A Heavy Crown

The caravans slithered their way through the winding desert road. The moving markets of Ifrah* had begun their season’s journey across the Dominion of Azmirad. It had been a tradition for more than a thousand years for caravans to move through the land, taking Ifrah’s riches with them wherever they went. “The land of trade has to prove itself in the eyes of its people. If Ifrah has the finest market in the world, let all of Azmirad see it,” Shahariq** Mirzar III had said. Or so the legend went. 

Zafira had heard these stories as a little girl. The richly decorated caravans knew no equal. They carried the aroma of Ifrah’s spice and the glow of the finest gold in Vastinia. The beauty of each shopfront would need its own poem to describe. Fine textiles, gold and jewels, sweets and delicacies, potions and magic scrolls. Anything your heart desires. “If you can’t find it at the moving markets,” the old saying went, “it probably doesn’t exist.”

Zafira still remembered how disappointed she was when she first visited the markets with her mother some seven seasons ago. The procession was impressive. It was certainly more grand than anything she would ever see in the desert villages. But a child’s mind works differently. She had taken all those exaggerations from her mother’s stories and weaved them into an impossible image to match in reality. 

She had now grown up enough to come to the market by herself. And with the years she had learned to appreciate the caravans for what they truly were - a connection to the outside world. A means for the desert folk to stay within the cultural realm of Azmirad. After all, if the Shahariq didn’t share riches with his subjects, how long could he afford to stay in power?  

The moving markets also meant safety. The caravans carried all the necessities for a safe, if not entirely comfortable life in the desert. Such items were on Zafira’s shopping list today. Rope and nails to fix the well. Canvas to provide shade for the crops. Feed for the animals. 

And most importantly water scrolls. Out here in the desert magic to create water was as vital as air. Desert folk might not be able to cast any other spells, but all of them needed to learn how to create water. Everything they had depended upon that skill. 

Zafira made her way down the dune with effortless grace, gently tugging at the reins of a camel by her side. She was particularly excited to come to the moving market this year. She had been saving up all season, waiting for this day. She had managed to collect five gold pieces. When she bought all the supplies she and her mother needed to make it through the scorching months of high summer, she would take an hour to browse the market and find herself something nice. Just for her. To celebrate her fifteenth birthday. 

Of course, she went to source the necessities first. Though she was still a child, she was much more responsible than most adults in Ifrah. The desert life demanded one to grow up quickly. She did her best to bring down the price, just as her mother and her grandmother had taught her. But she wasn’t as successful as them. Not many seasoned traders took a young scrawny girl seriously. 

Though technically part of the same country, Ifrah and The Desert were quite different in the way they treated women. Such behaviour became more than obvious every time Zafira visited the markets. And while that felt like a simple fact of life when she was younger, now it infuriated her. Nonetheless, she forced herself not to think about that now. There wasn’t time to dwell on life’s injustices. She had tasks to accomplish today, preferably before the High Sun hit. 

She went from tent to tent, getting rice and rope, canvas and canisters, soap and scrolls. An hour or so later, she sat in a tea house to take the load off her tired legs. She had been up since dawn, readying for the day’s shopping. The walk back to the village wouldn’t be easy either, especially with everything she had bought. She looked at the brimming satchels on the camel’s back - satisfied with her accomplishment. 

Now it was time for the fun part. She had an hour and five gold pieces to spend. A luxury she had dreamed of all season long. With a mischievous grin, she finished her sweet cinnamon tea and headed toward the antique district. She knew exactly which shop to look for. 

Qadimash’s tent was right in the middle of the antique district. Qadimash - an honest antique dealer, if ever such a thing existed - had a thing for Zafira’s mother. The two of them were always happy to spend some time together each season when the markets passed through. Nothing could come of it, of course. Zafira’s mother would never get over the loss of her father. And Qadimash understood. He respected that decision, yet never missed the chance to catch up with her. Zafira liked Qadimash. The old man always had a sweet or two to offer her whenever they stopped by his shop. 

“Ah, Zafira!” The portly man jumped from his chair when he saw her approach the tent. “Goodness, how you’ve grown! Those crystal eyes of yours will break many hearts, I’m sure,” he said, embracing her as he would his daughter. 

“Hello, Qadimash. I haven’t seen you in two seasons. How’s business?” 

“Oh, you know, child. Business is never as good as we want it to be. But in truth, I can’t complain too much,” he said patting his belly with both hands. “How is your mother? Did she not come to the markets this year?” 

“Age and the desert winds are starting to show on her, but she’s alright. It’s just me this season. I have to learn our ways, she says.” 

“Yes, of course! You’ve grown up now and you’re more than capable, I see,” he noted pointing at the full satchels on the camel’s back. “What can I do for you today, dear child?” 

“Well, I got everything I came here to get,” Zafira said. “But I had some time to spare and thought I’d treat myself. It was my birthday a month ago, you see.”  

“Hah! Of course!” Qadimash exclaimed, clasping his hands in delight. “I have all sorts of items that would appeal to a young, beautiful girl. Come, come. Take a look.” 

The merchant led her inside the makeshift shop. She had visited Qadimash before, of course. But she was always amazed by that first impression every time she walked inside his establishment. What looked like a temporary tent from the outside transformed into a grand boutique. The shop was three stories high on the inside. Deep green and silver drapes hung from the ceilings. The whole place was lit spectacularly - like the inside of an emerald, left out in the High Sun. She knew the tent was supposed to be a mere copy of his shop in Ifrah. If this was a fraction of that, she couldn’t even imagine what that would look like. Maybe someday – 

“Did you have anything specific in mind, child?” His question brought her out of her thoughts. 

“Not really. I thought I’d browse for a bit. See what catches my eye.” 

“What are you looking to spend then? That’s usually a good starting point.” 

“I have 5 gold pieces.” 

“Ah, yes. That’s a good sum. We can get you something very nice for 5 gold pieces.” Qadimash went behind one of the crystal displays and took out a small cherry wood box. “You can get this, for example,” he opened the box to reveal a dark green jade comb. It looked like it was carved out from a solid slab of jade. It had intricate etchings along its handle, including two sleeping dragons on either end. “This came all the way from Yunar. All hand-made, of course, no magic crafting involved.” He handed it to her. 

“Yes, it’s pretty,” she said as she went to comb her raven black hair. “And it does feel nice and cool. But I’m not sure it speaks to me.” 

“Fair point. No reason to spend your hard-earned gold if you won’t enjoy the thing. Let’s see what else we have in here,” the man crouched down behind the counter again, looking for something else that would suit her. 

Zafira’s eyes roamed the room. She heard a strange whizzing sound - as if a strong gust of wind suddenly entered the room through a narrow opening. She looked around to see where the sound was coming from. Her eyes stopped on a gold tiara. At first glance, its design was simple. Unassuming. And yet Zafira couldn’t take her eyes off it. The three clear jewels on the front of it shimmered beautifully. It was almost as if they were moving, never settling in one place - like an oasis in the desert. It was elegant and enigmatic. It was magnificent. 

“How about that,” she asked, mesmerised by this small but powerful thing. 

Qadimash followed her finger to where she was pointing. “Oh, that’s a wonder of an item for sure. I got that…Well, maybe 20 years ago,” he said rubbing his chin. “Which is nothing, of course, for a tiara more than a thousand years old.” 

“A thousand years! That must be expensive then,” Zafira said somewhat dejected.

“Yes, I’d say it’s about six thousand gold… If you could put a price on such a thing anyway.” 

Zafira’s heart sank. Not in an entire lifetime would she be able to afford that tiara. And yet, in her heart, she knew that was all she wanted.

“Don’t worry child,” Qadimash said. “We’ll find something else that suits you better. Besides, where are you going to wear a crown in your village?” 

“Qadimash, can I at least hold it? Try it on?” 

The merchant seemed reluctant, but couldn’t say no. He had known Zafira since she was a child. And the way she looked at him now with those teary blue eyes, he could hardly take a little joy away from the girl. “Alright, give me a moment.”

He reached for a small stepladder and leaned it against the wall where the tiara sat. He climbed up and reached to take it down. Zafira could have sworn those few moments took an eternity. She wanted that tiara in her hands now. 

“There we are,” Qadimash passed it to her. 

Zafira took it with both hands, careful not to drop it. It felt reassuringly heavy and warm to the touch. It sat so well in her hands, she wondered for a second how she would ever let it go. 

“Do you have a mirror?” she asked without taking her eyes off the glimmering jewels. They seemed to change colour constantly. “I want to put it on.” 

“Right this way,” Qadimash pointed to one corner of the shop. 

Zafira stepped before the mirror and slowly slid the tiara on her head. She could swear she heard the thing buzz ever so slightly. A chill ran from the back of her head and down her spine. The buzz intensified and turned into a screech. Zafira felt it like a dagger in her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut to make it go away. And, strangely, it did. All went quiet as she opened her eyes to look inside the mirror. 

The tiara fit her well. Impeccably. Even in her coarse woollen clothes, she looked noble. Her rounded face seemed somehow more mature. Her eyes retained that youthful clear blue. But there was wisdom and confidence in them that she did not recognise. It was as if someone had taken her face and that of a much older woman and mashed them together. What she saw in the mirror seemed like a stranger and yet it wasn’t. It was a bizarre experience which she couldn’t quite grasp. She looked like the daughter of the Shafiriq himself. A true… 

“My queen!” Qadimash dropped to his knees, throwing his arms in front of him. “You have graced me with your presence.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, silly!” Zafira said with an awkward smile. The best she could manage at this point. “Get up off the floor.” 

“As my queen commands,” the man scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could at his age. The sight would have been comical if Zafira wasn’t too caught up in trying to understand her situation. 

“Why are you calling me that?” 

“What do you mean, your highness? How should I, a humble subject, call you?”

“Alright, Qazimash. Stop it. Whatever this is, it isn’t funny.” 

How much, Zafira heard the words clearly in her mind, accompanied by that same metallic buzz from before. 

Ask him how much. It was a whisper, and yet she felt it as loud as a screech, rattling her mind. She couldn’t ignore the command. 

“How much did you say this crown cost,” the girl said while looking back in the mirror and adjusting the tiara with an uncomfortable grimace. 

“What do you mean, your Highness?” the man asked averting his gaze. 

“The tiara, Qazimash. How much is it?” 

“It is yours, my lady, how can I put a price on the very symbol of your excellency?” 

“No, seriously. Stop toying with me and give me the number. Six thousand gold pieces, was it?” 

“It is yours and it is priceless,” the old merchant said, as earnest as he had ever been. 

You heard him, the voice screeched between Zafira’s temples. Take me and walk away. Her feet turned her and propelled her toward the door. Zafira knew this was wrong, but she couldn’t resist the power of that voice. It wasn’t right, and yet, she couldn’t stop herself. The least she could do was leave her 5 gold pieces on the counter as she moved toward the door. 

“Goodbye, Qazimash. And sorry about all this,” Zafira said.

“No need to apologise, your Highness,” Qazimash replied. He looked at the 5 gold pieces and gratefully tucked them inside his inner pocket. “Thank you for your generosity,” he shouted to Zafira, as she exited his store. 

She stepped out into the searing sun with squinting eyes and a heavy head. Her pulse thumped at her temples, like the relentless drumbeat of a marching army. She kept her eyes down, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But the world around her had other plans. 

The first bow in her direction came from a fruit vendor, his rough hands clutching a basket of figs. The man had all but spat at her earlier when she had almost bumped into his storefront on her way to Qadimash. A young woman with a baby on her back followed suit. She murmured something that Zafira couldn’t quite make out. Soon, the entire marketplace grew quiet as more and more eyes clung to her. 

“No, no, please don’t—” she stammered. “Stop looking at me!”

But they didn’t stop. Whispers rippled through the crowd. A hive buzzing for its queen. 

“Is it her?”

“Look at the crown… It must be.”

“She has returned!” 

Zafira felt her guts twist into a knot. She didn’t know what to make of all this. She was just a village girl. There wasn’t a drop of royal blood inside her. And yet these people bowed before her. It made no sense. 

She took a few timid steps forward, the crowd parting in her way. Even as her mind protested her new reality, a warm spark lit her chest. She felt a faint thrill. No one had ever looked at her the way they did - a mix of respect, reverence and fear in their faces. 

She caught her reflection in a polished copper tray at a merchant’s stall. The tiara shimmered on her head, its jewels alive with shifting facets. It made her look powerful. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, equal parts fear and exhilaration.

This isn’t right, she thought. But...it feels good.

Yes, a soft voice whispered in her mind. You wear me well, Zafira.

She reached for the tiara with both hands. A sharp prick made her gasp as tiny thorns sprouted from its sides. The thing burrowed into her hair and scalp. Gently, but insistently. 

“Stop!” she cried, her hands frantically pulling at the crown. But the pain faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by warmth that dulled her senses. 

They see your power. You were meant to rule. The voice came and went like mist in the aether. 

Zafira hesitated, then looked back at the bowing crowd. Their awe stirred something deep within her—a strange pride she didn’t fully understand.

“I can get used to this,” she smiled faintly. 

Yesss… the voice whispered. 

The blue drained from Zafira’s eyes - replaced by two crystal clear jewels. 

Footnotes:

 *Ifrah - the capital of the Dominion of Azmirad.

**Shahariq - noble title, the “high king” of the Dominion of Azmirad.