Scheherazade and the Ing

Nasrin's voice was dark and low as she called to him, her lips wet with wine and her fingers dripping with the honey of her own sweet fruit.

"Do you want a taste, my love?" She purred, beckoning her wet fingers.

She spread her long, lithe limbs out further, her toes pointed deliciously as she returned her fingers to toy with her clit.

"Don't you want me?" She asked, her dark eyes sparking. "Don't you want your queen?"

"I do. God, yes, I do."

The words came in a low, rough voice and Shariyar knew it was his own. He glanced down at his hands and found that he was on the floor.

"Then come and get me," she murmured, spreading her legs even wider for him.

He growled with anticipation as he scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, crawling to her like a hungry animal.

"Well, that's what you are," she said, as if she had heard his inner thoughts. "Just an animal. My pet. Hungry for me and only me."

"I'm your king, Nasrin," he said, his hands on her knees. "Never forget that I rule you."

Nasrin leaned forward, her ruby lips smug: "Only. Because. I. Let. You."

He snarled and dove his tongue into her, taking great satisfaction in the delighted scream that stole the smugness from her lips and replaced it with an expression of delirium. He licked at her sweet centre softly at first but soon he was sucking harshly on her clit until she sobbed with pleasure. He had been with women before her but Nasrin was the only one who drove him to this kind of mad fervour. He could never have enough of her taste, her touch. Never enough of those fierce, blue eyes.

Blue? No, they were not blue.

He glanced up at her, his tongue still licking at her dripping pussy. Her whole body was arched backwards, one hand playing softly with the curls of his hair. He could feel her nails against his scalp as his lips left her sex and began to wander along her inner thigh. He nipped at her pale flesh and she laughed aloud at the sudden burst of pain.

"Yes, that's it, bite me like you did that night."

He lifted his head and brought his lips to hers, cradling her breasts in his hands: "Like what night?"

"The night after your guard attacked me," she whispered between kisses. "Bite my breasts like you did that night."

No. That was not right.

He drew away sharply and her dark eyes fixed on him sharply.

"What is wrong with you?" She asked.

He shook his head and tangled his fingers in her long, black hair, pulling her towards him once again.

As they kissed, he pushed her backwards, sliding his body atop hers. He moved his hips until he felt her entrance greet the tip of his cock. She wrapped her legs around him and drew him forcefully inside her, gasping as he filled her with his member.

He moaned into her neck, savouring the way she felt, they way her body clenched and shuddered beneath him as he began to thrust. Her hands were on his back, then against his chest... forcing him to move slowly one moment before pulling him deeper inside her the next. Her muffled gasps drove him to move faster and faster, trying with each motion to force a scream of pleasure from her lips.

He glanced up and froze to find that it was not Nasrin he was driving into anymore. The gypsy girl lay beneath him, her mouth gagged and her eyes full of tears.

Shariyar pushed himself off her and stumbled away: "No! Why are you here? Where is Nasrin?"

The girl's eyes grew wide and she screamed from behind the gag.

He did not have time to glance over his shoulder before a hand wrapped around his waist and he felt the sharp edge of a knife at his throat.

"I'm here, my love."

Nasrin's voice came in his ear and he felt the world pitch under his feet.

"Come here, girl," Nasrin said. "Come help me. Don't you want him dead?"

The girl's hands were tied behind her back but she managed to prop herself up by her elbows.

"She does, you know," Nasrin said in his ear. "You hurt her. You were supposed to protect her and look what you did!"

He cringed at the shrillness of her voice: "But what did I do to you?"

"Nothing," came the dark response. "You did nothing to me. You meant nothing to me. You were my pet, my pawn."

Shariyar felt his knees go weak beneath him. He sank to the ground but Nasrin followed, her knife never leaving his throat.

"That's what she is to you, isn't it?" Nasrin asked, drawing the tip of the knife beneath his chin and forcing him to look up at the girl. "She is nothing to you but a pawn. But you had to force her. I never had to force you to do a single thing for me. You would have killed yourself had I asked it of you."

Shariyar roared, pushing her hand away so forcefully that the dagger fell from her fingers and went spinning across the floor.

"Never!" He cried, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth.

Nasrin merely laughed: "But that is what you are doing, Shariyar — killing yourself bit by bit every day."

She spun him by his shoulders and he looked upon himself: skin jaundiced, teeth rotting, eyes surrounded by piles of grey flesh, cheeks sunken and sallow.

"Ah, there you are," Nasrin chuckled. "Do you see what you're doing to yourself? And it's all for me."

He turned his desperate eyes to Scheherazade but the girl looked away from him.

"Don't look at her!" Nasrin shrilled, turning his face viciously. "Why is she even here? Why is she in our bed?"

His eyes filled with tears and he tried to turn away from her.

"No, no," she snarled. "You will answer me."

His mouth gaped as her fingernails dug sharply into his cheeks.

"Why is she in our bed?" She asked again. "Have you replaced your queen with this whore?"

"No," he managed. "I could never —"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Nasrin screamed, her features distorting hideously in anger. She released his face finally and pointed at the girl. "She should be dead like me — like all the others. Why. Is. She. Here?"

Scheherazade's proud eyes were turned down.

"She is different," Shariyar breathed, his eyes focused solely on the girl.

"Different?" Nasrin asked, her lips turned in a sly smile. "Different from whom, my love?"

"Everyone. You."

"How?" Nasrin pressed. "What is special about this one?"

"I —" Once again the king stumbled on his answer under the powerful, predatory gaze of his wife.

"What makes her any better than the dozens of women who came before her?"

Suddenly, the women he had exiled appeared from the gloom. They appeared as he envisioned their corpses — half-rotting, their flesh picked from their bones by hungry vultures and their insides torn out by wild dogs. Empty sockets fixed on him. Fleshless fingers twitched.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his feet beating a slow retreat.

"No you're not."

He gasped as one of the corpses accused him, her skull offering him a toothy scowl.

"Let's tear the skin from his bones," another cried suddenly, "just as he had the vultures do ours."

"I want to pluck his eyes out!" One of the dead women announced. "I used to have such pretty eyes."

The horde of corpses advanced on him, forcing him backwards until he fell onto the bed. He scrambled backwards but recoiled when his fingers met with something cold and unmoving. He turned to see what he had encountered and found himself staring into the dead eyes of yet another skeleton. This one had a gag clutched between its teeth and Shariyar knew immediately who it was.

"Scheherazade," he breathed. "No, you aren't dead."

The skeleton cocked her skull and slipped her bony wrists from their bindings. She reached up and pulled the gag from between her teeth.

"Yes, Shariyar, I am."

Shariyar sat up sharply, cold sweat beaded across his brow. He glanced across the bed at Scheherazade but he could hardly see anything in the darkness of the room, nor hear anything above the sound of his own heartbeat.

He threw the sheets from his limbs and got dressed as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow. With one hand on the door he paused for a moment to look over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. He heard her stir slightly and he quickly stepped through the door, closing it softly behind him.

Outside, his guards stood at attention.

"Akbar, Navid, stay here and guard the girl," he commanded in hushed tones. "Now listen, if I have been drinking, you are not to let me near her. Do not let me in this room, do you understand?"

The men glanced at each other and then nodded. Shariyar sighed and wrapped his cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood low over his face. If his dream was to remain just that, he knew he had to keep his distance from Scheherazade. Nasrin had always thought herself something of a prophet. This time, perhaps, he would prove her wrong.

++++++++

"Your highness, we've got hounds on the trail."

Shahzaman looked up from his plate at the shadowy figure stooped in the low entryway to his tent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the half-eaten meal to the side.

"What's that now, Cas?" He asked, gesturing for the soldier to enter.

"The Irlazkens," he said, crouching down on his heels. "They've been sighted in Hamarr and are rumoured to be travelling west. Seems as if they've finally honed in on the convoy's route."

"How many strong?"

"Twenty," he said.

The prince sighed and ran a hand through his hair: "We're certain it's them?"

"Absolutely," Cas smirked. "They are, shall we say, conspicuously out of their element in these eastern climes."

The island nation of Irlazken was the westernmost point of the known world. The island was a geological anomaly: To the east, the island was low and covered in lush vegetation but, to the west, a great, rocky formation rose to towering heights. Atop that sheer cliff, only the hardiest plants could grow. The howling wind was thick with salt and it chilled to the bone even under the full gaze of the sun. And yet, as inhospitable as it was, it was from there that the first ruling family had chosen to seat the monarchy. The castle, like the cliff it sat atop, stood defiant in the face of the never-ending sea below, ready against any threat it may carry. The Irlazkens themselves were a mysterious people. Their native tongue was like no other known language and their history was shrouded in so many colourful myths that no one could possibly hope to distinguish what was fact from fiction. What was known for certain, however, was that they were a resilient people who had managed to carve out an existence in one of the harshest environments known to man, and turn what would be a weakness into a position of power. They possessed wealth and security that rivalled many kingdoms twice the size of their own. Some believed that the Irlazkens were the only ones to have ever sailed beyond the edge of the world and lived to return. Indeed, they prided themselves on their maritime legacy, boasting of their unsinkable ships and unrivalled seamen.

As if reading Shahzaman's thoughts, Cas said: "Yes, I reckon the Irlazkens will find this ocean of sand far more difficult to cross that the one they are used to."

"Then you don't think they are likely to catch up with the convoy?"

"Well, I wouldn't bet against it," the soldier admitted. "They're on a mission for their king, I doubt they would let little things like sweltering heat, poisonous insects, flash floods or sandstorms get in their way."

"How about an exiled prince and a band of banished warriors?"

Cas grinned and spread his arms wide: "Hardly a fair fight."

The prince smiled back. He had counted the broad-faced warrior among his friends since childhood. After Nasrin's death, Cas had been the first to turn against Shariyar in defence of his friend. Though Shahzaman never questioned the soldier's loyalty, he also knew that there was nothing Cas loved more than being the underdog in a fight. The harsher the conditions and the smaller the chances of success, the more Cas revelled in the battle.

"We'll have to reach them before the convoy realises they are on their heels," Shahzaman reminded him. "They cannot know we have any interest in the success of their journey."

"Then we will need to strike once they pass the westernmost outpost at Jaspir," the soldier said. "Once they put that town out of their sights, there is no turning back until they reach Persepolis."

"First water stop would be the Gulzar oasis," the prince mused. "That gives us a window of about fifty miles. And there's not much in the way of coverage along that route."

"We don't need much," Cas replied.

"Send Gazsi to Jaspir to watch for them. Have him send a falcon when the Irlazkens set out from there. In the meantime, we can make our way to Gulzar."

Cas saluted but he did yet not stand.

The soldier glanced around the dusty tent and nodded at the prince: "Do you think you will miss any of this?"

Shahzaman scoffed: "Any of what? Having to shake the scorpions from my boots each morning? Having to eat more like a vulture than a man?"

"You said yourself that snake tasted better than usual last night," Cas retorted with a smile.

The prince pulled himself to his feet and then helped Cas to his: "If we ever make it back into the palace, you can bet I will never set foot in this damnable desert again."

"Going to jump right back into the lap of luxury then, are we?"

"That's my plan but I get the feeling you'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming."

A mischievous smile turned the soldier's lips: "You might be right. I might not come back at all. Might find myself a blushing Bedouin bride and settle down out here."

The prince laughed and clapped Cas on the back as they stepped out into the glaring sun.

"You know, there is still the chance that I am wrong about all of this," Shahzaman said, his tone sombre again.

"Everything we have learned so far has confirmed your suspicions," Cas said. "I have complete faith that you are right."

"Then, perhaps, Fate is on our side after all," the prince said, a smile returning to his face.

"Oh I hope so," the warrior said. "But I also hope she doesn't make things too easy for us."

++++++++

For the third day in a row, Scheherazade woke to an empty room. She stretched her arms and smiled to be greeted by nothing but the morning sun. She did not spend too much time speculating as to where the king was spending his time. All she knew — and cared about — was that food was delivered to her at each mealtime and new books appeared for her every morning.

The first day that she had awoken to find Shariyar absent, she had spent the entire day anxiously eyeing the door, Jafar's warning fresh in her mind. But the king never came. Slowly she began to relax, enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty chamber and devouring books as if her mind was starving for knowledge.

A humble supper of dried fruits, candied nuts and spiced vegetables arrived for her just after dusk. As she ate, the girl found her mind wandering. She suddenly found that the scroll she had been reading intently just a few minutes before could hardly keep her interest for more than a few words at a time.

Why does Shariyar keep me here still? She mused. If he does not want to use me, why doesn't he let me go? I am of no value to him and of no importance to anyone else. No one would know if he were to let me free...

She sighed and pushed the plate of food away, her appetite suddenly gone.

I need to stop playing his game. I cannot change him — he does not deserve redemption.

Her tattoos began to burn and she scowled, running her hands up and down her arms in a vain attempt to soothe her skin. The only thing that would stop the ink from itching was for her to cease all bitter, self-pitying thoughts. But that was harder said than done.

She breathed in and out deeply, concentrating on positive thoughts — there is good in everyone, even Shariyar is worthy of forgiveness and redemption — until the tattoos stopped burning her.

Ekundayo had warned her that the tattoos would be a burden. The ritual that saved her had only worked because her heart had been pure. Any time the purity of her heart was threatened by malicious thoughts or selfish deeds, the ink would start to burn. It was a warning not to let her mind wander too far into the darkness. The elder had never said explicitly what would happen if she were ever to give in to the darker elements of the human spirit but the hints she had given were deterrent enough.

Shariyar could use a set to keep him in line, she said to herself. The thought earned her a sharp tingle.

She stood up from the table and grabbed the king's oud as she walked out onto the balcony. She climbed atop the balcony rail and began to strum lazily as she stared up at the inky sky. A soft, melancholy song spilled from her lips as the stars took their places:

Little bird fly close to my window, Sing a song to put my soul at ease I know that winter is coming And that soon your song will cease.

Sing to me of the eternal summer You chase on those tiny wings. Sing to me of the ancient of days And of all the joys he brings.

Little bird come sit on my finger, Sing your song for me once more. Sing louder, lovely little dove, Do you mind if I shut the door?

Sing to me of the eternal summer You chase on those tiny wings. Sing to me of the ancient of days And of all the joys he brings.

No, little bird, you cannot leave now I'm sorry but you must stay. They say what you love, you must let go But that's a price that I cannot pay.

Sing to me of the eternal summer You chase on those tiny wings. Sing to me of the ancient of days And of all the joys he brings.

++++++++

When the last of his meetings had finally come to an end, and the last of the straggling noblemen had made their way out of the throne room, Shariyar held his breath until the heavy doors sounded shut before throwing off his heavy cloak.

"Thank god for the nighttime, eh Jafar?" He asked, stretching his legs.

The vizier looked up: "Before long the days will start to grow shorter."

"You are the lark and I am the owl," the king said. "That is how it has always been with us."

"It is," Jafar said with a soft smile. "I wake with the sun and you, the moon."

"Well, there is no moon tonight," Shariyar said. "But the stars will shine all the more brightly for it."

The vizier looked at him expectantly, knowing that there was a point to this small talk.

Shariyar caught his glance and chuckled under his breath: "You know me too well."

These days, I'm not so sure. Jafar thought, being careful not to speak the words aloud.

"Well I certainly know you well enough to know that you do not speak of moons and stars without reason," he said instead.

"I know that I cannot call you my friend anymore," Shariyar said, his voice weighed low with unspoken apologies. "But I wonder if, perhaps, you would sup with me tonight."

Jafar sighed, rising from his seat: "I am your friend, Shariyar."

"I am not foolish enough to think I still deserve your friendship," the king said, a tinge of bitterness hardening his tone.

"Oh you don't," the vizier said, "but you have it all the same."

Shariyar nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak aloud. He let Jafar lead the way to a small dining room not far from the throne room. It was spare compared to the larger banquet halls of the palace but the furnishings were more than adequate for a simple dinner.

Hardly had the pair sat down than servants appeared with wine and a small ghalyan. Shariyar picked up one of the silver mouthpieces and took a long draw of the sweet tobacco, filling the room with milky smoke as he breathed out.

"You handled the meeting with Omid well," Jafar said as he poured himself a glass of wine.

"That man is insufferable," Shariyar scoffed, letting out another mouthful of smoke. "I would have settled any deal he offered just to get him out of my sight."