On my first night with the king, the paradise of silk and sensuality ended with the gleam of moonlight dancing on the curved cutlass that he drew from beneath his pillow. As if this was what I’d been trained for all my life, I rose to the challenge and bade him listen to the anecdote of how the goddess of war had fashioned the first blade out of the drip of saliva that fell from the mouths of the kissing stars. He had lowered the blade and listened, wariness melting into entrancement. At dawn, he rose and dressed, and I knew I was safe. He offered to keep me alive as long as my stories would keep him entertained.
“I summoned your father this afternoon, as you requested…” His low voice floats like a sensual phantom in my wake, a phantom I’ve long learned to dismiss as unreal. The usual authoritative tone is livened by a note of eagerness. “Where are you taking me, my love, my Scheherazade?”
My love. My Scheherazade. Oh, indeed. Barbarian. Treachery. Lies.
“I am taking you to a place of wonders, my lord.” As fine a place as paradise, so that you decide to never return. We turn a sharp corner in the deserted stone-walled, stone- corridor of our castle.
“And what may lie within?”
I look down at my bare jewel-ringed toes as they trade carpet for icy flagstone. “Heaps of gold and mountains of silver, rich bales of silk and satin and carpets threaded with jewels, chests of precious gems bright enough to blind the average mortal eyes.”
So my story goes. So do all the stories go, casting their glamour and their magic, breathing such characters, places, and plots to life. Ali Baba was my favorite tale, the first tale I shared with him, a sharing meant to be as intricate, communal, and sensual as anything to be experienced physically. His bright brown eyes had filled with such an unexpected light… it frightened me, I admit. I never wanted to see that glow again. Which didn’t mean I didn’t like it…
But I surely was seeing things, anyway. Of course, there could never be a connection.
And yet one thousand and one nights—and stories—later, my king stormed into the bedroom as I finished my evening prayers, and announced that I was to become his next queen. I remember the strange flush in his face, as if he had been drinking too much, though his clean breath pled the contrary. He had already informed the sheikh, had already sent invitations to all my extended family to prepare for the wedding. I took a deep breath and folded my rug. With one formal kiss, I was sealed to become his queen.
The stones are so cold, and I cannot help but shiver, drawing my silk wrap tighter around me. But I shouldn’t worry; I’ve made my heart is colder, it can withstand. It is my turn to plan now, and I lead him. Queen of stories; King of tricksters.
But not for long.
"Angreek87"
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