PREPARING TO TELL a tale to the murderous king, Zeinab walked over to the bed and sank into the mound of a dozen pillows. She rested her head against the headboard and crossed her legs at the ankles. Then she grabbed one of the pillows and placed it on her stomach, hugging it to her chest.

       For a few long moments, King Kadar appeared conflicted. He turned to face the door, but remained rooted firmly in place at the very middle of the room. He clenched his teeth before biting down on his lower lip, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. However, soon, he seemed to begrudgingly give in. Circling the bed, he sat down on the very edge and cast his blue eyes expectantly in Zeinab's direction.

       For the first time since she had seen him, Zeinab smiled.

       Like an obedient little boy, she thought to herself, both pleasantly surprised and immensely relieved. I've got the Caliph of Khorashtar in the palm of my hand.

       The mere thought gave her a surge of power and urged her to tell the tale that was flowing through her blood, tingling her tongue, yearning for release.

       "What exactly is this story?" the caliph questioned.

       "Patience, sayyidi," said Zeinab. "Besides, I am about to tell it. It's a story my father used to tell me before he died. He was an exemplary storyteller, and I hope to be half as good as he." She wasn't entirely sure as to why she was even mentioning this to him. Perhaps she was attempting to evoke some kind of sympathy within him, but he had none. She cleared her throat. "May I tell it?"

       "Proceed."

       She sighed, her eyes glistering like the gold flakes on her shoulders. Inhaling once, she allowed the words to flow from her lips, pristine and eloquent.

       "In the desert kingdom of Mohkasan lived a young man by the name of Faruq," the gifted storyteller began in a slight singsong voice that only served to further captivate the king. "He was the son of an emir. He lived with his wealthy father and was spoiled rotten by him. Faruq would be given as much gold as he so desired from his parents, and he had only one obligation: to go to the market for them once every seven days, and bring back food for the family.

       "On his way to the marketplace, astride his majestic black stallion—an al-Khamsa—he frequently met beggars who would plead mercifully for just a few coins or anything else he had to spare. On rare occasions, they would attempt to swipe a loaf of bread off of him, but he never allowed them to get away. He was hawk-eyed and noticed everything, so even when the beggars were on the brink of starvation, he did not give them a single thing. Faruq did not like these less fortunate men and the fact that they asked him for his money when, in his mind, he had worked so hard to earn it."

       "Worked hard?" the caliph scoffed suddenly. Zeinab glared at him for interrupting the story—wondering where the audacity had originated from—before remembering that he was the king and that he made his own rules. In his mesmeric daze, he failed to notice her staring daggers into his head and simply continued his comment. "He went to and from the market, and didn't even have to walk. Clearly this man knows nothing about true effort."

       And you do, Kadar al-Din Rumi? she wanted to spit at him venomously; but for once, she kept her lips sealed and blocked the insult.

       "Indeed he didn't," she agreed, trying to keep her tone calm. "Until one day, Faruq's life changed drastically. The emir discovered that his son was in love with his rival's daughter and confronted him. He told him over and over that this girl was a gold digger and that she didn't truly love him, but Faruq—blinded by love and lust—didn't listen. In his fit of rage at the betrayal of the family, the emir disowned Faruq and left him penniless and without a single talent that might bring him money. When his lover heard that Faruq was no longer rich, she left him—and it was then that he was truly alone for the very first time in his life."

       Zeinab watched the king curiously, but his face remained devoid of emotion.

       "Finally, Faruq was forced to become a beggar, very much like those he had scorned in the past. It was a horrid time to become a beggar, for the drought had begun. To many, it would have seemed like bad luck on the young man's part. But Faruq was quite superstitious and began having doubts about kindness and greed—so in his guilt-ridden mourning over his lost fortune, he made the assumption that the fact he had not once given coins to a beggar had caused the gods to frown upon him and to take his gold."

       There was a tentative knock on the door of the bedroom, pulling King Kadar from his trance. He jumped to his feet and reached for his dagger instinctively. Zeinab felt the same familiar fear clutching at her throat, but it was gone when the caliph's broad shoulders sagged and he reached for the doorknob.

       In scurried another servant girl carrying a tray of food. She bowed before the caliph with wide eyes, squeaked out a quick apology at the interruption and placed the tray on the bed in front of Zeinab. Then she ran out, reluctant to linger for longer than necessary, and closed the door behind her, walking into the row of guards that stood outside.

       "Would you like to eat?" asked the caliph gruffly, turning to Zeinab.

       "I would like to finish the story first," Zeinab lied, knowing very well that she didn't intend to finish it that night. "I think you'd like to hear the rest as well, before anything else, sayyidi. May I continue?"

       "Very well," he said, making his way back towards the bed and resuming his position, sitting on the edge.

       Ignoring the delicious aroma of food that wafted to her nostrils, she nervously fiddled with the ornate embroidery on the pillow in her hands.

       "The following morning, Faruq was awoken by the hot desert sun, which scorched his skin to a deep red. He no longer had a home to live in or a place to sleep, so he had resorted to sleeping in the sand, sometimes without shade. His tongue was dry and his lips were cracked. As his eyes fluttered open, encrusted with dried tears, he noticed something glimmering in the sand. It was a coin on the ground. As he scrambled to pick up the coin, he realized it was his last hope. He had not drunk anything for two days and eaten anything for three. Though he himself was poor and he would very much have needed the extra gold, he desperately found another beggar and handed it to him instead."

       "Why would he do that?" the caliph asked incredulously. "Why not keep it for himself?"

       "I told you, he was desperate," Zeinab responded. "In fact, Faruq thought that his kindness would be rewarded and that he might be able to go back to living a lavish life. And he was correct to assume so, for that night, the drought finished and the skies rained down onto the kingdom. Faruq drank the rain and his thirst was quenched. And the morning after the rainfall, he saw two gold coins in the sand, just where he'd found the last ones."

       She paused for too long.

       Then she set the pillow down.

       She was done for the night.

       "That's it?" King Kadar demanded, his dark eyebrows pulling together. He ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

       Zeinab laughed—it made a soft tinkling sound, resonating through the room. "Oh, no, surely not!" she cried, a convincing smile on her face. "But I cannot possibly tell you the entire story in one night, now, can I? No, no, I think not. That would simply be too much."

       "Kalila Nejem," he hissed. She felt his frustration rise. "You did that on purpose. So I wouldn't kill you tonight."

       "Yes, indeed I did, my dear king," she responded, making sure her voice was as sweet-sounding as ever. "And you aren't going to kill me tonight, are you? You are going to return to your room and allow me to live past tonight—longer than any of your other wives have—because you wish to hear the rest of the tale."

       He had a faraway look in his eyes. "Fine. One last dawn, until you finish the story. That is all I am giving you." He paused. "I—wish you a good night," he muttered, "my queen."

       As he made for the door, she felt one last surge of confidence. She was invincible and opened her mouth, using her sharp tongue this time not to entrance, but to see if he was at all capable of genuine compliments.

       "Aren't you going to pay your poor little wife a compliment?" she called after him, jutting out her lower lip and feigning sadness. "Did I captivate you?"

       She had her answer when he turned around to face her once more, allowed his eyes to trail over her beautiful figure—her shamla, her jewelry, her makeup—and strode directly out the door.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

As you may have already noticed, the tales in this book will be different from those in other One Thousand and One Nights books you may have read. This is because they're my own creations. I'm going to be inventing my own tales instead of using pre-existing ones.

Anyway, did you enjoy the chapter? Let me know your thoughts on the characters, I'd love to hear what you think.