Chapter 1
Sand. Burning sand that choked you and constricted your breathing. Tiny grains of sand that entangled themselves in your eyelashes and left your eyes gritty and your mouth feeling like a bowl of ashes. Rough sand that whipped up into the wind suddenly and surrounded whatever unfortunate caravan was lucky enough to be around.
IT WAS ALL SAND. Sand and sun, each one working toward a common goal and infuriating you to no end. That was what Arabia was, anyway. Sand.
But even kingdoms of sand had hidden jewels. Scheherazade knew. She’d traveled the world many times, without the convenience of the fabled magic carpets. Her father was a merchant, selling wares that everyone was interested in.
Now he was running low on money. Their recent adventures hadn’t brought back enough profit, despite the fact that her father refused to use her to get money on the side. Her virtue was intact- perhaps that was the curse that led her here in the first place.
She was no aibnat alnabila -noble’s daughter- and she did not intend to carry herself like one. She relished the feeling of the wind in her hair, the dirt on her palms; there was nothing she would trade for the life she now lived.
That was all being taken away from her, and she could do nothing about it. Father shouldn’t have listened to the vizier, Azade fumed. I am his daughter. What can the vizier give him that I can’t?
Wealth, fame, and luxury, a mocking voice replied. You are none of that. You are just another mouth to feed and another body to clothe, another person to look after on his journeys.
Try as she might, Azade could not help but understand. Failure was not good for the business. Having his daughter as queen would boost sales and increase sympathy from those who knew her probable fate.
Problem was, she wasn’t even his real daughter. She was nothing but a street urchin, caught trying to convince a peddler to give her a meal. The peddler offered her a meal and instead lured her to the back of the store, where he tied her up in order to sell her to slave traders.
That was where her current caretaker found her. He freed her, took her in and treated her like his own daughter. All of those things seemed to shrink in comparison to the monster he was handing her over to now.
The king would be her fate. Becoming the sultana of the entire kingdom wouldn’t be so bad if it was a kind hearted man that was ruling next to her.
It wasn’t. Every night he married a woman, took her to his chambers and practically interrogated her. By the dawn she was dead. His own dagger had delivered the death stroke, and that same dagger would be used on her.
Not if she could help it, Azade vowed. She had a silver tongue, a rare gift among traveling persons. She had collected stories like a weaver collects cloth, making them into her own tapestry dotted with emotions no one else has known.
Her hands trembled. In a few moments he would arrive. He would be the last thing she ever saw. But perhaps she could change all that, perhaps she could ensure her future and live to see another day.
She knew how to; she had braved sandstorm after sandstorm, pulling her veil closer around her face so she wouldn’t choke. She had defended herself from wandering hands in dark alleyways, charming her father’s clients in the process. She was Scheherazade. Scheherazade was a survivor. And survivors see the morning. They always do.
Footsteps. They echoed behind her, the seconds dragging on as he approached. When he stood behind her she tensed.
He saw it as weakness.
