Read Online The Storyteller's Daughter by Cameron Dokey - Free Book Online

away from here,
he thought.

    “For a moment, I will leave you, then,” he said. Turning, he pushed aside a hanging and vanished into the depths of his apartments.
    For several moments, Shahrazad sat perfectly still, her only movement her steady breathing in and out. At first this brought no peace, for with every breath she took, her mind repeated the same phrase, over and over:

    What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

    And, just as swiftly as her mind posed the question, her heart gave the reply:
What I must. What I must. What I must.
    For years she had unconsciously schooled herself to face this test, teaching herself to rely upon herself alone. Now she would be up to the task that lay before her, the one Maju had told her was her destiny, or she would not. And if not she, then no one.

    But it will be hard,
she thought.
Ah, God!
Much harder than she had thought. For though she had listened for it carefully, it seemed to her that she had heard no warmth in Shahrayar at all. He was cold, through and through. So cold that Shahrazad could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.
    With a jerky motion she unclasped her hands, ran one of them nervously over the fabric of the divan, then paused. Slowly, more carefully now, Shahrazad explored the fabric beneath her fingers. At the unexpected feel of what she found there, she felt her thoughts steady and her courage revive.
    For what she felt beneath her fingers wasn’t the subtlety of silk. It was the simplicity of finely woven cotton. Here, in this place that was most truly his, Shahrayar surrounded himself not with things to compel and impress, but with things to make a refuge and a home. And the knowledge of this warmed Shahrazad’s heart, as she hoped to find the way to warm Shahrayar’s.
    And so she sat, her fingers stroking the fabric of the divan. And thus it was that Shahrayar found her. Coming back into the room, certain now that he had himself under control, he caught the gentle motion of Shahrazad’s hand and stopped short. For the first time he thought he saw Shahrazad’s mother in her.  For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if, like Maju, Shahrazad could see things that others could not.
    And at this wondering, Shahrayar felt something move within him, even within his heart that he, himself, had turned to stone. But what it was, he could not tell. So he continued into the room and watched the way Shahrazad heard the sound of his coming and turned her face toward him once more.
    “Ah!” she said, and he saw the way her face lit up. “You are much more comfortable now.”
    “I am, indeed,” Shahrayar answered. “But how can you tell?”
    “By the sound of your movements,” Shahrazad said. “You walk with more ease than you did before. And the sound of the fabric is gentle as it brushes against itself.” She cocked her head, as if considering. “You are wearing a caftan, and your feet are bare, like a boy’s.”
    “That is so,” Shahrayar said, his tone astonished. At the sound of it, Shahrazad gave a laugh like chimes in the wind.
    “There is no magic in this, I assure you,” she said. “More like a lucky guess, my lord. My father often dressed this way when he came to see me at the end of the day after his court duties were done. He told me he had acquired the custom from the old king, your father. I simply thought you might have done so also.”
    At the mention of her father and his own, Shahrayar sobered. “I have no wish to speak of fathers.”
    “As you desire, so it shall be.” Shahrazad’s smile faded away, and the room was filled with silence once more. At this, Shahrayar felt the thing inside him stir again, but this time he thought he knew its name: It was called sorrow.
    ” What will you have to eat?” he asked, after a moment.
And now I am back where I started,
he thought, only this time, he discovered he was hungry.
    “I would like to try whatever pleases you,” Shahrazad answered promptly.
    Shahrayar