“The merchant did not understand the king’s true burden until he was given the opportunity to walk in his shoes,” Shafia explained. “That is why I came when called—so that I might know the full story. But I must confess: I am nowhere near as wise as the merchant, who advised the king on various issues. There was, for instance, the matter of the conniving jinn who infiltrated the king’s army…”
Shafia was clever, weaving one story into the next until the sun rose, at which point she paused. The sultan demanded she continue, for he wanted to know how the king would handle the jinn. But Shafia feigned fatigue and humbly asked if he would delay his judgment by one night so that she could refresh herself before concluding the tale. The great ruler thought to himself, What is one more night? and he agreed to her request. He had soldiers watch her the whole day until she returned that night. Again, she wove one story into another. In the next adventure, the king agreed to pardon the jinn for its scheming if it traveled with the merchant to find a relic—a wish-granting ring said to belong to a jinn king.
“And how did they unearth this ring from beneath the Sandsea?” the sultan asked.
Shafia gazed wistfully out the window. “Might I have one more night to finish the story, Your Majesty?”
And so it went. Every night the storyteller answered one question, provoked another, and asked for more time. Days passed into weeks and weeks into months, until the stories became conversations. The sultan asked Shafia for advice about policies and jinn, and she shared her wisdom in the form of fables. Soon everyone in the desert kingdom knew she had avoided death. It was only then, upon hearing the rumors, that the sultan realized he had fallen into the storyteller’s trap. Worse, he realized he had fallen in love with her. Fearing he had doomed himself to another betrayal, he told himself he would gauge Shafia’s loyalty by allowing her to speak on his behalf during his audiences.
But Shafia was as humble as she was wise. When bickering merchants, sobbing mothers, and aggrieved soldiers came asking for advice, she would say, “I am but a storyteller who draws my truths from allegory, whereas the sultan speaks from experience. I would never be so presumptuous as to offer counsel in his distinguished presence.”
The deflection was as effective as it was flattering, for the sultan still deferred to Shafia’s judgment when it came time to offer his verdicts. A year passed, and everyone rejoiced at the miracle of Shafia’s stories. Everyone except for the sultan, who still harbored the lingering suspicion he had been played for a fool. He devised one final plan to save his heart. One night, as Shafia was about to drift off to sleep in his arms, he stole a knife off his bedside table and held it to her throat. “I have a question for you,” he said. “Will you answer it truthfully?”
Shafia looked at him without flinching. “You have my word.”
“Then tell me: Do you have a final wish before you face death?”
And Shafia responded, with tears in her eyes, “Do you remember the story about the merchant who woke to become king for three days? Once, I likened my situation to his. But I knew we were not the same. You see, I knew this was a dream all along, and that someday it would have to end.” She set her hands atop his trembling ones and said, “Though I could never understand your burden, I beg you to remember my advice. I came to you because I wanted what is best for this kingdom. And I believe you do too. May you prosper, Your Majesty.”
The sultan flung his dagger away with a cry. “I asked you for a wish but instead you wish me fortune! You foolish creature.” He pressed his forehead to hers and said, “But I am the most foolish, for shielding myself with violence for so long. Forgive me, my love.”
The two of them lay in each other’s arms, mourning everything that had been lost. But on the morrow of the next day, there was hope. The sultan was a changed man, one who swore to redeem himself at the side of the storyteller who had saved his kingdom. For a time, the two of them ruled with compassion. But death, that great divider of love, comes for everyone. In the end, even our beloved storyteller met an untimely end.
But we must take heart! Though only the gods know how long we may live, we humans are the ones who decide when legacies die. Though Shafia is gone, her memory lives on through the lives she touched.
That, gentle friends, is the power a story has.
53
MAZEN
There was a fine line between being set free by the truth and being shackled by it. Having lived in a world of forced niceties and calculated sincerities his whole life, Mazen knew the dangers of honesty. And yet as he finished his story, he felt weightless in a way he never had before. There was a freedom to sharing the truth when others did not know it was his.
His heart lifted at the astonishment on his listeners’ faces. His mother’s story had always been a whispered tale threaded together by rumors. But now he had breathed life into it.
There was no applause this time. Instead, Mazen took his audience’s overwhelming gratitude in the form of coin. When they asked him how he knew the tale, he told them a half truth: he had visited Madinne and spoken to the sultan himself. They believed him. Or at least, they were enchanted enough to want to believe him.
Triumph welled in his chest as his listeners walked off, but the feeling dissipated when he noticed Loulie squinting at him. “You didn’t mention yourself in the story,” she said.
He blinked at her, startled. “No, because that history is… mine.”
His memories of his mother were not fodder for tales told in dark souks. They were precious, fragile, and he preferred to keep them hidden away like gems in a treasury.
Loulie shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. You said that Shafia’s memory lives on in the lives she touched, but you are the one who told that story. You ought to give yourself”—she raised a pointed brow—“Prince Mazen some credit for carrying on her legacy.”
The acknowledgment made a soft warmth unfurl in Mazen’s chest. He couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips. “Next time, then.”
The merchant turned away and reached for the silk pouch. She set it between them, then paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m curious: How much of that story was true?”
His smile wavered. The truth was that his father had never explained why he’d killed so many women in cold blood. The truth was that his mother had never understood either.
It was as if he was possessed, she had once told him. He remembered the faraway look in her eyes when she’d spoken, the way she had tucked her hands into her sleeves as if fighting a chill. But he was different when I told him the stories. Not suspicious, but thoughtful. Not angry, but regretful. He was himself when he was with me.
His mother’s account was the closest Mazen had ever come to the truth, but it was still only a small piece of it. Which was exactly what he told Loulie.
“This is just a facet of the history,” he said. “A polished diamond shard. Only my father knows the full truth, and—I do not think the story would be quite so uplifting if he told it.”
It pained him to say that, but it was an easy confession. The sultan was not a good man, but he was softer around the edges with Mazen. Perhaps that was why, even though Mazen had always feared his father, he loved him in spite of that terror.
“No, it would be a different story entirely.” Loulie tilted her head, thoughtful. “And it wouldn’t be nearly as lucrative as this version, I think.”
Mazen smiled despite himself. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
He shifted closer to help count the coins in their bag. Qadir, who had remained quiet on his shoulder this whole time, peeked his head out of Mazen’s ghutra to eye the gold as they totaled it. Mazen was amazed at the final count. Though it was not enough to buy horses, they had earned it themselves, and it made him proud to count it.
“You make a good manager, Layla,” he said.