It begins with a book buried for centuries, a heavy volume lost not long after its delicate pages had been inked by the wizened hand of an old monk. The monastery in which he lived was carved into the caves overlooking the grand city of Sahir, which lay so close to the horizon that the sun always hung big and low and the nights were short and warm. The great wars that had enveloped the surrounding regions finally reached the walls of Sahir less than a decade after the affectionate sweepings of the monk’s pen, and all of its magnificent architecture- down to the brilliant blue ceramic tiles adorning the palace- crumbled into the desert wind.



But the tale of the book is of little consequence, for the story it contains is centuries older. It begins in the palace of the sultan, Imadh, on a day when the winds changed direction.



Sebime, one of the sultan’s mistresses, was tiptoeing down the clay stairs of the splendid palace when the winds suddenly shifted, and one of the brilliant scarves she wore around her waist was carried off, its golden threads glistening in the sun as it fluttered away. A deaf old peddler, pulling his cart along just as he had every day for seventy years, paused when the winds picked up. Glancing back at the old wooden cart piled with incense burners and metal charms and wind chimes hanging from the wooden beams, the old man shook his head in disbelief. Was that really the wind- the metal charms and wind chimes clinking against one another in the strong gusts- that he was hearing?



Down in the market square, where most of the peddlers had settled for the morning, the winds were being cursed by both merchants and shoppers as they carried off tents and disturbed the cloth that hung for sale. Young women with children hidden in their billowing skirts held onto the scarves that adorned their hair, and men stooped to gather the rolls of bread that had fallen out of their baskets. The handsome and cunning young Nen, however