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It takes little time for a volunteer to present herself after King Shahryar’s decree.
Lady Scheherazade was not particularly known to the King; she was one of the few ladies in the court who preferred to keep to herself. Still, people often praised the Grand Vizier’s eldest daughter for her virtues and talents. Witty and pretty, well-read and well-bred, or so the saying goes.
All Shahryar could see was a woman he had sworn to kill by morning.
Lady Scheherazade might as well have been faceless, for how little he cared. Except, her bravery made the King pause long enough to lift her veil over her damned head.
Husband and wife stared at each other. Shahryar had to acknowledge that while Scheherazade wasn’t a luminous beauty, she had an interesting face.
“Do what you want tonight,” said Shahryar, feeling magnanimous as he sat down and poured wine into a goblet. “I’m weary.”
Scheherazade bowed, then whispered to a servant. To Shahryar’s surprise, the servant had fetched Scheherazade’s younger sister, Dunyazad.
“What story will you tell tonight, sister?” asked Dunyazad, as though it wasn’t going to be Scheherazade’s last night alive. Shahryar had expected tears when Dunyazad arrived. He thought there would be more wailing, more begging to spare Scheherazade’s life. Instead, the two young ladies prepared to settle into their routine.
“Once in a land far away, when the colors on earth were richer, there lived a very poor boy named Aladdin, who lived with his mother...”
Shahryar strained to hear Scheherazade’s low voice from where he sat. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if he listened to the story, too.
—
The nights at the palace bled into days in this fashion: Dunyazad would visit the King and Queen’s chambers in the evening, where the three of them would settle themselves into cushions and rugs as Scheherazade told a story – never finished – until dawn broke. The King would agree to postpone her execution until she completed telling her tale, because he so badly wanted to hear the ending. Repeat, ad infinitum.
Of course, Shahryar caught on to his wife’s schemes almost immediately.
But as he looked at Scheherazade at dawn on the second morning, he found that he didn’t mind being harmlessly deceived this way. He wasn’t so bloodthirsty as to insist on Scheherazade’s death, not if she earned her keep. And Shahryar found that his new bride’s stories had been enthralling, to say the least.
Naturally, the royal couple’s behavior raised many eyebrows in the palace and much talk across the kingdom.
“Another month over and she’s still alive.”
“Will our mistress finally be free from that death warrant?”
Shahryar hated the sound of maids whispering. Like flies buzzing around in the summer, the chamber attendants were half-cleaning, half-gossiping when he entered their quarters earlier than he usually does.
“I’m not sure if the King is pleased with her. Many of the younger ladies in court are far more beautiful...” trailed off an older maid with a worried tone.
Shahryar cleared his throat. Scheherazade may be queen temporarily, but it doesn’t give these chambermaids the right to disrespect her.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked tersely, making his displeasure evident. The maids were pale ghosts as they knelt before him. “Do not speak such things of the Queen, lest I hear you and have your tongues cut out. Of all sinners, I quite loathe gossips. Be gone.”
From behind the curtain, Scheherazade peered out and sighed with relief.
“You could have scolded them yourself,” Shahryar turned his head to the source of the noise, looking at Scheherazade’s sheepish smile. “You are queen while you're alive.”
“I wasn’t sure whether that would have been appropriate behavior, my lord. I feel more like a guest in these chambers, rather than a mistress at home. And I think they meant well.”
“You’re free to do what you see fit for your position,” said a gruff Shahryar, conscious of the way Scheherazade beamed at his words. “But only,” he added, “for as long as you keep your life.”
It will be fine, he thinks. She won’t last the month anyway.
—
Shahryar came to regret allowing Scheherazade the freedom to perform her duties as queen.
Oh, she did her tasks very well. The lady was raised by the Grand Vizier, after all. Whether it’s a war council or a kitchen, Scheherazade was an impeccable manager — not to mention, consistent in her efforts. She was present at every meal, gave sound recommendations while he worked, and appeared by his side at every court function.
No, her capability was not where the problem lied. It was her proximity that unnerved him.
The King had taken careful precautions to guard his heart. Except for her nightly stories, Shahryar avoided his wife as much as possible. Almost predictably, however, Scheherazade had no wish to comply with her husband’s arrangements. It seemed to Shahryar that she was very good at being a contrarian.
“What do you want?” He interrogated her one day when she entered the library in which he worked, bearing a fresh pot of tea and his favorite snacks. Again. “Jewels? Land? Favors?” Scheherazade’s predecessor only ever approached him for such things.
His wife looked at him curiously. “Did you not say I am queen, my lord?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand why that matters right now.”
“Well, in order to be your queen, I must also take on the role of your wife and serve you properly.” She glanced at the tray in her hands. “Are these not to your liking?”
He snatched the tray from her hands and then shooed her away. Scheherazade, undeterred, picked up a scroll from his desk and started reading. In less than an hour, she managed to find all the holes in a case that Shahryar was studying. She was a maddening woman.
It bothered him enough that he inquired of the Grand Vizier about it. They strolled past the palace courtyard, where Scheherazade and her ladies practiced dancing while Dunyazad bent over her instrument, intently focused on producing lively music. Shahryar watched as his lady spun around gracefully, then turned to his father-in-law.
“Why has she never married before now?” he demanded.
“It’s not for want of trying, my lord,” replied the Grand Vizier dryly. “Indeed, I did my best to find her a suitable match when she came of age, but as you can imagine, it would take a rare man to appreciate having a wife better educated and more competent than them.”
“In fact, up until the day before your wedding, I still hoped to arrange an engagement for her.” The Vizier recounted his negotiations with a prominent family of courtiers, whose son would have been happy to take Scheherazade, on the condition that she give up supporting her father in court politics.
Scheherazade had quietly worked as her widowed father’s scribe and adviser throughout the years, assisting him with household and palace management since she was young. However, many nobles – including those prospective in-laws – disapproved of this practice. It was, they said, unbecoming for a wife and mother to have such pursuits outside the family.
At this, the King felt some irritation, both with his Grand Vizier and all the men who had rejected Scheherazade. He couldn’t quite imagine Scheherazade married to anyone else; she had too much spirit and intellect to be with a man who had ordinary concerns. Couldn’t they see that?
“So, that’s why you allowed her to marry me?”
The Grand Vizier shrugged. “She volunteered and was too stubborn about saving the women of the country to be stopped. Not even the threat of a beating would deter her from marrying you.”
“I confess, I am still vehemently opposed to the match, sire, for as long as her life is at risk. But I suppose I see how this choice makes sense if you consider it a union of equally-matched minds.”
The King raised an eyebrow, and the Grand Vizier’s eyes twinkled. “The pair of you have always been my brightest pupils.”
—
Scheherazade’s constant presence steadily grows on Shahryar, so much so that he inevitably lashes out at her and shuts himself away. She gets the message and makes herself scarce.
He was safe from her.
But he feels bereft without her warmth.
For the next few days, Shahryar looks for glimpses of a long braid gently swishing through the corridors, a pair of dark eyes peeking through doorways. She still shows up to their chambers to tell her stories at night, but her low, melodious voice is subdued and her face is composed, neutral.
He soaks her up in the hours before sunrise, before she bids him goodnight and bows out of their room with Dunyazad.
Shahryar wonders if her attentive care for him was solely because she wanted to keep her head. Or maybe she has grown tired of trying to please him.
(He doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if she actually took his harsh words to heart.)
For the first time, he seeks her out.
The Grand Vizier kept beautiful indoor gardens for his family in their chambers, and it is here where Shahryar intrudes on Scheherazade’s solitude. She sat on a small, stone bench with her legs crossed, staring off into the distance with her face perched on her left hand.
Scheherazade jumps when he coughs to announce his presence. Shahryar tries to hold back his smile.
“Did I startle you?”
“Yes. You’re… quite possibly the last person I expected to see here.” Scheherazade tried to phrase her words carefully, but they chilled Shahryar all the same. She seems to believe in his heartlessness, that his shadow would not come near her, even if she was sick or dying.
(He wanted to tell her missed her desperately. He knows he shouldn’t.)
“Forgive me,” he straightened up. “I came here to apologize.”
She cocks her head, “I know you didn’t mean any of it.”
“All the same, a gentleman ought to apologize. I’m sorry for my rudeness. You offered me companionship and comfort in my burdens, and I took you for granted. I— I do not wish for you to stay away.”
Scheherazade nods, then picks out a yellow flower to give to him. “Here, a sign that all is well between us.”
“You are a very forgiving person.”
“Well, I know how much pride kings have, and how much it must have taken you to come here for an apology,” Scheherazade smiled. “Besides, I don’t have the luxury of time to hold grudges for very long.”
Shahryar’s heart sank. It was a stinging reminder that, for all intents and purposes, Scheherazade’s position will always be unstable – and always subject to his own whims and caprices. And she knew this very well. Maybe, he thought, she was even worried that he might call for her execution unjustly due to his displeasure.
He cleared his throat. “You are an exceptionally wise woman.”
“I have to be. I’m married to you.”
Shahryar actually laughs for the first time in months. “To wisdom, a fool is bestowed.”
“Not a fool, my lord, and not a cruel monster – no matter how much you try to pretend,” Scheherazade steals a glance at him. (He notices.)
He says nothing, only offering her his arm; he has already put himself forward today, anyway. “Shall we go to dinner?”
Scheherazade accepts, letting the conversation go. She had already dug into too many raw wounds with her statement. Together, they make their way back to their quarters.
The yellow flower keeps watch over them in their chamber until it wilts.
—
Desire had no place in their marriage, but it was there all the same.
Scheherazade was still not a beauty, but perhaps Shahryar could allow her to be lovely. Yes, she was quite lovely.
The first time they consummate their marriage comes after he unearths unopened letters he had sent his first wife when he had gone traveling and left her behind. His words had once been full of passion and affection, but now those promises are empty, the letters remain unread, and the recipient is dead.
Scheherazade found him weeping and said nothing, only squeezing his hand in understanding. It may have been hours until he finally looked at her, but she stayed by his side. It had happened then.
He really had no excuses for the second, third, or every other time that came after that.
Scheherazade fell pregnant rather easily, to the court’s astonishment. Her predecessor had never carried a healthy baby to term, so Scheherazade’s pregnancy confirmed Shahryar’s long-held suspicion: his previous Queen had harmed her children, should the sire be one of her extramarital lovers.
But Shahryar had more important things to worry about. He filled his days tending to Scheherazade.
He ate all his meals with her, arranged for the best physicians from near and far to see her, and would read to her when she felt too weary to do so herself. They took strolls and naps together to help Scheherazade build up her stamina.
“I am always left behind to make your apologies and rearrange your schedule, Sire,” grumbled the Grand Vizier, who was visiting his daughter (and her draconian guard of a husband).
Scheherazade snorted in a decidedly unqueenly fashion. “I did try convincing him to go,” she said, then resumed throwing up her breakfast into an elaborately lacquered bowl.
“What, do you not want me here?” Shahryar retorted. He was holding up her hair. “This is far more important than an ordinary council meeting.”
“You are too good to me,” replied his wife, mostly sincere. Her exasperated father then left the room, rubbing his face.
The Grand Vizier’s pains were rewarded on the day the Queen gave birth.
“Indeed, a healthy boy – an heir to the throne,” said Shahzaman, freshly arrived from Samarkand, whose voice could hardly be heard above the ringing bells and the sound of celebration across the kingdom. “My brother has good fortune. He has finally secured his lineage.”
“A fitting reward for a doting father and a most attentive husband,” agreed the Grand Vizier. He had followed Shahryar when news of Scheherazade’s delivery reached his ears. The King ran to his wife’s delivery chambers, paced outside her door relentlessly, and then burst into the room once he heard the newborn cry.
When Shahzaman and the Grand Vizier were finally allowed to meet the princeling, they respectfully cast their eyes on everything but the King and Queen, who solemnly held hands as they stood over their newborn son.
—
In the course of time, they have two sons and Scheherazade confides in her husband that she had grown up lonely.
“It wasn’t until Dunyazad was born that things got better, but even so, our father was busy, and our mother was sickly,” she said as they walked around the Vizier’s garden together. “I want better for our children.”
Shahryar thought back on his own childhood with Shahzaman and realized they experienced the same thing, with their father ruling over the country and their mother perpetually dealing with disputes in the harem. He and his wife were kindred spirits, he thought.
“What do you recommend?” he asked her. How can I ease your loneliness now, he wondered.
“We should spend more time as a family, and make it a point to visit the nursery together every evening. Perhaps we should include the boys when I tell stories?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck. They had grown comfortable in affection like this, and while seduction was hardly ever his wife’s intention, it had that unintended effect on him all the same.
He kisses her in affirmation and allows himself to feel happy when she kisses him back.
(He imagines, briefly, that they chose to marry each other for love.)
The days were already good, but Shahryar began to look forward to their evenings together as a family most of all.
Still, the servants don’t fail to notice that the King takes more care with his hair and clothing at night than he does during the day, when he meets the most powerful personages. His valet points out this rather odd behavior, but Shahryar doesn’t indulge his gossipy servants with a reply, frowning at their stifled giggles. No, he wasn’t trying to impress his wife – not with two children shared between them already.
Perhaps he needed to assign them more work.
—
Shahryar looks over his newborn son, lying in his cradle. In a few months, this third child will be toddling and babbling, much like his older brothers. It should be exciting, but all he could feel was dread.
An heir and two spares — the nation thought — all but confirmed that Queen Scheherazade was now a fixture in the royal family, and would not be easily executed anymore. This has led the court to divide itself into two factions: those who supported the Queen and their sons, and those who whispered terrible things into the King’s ears about them.
They claimed that since the succession seemed wholly in the hands of the Grand Vizier and his daughter, the King ought to stay wary of their attempts on his life. Petitions to depose and behead Scheherazade were piled in a high stack on Shahryar’s desk.
As much as Shahryar wanted to trust his wife and her family, he was all too familiar with the ways of the court and how it can twist even the most sacred of bonds.
“Should you like a daughter, husband?” asked Scheherazade as she entered the room. “Since you are so very attentive, I would not mind being pregnant again. Besides,” she glanced at the newborn, “I would like at least one child to resemble me.”
His wife had developed a knack for detecting and deterring his darker moods.
“It seems difficult to raise a girl so preciously, only to give her away in marriage,” he said mournfully.
“Would you deprive a daughter of such joy as ours?”
“What if she marries someone cruel, foolish, or both?”
“We can never control how people are, husband. We can only raise our children to be wise, good, and strong. I’d like a daughter like Morgiana, who can defend herself and others.”
“Only you would wish for a child who would outwit her master Ali Baba and boil evil men alive,” snorted Shahryar.
Scheherazade laughed. “But you agree that having such qualities, such loyalty would relieve your fears, would it not?”
To that, Shahryar had no reply.
—
“Well, that’s everything,” said Shahryar, stretching after a long trade meeting. “Call for my horse, brother, I am impatient to return to the capital.”
“But you’ve only just arrived!”
“I have been here five days,” replied Shahryar sharply. “Do not delay me. I have a wife and sons waiting, and I need to buy them gifts before I go.”
“My, my,” said an amused Shahzaman. “You have become quite a family man. It suits you well.” He tilted his head. “In all seriousness, brother, do you love her?”
Ah, that dreaded question that stalks him wherever he goes. He sees it in the eyes of the court, chief of all in his Grand Vizier and Dunyazad, and he himself wonders. Only Scheherazade seemed to have no curiosity.
“And what if I do?” he asks Shahzaman quietly. He could feel his brother’s eyes watching him, wondering if he was ready to allow himself a measure of vulnerability again.
In truth, he wasn’t certain either.
Shahzaman stepped forward, placed his hands on Shahryar’s shoulders, and smiled reassuringly. “Then we are fortunate. Imagine the damage, had your heart fallen into less gentle, less patient hands.” Before Shahryar could react, his brother threw a pack of goods into his arms. “I should not keep you from home longer. Come, you have a long journey ahead.”
After long hours of hard riding, Shahryar returns to the palace just as the sun is setting. There, like a mirage of the desert, stood Scheherazade at the gates with their sons in tow. Shahryar leapt from his horse and embraced his wife.
“You’re back,” cried Scheherazade. “I thought it would take you another week to resolve matters.”
“O, ye of little faith. Your husband is more capable than that,” Shahryar puffed out his chest as his eldest son climbed up on his shoulders, and his lady laughed. The King’s smile in response told the courtiers everything they needed to know: Scheherazade was not merely lucky in keeping her head.
She was beloved.
—
Dunyazad breezes into their chambers one afternoon to fetch her instrument, which she had played the night before.
“Lord Shahzaman kindly sent me some of the newest musical pieces from Samarkand,” she said in greeting to Shahryar, who had a rare quiet afternoon which he savored by reading in the peace of his home. “He has the most excellent taste.”
Shahryar hums in agreement, though he privately wonders who actually acquired Dunyazad’s music, as his brother was horrendously tone-deaf.
Before leaving, Dunyazad whispers conspiratorially to her brother-in-law. “His note here says that he wished to send this music back with you when you last visited him, but you were deeply homesick and rushed back before he could fetch them.”
“I apologize for any delay,” said Shahryar, feeling the tips of his ears turning red. Dunyazad’s implication was not lost upon him.
“No need for an apology, my King,” giggled Dunyazad. “Your early return home was a much better gift, as my sister had grown mad with longing in your absence.”
“Did she?” He raised his eyebrows. Dunyazad was prone to exaggeration, and given her role as the primary accomplice in Scheherazade’s storytelling scheme, he could not but doubt whether or not this was intended to soften his heart towards his wife even more.
“Oh yes, she misses you dearly whenever you are gone. She had an especially hard time sleeping that week, and I would wake to find her rereading all your letters.”
“I never realized how deeply appreciated my correspondence is,” he replied diplomatically, deciding not to give too much stock to Dunyazad’s claims.
It wasn’t until much, much later, when he was in a conversation with his wife and brother and Scheherazade unconsciously quotes a joke from his letter by heart, that he starts to think Dunyazad might have been telling the truth after all.
—
His courtiers insist he take on concubines, daughters of powerful families, to stabilize his position. In reality, they wished to dilute Scheherazade and the Grand Vizier’s influence.
The worst indignity was that they asked Scheherazade to compile and present a list of candidates for him, as queens traditionally held responsibility over the harem.
Scheherazade is solemn as she reads the list of names, her eyes refusing to meet Shahryar’s. He thinks he sees hints of unspoken unhappiness pull down the corners of her mouth and he nearly explodes because all he wants is her.
But no, he could never say it aloud, because doing so would give Scheherazade complete power over him. And he wasn’t quite ready for that.
Shahryar suspected that, should his wife reject his love for her and insist that what they had was nothing more than a friendship or a good partnership, the anguish she will cause may lead him to destroy everything in his wake. So he nods coolly and accepts the list and watches as her shoulders deflate, turning her sad eyes away from him with a bow.
“Scheherazade,” her name bursts forth from his lips unbidden.
She stops at the door; he has never called her by her name before. It is always “my wife” or “my queen” or “my lady” – titles that could belong to any woman, really.
“You know me, Shahryar,” she said. (It stings him that this is the first time she chooses to call him by name, too.) “I never dare ask you for anything.” Always, always, his decree hung over them. “Moreover, these women, they will live long enough to provide you comfort, protection, and strength, well after my death. How can I not want that for you?”
“But I am selfish enough to admit that any choice you make will cause me pain,” Scheherazade’s voice cracked, and she all but fled from the room, never once looking back. All these years of marriage, she had never let Shahryar see her cry. It breaks his heart, just a little, but he does not run after her.
In the end, Shahrary never decides on who to choose for the harem, even after the Grand Vizier steps in.
“I loathe to say this,” said his sorrowful father-in-law, “But perhaps having another consort is not unwise.” The Grand Vizier, too, was petitioned relentlessly by many of his own allies, who had stalled their plans in order to put pressure on the King.
“Has your daughter stopped telling her stories?” asked Shahryar coldly, without even glancing up from the scroll he was reading. Scheherazade’s brokenhearted face lingered in his mind.
“No,” replied the Grand Vizier calmly. “Though I doubt she can spin you a tale indefinitely. Your marriage may be a personal matter, but as king, it requires you to make a decision soon.” The Grand Vizier bowed, then turned to leave, much like Scheherazade had done. The resemblance almost makes Shahryar smile.
“You and I both know I will never find one who is her equal,” called out Shahryar. “Not in this lifetime. There can be no other. Put those who say otherwise to the sword.”
(Shahryar may be too much of a coward to admit this directly to Scheherazade just yet, but he is not willing to let her be bullied by his courtiers any longer.)
The Grand Vizier nods and then delivers this message to his colleagues. The matter is quietly dropped by all.
—
On the 1001st night of their marriage, Scheherazade tells her husband she is ready to die.
Shahryar didn’t even realize she had finished her final story until she stood up, watched the sunrise, and kissed their three sons goodbye. He is shocked when his mighty Scheherazade kneels at his feet.
“My stories are finished, my King. I am ready for my execution at last.”
“How morbid of you, my Queen. And what of your goodbyes to me?”
“Goodbye, Shahryar,” she kissed him on the cheek. “There is much I want to say to you, but I’m afraid we don’t have enough time.”
“Pretend I am a djinn, then,” he replied, taking inspiration from her stories. “What is your last wish, Scheherazade?”
“My only wish is to grow old together with you and the children,” smiled Scheherazade sadly. “But if it’s not possible, exile would be bearable enough, so that I may hear of you and love you from afar.”
“That’s quite funny, I wish for the same,” Shahryar held her gaze. “It’s a good thing I have the power to fulfill our wish, don’t you think, my love?” He commands the Grand Vizier to revoke his original decree and announces that Scheherazade will be his only wife for as long as he lives, commending her for her faithfulness and goodness.
When they are left alone at last after many tears and congratulations from her family (who call her death-defying and blessed), Shahryar takes the opportunity to tease his beloved. “Really, Scheherazade, exile? You have such lofty dreams – after all, you did cheat death for three years. I thought you would be more creative than that.”
“My love, have I not amused you enough with my creativity all these nights? How fickle royal favor is!” He chuckled, and she embraced him, laying her once-cursed head on his chest.
One day, Shahryar decides, he will muster up the courage to speak of his love for her out loud and make sweet promises as all lovers do. But for now, this moment they shared was enough.