Chapter 3
3
R OSHAR H AMMAD . R OYAL TAILOR .
The plaque displays a tidy script carved into the wood’s pale grain. My mouth quirks at the ornate penmanship, its dramatic flourishes. The original plaque had been modest, uniform, unremarkable. In other words, far too dull for the likes of Roshar. Muffled conversation drifts through the door.
“I said a two-finger hem, not three,” a man barks. “Don’t give me that look. Redo it. I don’t care how long it takes.”
There is a pause.
“Are you insinuating I do not know the difference of an inch? My dear, I have clothed the royal family for a decade. I have designed the fashions of the season for the highest governmental officials, the wealthiest of merchants, and the most influential families. You dare suggest I do not know something as fundamental to tailoring as inches ?” Whoever he speaks to utters a quiet response. “That’s what I thought.”
Lifting a fist, I knock.
The door cracks open, then pulls wide. Large, hazel-green eyes swim with irritation behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. A blink, and the man frowns. “Sarai?”
“Is this a bad time?” I whisper.
Beyond his shoulder, three women and two men crowd around an article of clothing spread across a large table. They stare at me in unease, likely wondering why the princess has come knocking.
“For you? Never.” Roshar snaps his fingers. “Everyone out.”
A flurry of cotton, a rush of lemon-scented air, and we are alone.
Quiet presses upon my ears. With space enough to breathe, I enter the room and collapse onto a cushioned armchair near one of the many windows. Beyond, the sky is brutally clear. I cannot remember when clouds were last stitched into its blue fabric.
Tilting back my head, I close my eyes. Deep breath—in, and out. And again.
“Rough day?” asks Roshar.
If only he knew. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the tension between my eyes to dissipate. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
Roshar tsks as though I’m admitting to some horrible offense. “You can’t mean that. I may be the royal tailor, but at the end of the day, I am still a tailor.”
Yet he is unburdened, and free.
I glance around the room. It is draped in riotous color: ruby and citrine and amber and jade. Heaps of fabric weigh down the long tables shoved against the walls. Various works-in-progress hang from the ceiling, including a long, ivory robe embellished in silver thread.
Roshar is equally embellished: scarlet trousers, tawny robe, white headscarf. I am forever in awe at how far my friend has come. Ten years ago, he was but a lowly apprentice. Now, he is tailor to the royal family.
“What’s on your mind, dear?”
Nervous energy bristles under my skin. It flows down my left arm, through my fingertips, into a subtle tap-tap against the chair arm in a rhythm I have not thought of in years. Even now, the melody that accompanies this rhythm shimmers against my eardrums in a ghostly echo of the past. I flinch and curl my fingers into a fist.
“Once again,” I say, “I fear I fall short in my father’s eyes.”
“Is that all?” he asks with too much knowing, taking a seat in a neighboring chair.
No. It is not even the half of it.
“I never say the right things. I continually dishonor him. My actions are humiliating, disgraceful, unwanted.” I clench my jaw in an effort to ward off the rising shame. “Sometimes I wonder if my father wouldn’t prefer that Fahim were here in my stead.” And me buried beneath the earth.
Roshar’s expression falls into a rare somberness. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” I whisper. I very well do.
Reaching out, he takes my hand between his thin, bandaged fingers. Blood spots the cloth where one too many needles have pricked him. Customarily, no man may touch an unmarried woman. But why should I not accept comfort when it is offered? I am to die in just over a month, and the affection of a friend is much needed. Besides, Roshar prefers men in his bed, not women.
Springing upright, Roshar moves to the opposite side of the room and returns with a plate bearing a small pomegranate tart. Wordlessly, he sets the plate in my hand, passes over a fork. “You look like you need it.”
My smile wavers in gratitude. “Thank you.” I was born into privilege, Ammara’s riches my inheritance, yet I have but one friend. I do not trust the women at court. They slip their fingers between the bars as though I am a bird in a cage, offering me morsels, crumbs. Apparently, I am only good enough for favors.
“All right.” Roshar plops onto a stool upholstered in olive green fabric, a cup of refreshing mint tea in hand. “Tell me what happened.”
Gently, I tap the tines of my fork against the plate. “I met the man I am to eventually marry this morning.”
“I see.” He takes a sip. “Let me guess. He was dreadfully dull.”
I shrug. “I haven’t formed an opinion of him yet.” Though I appreciated Prince Balior’s effort to shield me from Father’s ire. These initial weeks, the prince and I will court, until the engagement is formalized. Then: marriage. “And… there’s more.”
“Oh?” Roshar perks up, takes another sip.
I abandon all propriety and shove the entire pastry into my mouth. Through bulging cheeks, I manage, “Notus has returned.”
Roshar spews his tea everywhere. “What!”
I mop the tea from my face with a square of cloth, mouth quirked. “Must I repeat myself?”
He snaps into motion: across the room, to the door, the window, back to the stool. “By the gods, Sarai. You can’t just drop this information into my lap without warning.” Gradually, his astonishment hones itself into a bright, eager curiosity. “When did this happen? Why? Have you seen him? I need details.”
I respond around the sweet acidity of pomegranate jam. Our meeting occurred just this morning. No, I was not aware he had returned. Yes, Father knows of his presence. Oh, and he appointed Notus as a member of the Royal Guard.
“The Royal Guard? Oh, goodness. I need to sit.” He collapses onto the stool, fanning himself with one of his sketches. “Does Amir know?” A sharp gasp sounds as his hand flies to his mouth. “Can you imagine the bloodshed?”
My stomach quivers with unease, and I set the plate aside. Perhaps I should not have eaten so much so quickly. “No,” I reply. “He’s still on his honeymoon.” Lucky him, that he should be granted the opportunity of seeing the world while I am expected to remain here, forever tied to the prince. “I’m sure it will be fine. He has more important things to worry about than petty revenge.”
Roshar’s gaze communicates his disagreement, but thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue. “How are you though, truly?” His eyes soften behind his glasses. “It’s been years since he left, but…”
But time is treacherous. Seasons may have waxed and waned, yet I stood before the South Wind mere hours ago and felt as if I were once again a girl of eighteen.
“Honestly?” I swallow painfully. “Confused.” It took years to rebuild my life. During that time, I’d grieved not only Notus, but Fahim as well. I decided then that vulnerability would never again hold power over me. My heart would belong only to myself.
Roshar squeezes my fingers in solidarity. “That is valid. Expected, even.” He frowns, perhaps noticing how my hand trembles. “What’s your plan?”
“Plan?”
“I assume you are already plotting how best to murder the South Wind?”
My mouth relaxes into the smallest curve. “How did you know?”
“How will we do it? Tell me.” He leans forward with all the eagerness of a young pup. “You know I’m always here to help bury a body.”
I do know. And I appreciate him for that. But I do not wish for Notus’ death. Merely his suffering.
“I’ll need time to think about it,” I say.
Seeing that my mood has improved slightly, Roshar wanders to a far window, where he halts. “Oh, my.” The glitter of his rings catches the light as he rests a hand over his chest. “Sarai. It’s him! He looks even more handsome than I remember.” He glances over his shoulder, notes my sour-faced expression, and winces. “Honestly, dear, you have eyes. Tell me he isn’t one of the most delectable men you’ve ever seen!”
Despite my knotted gut, something tugs me gently, then with insistence, toward the window overlooking the central courtyard, where a rounded, crumbling structure the color of bone squats. For twenty-five years, the labyrinth has shadowed the palace’s very heart. It was built immediately following the bargain King Halim struck with the Lord of the Mountain. In exchange for my life, the all-powerful god required a stronghold secure enough to contain a beast for all eternity. That should have been the end of it.
When the annual floods failed to appear the following year, however, Father suspected something was amiss. He returned to Mount Syr, demanding an explanation. It was then the Lord of the Mountain revealed the true price of his benevolence.
In exchange for my life, Ammara would suffer a slow decay. No longer would the summer rains enrich the soil, swell the dams, quench the farms. Though I would live, it would be a cursed existence. For on my twenty-fifth nameday, the Lord of the Mountain will return to claim my life.
Shifting my attention to the far side of the labyrinth, I watch Notus circle the courtyard. Every so often, his hand drifts to the hilt of his scimitar. That quiet gaze, always seeking, never still.
Once a decade, seven men are sacrificed to the beast imprisoned within the labyrinth. A blasphemous creature, its appetite must always be satiated. No matter the efforts, none could slay it. Notus, however, arrived in Ishmah six years ago promising to slay the beast. He was unsuccessful. To this day, he is the only one to have escaped the labyrinth. In a way, it makes sense that he should be the one to guard it.
“Look at his shoulders, those thighs .” Roshar bumps his hip to mine. “I wouldn’t mind having those wrapped around my—”
“Roshar!”
His high, cackling laughter chases my outburst. I shake my head, then shove him for good measure. He only laughs harder.
Abruptly, he straightens, nose pressed against the glass. “And who is this?” An eagerness whets his tone. “Your future prince?”
My eyes cut left. I spot Prince Balior emerging from the guest wing of the palace. The moment he enters Notus’ line of sight, the South Wind slows.
They regard each other across the expanse of baked stone. Prince Balior glances at the labyrinth, frowns, then approaches Notus. I lean closer, face plastered to the searing glass. God and prince, ex-lover and future husband. They converse for an uncomfortably long time.
Roshar angles toward me, mouth pursed. “One woman caught between two men. There are worse things in life.”
I am not so certain. The god who broke my heart, or the man I must bind myself to for the remainder of my days, whether I want to or not?
When Prince Balior advances toward the labyrinth’s arched entryway, Notus sidesteps, blocking his way forward. Though I cannot read the South Wind’s expression behind the headscarf shielding his face, I imagine his response to be low, calm, thrumming with command. None may approach. That is law.
Eventually, Prince Balior gives up and returns to the guest wing. I step back from the window. The air has grown heavier, if possible. These walls sag inward, smothering my skin.
“I need air,” I mutter, heading for the door.
“Wait!” Roshar scurries after me. “Take this.”
He offers me a second pomegranate tart. I peer at him in exasperation.
“You’re going to need it,” he says.
Amir is scheduled to return to Ishmah with his new bride in a matter of weeks.
His timing could not possibly be worse. Between the South Wind’s return, Prince Balior’s arrival, and my own impending death, I do not have the mental capacity to pile yet another worry onto my plate. And I dread how our reunion might unfold. We did not part on the best terms. I begged him not to go, but Amir would not be swayed. Our argument grew heated. I ridiculed his lack of leadership. He mocked my inability to cope without him. Then he left. Without a proper goodbye, without… anything. Three months later, the memory remains bitter.
The palace staff are already deep in preparations for my brother’s return. It is to be expected. One day, he will bear the weight of a crown on his head, a kingdom on his shoulders. The responsibility was never his to carry, but such is life, changing as unexpectedly as the sands. I do not envy him this fate.
A wall of scorching heat blasts me as I emerge into the courtyard. A few attendants scurry between the various wings, carting baskets of laundry or cleaning supplies. Sunlight boils the stone slabs underfoot. The labyrinth gleams with an alabaster shine.
I circle the structure twice, but Notus is strangely absent. Is it possible the king called for him in the time it took me to travel from Roshar’s workroom? The labyrinth is rarely left unguarded. Still, a sentinel may fall prey to the beast. It is not unheard of. Prior to Notus’ presence, King Halim struggled to retain guards. Too easily, they were lured inside.
As for the door to the labyrinth, it is constructed from neither clay nor sand nor metal nor stone. A symbol bearing a likeness to the moon or sun has been carved into its face, with a triangle slicing through its center. When my hand hovers over its surface, a whiff of frigid air billows against my palm.
Hello, Sarai.
I startle and whip around. “Notus?”
No one is there.
Disquiet slinks through me, and I hurriedly return to my chambers. There, I sit at my desk and remove my journal, which I open to the most recent page of numbers. An unending line of x ’s, which will soon cease to exist. Tomorrow, day forty-six. My heart palpitates at the thought.
I glance toward the window. Sundown. I’m late for my lesson.
The south wing’s main passage overlooks a light-filled atrium, a large garden sprouting from the first floor below. It holds a collection of climbing wisteria, fragrant laurel trees, and still pools bordered by pebbles. As I turn a corner, I hear it. The muffled reverberation of the violin’s lower register, followed by the slurred notes of an ascending scale.
My breath catches, and I slow upon reaching the music room, peering through the partially open door.
A wizened man swathed in pale yellow robes sits near the window overlooking the palace orchards. Ibramin: the greatest virtuoso of his generation. Brightened by a beam of waning sunlight, instrument cradled between shoulder and chin, he shifts from first position to third, the bow drawing forth a sound of deep anguish, notes warbling with a slow vibrato. I press a palm to my chest, teeth gritted as my eyes sting with feeling.
I have performed every manner of concerto, sonata, romance, caprice, partita, and show piece. I have mastered every étude, memorized every scale in every key. This, I do not recognize.
But I cannot deny its beauty, and its ache. When the music reaches its resolution, I am released from its painful spell. I wipe my eyes, loose a long, shuddering breath. Once my emotions are under control, I enter.
Ibramin smiles in greeting. “Good afternoon, Sarai.” He rolls his wheeled chair toward me. “I anticipate you’ve been working diligently this week?”
Every week without fail my teacher asks this. And every week without fail I reply, “I have.”
It matters not that I haven’t touched my instrument in years. I can barely look at it without thinking of Fahim, for he, too, loved the violin, was an even greater prodigy than I. We often took lessons together before his duties as heir forced him to abandon the endeavor. Granted, my career as a concert violinist is unusual, considering my station, but Father encouraged me to pursue music. I believe it helped him feel closer to our mother, who had once been an accomplished violinist herself.
Crossing the room, I settle into a chair opposite Ibramin. A faded green rug ornaments the floor, while shelves stuffed with sheet music span one wall. My life can be measured in memories of this place and all that I’ve achieved.
I am four years old, the smallest of violins placed in my chubby hands.
I am eight years old, drilling scales and études for four hours daily.
I am twelve years old, debuting with the Ishmah Symphony Orchestra.
I am fifteen years old, and my reputation precedes me. I perform in the most prestigious concert halls throughout Ammara, at every major city along the Spice Road. I witness places I have never been, things I have never seen.
I am eighteen years old, and in love. I practice with a frenzy I have never before experienced, joy unfurling with every singing note.
I am nineteen years old, and overcome with sorrow. When I tuck the violin beneath my chin, the music does not come. I place the instrument in its case, shove it into the back of my wardrobe. I abandon it, and myself.
“Sarai?”
I startle. Ibramin regards me in concern. “Apologies, sir,” I say. “My mind was elsewhere. Did you say something?”
“I asked if you would play something for me. Winter’s Lullaby? ” He searches my face, seeking what, I am not sure. “You always loved that one.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. He is right. I do. Did . “I don’t know if I feel up to playing,” I respond, as I do each time he asks. “It has been a tiresome day.”
“Will you at least try?”
The pleading in his voice does not go unnoticed. Try . It does not seem so perilous a word. Harmless, really, without any expectation attached.
Generally, Ibramin and I spend lessons reviewing music theory and counterpoint. Most days, we sit in silence. I pretend to study, and he pretends I have not completely abandoned music. But sometimes… sometimes, he asks me to perform. Always, I decline. But today? Something new.
I nod in compliance, watching as Ibramin wheels to my side before offering me his instrument. A deep red varnish coats the flamed maple back. My violin’s coloring is much lighter in comparison, a uniform gold with darker whorls near the tail piece.
As I accept the familiar weight of the violin, my throat narrows, and I remember all that I wish to forget.
There is Fahim’s face, the pearly flash of his laughing mouth as I watched him perform. Then, years later, the fatigue dulling his once-bright eyes. There is the unease of silence during meals where merriment had once thrived. There is his bedroom door, my palm resting against the cool wood, confusion and fear intertwined after he’d failed to come down to breakfast. And there is what lies beyond that door, which still haunts me to this day.
“Will you play?” Ibramin asks.
Gently, I return the violin to its case. “I will not.”