that would take time. But Kiara was right. I had to have faith in myself.
Kiara’s eyes softened and brimmed with tears. “You’re braver than anyone else is.”
“I’m sorry I’m abandoning you.” I reached up and put my hand on the side of her head and closed my eyes.
“Careful with the henna,” Mazzy warned.
I lowered my hand and looked at the henna on my arms down to my fingers. I watched in silent fascination as Mazzy carefully swirled the henna, creating each circle, connecting each line, and forming each flower petal and leaf. In finishing, she filled in all around my fingertips, leaving my nails bare. Rather than calming me as intended, the rushed ritual only highlighted the fact that I was not worthy of the traditional week-long bridal celebrations. Instead, I was a sacrifice
“Why are you bothering with this? Henna takes hours to cure,” I said.
Mazzy looked up at me. “We get this from a little shop in Zunbar. It cures in just a few minutes and lasts just as long as regular henna.”
Kiara gasped. “I make that.” She held her hand on her heart. “I make a fresh batch every morning. I—I thought I was selling it to . . . I didn’t suspect it was being used for the brides.”
Mazzy gave an apologetic smile. “You were asked to make it, were you not?”
Kiara nodded. “By my father. And it’s always collected by a woman who wears a yellow or orange kaftan.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t know.” The servant stood and retrieved the final piece of bridal attire from where it hung. The wedding scarf.
The sheer golden fabric matched the accents on my dress perfectly.
I stood and saw myself in the mirror, completed and ready to be wed. Kasim would have been speechless. Now he was likely with Jade, making preparations for their parents’ funerals.
I had volunteered for this. I had offered myself up to die tonight to protect the people I loved. My heart twisted once more and I placed my hand over my chest to hold down a sob.
Mazzy ran her fingers through my hair then lifted a piece of jewelry I’d only glanced at on the nightstand. It was a golden chain with golden beads, the largest of which had a sapphire stone in its center. She placed it on the part of my hair so the sapphire rested on my forehead, then gave Kiara the matching necklace while she knelt to slide on my slippers.
Kiara hung the necklace around my neck and clasped it.
Mazzy took my hand and assessed the henna, which was already dry. She gently wiped it off, leaving a vibrant red tattoo beneath. I reached my free hand out to take Kiara’s. “Take care of yourself,” I said, my voice catching and heavy with emotion. I couldn’t cry.
Kiara was offered a gown and although she scowled, she changed. We exchanged a look, and I knew she felt the same way I did—this was a sham. A routine to make me feel like I was important when I was just being dressed up like a white lamb.
Two guards and Captain Nadeem waited for me in the hall. The guards flanked Kiara and me as I followed their captain. With each breath, my heart beat faster and my hands grew clammy. The wedding slippers were too big and the dress a little long. Jade wasn’t that much taller than me.
We walked down the main hallway and I could smell the ceremonial flowers. The perfume of blood lilies of violent red with black in the center of the petals mixed with white jasmine flowers filled the room with a sickly sweet scent that made me want to vomit.
Captain Nadeem stopped at an arched doorway. I knew it was the throne room before I saw it. Where else would a narcissistic murderer hold his nightly wedding?
Sultan Zayne stood at the end of a long golden rug that highlighted flecks of gold in the blue stone floor. His nearly knee-length tunic was white, but his pants were the same color of blue as my dress. The seams of his tunic were sewn with the same blue thread, and there was blue and gold embroidery around the collar of his shirt.
But it wasn’t the quality of his clothing that caught my eye.
It was the man himself.
Sultan Zayne’s dramatic features struck me like a blow. I'd been expecting a monster, but here was a man to rival even my handsome Kasim. His lips—closed tightly in concentration or disapproval, I couldn't tell—were framed by a neatly groomed beard that ended at a point on his chin. Before he turned to face me, I caught a glimpse of a glossy black ponytail resting along his back underneath the white, jeweled turban. My gaze locked on his eyes—a piercing shade of orange-brown that lightened around the edge—accented by his dark skin.
Sultan Zayne took my breath away.