The Book of a Thousand and One Destinies

By Gareth Lewis

A paranoid Sultan, an Assassin found only in stories, and a Storyteller caught up in their battle.

Once upon a time, a great Sultan was plagued by an Assassin who struck at him with stories and lies. A young Storyteller is gathered with her colleagues, and forced to share her stories with the Sultan before their voices are stilled forever.

In a war of destinies, enslaved jinn, and comparative truths, the Storyteller must tread dangerous ground in what may be her final recital.

A fantasy novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gareth Lewis
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370336616

Gareth Lewis

Gareth Lewis has written a number of novels and shorter works in a few genres, including fantasy, science fiction, and thrillers. A programmer, he has a degree in computer studies, and lives in South Wales.

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The Book of a Thousand and One Destinies

Gareth Lewis

Copyright 2017 Gareth Lewis

License Notes

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Language Note

The spelling herein is in British English, while the language choices are pretentiously idiosyncratic.

CHAPTER ONE

There once lived a mighty Sultan. A king of kings, who considered all he surveyed to be his dominion.

The only impediment to the Sultan’s supremacy was an Assassin none had ever seen, whom tales told had sworn bloody vengeance upon the Sultan.

While secure the Assassin would never penetrate his palace’s defences, let alone offer serious threat to his person, the Sultan still sought this Assassin with a passion.

Yet all he had found were stories. Tales of the blows this adversary had already landed.

The Sultan therefore had storytellers brought before him, that he might learn of the man who hunted him.

Of course, the storytellers must needs be executed thereafter. He could countenance no further spread of their seditious fables.

And so it was that a Storyteller was brought before the Sultan, a guard at either arm.

On beholding the mighty Sultan, the Storyteller fell to her knees, prostrating herself before him.

‘Oh, my king,’ said the Storyteller. ‘How may this humble storyteller serve thee?’

The Sultan regarded her with the same suspicion as he had oh so briefly viewed her predecessors. For stories were such an ephemera on which to base one’s life.

‘Know ye,’ said the Sultan. ‘It is reported thou hast spread tales of an Assassin who means me harm.’

The Storyteller, unprotected against his majestic anger, remained silent, her head bowed.

‘I would hear these tales thou spread within my domain.’ Assured his authority had been impressed upon her, the Sultan let fury retire from his voice, though it remained firm. ‘Raise thy head and face me.’

While her station made directly regarding the Sultan improper, to disobey his command would be worse. The Storyteller raised her head and met his gaze with a proper timidity.

Though she was pleasing to the eye, the Sultan saw only a storyteller. A servant he allowed here that she may serve his purpose.

‘Know, Storyteller, that those who spread false tales of me shall feel my wrath.’

The Storyteller doubted not his claim. Yet courage, temerity, or shock compelled her to respond. ‘And those who tell true stories, my king?’

His gaze fell mightily upon her, though he followed it not with force. ‘They shall have no time to know my wrath.’

The Storyteller began to suspect the Sultan may make no effort to put here at her ease. He may, in fact, desire her fearful and compliant. Though it would hardly affect her fate either way. She knew that when summoned, having heard tales of her fellow storytellers.

The silence of the throne room offered little succour, and its opulence she only vaguely registered. No courtiers attended the Sultan’s words. A few servants awaited his commands. Guards stood at every entrance, and of course at her sides. And the Sultan’s minister stood nearby, regarding her with detachment.

Despite the minister’s shaved head, he lacked the look of a eunuch. His eyes, as they burned into her, put her in mind of another of whom she had heard tales. One surely far more fearsome than even the Sultan, were it to appear in its true guise.

‘I shall hear thy tales,’ said the Sultan. ‘By thy telling, or by thy screams.’

In no doubt as to his resolve, nor desiring to tell such tales poorly while under torture, the Storyteller began.

CHAPTER TWO – THE CRUELTY OF KINGS

Some time after the great Sultan had tamed the neighbouring lands under his suzerain, he travelled his domain in great pomp. His entourage of ministers travelled with him and his wife, as they took stock of his achievement.

Through all the great cities they travelled, that all grandees and lords might see their great sovereign and know his power.

Many months their journey took, which wore on the temper of his wife, and thereby the Sultan himself.

For though his wife luxuriated in the attention of the nobles of other lands, she tired of the onerous stretches between oases of civilisation. Even with their entourage to lavish praise upon her, she soon tired of their repetitive blandishments.

It happened that her temper grew wrathful as they passed through a village of little worth. So poor were the lands that they could barely have fed themselves, let alone contributed to the greater society. That she must travel though such filth offended her to her core. This was a place which could never give rise to any with a destiny worthy of mention.

When a farmer’s wife accidentally caught her eye, regarding her better so casually, the Sultan’s Wife was consumed with a fury. For the insult, she demanded the woman’s head.

The farmer fell before the Sultan’s procession, begging clemency for his wife’s mistake, and swearing their undying devotion to their king.

The Sultan’s wife was further angered that a mere farmer should beg directly of the Sultan. She ordained they both be put to die for their crimes.

The Sultan ordered his executioner to take their heads, and bring them along for his wife’s amusement. He hoped they would at least content her a while, putting her in better humour for the remaining journey.

And so the procession moved