The Samraat, the leader all over a large portion of the exotic continent, was to be married. The announcement was made throughout all of his land and every mother who heard the news held their daughters tightly and every father shook their head and beat their chest. The palace of the Samraat was bustling with purpose as the servants prepared for the elaborate ceremony. But they were not too concerned about the preparations. They had had a great deal of practice setting it up in the last few weeks.

The wedding stage was out the back of the palace, surrounded by water and statues. The walkway which led to the stage was lined with pillars that were draped in rich red and purple fabric, all embroidered heavily with gold. The stage itself was round and boasted six pillars. Above, in the centre, a frame work had been created so that the draped silks created a tent like structure then flowed down around the stage where a low table was set in a sea of red and yellow petals. The walkway was also covered in petals and the fragrance could be smelt from high above in the palace.

From one particular window a round face looked down. She had fine eyes with blue/green irises and her eyebrows were arched. Her lips were full and moist and her dark hair was tucked away from her face by her blue/green dupatta as she leaned out to see the preparations. She wore a salwar in the same hues as her dupatta, a fitted tunic over loose pants that came in at her ankles.

There was movement behind her and she spun around. Her father, a tall man with long, grey, frizzled hair that was hidden by his dastar or turban in embroidered silver thread over pale blue silk. He wore a long coat called a sherwani over the top of his churidars which were baggy pants much the same as her own and in the same colours as his dastar. He saw her look and started to walk away shaking his hand at her.

“No father!” She cried and ran after him, sliding on the tiles to bar his exit from their chambers. “No. I will not let you!”

“Out of my way Scheherazade.”

“Are you going to choose a bride for the Samraat? Are you?” She eyed her father despite being quite slight in her stature compared to his height.

Her father sighed. “What do you want me to say Scheherazade?”

“I want you to tell that you are going to stop sending virgins out to be slaughtered!”

“You do not know that will happen.”

His daughter’s eyes blazed angrily. “Is there not a wedding being planned? What happened to his bride of yesterday?” Suddenly her voice caught in her throat. “Did he have her executed?” Her father grimaced. “Mercy on her soul.” She whispered and looked back at her father. “Please. Do not do this. Not again. Not another innocent to be consumed by his rage.”

“You do not know that the next wife will be executed.” He argued weakly.

“Really? You think this time she will win him over despite the betrayal in his heart?” Scheherazade demanded. “How many will it take to convince you otherwise father?”

“I must go.” He tried to get past but she kept in front of him.

“It is already been at least a dozen. Perhaps fifty? One hundred? A thousand! When will it stop you?” He grabbed her shoulders and forced her aside, putting his head down to barge past her, avoiding her questions. She caught his hand and held tight. “What if it was me? What if I were his bride tonight?”

“Never,” his savage reply shocked her as his kind face twisted into a mixture of anger and fear, “I will never let you be his bride.”

“So you do think he will continue to kill his brides.” Scheherazade whispered. “When will it end? When there is not a virgin left in our lands?”

Her father pulled his hand away and stepped out of the door. “Guards.” Two men instantly appeared. “My daughter is not to be let out of these chambers upon pain of death. Do you understand?” The guards agreed as Scheherazade stared at her father in disbelief. He swallowed and pointed at her with a quivering finger. “He will never have you.”

With her father gone Scheherazade had little else to do but sit down on a lounge. She kicked several pieces of furniture and threw a ceramic vase against a wall which did not change her situation but it did help her mood. She flopped back on the lounge with her hands above her head and saw her shadows on the ceiling above. She linked her fingers and made shapes so that her shadows became many creatures and people, trees and even water. They danced before her eyes and she watched them move, having entertained herself for hours with her shadow puppets.

Suddenly she sat up, a daring thought searing through her mind. She sat very still and thought very hard for a long moment then stood up and ran into her room where the guards could not see her. She had her own little balcony that faced the Samraat’s gardens. Scheherazade kicked off her little beaded slippers and tied her dupatta firmly around her waist.

With barely a moment of hesitation she hopped nimbly up onto the balcony’s edge and began to climb. The incredibly detailed front of the Samraat’s palace meant there were ample footholds and places to grip as she moved across a lip of stone then pulled herself up by a statue that was holding up the balcony above her. She did not know if anyone saw her for she would have stood out against the white palace walls in her blue and green salwar. Still, no one cried out ‘assassin’ and when she fell into the room above hers, there were no guards to escort her back to her father’s chambers.

Her heart thumping she slipped out like a thief and hurried to a grand staircase. There were guards coming up the stairs and she hid behind a curtain of silk. She could hear weeping as the guards took the virgin to the preparation chamber. Scheherazade could see her father escorting the poor girl and tried not to despise him in her heart. When all was quiet she nimbly ran through the palace and into the preparation chamber.

The poor girl was clinging onto her pale yellow sari as the head eunuch, in charge of turning every new virgin into a bride for the Samraat, tried to pry it off her. He had little sympathy, having had to prepare many brides in recent days. Eventually he let go of the sari and she crumpled into a heap, sobbing.

“Undress or I will have the guards do it for you,” he threatened, “then perhaps you will not need to marry the Samraat at all!”

He stormed out of the room, missing the hidden girl behind a carved wall. When the coast was clear Scheherazade slipped out and ran to the girl. She held her by her shoulders, her heart breaking at the poor girl’s distress.

“Enough now,” she said gently, “what is your name?”

The girl could barely manage to speak through her brokenness. “Esha.”

“Esha, do you have family? A father? A mother?”

The girl nodded. “And my little sister, Priti, who is also being held captive by the Samraat though she is two years younger than I.”

Scheherazade’s blood boiled but she remained calm for Esha’s sake. “If you want to see them again and ensure that Priti never has to risk this night with the Samraat, do exactly as I say.”

When the eunuch came back into the chamber he found a meek girl waiting in a gown that had been provided, her yellow sari in a pile on the floor. He raised his chin, pleased with her subservience.

“Finally. Now to the baths!”

Scheherazade spent two hours being bathed in perfumed water and then having rich cream rubbed into her skin to give it a bronzed glow. Her lovely eyes were lined with kohl and her eyelids were painted with deep crimson shadow. They coated her full lips with deep red and attached a golden ring to her nose which was linked to a chain that had golden charms dangling from it that was attached to her ear. She was dressed in lehenga of dark red fringed with gold and heavily embroidered. There were so many pleats to the skirt that when Scheherazade spun around, its ample girth spun out far and wide. She wore a blouse called a choli in the same design as the skirt and a veil with even more gold and jewels embroidered on its hem.

Her hands were marked with henna in elaborate and swirling designs and her fingers were weighed down heavily with rings. Her feet slipped into curl toed slippers and when she looked in the mirror, Scheherazade saw that the daughter of the vizier had all but vanished and in her place was a woman who looked like a queen.

“You will do nicely.” The eunuch said, taking her chin and looking over her face. “Please the Samraat and you may live to see another day.”

The hours had flown by and the time had drawn near for the wedding. Scheherazade was escorted down the stairs of the palace by the guards. She thought wistfully of a wedding she had once dreamed of where her female cousins and friends would have made this walk with her. But she had no intention of backing out now. If Esha had followed her instructions closely she would have found the concealed passage that led to the gardens and out into the city. She would be home tonight and, if Scheherazade was clever enough, Esha’s little sister Priti and all the other virgins waiting in terror, would be able to go back to their families.

The Samraat waited at the end of the walkway, beneath the silken tent in the wedding pavilion. He wore a long coat and turban like her father but his was rich with gold embroidery and the fabric was dark red. His face was a handsome one with a neatly trimmed bread and moustache and his eyes were as dark as his mood.

As Scheherazade approached she kept her face down for she saw her father had taken up the position of second to the Samraat. She could not allow him to see her and stop the wedding. Not now. Not when she had committed herself fully to the role.

The priest began to give the oration, singing the words rather than simply speaking them. Scheherazade and the Samraat agreed with his oaths and he turned to Scheherazade. “Do you…” He paused, flustered. “Her name?”

Scheherazade lifted up her head and looked straight into the Samraat’s eyes, her father’s face blurring into the background. “Scheherazade.” She said clearly. She kept her eyes on the Samraat though she could not help but notice her father stagger backwards in horror.

“Scheherazade…” The Samraat turned to his grand vizier. “Did you not have a wife with that name?”

“Yes.” The vizier swallowed. “A name I gave to our daughter when my wife died in childbirth.”

“You are Harisha’s daughter?” The Samraat turned to her.

“I am.”

“Though he is a good man, you will not receive any special considerations. All of your sex are treacherous and vile.”

“As you say.”

The Samraat turned to the priest. “Continue.”

Scheherazade blinked, bringing her father into focus. She could see there were tears in his eyes and though she despised him for not standing up for the virgins that had been used and thrown away, her bottom lip trembled at his grief for she knew he loved her more than anything else in the entire world.

The ceremony did not last long for the Samraat could only waste so much time every day to be married and they walked back to the wedding feast, husband and wife. The toasts were enthusiastic, if a little practiced and many greasy politician praised Samraat’s new wife to be the loveliest by far. No doubt this had been said to every single bride in the last month.

Scheherazade pretended to drink wine and ate very little. She needed to have her wits about her if she was to survive to see another night like this. Soon the Samraat rose to leave the feast and to make his wife his own. The guests cheered their departure as they were led away into the heart of the palace.

The Samraat’s chambers were in the middle of the palace and stretched from the front to the very back. There were a number of balconies, several rooms and many arches and domed ceilings with paintings and silks everywhere to catch the eye. The far back balcony was reached by the bed chamber and the enormous bed dominated the room. It was as big as the wedding pavilion and the bed had been heated by putting coals beneath its frame that warmed the mattress upon which there were furs and bedding that were undoubtedly new for each and every bride. There was a large dome above the bed but this one was made up of large glass panels so that the night sky and all its glittering stars could be seen.

Around the perimeter of the room were golden and marble statues, ropes of pearls tying up sheaths of silk, basins filled with gems and coins and flowers bursting out of vases that, if sold, would have fed a common family for a year. It was an opulent, disgusting affront to the poverty in his land and the Samraat liked to have it all close, to be admired and to be secured by.

Scheherazade drifted in from the doorway, her heart hammering. She could hear the Samraat disrobing and she prayed for inspiration and courage. Dressed in only in his churidars, his bare chest unnerving the virgin in his bed chamber, he came up and put a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“I am lonely tonight.” He said with his lips at her neck. He had to bend quite a bit to do so for she was far shorter than he.

“With all this wonder around you, most illustrious and exalted lord, I can only wonder why.” Scheherazade said, hearing her voice quiver in nervousness, willing it to become deep and smooth like she had been taught to do.

“Gold is beautiful to behold but cold to hold.” His hand dug deep into a basin of coins and they tinkled from his fingertips, cascading to the floor. “As lovely as it is…”

“I wonder if this is what the cave of the forty thieves looked like.” Scheherazade shivered at the Samraat’s touch. If she did not have attention soon, she would never be able to get it and all would be lost.

“Forty thieves?” He rumbled, his grip on her tightening.

“A cavern of untold wealth beyond any King’s treasure in all the earth.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” The Samraat sniggered. “Such a treasure would be stolen if it had been merely hidden in a cave.”

“But first you would have to gain access to the cave…which was sealed with magic.” Scheherazade let her voice simper and deepen. “Only the forty thieves knew the secret word that would open the entrance to the cave…until Ali Baba discovered it.”

“Who is Ali Baba?” Scheherazade tried not to show her triumph as she knew she had arrested the Samraat’s attention. She turned and looked at him with her shaded eyes and full lips.

“A lowly woodcutter who married for love. His brother Cassim married for money and they flaunted their wealth over Ali Baba. But he was happy enough and did not seek to change his fortune.”

“Then how did he come to discover the secret word that would open the cave?”

Scheherazade led the Samraat to the bed where he reclined on the pillows and she sat upright. Using the candlelight she cast shadows against the walls and ceiling with her fingers and created an axe chopping down a tree. The Samraat was fascinated by the performance and watched the story unfold before him.

“Ali Baba was chopping wood one day, knowing that he had to cut enough to sell in order that he and his wife and son could eat when he heard the thunder of hooves upon the ground as though thunder rumbled from beneath his feet…”

As Scheherazade spoke the shadows danced, becoming alive in the flickering light and the Samraat could not tear his eyes away…until he fell asleep.

The next morning the grand vizier and Scheherazade’s father Harisha waited anxiously outside the Samraat’s chambers. When the illustrious ruler of the land appeared he threw himself down at his feet.

“Please my lord, I beg of you, spare my daughter. Do not call for the executioner. Send her away into exile or to live out her life as a concubine but please, I beg of you, please do not kill her.” He wept onto the edge of the Samraat’s robes.

The Samraat looked down at his grand vizier and tore his robes away. “I do not recall you begging for the lives of the other girls you sent to me.”

“Perhaps I should have,” he sobbed, “but I am now.”

The Samraat raised his arm and a servant came running. “Tell the executioner…”

“No!” Harisha stood up, his eyes wild with fright.

“Tell the executioner that his services will not be required today.” The Samraat raised his eyebrows at the vizier. “She will live for another day. I have yet to find out what happened to Ali Baba for the leader of the forty thieves escaped and is plotting his revenge.”

With that he strode off down the corridor, leaving the grand vizier bemused and with a glimmer of hope. Scheherazade had removed her veil and had taken off her gold adornments when her father burst into her room. He crashed to his knees and took her hands.

“My daughter. My daughter.” He kissed her palms that were covered in deep brown swirls. “Forgive me.”

Scheherazade had been determined to resent her father but as he sobbed before her she found she did not have the hardness in her heart to do so. She reached down and raised his face to hers. “I forgive you father.” She gestured for a servant to come. “Bring fresh wine and tender morsels that the grand vizier may revive himself.”

They sat in a sunken ring filled with cushions and enjoyed some of the Samraat’s finest foods as Scheherazade relayed what had happened the night before.

“You told him a story?” Harisha was aghast.

“You remember Ali Baba and the forty thieves.”

“I remember I told it to you as a child.”

“And I never forgot it. How very clever of me.” She smiled in slight mockery of herself. “I told him about the greedy brother Cassim and about the jealous wife that forced Ali Baba to tell what he knew, of the secret word to open the cave…”

“Open sesame?”

Scheherazade nodded. “And I told him how the thieves tried to find Ali Baba’s house so they could kill him but that they were thwarted by the clever servant girl and now only the leader of the thieves remains. And that is where I left it.”

“And that is why the Samraat has not called for your execution,” Harisha gasped, “because he wishes to hear the end of the tale?”

“Exactly.” Scheherazade jumped when her father moaned. “What is it?”

“Better that you had died today than drag out hope only to be murdered tomorrow.” He took her hand. “What use will he have for you when the story is over?”

“Then without taking a breath to pause I will begin a new story.” Scheherazade’s eyes glimmered. “And I will tell a story within a story, just as you use to do to me, until I found it difficult to know when one story ended and the next began. I will weave illusion and myth and reality around his head until all the good and the beautiful and noble things in stories embed themselves in the Samraat’s heart. Then he will let go of this hatred he has and we will have peace.”

“How long do you think that will take? A week? A month? A year?”

“As long as it takes father.” Scheherazade rubbed her forehead. “I need to rest for I will be up half the night weaving another tale around the Samraat’s head. And father, I will need all your texts, the stories that you read to me. I need inspiration for when my well runs dry, the more exotic and unusual the story the better.”

Harisha stood up. “I promise that for as long as you need stories, no matter how I must retrieve them, your well will never run dry.”

Over three years later…

Scheherazade sat at her large ornate desk that faced the balcony. She loved to sit here in the afternoons when the light was just starting to dim enough to wash over her. It was a reminder that tonight she had to continue doing what she had done for the past three years but it was also an encouragement that, as yet, she had not been killed by the Samraat.

She had not changed much, dressed in a butter yellow sari that brought out the highlights in her loosed hair that spilled over her shoulders. There were slight differences in her face perhaps, her round cheeks having thinned out a little which had made her look more mature rather than older. It had also not lessened her beauty and her eyes had not dimmed. She dipped her quill into the ink and continued to write. Once the letter was written she slipped it into an envelope with a small round object and it to the servant by her side.

“Ensure that this missive reaches the orphanage Kishari.” She instructed. “It will help them buy food during this famine.”

“Yes, at once, majesty.” Scheherazade held out a special seal that was the size of a coin to Kirshari who took it reverently. “Majesty?”

“Give it to Pallav who works in the kitchens. He is instructed that whoever brings him this seal will supply a little food from the Samraat’s storehouse.” Scheherazade smiled kindly. “Feed your family.”

Kirshari knelt and kissed Scheherazade’s feet. “Thank you your majesty. Thank you.”

Scheherazade touched her head and with that she was dismissed. She wrote several more missives, each with a seal in the envelope and then also gave a seal to the servant who had to deliver it. When at last she was finished she felt a presence by her shoulder. Thinking it was a servant she went to hand out a seal.

“I have no more letters to deliver but here is a seal for your trouble.”

“Does the Samraat know you are giving away food from his storehouse?”

Scheherazade turned to see her father standing there. His hair, which had been grey for as long as she could remember, had turned pure white in the last few years. His face was lined and there were shadows beneath his eyes. He wore softer colours more often, to lessen the contrast against his ageing features. She smiled at him tenderly.

“The Samraat has more than enough for himself, for me and for all those in the palace. What harm can it do to ensure that orphans, widows and those in the slums are provided for?”

“And the servants that deliver them? Are they starving too?”

“No. But their families are. If they have access to the storehouse they will be less likely to steal the seal I send with the missives.”

Harisha put his hand on her shoulder. “You are both beautiful and wise my daughter.” He dropped his hand. “I bring word from the Samraat. He wishes you to join him in his bedchamber.”

“Then he will have to wait.” Scheherazade looked out at the sun. “I have at least another hour before the sun has fully set and night has come. He knows that any sooner, the stories lose their appeal.”

“Ah…” Scheherazade stood up and escorted her father to a lounge and ordered a hot drink be brought to him. He sipped the frothy brew and leaned back.

Scheherazade studied her father for a minute. “You look tired father.”

“I have not slept well of late.”

“Have you seen the physician?”

“There is no cure for what ails me.” He smiled ruefully as he saw her concerned expression. “Your marriage to the Samraat has kept me awake at night, tossing and turning in the fear that he would order your execution the next morning.”

“It has been over three years father.” She tried to reassure him. “He only threatened me the first week or two of our marriage with the possibility of execution. Since then he has never spoken of it. I believe the thought has left his mind.”

“You cannot allow yourself to become complacent.” Harisha warned her. “Though he has mellowed I believe that the same betrayal that caused him to rage years ago is still buried in his heart. It would only take a spark to reignite that fire.”

“What of the stories?” Scheherazade insisted. “What of the good and noble things I have been telling him, teaching him for all these years? Do you not think that they have been instrumental in changing the way he rules? In the way he lives?”

“I think you have softened his outward appearance but that the darkness still remains.”

“I think you fear more for your daughter than you care for the Samraat.” Scheherazade pointed out.

“Do you love him?”

Scheherazade faltered. “Father…”

“Do you love the Samraat?”

Scheherazade paused and took the time to consider this. “No. I do not.”

Harisha sighed and stood up. “Then he cannot have changed too much or else he would have become a man that you would love. Do not let down your guard my beloved daughter. You may have caged the beast but one day, it will escape and no matter how you have endeared yourself to it, it will turn on you and try to kill you.”

He walked away and Scheherazade felt unsettled by the words he had spoken. But she had no time to ponder them as night was falling. She bathed and was redressed by her servants. The Samraat preferred her to be clothed in red and gold so that is what she wore. Her hands still bore henna from several days earlier so all she needed to do was slip a pair of slippers onto her feet, adorn her fingers with gold rings and then made her way to the Samraat’s bedchamber.

He had not yet arrived so she made herself comfortable, reminding herself of where the last story ended and where she was weaving the next one to go. When the Samraat appeared he immediately flung his coat aside and threw himself down on the bed. Scheherazade ran her fingers through his thick curly hair.

“You are weary my lord?” She asked gently.

“I am weary of whining peasants and the trials of my country.” He muttered. “I need distraction.”

“I am ready my great and kind master.”

He twisted over to lay his head in her lap. “Tell me what happened to the she-elf. Tell me what became of her when she turned into the dragon.”

“You remember what kind of night it was?”

“It was raining. The witch had been thrown from the church and had turned into snow and the dragon had flown into the air and danced among the clouds.” The Samraat recited his memories of the night before as Scheherazade used her fingers to recreate the scene in the shadows on the walls. “When dawn came she fell to earth and the priest, Father Seraphim, found her as she tried to climb out of her demon form. She cried out to him…”

“Sanctuary!” Scheherazade called out to the walls, the echo coming back strong and eerie. “Sanctuary!” She looked down her the Samraat. “Sanctuary…”

“Continue the story.” He commanded.

“Yes my lord.” Scheherazade breathed in deeply and began her tale. “The priest was struck by those words as if they were a physical blow to deep within his core, reminding him of the reason he became a priest, of the promise he had made to her only yesterday. In a smooth motion he removed his cloak and flung it over her body and wings. Before she could slip back down into the pit abyss he took her arms and heaved her into his embrace.

“Lean on me Jé Kinah.” He whispered. “Come.”

She walked as though she was drunk and he had to hold her upright to keep her moving. Inside he could hear noise in the kitchens and opted to take her directly into the main chapel. There were quite a few already inside claiming sanctuary. He guessed they were from the travelling freak show as most of them were deformed in some way or another and had been brought to the church by their companions. They were huddled on the pews, shaking in fear at a horror that he could only guess at.

As gently as he could he laid her on a pew and brushed some of the singed hair from her face. “I will make up some tea. You are safe ‘ere.”

The words sounded as though they came from a far off place as the she-elf monster shivered uncontrollably, her stomach cramping so hard she was doubled over from the pain.

She heard the sound of doors opening and in an act of sheer self preservation she forced herself to look up and to gauge the danger. A man was entering the church. He wore torn trousers and an expression of broken sorrow. In his arms was the body of a young, coloured girl, limp in death. The man strode forwards, tears pouring down his cheeks as he reached the front of the church and the altar that was there. It was watched over by cherubim and stained glass windows, arches and stone pedestals. He wept as he reached the altar and laid the girl down as gently as he could. With eyes crystal clear with clarity and a voice that had wept all night long he cried out,

“Please!” He grasped her hand and pressed his forehead to it. “Please…”

The sorrow that poured out of him washed over Jé Kinah and unbidden tears began to trickle down her face. She swallowed hard to keep it down and saw a man on the other side of the altar, hiding in the shadows. He was staring at the girl with the same love as the first man. But in his eyes was also guilt and he beat his chest.

Sunlight poured into the stained glass windows and erupted into a thousand shades of red, blue, green, purple, yellow and pink. The girl that lay like the dead was dressed in the finest hues the world had ever seen, turning her modest dress into a rich gown and highlighting her hair as though ribbons of light had been wound through each dark chocolate ringlet. The light did not stop there, pouring over every soul that hid in the church, soaking them in all the beauty of creation.

The man had covered his face as he wept at the altar, insensible of the beauty around him. Then, like the touch of an angel, the hand that he had held onto lifted up and the fingers he had kissed rose to his head and buried themselves in his hair. He looked up to see the girl turning to look at him with life and light in her eyes, adorned in splendour with love all over her face.

“Giselle?” He gasped, half falling as he tried to stand up.

“Beast?” She whispered in a gentle smile. He grasped her hand tightly as Jerome took a step back from where he stood, shock ripping across his face.

“Giselle!” He cried and cupped her face. “You are alive! You are alive!” He voice rung out through the church, echoing over and over until the declaration seemed to ring throughout the heavens. “I thought you were dead!”

“Oh…” She blinked. “I am not.”

“No, no you are not,” he pressed his forehead to hers when she had sat up, “and you can speak!”

“My voice…it ‘as returned.” She smiled at him. “Did you mean it, what you said?”

“That I love you?” The man kissed her lips. “Of course I did and I do, forever and always.”

Jé Kinah looked over at Jerome who was sinking back into the darkness. He caught sight of her eyes and there was fear there but also respect. He nodded and vanished from sight. Jé Kinah wanted to go after him, to reassure him that hearts heal and that he would one day find his own true love but her legs would not work. She slipped to the ground, the wings that had refused to disappear from her body weighing her slight frame down. She was so weak that nausea swept over her and her fingers scrabbled weakly on the stone.

“Open up in ze name of ze King!” The banging on the doors echoed through the giant church and the barrel shaped priest waddled to the doors. He barely opened them a crack and the face of an angry soldier peered it, repeating his command.

“Zis is ze ‘ouse of God!” The priest replied. “Zose ‘o are ‘ere claim sanctuary and you ‘ave no authority on zis ‘allowed earth.”

“Out of our way priest for zere is a beast within zese walls. Ze King ‘as seen it and ‘as commanded for it to be captured.”

Jé Kinah gasped and tried to rise, knowing that while the King may have seen the beast, it no longer existed. But with her giant bat like wings and scales over her body, she would make an easy alternative for the guards to drag before the King. She wriggled backwards, trying to disappear into the shadows when Father Seraphim put his arms around her.

“Quickly and quietly.” He whispered and heaved her up, propelling her towards some stairs. They had barely begun to climb when the soldiers managed to throw open the doors despite the priest’s broad frame doing its best to prevent that. The soldiers poured into the church with their loud footsteps and clanging weapons an affront to the serenity and safety within. Those that had fled the freak show huddled together, terrified of being dragged out of the church. The man at the altar turned around and stormed towards the head soldier.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Out of our way peasant!”

“You dare address the Count Dominique De St Croix in such a manner?”

The soldier hesitated and in doing so he halted the rest of his colleagues from their charge. The man glared him down, daring him to challenge the claim.

“De St Croix is dead.” The guard argued but his tone had lost some of its confidence.

The man leaned down and eyed him sharply. “Do I look dead to you?”

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The soldier looked to the others who looked as bewildered as he. “De St Croix disappeared a year ago. He was pronounced dead and all ‘is…your…lands and wealth ‘ave been seized by ze King.”

“Is that so?” The man put his arm around Giselle’s shoulder. “Then take me to see King Louis. I am sure ‘e will verify my identity as ‘e stayed at my chateau several times and I supped with ‘im during carnival the summer before I disappeared.”

“My lord…ze beast…”

“...is not ‘ere. On my word as a count I promise you that. Now take me to see the King.” The man looked down at Giselle, his features softening in the light of her love. “My name is Dominique. It is the very best in the world to meet you.”

She beamed at him. “It is good to make your acquaintance Dominique De St Croix. But I fear I am underdressed for an audience with the King.”

“Nonsense,” he kissed her hands and led her out, “you would grace the most illustrious court in the entire world exactly as you are.”

The count ensured that all the soldiers left with him and the priest barred the doors behind them and turned around. “Beast…” He sneered. “...zere is no un’oly beast in zis blessed place.”

Father Seraphim lay Jé Kinah on a pile of soft mats and drew a blanket over her. He had taken her high into the bell tower where pigeons and gargoyles made their homes. He swept away some of her hair.

“You are safe ‘ere,” he promised, “ze soldiers are gone.”

“They will return.” She shivered. “I am not safe anywhere.”

“I will look after you Jé Kinah, I promise.”

“Jerome…” She looked up. “Jerome has my satchel. There are things in it I need.”

“Jerome?”

“From the freak show. He may be trying to leave. You must hurry…”

“I will do so if you promise to rest.”

Jé Kinah sank down and before Father Seraphim had reached the bottom of the first set of rickety wooden stairs, she was fast asleep.”

The Samraat frowned. “I thought the beast’s curse could not be broken unless the beauty said she loved him.”

“You can say you love someone without words.”

“You mean…the way she stepped in front of him, to save him from the hunter?” Scheherazade nodded. “How is the beauty not dead?”

“It was not a deadly poison on the arrow, but a poison that would numb the beast’s mind and make him easy to restrain and imprison once more.”

“So the beauty did not actually risk her life.”

“In her mind the blow would have been fatal to the beast and so it was an act of pure mercy and love. What she did proved her love for him and broke the curse.”

“And the witch’s death broke the spell that muted the beauty?”

“Exactly my lord.”

The Samraat breathed out a deep sigh of relief. “So… Jé Kinah is safe.”

“Only for a short time for while the King acknowledged that the man was indeed the missing Count De St Croix, he was determined that the creature that had tried to kill him at the freak show be captured and executed.” Scheherazade caused shadows to dance around the walls, continuing the story without faltering. “In the few days she was able to rest Jé Kinah polished bells. She liked to do it. It calmed her and gave her a sense of completion. She would have been happy to live out her life doing just that but for two reasons. One, Father Seraphim informed her that there was growing unrest that the church housed a demonic creature and there was pressure building to seek it out and remove it. The other was, as she polished each bell to a perfect shine, her reflection was hard to ignore.

The wings, when folded were not as big as when she transformed but they were no mere addition. Stretched out they were nearly thirty feet wide and despite the fact that they were made of thin leather and hollow bone, their weight was hard to bear. Her hands had almost disappeared into claws they were so scaly and the nails were thick, dark and chipped. The scales travelled up her arms, over her shoulders and spilled part of the way down her back and up the sides of her neck and face. They flattened her ears and curved into her hair, ending at her crown. Her hair covered some of these new deformities up but it carried a change all of its own. The ends were seared black, permanently shaded and dirty. Her hair was no longer silky smooth and straight but had uneven layers in them.

Dressing herself had become a challenge as a tunic wouldn’t sit over her wings so she had altered them so that they were open at the back and she used ties to bind the edges together. With a cloak on she could disguise her wings as being a bedroll of some kind and she heaved the satchel up over her shoulder. To her relief her feet and legs seemed relatively unchanged and she was able to pull her leggings and boots on. Father Seraphim had found a pair of boots in a pile of donated clothes that would fit her as well as some gloves that covered her hands where the tunic ended. Everything she had worn when she transformed had been torn to shreds. Everything except the vial that hung around her neck. No matter how she changed, the vial always remained.

Jé Kinah looked at her reflection out of habit, cringed and turned away, tugging on the edges of her gloves.

“You were not zinking of leaving without saying goodbye.” She sighed and turned around to face Father Seraphim whose kind, narrow face was creased with worry for her.

“I can hear the soldiers in the church. I know they are coming for me.” Jé Kinah explained. “To stay would only bring more trouble to this holy place.”

“Just because you are absent does not mean zey will stop looking.” Father Seraphim argued.

“They will if they see me leave.” Jé Kinah removed her cloak and stuffed it into her satchel. She was going to need her wings and she gave them a little stretch and flutter. Seraphim eyed her firmly.

“You are going to make it zat obvious.” He remarked.

“I am. That way this place stays the sanctuary it was designed to be.” She paused. “You have been very good to someone like me. I do not think I deserve such kindness.”

“Grace was once described as unmerited favour.” The priest said with a catch in his voice. “Though I ‘ave faith in God, I still feel afraid for you. Jé Kinah, where will you go?”

“The witch wanted to take me north. I will go in the opposite direction. I cannot risk being captured and forced to change.” Jé Kinah saw the pain on his face. She wanted to take his hands but didn’t want to touch him with her deformed ones. “I will be safe, father, I promise.” She gave a small smile. “Walk me to the door.”

He frowned and then smiled at her reference. They walked to where the bell tower opened up and they were standing on a thin platform that faced an unlimited sky with the city stretched out below. Jé Kinah could feel her wings twitch, yearning to spread themselves and be free.

“I will be praying for you.” He said.

“I know. And for that I am grateful.”

Father Seraphim looked at her sadly then wrapped his arms around her, even encompassing her wings so that she could not pull away. He held her until she relaxed in his embrace and received courage from it. When he stepped back he went to speak but there was a banging on the inside of the tower.

“In ‘ere! It is in ‘ere!”

“Jé Kinah!” He cried and turned…but she was gone.

She dove down towards the stone beneath her then spread her wings and shot up into the sky. She circled the church a number of times, scaring the soldiers that were gathered outside and making sure that she was in full sight as she took off into the blue sky, heading south as fast as her wings would carry her.”

“But where did she go from there?” The Samraat asked, enjoying some fruit that spilled over the edge of a platter.

“She flew and flew until her wings could no longer carry her and then she walked and slept then walked and flew…for days and days until time lost all meaning and she found herself in a country that she had never seen before. It was an exotic place, hot and rich and she believed she had found a country where no one would be looking for her…but she was wrong…

There was a grand vizier called Yash who had a magic mirror. The Queen beyond the mirror spoke to Yash and told him of Jé Kinah. She said if the she-elf monster was to be found, she had to be taken captive and brought far into the north where the Queen lived. He vowed to do so and put the word out on the streets that he was looking for a woman of a certain description. It was not difficult to find her for the woman was like a drop of blood against the snow among the people of his country. She did not even try to fight them off but as they took her prisoner, she begged to be allowed to see the Emperor.

Now Yash served the Emperor of the country, Shahryar and he had to apply to the Emperor to transport Jé Kinah back to the North. Shahryar was intrigued by the description of this elf beast and her continued requests to see him so he commanded Yash to bring her before him, despite the danger that she represented. With her ankles and wrists chained Jé Kinah shuffled towards the Emperor, her wings bound to her body so that she could not open them. There were guards on all sides and Yash watched in fear, frightened that despite the precautions, she would free herself and kill the Emperor.

But Jé Kinah was defeated and hung her head in shame.

The Emperor leaned forward. “Come closer.” So she did. “Look at me.” So she did. “You are not of this earth.”

“I am earth.” She whispered. “I am nothing but doom and disaster and when I perish I will become the earth once more.”

The Emperor leaned back. “I should like to keep you for my collection for I have many exotic animals in my zoo. You would want for nothing.”

Yash stepped forward. “Forgive me Emperor but she is promised to the Queen.”

“And who is this Queen that she should outrank me?” Shahryar demanded. “I will do as I please in the land that I rule! If I should wish to kill her, I will. If I will to keep her, I will and if I should wish to release her, I can!”

Suddenly Jé Kinah’s wings burst from their bounds and she slipped her ankles and wrists out of their bonds so that they clattered to the ground. With a spinning attack she threw all the guards into a heap on the floor and, in the time it took to blink, she scooped up a blade and held it against the Emperor’s throat.”

“Samraat!” Their story telling realm was shattered when their intimate chamber was rudely interrupted by a guard. The Samraat kicked the platter of fruit aside and stood up.

“Who dares enter my chamber?” He bellowed.

“Forgive me Samraat but you were told to bring you news of the poachers…” The guard trembled as the Samraat bore down on him…then stopped.

“You have news of their whereabouts?”

“Better. Their leader is our prisoner. He awaits your judgment in the main hall.”

Without a backward glance the Samraat strode out of the room. Scheherazade watched him go then suddenly jolted into action. She scrambled off the satin sheets and, flinging her dupatta over her head, ran after the Samraat. She followed him all the way to the main hall where a man was forced to his knees before the Samraat. His right eye was a swollen mess and his lip was split. He glared up at the Samraat and while he was openly defiant, Scheherazade could see that there was fear there also. The Samraat stood over him.

“You…you dare poach on my lands?”

The man was silent until one of the soldiers hit him with the flat of his blade.

“Answer the Samraat!”

“I only killed what I needed to keep my family from starving.” He replied.

“You stole from me.”

“You have more than enough to feed yourself and all those in your palace.”

“I give you protection and the benefit of my supreme rule…”

“You eat more in one day than my family has had in a month…”

“I am descended from the great lineage of the south…”

“You are a man and you deserve no such…”

“You dare defy me?”

“I know if my family had come begging at your gates they would have been turned away.”

The Samraat raised his chin. “From this day on they will have one less mouth to feed.”

Scheherazade gasped and ran forward. “Please…please husband. Have mercy!”

“What are you doing here? Why have you left the bedchamber?”

“I heard the plea of a desperate man,” Scheherazade looked at the man in front of them, “a man driven to steal and to poach from you because his children were hungry and he couldn’t watch them starve.”

“Do not be drawn in by his stories. They are all lies and he does not deserve your pity.”

“I beg of you Samraat!” Scheherazade cried, clutching at the Samraat’s chest. “Do not do this. Have mercy. Be the better man!”

The Samraat paused, staring into her beautiful face. “I already am the better man.” He gestured to the soldier and as Scheherazade screamed, blood splattered her face and the poacher fell dead to the ground. She looked at his lifeless body, too stunned to move. The Samraat gripped her chin and forced her to look up at him.

“Never stand in my way.” He snarled, the hatred he had for her sex reawakened in his eyes. His grip could have crushed her but instead he let go, dropping her to the ground. “You will continue the story tomorrow night.”

Scheherazade stayed on the marble floor until the soldiers had taken the body away and the servants had come to mop up the blood. She felt her father’s hands around her shoulders and he bade her to rise and took her to his chambers. He lay her down in the bed she had slept in as a child and drew the covers up over her cold body.

“You were right father.” She whispered. “He has not changed. You were right.”

Scheherazade did not sleep well and rose just after dawn. Her father was already up. Perhaps he had not slept at all for the shadows under her eyes matched his. There was a sumptuous breakfast before them but they only picked at the food, Scheherazade unable to eat without thinking of the poacher’s children and how they were going to grow up without a father…if they survived the hungry beast in their bellies.

Harisha offered no advice and they sat in reflective silence.

“The stories have failed.” Scheherazade finally spoke, her voice hollow and cracked. “I have failed.”

“You have not failed dearest.” Her father insisted. “For three years this country has known peace. For three years you stayed the hand of the Samraat and kept hundreds of daughters safe from his fury.”

“And yet it is not enough.” She stood and went to the balcony and looked out. Her heart ached and self pity threatened to overwhelm her. But Scheherazade had never been one to entertain self pity and despite her confidence having been shaken to its core, she knew she could not simply give up. She turned and looked at her father. “I need to speak with her.”

“Scheherazade…”

“Today. Now.”

“The only reason we have kept this a secret for so long is because we do not risk visiting often.”

“If the Samraat kills me, then there will be no reason for secrecy.” Scheherazade knelt to look her father in the eye. “I will go at once. The Samraat should still be asleep.”

The grand vizier sighed and nodded. “I will go and wait for him so that, should he rise early, I can distract him. But be safe my daughter. Do not forget the danger from without and from within.”

“I will remember father.”

Scheherazade walked calmly through the palace. She was a well known figure and had she run or looked secretive, her actions would undoubtedly be reported to the Samraat by one of his many well paid spies. So she walked, putting one foot firmly in front of the other in a slow, confident pace that did nothing to betray her hammering heart and sweaty palms. When she entered a corridor off the main hall she was enveloped in a cool darkness and suddenly she ran like the wind. Up through the bowls of the palace, past a poorly constructed barrier and into an abandoned wing of the palace.

It had belonged to the Samraat’s first wife and had been every bit as sumptuous as his own chambers. But now it was a burnt out wreck filled with discarded furniture and ash. Scheherazade picked her way through the broken chairs, the torn and singed silks until she ducked beneath a half fallen cupboard and emerged into the first wife’s bedchamber.

This room had also been burnt out but unlike the rest of the wing, it had recently been subjected to daily cleaning and modest redecorating. Nothing but a fresh coat of paint would get rid of the black scoring along the walls and the floor but the cobwebs had been brushed away and the loose plaster had been knocked down and swept up. The scorch marks on the floor were covered with an array of threadbare rugs and silks had been re-hung from the ceiling hooks. The silks had been scavenged from the rest of the wing so they were not new or bright, having faded over time and many of them still had burnt hems but they created a veil between Scheherazade and the only occupant.

At the moment the chamber looked deserted but Scheherazade knew better and she held at the doorway.

“Open sesame.” She called quietly.

There was a long pause before a figure dropped from above and landed heavily on the rugs, the sound of chains travelling with it. The figure curled upwards from its landing squat, its form obscured by the thin silks.

“You may enter.” It said quietly.

Scheherazade did so but only to the edge of a ring that had been drawn on the ground. She had been told that the chains could reach no further.

“Are you well?” Scheherazade asked.

The figure gave a small huff of mirth at the question. “I am alive. I have shelter and I have enough food to keep me alive and appreciating the shelter for another day. Since I was to be either executed or deported, these are not dire circumstances.”

“I am pleased.” Scheherazade hesitated and the figure paused in its pacing. “Do you require more parchment? More ink or quills?”

“Your servant, though mute, is more than capable of delivering such small, inconsequential items to me. Drop the pretext, wife of the Samraat and ask me what it is you really want.” Scheherazade could hardly find the words. She had always been so sure and now she wasn’t. It was disconcerting to say the least. The shadow turned to her. “You are second guessing yourself. That is unlike you. Speak.”

Scheherazade felt no disrespect at being ordered so by the only occupant of the abandoned wing. In fact, she rather liked that there was one who considered themselves equal to her and spoke thus.

“The stories are not working.” She finally admitted. “I had hoped that they would have started to change his mind, convict his heart but…he had a man executed for simply trying to feed his family. It is as though he hears them without letting them touch his heart.”

“And that is my problem?”

“It will be when he grows bored with me and has me executed. Then my father will have no reason to keep you alive.”

“And in such fine accommodation?” The shadow’s voice was heavy with dark mirth. “I do not know what it is you want me to tell you. I have given you stories, all the stories I know in order to keep myself alive. What more do you want from me?”

“Your stories have arrested the Samraat’s attention more than any other I have told.” Scheherazade explained. “He questions everything, desperate to learn the whole truth and enjoys the details of lands far beyond his comprehension and reach. They thrill and delight him.” She sighed and sank onto a stone bench. “But if your stories cannot reach his heart…I fear nothing will.”

They were both silent for a long enough time that the shadows shifted as the sun drifted across the sky.

“Why do you think the Samraat will execute you if you fail to amuse him with stories?”

“Because he has done so before.”

“How many times?”

Scheherazade winced. “Too many.”

“Perhaps it is time I heard a story rather than told them.” The shadow sat down, chains clinking together. “Go on.”

“Very well. It was four years ago that the Samraat’s brother’s wife was caught having an affair. The Samraat publicly berated his brother for not have been man enough to keep his wife from straying. He turned his brother into a mockery and the Samraat enjoyed humiliating him.”

“Delightful man.”

“But then disaster struck as the Samraat’s first wife was also caught in an affair.” Scheherazade sighed. “After his merciless treatment of his brother the Samraat was doubly humiliated by his wife and the affair. In his rage he ordered her executed and set fire to her wing of the palace.”

“I wondered who had designed the décor.” The shadow remarked.

“After a few weeks the Samraat began craving female company again. What we believe prohibits men from sleeping with women before they are married so the grand vizier, my father, was charged with finding a suitable virgin bride and the Samraat married her. And the next morning he ordered her execution.”

The shadow sat upright. “How did he justify such a command?”

“He did not. He simply does not trust women. He wants the physical pleasure without the vulnerability that comes from being married. So the next day he ordered a new virgin brought to him and the next day, she was executed and so on…”

The shadow stood up. “And you simply accepted this? You allowed this fiend to murder innocents just to satisfy his own carnal desires!”

“We did.” Scheherazade admitted and the shadow was taken aback by her honesty. “I only wish I had acted sooner but when it became clear to me that he would never stop, I put myself in the place of the virgin who was to be made a bride. I hoped that with stories I would be able to distract the Samraat and keep him from killing me. And it worked. He threatened me for a while, saying that when he became bored with my stories that I would be executed but it never happened.” She looked down at her hands. “I had hoped that, over time, the morals and beauty of the stories would become his own…”

“But it has not happened.” The shadow paused. “What you need is a story that will mimic his own. That will draw the poison of the betrayal from his veins and convict his heart.”

“I have told him all of your stories.” Scheherazade stood up and began to pace. “I have told him about the girl that slept in the woods protected by dwarves, about the giants at the top of the beanstalk, about the werewolf and the fairy godmother…nothing has changed his mind.”

The shadow lowered its head. “There is one story that you have not yet told him. A story of betrayal and retribution that could open his eyes to the truth.”

Scheherazade nearly stepped outside of the circle in her eagerness. “Truly? A story that could speak to his heart? How does it end?”

The shadow turned and Scheherazade could almost feel its eyes drilling into her. “That, wife of the Samraat and champion of the people, will be up to you.”

That night the Samraat strode into the bedchamber and found his wife waiting for him. She could see that he was still quite tense from what had happened the night before and so bade him to sit in front of her so that her hands could rub his shoulders.

“Shall I finish the tale for you my lord?”

“Yes.” He replied curtly.

“Jé Kinah had just broken from her bonds and menaced the Emperor with a stolen blade. With her fearsome strength she could easily have taken his head off and escaped the guards that were surrounding her. But she paused in her attack.

“Perhaps the Emperor would care to hear a story first? Before I am led away and judged? It is a sad story and needs an ending. I travelled all over the world and have never found the right man to bring it to its rightful conclusion. But I think you are the one to finally finish it once and for all.”

This was very clever of Jé Kinah as the Emperor was a great lover of stories. His library was the largest the world had ever seen and he was always looking for new tales to hear and to read. She saw the gleam in his eye and knew she had captured his attention so she stepped back and dropped the blade to the floor.

The Emperor held up his hand as the guards went to grab her. “I should like to hear her story. I am in great need of entertainment and have been bored of stories of late. If she amuses me, I may spare her life.” He declared and clapped his hands. Servants rushed into the hall and laid out furs and cushions. Jé Kinah sat cross legged in front of the Emperor and, with only a little wine to refresh her throat, she began to tell her story.

“There once was a handsome woodcutter. He was tall with broad shoulders and had thick, dark curly hair, rosy cheeks and the bluest eyes in the world. He was not afraid of the forest that his village was surrounded by in the hills to the north and went in regularly to chop wood to sell. One day he came across the biggest, oldest oak in the forest. He marvelled at its ancient form, knowing that it was at least two hundred years older than he. He pressed his hand against the bark.

“I could not chop down such a tree for it would be like cutting out the heart of the forest.” He looked up into its branches. “Oh King of the forest! May I rest in your shade and partake of my food in your shelter?”

He did the same thing for days, always amazed anew at the remarkable tree. Then one day he came upon the tree and saw a beautiful woman draped along one of the lower branches. He was so surprised he dropped his axe and just stared at her. She had hair like the palest gold and wore soft pastel robes. Her eyes were like moss and her lips were pale as were her cheeks. When she saw him she sat up and he was compelled to kneel before her, dropping his axe to one side.

“Whatever you would have me be or do, I would be it and do it.” He vowed.

The woman smiled and he felt it stroke his soul. “I believe you,” she said, “and I thank you.”

“For what milady?”

“For having stayed your axe and kept this grandfather oak alive.” She pressed her fingers against its trunk and closed her eyes. “I planted it many years ago and would hate to see it burn in a fireplace.”

The man’s eyes grew wide and round. “You are one of the fair folk…an elf!”

She nodded. “I am. My name is Jé Maja.”

“My name is Aubrst,” he stood up and bowed, “and I am forever at your command.”

She slipped out of the tree and came towards him with movements like water. “I will remember your vow Aubrst. May your house be blessed.”

Aubrst went back to the tree many times, searching for Jé Maja. At first he did not find her and he began to fret that he would never see her again. But one day there she was and they spoke for so long that he did not cut any wood that day. And when he went back the next, she was there. And the next and the next until Aubrst was completely smitten with Jé Maja. And though she was cool and restrained, he felt certain she was in love with him.

So one day he told her he loved her and Jé Maja looked away, sad.

“You cannot say such a thing to me.” She said.

“Why ever not?”

“Because it is forbidden by the elders that an elf should love a human.”

“I do not understand…”

She looked at him sorrowfully. “Humans are flawed, selfish creatures and they do more harm than good. Elves are pure in form and in heart. Humans live in conflict with their environment while elves live in harmony. Humans take what is not theirs while elves are content with the air in their open hands. I cannot be in love with you Aubrst.”

He stood up and glared at her. “I told you that I am forever at your command so until you command me not to love you, I will love you.”

He said that every day to her for a year. Jé Maja tested him, tested his love to make sure it was true. Finally, when she was sure, she told him that she loved him in return.

They were married by a blind priest and Aubrst built them a cabin within the edge of the forest so that Aubrst could see the open hillside and Jé Maja could feel the forest around her. And they were happy together. It was not perfect for Aubrst’s family did not approve of Jé Maja and the elves of Jé Maja’s clan did not approve of Aubrst but their love blotted out the bad times and they were oblivious to anything else except each other…until they were joined by their daughter.””

“Jé Kinah.” The Samraat exclaimed. “It was Jé Kinah!”

“My lord is clever for they did name the daughter Jé Kinah to honour the elf lineage from where her mother was from. However as Jé Kinah was telling the story to the Emperor as though it was someone else’s and not her own, she said that they called the daughter Meredith.” Scheherazade explained and then continued with the story.

““Meredith had dark curls like her father and eyes like her mother and brought them much joy. Because she was the daughter of an elf there were many things she could do in advance of other human children her own age and because she also had human blood in her, there were things that elf children could do and knew that she struggled with. But she was content with her parent’s love. Her mother taught her all about the forest, the plants and the animals, the way nature worked together harmoniously. Her father carried her on his shoulders and made every day an adventure as they climbed mountains, had picnics by the stream and even by the fireside during the bitter snap of winter. Though her world was small, she grew up into a lovely young girl of fifteen summers.

But one day the love Meredith held dear to her heart soured and withered away…and what took its place was darkness itself.””

“Forgive the interruption Samraat.”

Scheherazade and the Samraat looked up. The tension that had been easing out of him returned as he stiffened up, annoyed by the interruption.

“What is it? Another poacher?”

“Forgive me my lord but I bring word from Baharata.”

The Samraat’s face tightened and he stood up. “I will return for I wish to hear the end of the story.”

Scheherazade drank of her wine and waited for the Samraat to return. It was not often their nights were interrupted and she tried not to worry that something terrible had happened. Her husband was not gone for long but when he came back there was an air of doom and darkness about him. She patted the place where he had sat before but he simply stood before her.

“What business did you have in the first wife’s wing this morning?”

Scheherazade froze. The Samraat’s eyes did not leave her face as she tried desperately to think of an answer.

“I…was not…”

“Don’t lie to me!” His temper was immediately ignited and he picked up a vase and threw it against the wall. Scheherazade was on her feet instantly, trying to keep the bed between herself and her enraged husband. “You were seen!”

“You had me followed?” Scheherazade demanded in return.

“For good reason! I knew you could not be trusted. I knew it!”

“How is going into an abandoned wing of the palace a betrayal of your trust?”

“It is the perfect place for a clandestine meeting.”

Scheherazade was aghast. “You think I am having an affair? How could you think such a thing?”

“All women are treacherous.”

“I have never broken my marriage vows.” She insisted.

“Then who were you meeting?”

Scheherazade paused. “It is where I go to prepare stories for you Samraat.”

“You think I am so foolish as to believe you?” He turned his back and paced the floor. “Why would you have a mute servant deliver food daily and clothing and parchment and ink? Why would you do these things if you were not having an affair?”

“No matter how you accuse me, it will not change my answer.” Scheherazade replied, frightened of revealing the prisoner in the abandoned wing. “I am your wife and I am no one else’s lover.”

The Samraat turned to her and she flinched at the hatred in his gaze. No matter what she had said to him, no matter the stories she told or the hope she had nurtured these three long years, he had no mercy in his soul. “And I will not give you the opportunity to become one. Your execution is scheduled for dawn.” He began to stride out of the room and Scheherazade threw herself at his feet. He kicked her away viciously and she landed hard, bruising her ribs. Through her tears of pain she saw him in the doorway.

“Kill me at dawn and you will never find out what happened to Jé Kinah!” The Samraat hesitated. Scheherazade got to her feet with difficulty, one arm around her waist and the other hand gripping a post of the bed. “I swear I will take her story to my grave unless you stay away from the abandoned wing and give me one more night.”

The Samraat turned and she could see him wrestling inwardly.

And she prayed silently.

“Very well. You will live for one more night.” He pointed his finger upwards at the ceiling. “But I vow that no matter how it ends, you die at dawn.”

“I promise that the story will end, one way or another.” Scheherazade said firmly.

The Samraat spun on his heel. “Lock her in her chambers and guard her with fifteen men. No one is to be allowed in.”

“Yes Samraat.”

The guards escorted Scheherazade to her chambers and closed the doors tightly behind her. With her ribs as bruised as they were, she could never escape like she had from her father’s chambers. Sobbing the young woman staggered to the bed and curled up on it, holding her ribs and burying her sorrow into the silk and the mattress.

“She is condemned because of you!” Harisha yelled into the burnt out abandoned chambers of the first wife. He did not venture any further than the circle but his voice could be heard in every nook and cranny of the room. “I know you are in there! You promised stories to enthral the Samraat but all you have done is to orchestrate my daughter’s death!”

Abruptly the prisoner landed on the ground in front of him and despite his desperate rage Harisha stepped back. He did not wholly trust the chains that bound the prisoner.

“What have you come to moan about now?” The prisoner demanded.

“My daughter. The Samraat has ordered her execution!”

“What!”

“Do not pretend that you did not know. She came to you because she feared for her life and now her fears have been realised!”

“What reason did the Samraat give for ordering her execution?”

“The same as he always did, that she is capable of being unfaithful…because it is possible that she already has been.” He balled up his fists and pressed them to his eyes, his tears red and hot. “My daughter, my daughter…”

“I gave her a story that was meant to convict the Samraat, to finally allow you and your daughter some peace!” The prisoner argued. “It is not meant to happen like this!”

“Whatever you told her to say, all it has done is buy her one more night. Whether or not she finishes the story, Scheherazade will be executed at dawn. And I know the Samraat. This time there will be no hesitation. He will kill my daughter,” Harisha looked up, “and it is your fault!” He pointed his long, bony finger at the prisoner. “Now I make my own vow! Promise to the Queen beyond the mirror or no, you will not outlive my daughter!”

He stormed off leaving the prisoner to wait and watch as the sun sank behind the horizon, the weight of one woman’s life bowing her thin shoulders.

Scheherazade was placed on a padded bench with curved ends. Her hands were bound in her lap so that she could not create the shadows that had distracted her husband in the past. The Samraat stood before her, in no frame of mind to be entertained by her with his arms folded and his face grim.

“Speak,” he said darkly, “and be warned, should dawn come and you have not finished, I will make up my own ending. Perhaps the character Jé Kinah could die by beheading. That would please me greatly.”

Scheherazade swallowed and willed her voice to touch that deep tone which was so pleasing to listen to. “The she-elf continued to tell Emperor Shahryar her story as if it were someone else’s and the Emperor could not tear himself away…

“One day Jé Maja insisted Meredith go out into the forest to find the smoothest pebbles she could in the stream. Meredith did so, enjoying the forest at its most lovely, at the cusp of spring just before summer descended upon it. She was fortunate to find a number of smooth pebbles, some of the most pretty hue, almost immediately and hurried back to show her mother. But when she arrived Meredith noticed that they had visitors. From what she could see through the window from afar, they were elves.

Meredith felt her heart leap in delight for she loved the elves and wished the children would play with her more often. It had been months since she had seen one. With tread as light as a feather she hid beneath the window to listen in on what they were saying.

“…running out of time. By next winter, there will be no one left.”

“There will be myself and Aubrst and Meredith.” Her mother said firmly.

“Jé Maja, do not be foolish. You, we, do not belong on this earth anymore. We cannot suffer the human’s folly and must look to our own heaven. I do not want to leave you behind.”

“Are you saying that I would be welcomed back into the fold of the elders? That you would let go of your grudge against the man I love and married?”

There was a silent pause heavy with things unsaid.

“You have been granted amnesty…”

“Amnesty! For love?”

“Amnesty for abandoning the core beliefs of the elves. You have a chance Jé Maja to come home.”

“And what of Aubrst and Meredith? Does this amnesty hold to them as well?”

“You know we cannot allow humans into the fold of elves. Not even your daughter may be permitted for she is infused with the very lecherous infection that we are trying to escape.”

Meredith heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back. “My daughter is nothing like what you say. And if she cannot come with us then you are a fool to ask me to abandon them both. Do you not understand that heaven for you would be torture for me if I were to leave them behind? You say humans do not understand love. I say you do not understand love.”

“Jé Maja…this is your last chance. Please…come home.”

“I have said what I will and I will say no more.”

Meredith ducked around the side of the house and watched as three tall elves walked out of the little cottage with their heads held high. They were unnaturally serene given the heated nature of their conversation and the last one to leave turned around.

“You will outlive your human husband and your half cast daughter. You will stretch on into eternity and watch as this earth grows old around you and the humans betray every trust you placed in them. And if you should perish, there will be no forever after for you. Your body will return to the dust from whence it came.”

“I understand. Goodbye.”

Meredith waited for a while before skipping into the house, pretending that she hadn’t heard the conversation. If she hadn’t known of the visit from the full blood elves she might have missed the slight furrow in her mother’s brow or the tiny droop of her lips. But when her mother set eyes on her, her face brightened warmly and she held out her hands.

“Well Meredith, what precious stones did you find today?”

The elves never visited again and as the summer gave way to autumn and autumn faded into winter, Meredith wondered if more than just the warmth of the season had disappeared from the forest. The leaves that remained seemed duller and the frosting of snow didn’t sparkle as it once had. Was it because elves no longer lived in the forest? Perhaps if she did not have something to compare it to she would never have noticed but around her cottage that was filled with love and the natural touch of her mother, there was a glimmer what had once been.

Eventually that too began to fade. As the end of winter drew near Meredith’s father had to make longer journeys to sell wood and stayed away days at a time. During his absence Meredith felt the lack in the cottage. She could see her mother doubting herself, her decision to remain. But the moment he came through the door, sometimes with a flower plucked from a sheltered cove for her mother or a rag doll for herself, her mother brightened and all was as it should be.

Meredith begged to go with her father, wishing to meet some of the other children. Her mother talked to her father about it when they thought she was asleep.

“I go into Falst tomorrow.” Her father explained. “It is a hardy village, not many children at all and I have work to do.”

“Your daughter adores you and she has lived far too long on her own.”

“The snow will bite her feet and she could become ill.” He sighed. “I promise to take her in the spring…perhaps summer when it is far more pleasant.”

Meredith, being of age to feel quite certain that she could do anything she was told not to do, decided at once to follow her father and prove that she could make the journey. She set out after him, a satchel slung on her back and her body rugged up warm. It would have been hard going if she had not had a light tread. Perhaps if she had been a full blood elf she would have walked without making an imprint but as it was it was hardly difficult for her to follow her father’s footprints to Falst. It was a village nestled against the side of a steep hill. Meredith peeked out from behind a tree and watched her father enter the village, his axe strapped across his shoulders. She felt a bristle of excitement at the thought of simply popping into the house he had entered and surprising him.

She could hear talking on the inside and hurried to the doorway…and stopped still, her smile frozen on her face. Her father was enjoying the cloying embrace of a buxom woman with rich red hair and a deep laugh. Dancing around the table were four children all with dark curls to match her own. Meredith’s smile began to fall when the woman saw her.

“Hello.” She said warmly. “Where did you spring from? Aubrst my love, look at this little ragamuffin. It looks as though she has followed you.”

Her father’s face turned ashen when he spied his daughter standing in the doorway. He opened his mouth to deny everything, anything but Meredith had already turned and sprinted from the house and the laughter, from the woman and the father who held her. She did not cry. Not once did she shed a tear as she felt numb to the core and her mother had only started to become concerned with her absence when she arrived home again.

“Meredith! You are frozen to the bone! Where have you been?”

“I wanted to follow father to work…but I became lost.” She said.

“Come in by the fire and I will make you a hot drink.”

Her mother put her subdued demeanour down to the fact that she was chilled and had no idea anything was wrong until Aubrst appeared in the doorway.

“Why have you returned? Is there something wrong?”

He stepped in, having only eyes for Meredith. “She followed me.” Meredith cowered on her chair, and her knuckled that gripped the quilt became white.

“Yes and she came back all in a fluster.” Her mother looked between them. “What has happened?”

“Nothing…” He said hollowly and knelt down by Meredith. “Is that not right Merry…”

Meredith stood up to avoid his touch and ran to the door. “If you do not tell her, I will.” She snapped and ran out into the snow. She wandered beneath the icicles and brushed the drops that had frozen on the hanging branches. Even when her toes began to ache from the pain she did not go back. It was only when the sun began to set that she headed to the house.

Her mother was alone inside, sitting on a chair. The fire had gone out and the cottage was as cold as the outside. Meredith ran to her mother who was white.

“Mother?” She called. “Mother, please say something.”

“Jé Kinah…” She whispered. “I am so sorry.”

“Where has father gone?”

“Your father…” Jé Maja fell silent. Meredith was torn between going and dragging her father back and staying to look after her mother. She opted for the latter, starting a fire and sealing the cottage up so that the heat inside chased away the chill. Except nothing could remove the cold from her mother. No matter how Meredith begged, she would not eat. No matter how she pleaded, she would not drink the hot milk. In the end Meredith was hoarse from begging. She wrapped a quilt around herself and sat at her mother’s feet and rested her head on her lap.

“I love you mother.” She whispered.

Sometime during the long night her mother had moved enough to put her hand on her head and said in a voice that even elves would have strained to hear, “Forgive him Meredith. Forgive…” But then there were no more words for she died…of a broken heart.

Meredith heard the door open and looked up with blurry vision to see Aubrst standing in the doorway. He was pale and when he laid eyes on Jé Maja he began to cry out. Meredith pulled back and looked up to see her mother in pale death, still sitting where she had been. She gasped, moving her mother’s hand and suddenly Jé Maja’s body simply disintegrated into countless beads of light. As they drifted down to the floor they dulled and by the time they settled, they had become dust. Meredith stood, gazing at the empty chair and the dust on the ground.

“Mother…” She whispered. “No…”

“Meredith …”

“Do not touch me!” She turned, fury igniting in a single instant and she slapped Aubrst’s hand away. “Never touch me again!”

“Please Meredith, you have to believe me, I never meant to hurt her.” He was a broken, weeping man but Meredith steeled herself against his pitiful state, turning her heart into stone.

“But you did and her broken heart killed her.” She snarled. “You killed my mother! I hate you! I hate you forever!”

Meredith ran from the cottage, from her home and all that she knew. She ran deep into the woods, deep through the snow until she found the heart of the forest. With every breath she took she cursed her father until all the love that had been inside of her soured and turned into black hatred. There she attacked the old oak tree with all the venom in her body, anger fuelling anger, hate burning in her veins until she thought she would burst into flames. At one point she looked down at her arms and could almost see licks of fire on her skin.

“I could burn the cottage down.” She said out loud. “I could set him on fire and watch him burn…”

AH BUT THE FLAMES WOULD KILL YOU.

Meredith spun around. “Who said that?” But the forest was empty of life.

NOT WHO. WHAT.

“What are you?” She continued to look, a terrible creeping sensation curling up over her shoulder.

I AM…THE MEANS. I AM THE WEAPON. I AM THE FIRE AND SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO WIELD ME, YOU WOULD HAVE YOUR VENGEANCE A THOUSAND TIMES OVER.

Meredith swallowed. “What must I do to inherit this power?” She asked as she skirted the width of the tree and still found nothing but shadows…long, dark shadows.

SWEAR TO CARRY ME IN YOU. SWEAR TO USE ME AS YOUR POWER.

Meredith saw her mother in her mind’s eye, dead on the chair and clenched her teeth. “And I will make him pay?”

YOU WILL MAKE THEM ALL PAY. EVERYONE THAT SWEARS TO LOVE FOREVER AND TO ALWAYS BE TRUE. YOU KNOW THEIR WORDS CANNOT BE TRUSTED. IT IS TIME TO CLEANSE THE EARTH OF SUCH FILTH AND SHALLOW FEELING.

“Only him.” She argued. “I do not want to hurt anyone else. Only him.”

OTHER WILL COME IN TIME. YOU WILL SOON REALISE THAT THE STINK AND SHALLOWNESS OF HUMAN LOVE IS A FOLLY THAT MUST BE REMOVED FROM THIS EARTH.

Meredith shivered, the chill finally getting to her. “I am cold.” She whimpered.

DO NOT LET GO OF YOUR RAGE. EMBRACE IT. BE THE FIRE THAT BURNS.

Meredith hesitated, the chilly bite on her toes driving away some of her anger. “I am not sure…”

THEN I WILL FIND ANOTHER MORE WORTHY AND YOU CAN LIVE OUT ETERNITY ON THIS EARTH ALONE.

Meredith suddenly realised that she had not a single friend or any family to comfort her. Humans didn’t trust her and the elves were gone. She was alone. “Wait!” She cried, terror making her decision for her. There was a long pause.

YES…

“I agree.”

YOU MUST SWEAR IT.

“I swear to all that you have said.” Meredith could feel dark tendrils stroke her cheeks. “I will be your vessel if you will be my power.”

GOOD…SUCH A SHAME YOU ARE HALF ELF. THE HUMAN HALF OF YOU MAKES YOU WEAK. MY POWER WOULD BE MAGNIFIED TENFOLD IF YOU WERE WHOLLY ELF.

“There is nothing that can be done.”

REALLY? I CAN SUCK THE HUMANITY FROM YOUR BODY AND SPIT IT OUT AND MAKE YOU PURE.

Meredith shivered but it was more in excitement that fear. “I agree.”

IT WILL BURN.

“Then anything not pure will be turned into ash and thrown away. Do it.”

Fire ripped through her veins and Meredith screamed and screamed as all of her humanity was removed and thrown to one side. In a split second moment before IT poured itself into her, she had a moment of clarity. The colours were brighter, sharper, she could sense things in their fullness that had only been on the edge before. She felt stronger, faster and wiser in that moment and the power was intoxicating. And then the merging began and the whole forest echoed with the sound of a roaring fire.””