Chapter 4
4
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING, THERE ’ S A knock on my door.
“From His Majesty,” the messenger states, the king’s waxen seal still warm when I pluck the parchment from the man’s grip.
Prince Balior will join us for dinner tonight. I expect your arrival promptly at seven. Do not be late.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I crumple the parchment in my fist. “Please notify the king that I will be in attendance,” I inform the messenger, then shut the door.
Quiet seethes into my chambers, slithering through the cracks in the floor. An echo of an old panic eats at me.
Moving toward the window, I peer out over the Red City. A blistering flare of color daubs the horizon. The sandstorm is miles off, yet it cloaks all in a red haze: ideal conditions for a darkwalker attack.
I cast my eyes down to the palace grounds below. A figure, blurred behind the encroaching dim, shifts across the courtyard with an effortlessness belonging only to the divine. Of course the South Wind is practicing his swordsmanship, and of course he would do so bare from the waist up. At this hour, the air still holds a chill, but sweat glazes his muscled torso, threads of black hair plastered against his neck. Admittedly, I have never met anymore more gifted with a sword. It is to him as the violin once was to me. I watch the shift of muscle as he cuts down an invisible opponent, and my face stings with heat. I may loathe the immortal, but I’m not dead—yet.
I force myself to turn away, no matter how compelling the sight. Ishmah calls to me. I cannot stay.
After tossing on my cloak, I quickly descend the stairs, taking a few lesser-known corridors to reach the smaller western gate. As an adolescent, I would often escape into the city when Father’s expectations began to feel particularly taxing. Hours I would spend, exploring the public gardens, the crooked footpaths of the souk. When Father discovered my disobedience, he sealed the gates, forbidding me to enter the city without an escort. In retaliation, I bribed his watchmen.
“Your Highness.” A middle-aged man named Mohan dips his chin in acknowledgment. The younger guard beside him, Emin, beams at me.
One by one, I drop five gold coins into each of their palms. “I will be returning in approximately two hours.” Clink, clink . “If Father asks after me”— clink —“you know what to say.”
Mohan flashes his teeth as the gold disappears inside his fist. Emin appears positively giddy over his heavier pockets. “You were last spotted reading in one of the gardens and asked not to be disturbed.”
I have trained them well.
It does not take long to reach the Old Quarter. Head ducked, hood shadowing my face, I dive into the vibrancy of the souk, skirting the area where farmers congregate, their wagons and carts cluttered together like toys in a chest. Aromas of onion, garlic, and pepper wend through the mill of patrons, layering themselves upon the mouthwatering scent of grilled meat.
And yet, the produce is diminished, touched by disease. The grains are shriveled, the fruit scarce and picked over. Farmers are forced to travel many miles to the nearest oasis for water, which depletes year after year. It is not enough to sustain the city. But we do what we can.
A stall near the end of the lane draws my eye, and I halt, shock rooting me in place. A woman sits behind a display of black iris, calmly biting into a bruised peach. Velvet petals painted the black of a deep well. The forbidden bloom.
King Halim ordered the removal of black iris from Ishmah decades ago. It was a lengthy affair, and thorough. Every dusky bud ripped from the flower beds, the gardens, the smallest pots sunning themselves in kitchen windows. All imports were permanently banned. If black iris is discovered in a citizen’s possession, the penalty is death.
For that is how I am to die, according to our Lord of the Mountain. A prick from the thorn of Ammara’s most beloved flower.
Which begs the question: How did this woman manage to slip past the gates with the deadly blooms? I glance around. No one seems to detect the flowers, or care. She is breaking the law, yet I do not wish for her to die. It is so hard to make a living in this drought-stricken land. As long as I do not touch the flower itself, I am safe.
I browse another cart farther on. This merchant sells fine necklaces of hammered copper and silver, among other things. I frown, touching the surface of a small, ruby-inlaid mirror with a fingertip. I’m certain I saw something move within the looking glass. As I peer closer, my hand stills.
I need not spot the South Wind to sense his presence. It arrives as a cloud of heat against my nape, the scent of salt and hot stone. I grit my teeth against the unexpected ache. My body remembers that scent viscerally.
“If your plan is to stalk me without notice,” I drawl, “you are doing a poor job of it.”
“Does your father know you’re here?” he asks in a low, welling pitch, more vibration than sound.
“You are well acquainted with King Halim.” Despite my quickening pulse, I continue to peruse the merchant’s offerings. “I imagine you can answer that question yourself.”
Notus enters my periphery then. This large, broad, sturdy man who, despite our similar height, overwhelms the surrounding space. It enrages me, that he should still have this effect on me. I shove the feeling down as deep as it can go, grinding the sentiment beneath my heel until it is dust.
“The guards put your life at risk in allowing you to enter the city without an escort,” he says in disapproval. “That is no laughing matter.”
I tuck my tongue against my cheek. Clearly, gold is not enough to guarantee their silence. “I am Princess Sarai Al-Khatib,” I state, plucking the mirror from the table and lifting it to the sun. “I may do whatever I like.”
“Your position grants you certain privileges. Of that, there is no doubt. But you must consider the dangers, Sarai—”
My head whips toward him. “Do not speak to me so informally, sir.”
I do not believe the South Wind is breathing. Then again, neither am I.
Deliberately, I place the mirror back onto the table with the utmost care. I will my spine into hardened brick, my mind into stone. Yet my heart is wounded. I feel its cry beneath my ribs, for to look at this immortal is to remember all that I have lost. I once believed I was enough for the South Wind. Certainly, he was enough for me. All I wish now is to ask him why. Why was I not enough? Was I too hotheaded, too ambitious, too proud?
Eventually, Notus dips his chin in compliance. “Forgive me, Princess Sarai.”
My throat thickens with an unexpected rush of sorrow. For there was once a time when I was Princess Sarai to all but him.
“You’ve been following me,” I manage to choke out. “Why?”
A woman hauling a massive barrel of grain cuts between us in an attempt to squeeze through the hectic market. The South Wind steps to the side until she has passed. “Your father asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re here?”
Notus does not reply, and my heart sinks. It is all the answer I need.
Pushing past him, I delve deeper into the chaos of the souk. The storyteller’s hour nears. On the heels of misery, always, is anger. Who is he to speak of danger? He cannot understand how high the palace walls rise.
Frustratingly, Notus follows, carving a path with ease through the throng. We pass a cluster of women dyeing fabric in large wooden tubs.
“Are you capable of developing your own opinion,” I challenge, “or must you always do the king’s bidding?”
“Your safety is the king’s priority.”
I scoff, sidestepping a malnourished dog as I turn down a calmer path between two buildings. “How ironic.”
“What, exactly, is ironic about this situation?”
“If Father wished to keep me safe, he would have stationed you as far away from me as possible.”
Despite the obvious insult, Notus’ tone remains even-keeled. “You are not making his life any easier by placing yourself in harm’s way. Do you think a cloak will stop someone from recognizing you? Hurting you?”
Harm’s way? What utter horse shit. “The Old Quarter is one of the safest areas of the capital,” I retort. “Even if I were recognized, no one would dare lay a hand on me. It is in everyone’s best interest to uphold security.” Ishmah is, after all, the heart of Ammara’s trade. Due to our depleted resources, the majority of its citizens depend on goods acquired from far-reaching villages, and increased crime would only lead to a decline in business. They would not risk losing their livelihood to hurt me.
“You are not as safe as you are made to believe.” He slots into place behind me, his wide frame a blockade against the rising tide of passersby. This, too, I remember: how his body would shift in a reflection of mine. “There have been reports,” he continues. “Two women were reported missing by their families just this week. Last month, a young man was found mutilated in an alley, evidence of a darkwalker attack.”
My blood sparks with dark energy, a dull pulsation of climbing rage.
“Even today—”
I spin around. Only quick reflexes prevent Notus from slamming into me.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “You’re trying to frighten me. It will not work. This is my home, my realm. You are a visitor at best, an outsider at worst.”
Notus gazes at me steadily, brown eyes watchful above his face scarf. Emotion flickers there and is gone. Sorrow, if I am not mistaken.
“Let me be absolutely clear,” I say, stepping aside so a harried mother carrying two swaddled infants can pass. “There are no darkwalkers inside Ishmah’s walls. They have never been breached. Your fearmongering has no place here.”
My pace quickens as I push onward. No longer do I neatly skirt those in my path. No, I knock those smaller and weaker aside, elbowing my way past women carting large skeins of cotton and wool. Meanwhile, Notus dogs my heels, an unwelcome shadow at my back.
“Will you inform the king of my outing?” I call over my shoulder, turning into another alley. Notus matches my stride with frustrating ease.
“That depends.” He sounds scarcely out of breath. “Will you continue to explore the market despite your father’s orders?”
“I will do as I please.”
“Then I have no choice but to notify him of your whereabouts.”
At this point, I would be thrilled to lose him, whether he informs Father or not. The faded yellow door at the end of the lane is a welcome sight, and I ’m rushing toward it when Notus catches my arm. “Where are you going?” he demands.
Despite the power of his grip, his fingers tighten only enough to halt my forward motion. “Let me pass,” I snap. “I’m late for the story.”
“Story?”
I wrench free of his hold. Do I wish him to know I sit at a grandmother’s knee to hear her tales? No. But I have failed to shake him loose. “I visit the storyteller often. I started attending when—” I shake my head, unwilling to mention Fahim’s passing. “It’s harmless. Just a handful of children listening to an old woman speak. If you wish to be of service to my father, then make yourself useful and stand watch.”
Notus eyes the battered door with deep mistrust. One end of his scarf has pulled lose, but he tucks it back in place, strands of black hair poking free of the cloth. “I would prefer to accompany you inside. What if one of them is a threat?”
I scoff. “They’re children, Notus. I’ll be fine.”
He merely glares at me. “I’m serious.”
“As am I. These people don’t know who I am. I want to keep it that way. Stay here.” Spinning on my heel, I slip inside, grateful for the darkness that cools my rising frustration. Quietly, I settle in the back of the room. Haneen has already begun to weave her threads. Hopefully I have not missed much.
Aziza snatched up her tunic, hurriedly shrugging it on to cover her nakedness.
Omar stared at her in bewilderment. “You’re a woman.”
Aziza lifted her chin in defiance. Yes, she was a woman masquerading as a man in their nation’s army. The punishment was death. “And? Will you turn me in?”
“You know that I must.”
Her lip curled in disgust. “You would have lost your life in the last battle if not for me.” The first few weeks of training, Aziza had wondered if she would survive. But she had learned. She had pushed herself when others had languished. She had refused to accept defeat.
Omar scanned their surroundings, as if only now realizing their isolated location. Aziza glanced at where she’d leaned her sword against a nearby boulder. Omar eyed it as well.
A few children gasp in panic. A slow grin spreads across my mouth as I lean forward, watching the woman’s milky eyes flicker deviously.
“Don’t do it,” Omar warned as his hand went to his own sword.
For whatever reason, Omar’s mistrust after months spent side by side in combat made Aziza’s heart sink. “Kill me then,” she whispered.
Omar frowned, yet he did not shift any nearer. Perhaps he was recalling how Aziza had saved his life. “Why would a woman choose a soldier’s life?”
“I took my grandfather’s identity to protect him. He would not have survived the war.”
Omar was quiet for a time, gazing out over the river. Eventually, he said, “And when your secret comes to light? I will be connected with that deceit. I, too, will face certain death.”
“Then we must keep it between ourselves.”
When Haneen stops for the day, the children begin filing out, chatting amongst themselves excitedly with the promise of next week’s tale. I spot Notus near the door, blending into the shadows. My mouth thins as I stride over to him. “I told you to wait outside.”
The South Wind takes stock of the room. It is sparsely furnished, wanting. The old bard perches on her stool, head canted in our direction. Despite my attempts to corral him out the door, Notus will not budge.
“This is where you go when you leave the palace?” he questions.
I restrain myself from clobbering him on the head. He may as well shout that I am Princess of Ammara for all to hear. When I glance at the storyteller, I find her smiling.
“Outside,” I growl. “Now.”
Notus allows himself to be herded back onto the street, though I am not so naive as to believe I am physically capable of maneuvering him. As we begin our return trek to the palace, a brassy clang tears across the city. The warning bell. Three tolls signal an approaching sandstorm. Five tolls warn of darkwalkers.
Two, three… The ringing stops.
It is impressive how swiftly the streets empty. In moments, Notus and I are the only ones left standing in the alley. He looks to me. I look to him. “We should get back,” he says.
Clearly. A few strategically selected shortcuts through the souk deposit us onto the King’s Road. The wind rises. Its scalding gusts blast through the streets, groping at my dress and tearing at the hood of my cloak. Soon, the palace gates are in sight.
Of course, Notus continues to shadow me. I turn to glower at him. “Isn’t the bell your cue to help secure the city?”
He meets my gaze squarely. “I will once you’re safe inside the palace. King Halim doesn’t want anything to befall you, after what happened to your brother.” They are too quiet, these words. “My condolences—”
I stiffen. “That is why you returned? So you could apologize for something that has nothing to do with you?” I feel the barrier rise, brick by crumbling brick. “Fahim died five years ago.”
You were not here , I think. The words choke me. I dare not utter them.
The South Wind stares at the ground as though his life depends on it. “I wasn’t aware. It saddened me to learn of his passing,” he says lowly. “I enjoyed your brother’s company, for however short a time I knew him.”
Another thing I have tried to forget: the image of Notus and Fahim sparring, bare torsos pouring sweat. My brother had been an excellent swordsman, but the South Wind was something else entirely. Sometimes, I suspected Notus let him win.
“It is cruel that a hunting accident took him so young. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
A hunting accident. That was the explanation King Halim gave to inform Ammara’s population of Fahim’s death. But nothing could be farther from the truth.
“Your brother,” Notus continues, “was a good man.”
He is mistaken. Fahim was not just a good man. He was the best.
“Why did you come back?” My voice quavers, and I fear it will fracture into a thousand pieces if I allow it. I vowed never to reveal such weakness, yet I am burdened by the echo of my past, its wretched refusal to die.
Something shifts behind Notus’ eyes. It frightens me, tears open this unhealed wound within me, and once more, I am bleeding out unseen.
Hurriedly, I turn away, breath short, chest tight. Whatever emotion he has expressed, I do not care to acknowledge it.
“Sarai—”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway.” My heart stutters with the uncontrollable urge to flee. “Tell the king what you will. It will only reinforce what I already know: that you are little more than a mindless dog, lacking any thought or willpower of your own.”
When I enter through the palace gates, the South Wind does not follow.