The Book of Wonders Read online

  “I am sorry that it has to be this way, my darling, habibti.” Nonna stepped forward and cupped Zardi’s face in her weathered, olive-colored hands. “I’ve always wanted you to have a normal life, without fear or dread, but we do not live in a normal time. The sultan holds Arribitha in a deadly grip. We all suffer, but it is women who pay the highest price.” Nonna began to tremble. “He hunts us because he is afraid of us. Before he came to power it was women who were the most skilled in magic. Now you are thirteen, now you are a woman; a shadow looms over you and it will only deepen.”

  Zardi balled her hands into fists but couldn’t bring herself to say any more. What was there to say?

  Nonna clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Come, Scheherazade. I want to show you something that will make you feel better. I will prove to you that your future isn’t as terrible as you imagine.”

  Nonna picked up a small case full of saffron from the table and led Zardi over to the second cauldron of water on the fire. It was bubbling in earnest now, spitting and hissing fiercely.

  Nonna glanced at Zardi. “You must promise me that you will never tell a soul what I am about to do.”

  Zardi tensed. “No, Nonna, please. It’s too dangerous to do magic.”

  “It is just a bit of soothsaying,” replied Nonna. “I am not as talented as some I have known and lost to the sultan’s cutting block.” She picked three saffron strands from the case and threw them into the water. The burnished-orange strands instantly began to twist and turn in the bubbling liquid.

  “Look!” Nonna exclaimed. “All three of your strands have floated. You are blessed. It is good luck to have even two strands float and you have three!”

  Zardi looked at the threads uncertainly. They were all floating, but was this explanation just something that Nonna had concocted to make her feel better? Suddenly, each strand began to twist and turn more violently and curled inward, forming three circles that were interlinked.

  “What does it mean?” Zardi asked, her skin prickling with unease.

  Nonna’s face had gone pale. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

  The people around the table were quiet. Candlelight lit their faces kindly, and by its gentle glow Zardi could almost convince herself that her family was happy. But deep down she knew differently. Ever since their conversation in the kitchen, Nonna had been tense and quiet. Rhidan was distracted and refused to tell her what he had discovered on the docks, and her father looked exhausted. Nonna had cooked a lovely dinner, but Zardi had searched and failed to find her appetite. Thoughts of the sultan and the Hunt left room for nothing else. Only Zubeyda had been in high spirits, but now she had gone next door to fetch Omar so that he could have dessert with them.

  From the end of the table came a small, polite cough. Looking almost embarrassed, Zardi’s father produced a wrapped gift from under the table and handed it to her. “I hope you like it,” he murmured.

  Zardi stared at Baba in shock. From the crescent shape of the package, she had a good idea of what it contained. She ripped the paper off to reveal a wooden bow. It was short and tightly strung and covered with varnished leather that made the weapon waterproof. Lying beside it was an archer’s belt with a quiver that flowered with thin arrows topped by delicate white feathers. Looking closer, she could see that the quiver had a clip for her bow and was embossed with an image of a golden lion. “Baba, I don’t understand,” she finally managed to say. “I thought you said archery wasn’t suitable for a girl.”

  Her father laughed, his handsome, tired face lighting up. “Zardi, you may not have noticed, but I gave up telling you what was suitable a long time ago.” He smiled sadly. “You are so much like my darling Scheherazade, just as stubborn and determined. Whenever I tried to argue a point with your mother, she would remind me that her name meant ‘lion-born,’ and I knew then and there that I’d never win the fight. You have your mother’s spirit, that lion’s spirit. It is so sad that you never met her. She would have been proud of you.” He stood and kissed Zardi’s forehead. “Enjoy the bow and the arrows, my daughter. You’re a talented archer and you might as well have equipment that is the right size for you.”

  Zardi was speechless as she watched him sit down in his chair. Not only had he given her a gift that until now had been totally taboo, he’d also mentioned her mother! What in all of Arribitha was going on?

  “Baba, thank y—”

  A high-pitched scream interrupted her. Zardi froze, her skin alive with goose bumps. “What was that?”

  “I think it came from next door,” Rhidan said.

  “Stay here,” Zardi’s father ordered. He and Nonna erupted from their chairs and ran toward the front door.

  Zardi’s eyes met Rhidan’s, which were almost indigo with worry. “You coming?” She pushed her chair back, slung the bow over her shoulder, and fastened the archer’s belt around her waist.

  “I’ll be right by your side,” Rhidan replied.

  They raced after Baba and Nonna, and Zardi tried to ignore the watery dread that filled her stomach.

  Zubeyda was next door.

  Another cry tore the night apart, and Zardi ran faster, fear pounding in her skull. She heaved the front door open and spilled out into the darkness.

  4

  The Praisemaker

  There was nothing unusual in the street in front of her. It was as quiet as a graveyard, except for Baba and Nonna banging on the door of Omar’s family’s villa. Zardi and Rhidan skidded along the tiled path and joined in with their efforts. But there was no answer.

  “Let’s go to our balcony,” Rhidan suggested. “We’ll be able to see into their courtyard from there.”

  Baba nodded, his face a portrait of fear in the moonlight.

  Zardi led the way, racing back inside the house, up the wide marble staircase and out onto the balcony at the side of the villa. She looked over into the courtyard next door. Scudding clouds covered the moon, and it took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, ice scraped her spine. A ghostly figure in white was being held by two of the sultan’s guards, their red tattooed faces smudges of blood in the night.

  The figure twisted in their arms, and Zardi caught a glimpse of a heart-shaped face, wet with tears.

  “Zubeyda!” The name was torn from Zardi’s throat, a cry of a wounded animal.

  Her sister wore the white dress of a praisemaker, and it might as well have been a noose around her neck. The edges of Zardi’s vision darkened and pushed inward until all she could see was her sister’s terrified eyes. She gripped the wrought metal of the balcony railing, its coldness beating back the darkness.

  Sitting astride a powerful, flame-colored horse, surrounded by guards, was a man, his face in shadows. A gust of wind chased the clouds away from the moon’s surface, and in the eerie light the man’s features were suddenly revealed: high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a handsome face ruined only by the cruel twist of its mouth. The sultan. He was smiling widely as he took in the scene unfolding before him.

  Every fiber of Zardi’s being screamed in protest as she saw Zubeyda writhe like bait on a line, trying to get away. But the guards held her sister tight, one of them covering her mouth. More guards stood to the side, swords drawn, keeping back Omar and his brothers.

  Another scream pierced the night air, and Zardi realized that it came from her grandmother. Nonna had collapsed to the floor in a heap and was making a low keening sound. Baba stood completely still, tears streaming down his face as he stared down at his daughter in white.

  Rage filled Zardi, clogging her throat, making it hard to breathe. Swinging her new bow from her shoulder, she withdrew an arrow from the quiver on her belt. The sharpness of the arrowhead cut against her fingertip as she traced its edge, and she suddenly felt powerful.

  All noise fell away. The screams, the shouts. They became muted, drowned out by the thumping of her heartbeat. I can do something about this, she thought. I c
an save my sister. She nocked the arrow to the string and pulled back, the cord making a creaking noise as it flexed for the first time.

  The sultan raised his head at the sound. His mouth twisted into a mocking sneer as he stared straight at her.

  Rhidan grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking care of the situation.” Zardi aimed her weapon straight at Shahryār, and still the sultan stared at her. He leaned back in his saddle as if daring her to shoot.

  “Those guards will kill you,” Rhidan rasped. “An injury to one of the sultan’s guards is an injury to the sultan himself.”

  “I’m not going after the guards.” Zardi’s eyes never left the sultan’s.

  Rhidan stepped in front of her, the tip of the arrow pressing into his chest.

  “This is suicide. He’s too far away—you won’t get him.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “I won’t let you do it.” Rhidan’s voice sounded as though it was shaking with the effort to remain calm. “If you want to shoot an arrow it’ll have to go through me first.”

  Why is he stopping me? Her hands trembled on the bow. Doesn’t he see that we have to do something?

  “Daughter, listen to him,” Baba’s voice said softly from behind her.

  Zardi swung round to see her father helping Nonna to her feet. Suddenly, the anger that she felt toward the sultan changed direction and flew like an arrow toward her father. “Why aren’t you doing something, Baba?” Tears stung her eyes. “He’s going to take her, my sister—your daughter—and you just stand here.”

  “Please, Zardi, I will make this right.” Her father looked wretched as he took a step toward her. “But violence will not help us here. I will go to the sultan. I’ll make him give Zubeyda back. He will listen to me.”

  “He’s never listened to you before,” Zardi snarled. “My whole life, I’ve heard you say that you work for Shahryār to protect the citizens of Taraket, to keep the sultan’s madness in check.” She shook her head. “Too many have died at Shahryār’s hands. My sister won’t be one of them.”

  Turning from him, she roughly pushed Rhidan aside so she could see into the courtyard below, but Zubeyda was gone. Omar was being picked up off the ground by one of his brothers. Blood streamed from a wound above his eye, but he did nothing to stop it. He stared through the open gate of the courtyard and into the distance. Zardi followed his gaze. She could just make out the shape of the sultan’s horses galloping against the night sky, billows of dust being kicked up by their hooves.

  I’m too late.

  I failed her.

  Failed.

  Her grandmother had used that same word earlier in the kitchen. Zubeyda would now be imprisoned in the city’s tallest watchtower, forced to call out the sultan’s decrees day after day until the time of the Hunt. Then Shahryār would begin his sport, and release Zubeyda into the grounds of his palace only to pursue and kill her.

  A wave of dizziness hit Zardi, her knees crumpling. She placed her forehead against the balcony’s railing and drew in a painful, ragged breath.

  There was a loud, rapping knock on the door downstairs, and Zardi stood straight once more, although all she wanted was to curl into a ball of forgetfulness.

  Her father wiped his tear-stained face with trembling hands, his wedding ring glinting in the moonlight.

  “That will be the sultan’s general to give me formal notice that my daughter has been taken as a praisemaker.”

  Baba laid his shaking hands on Zardi’s shoulders. “I will talk to him in the library. Whatever you hear, you must not interfere. Promise me. Your sister’s life depends on it.”

  Zardi nodded.

  Baba turned to Nonna. “The same goes for you, Mother. Wait in your room and rest. I will let you know what happens.”

  Zardi watched her father step through the balcony doors. He walked like a man being led to his execution.

  “Habibti, will you come inside?” Nonna asked beseechingly.

  “Not yet,” murmured Zardi.

  Nonna took Zardi’s face in her hands. “I love you, Scheherazade. My lion-born. You fought for life even when you were just a few hours old. The doctors said that you would lose the battle, but I knew you would not.” Nonna kissed her forehead. “I think I understand what I saw now, what the saffron strands were trying to show me. You will fight for life again—your own, your family’s, and Arribitha’s—and you must win.” Looking old and frail, her grandmother turned and stepped into the dimly lit house.

  Zardi and Rhidan stood alone on the balcony, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at her friend. By stopping her from shooting that arrow, he’d almost certainly saved her life. But she could not forgive him or herself for allowing Zubeyda to be condemned to death, and Nonna’s words weighed heavily on her.

  They stood in awkward silence.

  “Your father will make this right—I know he will,” Rhidan finally said.

  Zardi felt cold although the night was balmy. Her whole body began to tremble. “She’ll be so scared,” she whispered.

  Rhidan reached out a hand to comfort her, but Zardi pulled back.

  “Please, I just need to be alone.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but she couldn’t take them back.

  “All right,” Rhidan said softly. “But I’m coming to find you later.”

  She stared at Rhidan’s retreating back as he left the balcony and then looked down at her bow. She was as tightly strung as the weapon in her hand. Somewhere in her house, the sultan’s general spoke to her father about Zubeyda’s future. The urge to find the general, to make him pay with his life for her sister’s kidnap exploded in her like a firework from Mandar. She needed to do something before she broke her promise to Baba not to interfere.

  She flew through the balcony doors, down the stairs, and out into the garden. The orchard was always lit with flaming torches at this time of night, as her father liked to come home and walk through the sifsaaf trees. Nonna said it was the one time in the day when he got to be alone with his own thoughts.

  Tonight though, the garden was empty. The air smelled of jasmine and night queen, and the sweet scent filled her head and made her feel calmer. She padded across the grass, past the citrus trees, and toward the date palm at the bottom of the garden. The tree was something solid, with five concentric rings carved into its enormous trunk, a target that she, Zubeyda, and Rhidan had made one long summer years ago.

  Zardi took up her shooting stance, one foot set slightly back. She nocked an arrow in the center of her bowstring and let the shaft of the arrow rest on the bow, just above where her hand gripped. Holding the bowstring with her first three fingers, she felt it settle into familiar creases. She drew the string back until her thumb was against her jawbone and her index finger almost touched the corner of her mouth. Facing her target, she aimed and fired.

  The arrow sprang forward, as if relieved to finally be in flight, and the sound of it thunking into the tree was reassuringly solid. Zardi let another arrow fly. It swiftly found refuge in the innermost ring of the target. She strained every sinew to keep herself still and steady; she got ready to shoot again, allowing her frustration to flow through her and down the length of the arrow. As she let each arrow fly, the frustration, too, flew from her. She felt lighter but realized that her grief over Zubeyda’s fate would not leave. Her sister was a praisemaker. She would be hunted and killed and Zardi didn’t know how to stop it from happening. She continued to fire arrows until her arm felt sore before yanking the arrows from the tree and putting them back in the quiver on her belt. She then clipped her bow onto the side of the arrow case.

  Zardi made her way into the house. She needed to speak to her father and find out what the sultan’s general had said. Arriving at the door to his library, she stopped as she heard Baba’s voice rise in anger.

  Zardi put her ear to the hard wood.

  “Why my daughter?” she heard her father say in a cracked voice. “
Shahryār, I have served you loyally. I have done all that you have asked.”

  Zardi flinched. The sultan was here, in her house.

  “Really, Faisal, did you think that just because you were my vizier that your daughter could not become my praisemaker?” There was a low hiss of breath. “You should be thanking me for the honor. Fate smiles on you, Faisal, for only this very evening my former praisemaker accidentally fell from the watchtower. Such a shame, she was only two days into her season.” The sultan tutted. “Oh well. Zubeyda has now taken her place in the watchtower, and in ninety days’ time, as the sun reaches its zenith, it will be her turn to be hunted.”

  5

  Zardi’s Choice

  Ninety days. Blood flowed over Zardi’s teeth as she bit down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out. Ninety days until the Hunt.

  “You want thanks?” Baba snarled. “You tell me with a smile that you plan to kill my daughter and you think I should be pleased. You’re deranged, Shahryār, rotten inside.”

  The sultan growled with anger. “You forget yourself. You have no idea of what I am, or what I am still capable of.”

  “Forgive me for raising my voice.” Zardi’s father gave a shuddering sob. “Please, I beg you, release Zubeyda.”

  The sultan laughed. “Oh, you are a worm of a man to beg. I saw your younger daughter tonight. Zardi, I believe?” The sultan said her name as if he enjoyed the shape of it in his mouth, and Zardi sunk her nails deep into the hardness of the door, wishing it was his face.

  “She was ready to take action, her eyes full of fire. Shame on you that your child has more bravery in her little finger than you do in your whole body.” Shahryār laughed again. “I look forward to hunting her. But I must not be impatient, one daughter at a time.”

  Her father screamed in rage. There was the thud of one body slamming into another. The sound of wood breaking.

  “Baba!” Zardi pushed against the door but it was bolted shut.