Chapter 9
9
F IND ME, AND I WILL grant you what you seek.
My fingertips quiver against the journal as I stare, slack-jawed, at the ink bleeding through the thin parchment. Once a decade, seven men are sacrificed to the beast. King Halim claims it is the only way to mollify the creature that paces the labyrinth. But what if the beast doesn’t wish to devour these men? What if it seeks escape, to enact revenge on those who imprisoned it?
The deeper I ponder the matter, the more I am convinced of the injustice of it all. The beast is right. Why should it be punished for its existence? Why not the king, who failed to sacrifice the divine bull? Or the Lord of the Mountain?
I pause, quickly returning to a previous sentence. Pathetic mortal king …
My blood runs cold.
Not the king who failed to sacrifice the bull. The king with whom the Lord of the Mountain negotiated to construct the labyrinth, a bargain fulfilled to save the life of his ailing daughter: King Halim. And if the beast escapes, it could very well go after Father for having played a role in its imprisonment. I cannot let that happen.
I’m so focused on scouring the stack of books that I fail to realize the temperature has dropped until my teeth begin to chatter. When a low, faint hiss echoes from a distant chamber, I whirl, wielding my lamp like a weapon. “Hello?”
A wave of cold sweeps into the room.
Like a foul fog, it reeks of decay, raising the hair along my body. I remain frozen, entrenched in the stone floor. Something grazes my nape, and I whip back around, swinging the lamp wildly to strike whatever it is that touches me.
Nothing is there.
My heart beats so rapidly its rhythm bleeds into a dull hum. Time to leave. It is absolutely time to leave.
But I can’t guarantee that I will be able to return—these records are too valuable. So I gather them into my arms as swiftly as my shaking hands will allow. Again, that skittering hiss, like nails over stone: nearer, just beyond the threshold.
I toss aside the heaviest tomes and cram as many of the smaller books as I can reach into my arms, never mind that they are centuries old. Then I grab the lamp and bolt for the door, peering out into the hallway. The entire corridor is obscured, steeped in a dim so thick it coats my hands. I squint, seeking any movement, when my lamp gutters.
Darkness blots my vision. I am entombed.
My fingers spasm around the lamp handle. I’m no warrior. I’m a violinist, with no skill in combat. I know how to run, how to shrink, how to hide, but little else. Whatever lurks beyond sight, it is large, that much I know, for the shifting air heaves against me in great waves, suggesting something massive stirs it into agitation. I dare not breathe as, heart careening, I retreat back into the room and slowly, slowly ease the door shut.
A glassy fear masks my thoughts. I am naught but a body crafted from dread and bone, driven by instinct, fingers fumbling for a lock, finding none. The door handle has nearly rusted through and is unlikely to hold against a forced entry.
I continue to retreat, using touch to guide myself around the desk. I now understand how foolish this mission has been. No one knows of my whereabouts. Down and down my thoughts spiral, amplifying the hysteria until I reach a place of such brutal clarity that I am momentarily separated from the fear: my lamp. It has been extinguished, but there must be a means of lighting the wick.
Carefully, I place my stolen books onto the desk and begin pulling open the drawers. The ground trembles with the unmistakable rhythm of a four-legged gait, and the scratch of nails over stone makes my jaw twinge. With shaking hands, I grasp hold of what feels like flint and steel. Two, three, four strikes, and the wick of my lamp catches. Light drives the shadows into hiding—and draws the creature’s attention as well.
There is a scratch at the bottom of the door. A single nail dragged across the warped grain. The whiff of decay is stronger now, layered with a faint trace of woodsmoke. As I gather up the books, something heavy pushes against the ancient door. It bows from the pressure, groaning, and I shrink against the desk, teeth chattering as my gaze flits from corner to corner. There is nothing. No window, no means of escape, and now—
The door shatters. Something tumbles forward, a mess of elongated limbs, jutting bones, and oozing shadow patched across a body that appears to have been wrenched apart and stitched back together haphazardly. Its fangs are so numerous they bulge outward, dripping black fluid.
Darkwalker.
My mouth is dry as the desert sand. How did one manage to slip into the capital? The city gates, carved with protective runes, are shut prior to sundown.
The beast’s head snaps toward me. I scream and stumble backward, narrowly missing the snap of its teeth. The books tumble from my arms. I snag one within reach, tuck it close to my chest—this one small hope that might lead to further information about the labyrinth—and dart to the opposite side of the room. Two steps later, the darkwalker cuts off my escape.
I pivot, ducking beneath its jaw to scuttle back toward the desk, the only shield in proximity. The creature is massive. Overwhelming. I’ve barely time to throw myself sideways as it strikes, toppling the desk as it rushes past. The beast rams snout-first into the wall, and I’m up, sprinting for the doorway.
I cut left, back toward the main atrium. I didn’t realize how deeply I’d ventured from the special collections, for the narrow passage continues, on and on, an endless stretch of shadow. My lamp swings wildly in one hand, the other clutching the book. A furious roar rattles the air. Then my foot catches on a crack in the slab, and I stumble, hobbling awkwardly as pain licks through my ankle. Another crash draws my attention over my shoulder where the darkness seethes. It is coming.
I’m steps away from the back stacks when a great stench rolls forth. I abandon the lamp, force my legs faster, the pain in my ankle a distant memory. Turning right will lead me to the main atrium, the library exit. But the darkwalker is mere steps away. If I continue toward the main chamber, it will tear through my body long before I ever reach safety. I’ll need to lose it in the stacks.
I veer left. The beast, too bulky to make these hairpin turns, rams into the wall. Grit showers down from the ceiling, and I dart along the shadowy aisle. The brightness of bound parchment flickers past as a thump sounds from behind, followed by a groan of wood. The shelving unit to my right wobbles.
I reach the end of the row. A corner—the worst place to be. When I peek around the shelf, I find that the beast has reoriented itself, sniffing the area as it seeks my scent. I wait until it turns its head, then dash down another aisle. If I move carefully and quietly, perhaps I can evade the darkwalker long enough to reach the front counter.
I place as much distance as I can between myself and the beast before ducking behind a row housing scrolls of Ishmah’s recorded history. A darkwalker’s sense of smell is keen. Its hearing and sight, less so. I can use that to my advantage.
With the stolen book still pressed to my heaving breast, I slide a bookend free from a shelf and ease around a bend, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. There—a handful of rows away. Its sniffling grows louder. Breath held, I launch the bookend as far as I can in the opposite direction of the front counter.
It scuttles toward the crash with a shriek. I duck behind another row before it realizes I’m on the move. If not for the small, cutout windows in the vaulted ceiling, I would be navigating the stacks blind.
When the beast fails to find me, it returns to its previous position, smashing into one of the shelves in the process. I watch it wobble from a distance. The idea emerges sleek and fully formed. I grasp its smooth shape in hand and consider my next move. If I can lure the darkwalker to the very end of the stacks, I can tip the shelves against one another, potentially trapping the beast beneath their weight long enough for me to flee the library.
Unfortunately, I’m on the wrong side of the room. To lure the beast, I must give it something to chase. Which means I will need to run faster than the toppling stacks, timing it just right.
The moment I ram the shelf hard enough to tilt it forward, the darkwalker catches sight of me. I dart down a row, leading the beast to its demise.
The shelf crashes into the one before it. Then that, too, tilts. It creates a domino effect, ancient texts and centuries-old documents tumbling to the ground in bits of parchment and dust. When I reach the penultimate row, I am near collapse. The final shelf topples forward as I dig deep for that last bit of speed. But I am not quick enough. My fingers catch the bookshelf. Momentum hauls me around, so fast my feet slip out from under me. I slam into the floor.
Seconds before the bookshelf crushes me, I scramble backward. The darkwalker strikes, quick as an asp. I scream and scuttle sideways, wiggling into the small space created by the collapsed unit propped against its neighbor.
“Sarai!”
A sob of relief builds in my chest. My fingernails scrabble at the stone as I drag myself forward through the scrolls and maps and tomes, while the darkwalker, steps behind, is destroying everything in its path searching for me, the parchment ripped as easily as dried leaves. I do not stop. Every fallen book is an obstacle to overcome. “Notus!” I cry back.
“Where are you?”
Teeth clenched, I push through the next wave of exhaustion. It is too far, his voice. My gasps are ragged, my throat inflamed. I haven’t the breath to respond. The plan has failed. And I have blocked my only way out.
“I’m in the back stacks!” I scream. “Hurry!”
The darkwalker is too preoccupied demolishing the shelving to notice when I wiggle free on the opposite side of the aisle. At the next doorway, I duck inside, hobble behind the open door. Breath held, I wait.
It emerges from the stacks as something constructed in my nightmares. Pits for eyes, broken wisped tail. Saliva drips from its long, serrated fangs.
Wherever these darkwalkers hail from, I am certain it is a place of darkness, the chasm of some demonic hell. Prowling forward, it lifts its snout to the air. I watch it through the crack in the door. Once it kills its victim, it sucks out their soul through the mouth. I am marble , I think. I am stone .
Even my thoughts have stilled, as if they, too, fear to attract the beast’s attention. Snout pressed against the crack, it exhales a noxious breath.
A blast of wind shatters a nearby shelf. Yellowing parchment spews in countless directions. The darkwalker whirls, a furious roar tearing from its throat.
My vision has adjusted well enough that I can make out a broad shadow taking shape across the room. Relief weakens my knees. If I didn’t have the wall to support my back, I would absolutely liquify into a puddle. A cyclone sprints through the space as Notus unsheathes his sword and steps into a beam of moonlight. His eyes are blackest fire. His face is a thundercloud. This deity, who will topple cities, exterminate armies, send realms into ruination. He is the South Wind—he who commands the summer winds. Tonight, blood will be spilled.
He hacks low with his sword, and a thin blade of air slices across the room. The darkwalker dodges out of range, scaling one of the shelving units. When it reaches the top, it launches toward Notus, who blasts it sideways with another forceful gust. The darkwalker crashes into the wall. Dust clouds the air. The South Wind then catches the debris in another funnel of wind, using it to force the creature in between two narrow shelves. Even from this distance, I feel the wind’s dry heat.
He swings his sword. Misses. The darkwalker swipes at Notus, who neatly sidesteps, stabbing it in the hindleg. I shrink back as a roar blasts from its mouth. His power isn’t enough. The only means of killing a darkwalker are with salt, a strike to the heart, or decapitation. The darkwalker seems to know this and tries to keep its distance.
It retaliates with another vicious swipe, three long claws gouging his upper thigh. I bite my lip in worry. But that, I realize, is the South Wind’s intention. To place himself in a position of vulnerability, to feed the darkwalker’s bloodlust, to ensure it is so overcome by the desire to drag Notus’ soul from his body that it forgets itself.
It tears at his arms, shoulders, and back. Blood soaks the fabric of his robe. The South Wind neither falters nor slows. He takes the beating as the beast draws itself into a frenzy. The reek of blood is overpowering.
He cannot die, I remind myself. But he can be severely wounded, maimed. When the darkwalker next strikes, Notus maneuvers it into a corner, using his winds to bind the beast’s legs. It snarls, gnashing its fangs as he steps closer, scimitar raised. “Return to the shadows where you belong, beast.” His sword descends. It gleams bright silver: a falling star.
Steel punctures the creature’s skull, parting it as easily as water. Then Notus severs head from body. The darkwalker collapses in a heap of reeking flesh. Until, at last: silence.
My breath remains locked away inside my chest as the South Wind lifts a hand to his face. If I’m not mistaken, it quavers. “Sarai?” Slowly, he turns, scanning the collapsed shelves. Moonlight brightens the layers of dust, crystallizing it into new-fallen snow. He stalks toward the destruction, chest heaving. “Sarai!”
Taking a breath, I step out from behind the door. “I’m here.”
Notus spins toward me. Fear has ravaged his features so severely that it has done the impossible. It has aged him.
I’m shaking so hard my knees buckle. Notus catches me with a muttered oath, drags me against his chest, and bands his arms around me so tightly I feel as if he is an extension of myself. Our hearts beat in sync: melody and countermelody. Gradually, the warmth of his body thaws my stiff, frozen limbs.
“Sarai.” His frame trembles. And yet, sheltered in his arms, I have never experienced such security. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, face pressed against his sweaty chest. I can’t speak.
The South Wind lowers his nose into my hair. He is sturdy. He neither bends nor breaks. My fingers clamp on fistfuls of his robe. I do not let go.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“Some of the guards are loyal to me. One overheard you asking about access to the restricted documents yesterday. I assumed you would return. The sentries posted outside the library informed me once you’d entered. I heard your scream…” He falters, his tone vulnerable enough to communicate all that he feels, even if he cannot bring himself to speak those words aloud. It makes me bleed. I hate that it makes me bleed. “Tell me what happened.”
So I do. I tell him of Prince Balior’s research, the symbol that graces both his book and the labyrinth entrance. I inform him of the abandoned corridor and its locked doors. I speak of what I learned: the story of how the beast came to be.
For a time, Notus is quiet. “Where are those documents now?”
“I dropped them,” I say. “This is the only book I was able to grab.” Pulling away, I offer it to him. Plain gray cover, perhaps fifty pages thick.
The South Wind touches the slim volume with a frown. “If those books can help us unravel the mystery of the labyrinth, then I will return for them.”
“No!” My hand clamps his forearm. “You can’t go back there.”
His features have been pressed by rigidity for as long as I’ve known him, yet now they soften with a rare, tempered amusement. “You do know that I am immortal, right?”
“And what of your wounds?” I gesture to the blood clotting the front of his robe. “You can bleed. You can feel pain. Why should you risk certain injury for something we are not sure will help?”
Our eyes lock. The unexpected drop in my stomach precedes the drop of my hand. And now I have said too much.
“Please,” I whisper. “Not tonight. Wait until morning, if you must.” In the brightness of day, it is unlikely a darkwalker will venture into the sun, though as time goes on, it seems less of a deterrent for reasons unknown. The only question remaining is how this creature slipped into the palace. Was it sent? Did it somehow find its way into the capital? How suspicious that I found it in the palace library, of all places. Could it have possibly come from one of those locked doors?
“How much does Prince Balior know about the labyrinth?” Notus abruptly asks.
“I’m not sure.” I search his gaze for answers. I find none. “He hasn’t told me much.”
Again, a silence, stretching longer than it did previously. “What?” I ask. Something has captured his thoughts. I wish to know what has the power to do so.
The South Wind rubs at his jaw, as if massaging away the tension there. He seems reluctant to speak. “Have you considered whether the prince’s motives are entirely unselfish?”
I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “What do you mean?”
“Prince Balior already has an established interest in the labyrinth. Now you learn that the beast promises to give whoever releases it what they seek. What if that is power? Why should Prince Balior bind himself to Ammara, a smaller, weaker realm, unless he hopes to gain something by it?”
His voice falls into the blackness of the ruined stacks surrounding us. I stare at his stern, unwavering expression, its shades of gray. My heart rejects the notion that I could be so easily fooled.
“I see what this is about.” I cross my arms, shake my head in frustration. “Firstly, you are forgetting that Father arranged my marriage to Prince Balior, not the other way around. Secondly, Prince Balior is a scholar who researches myths within the realm, so of course he has some interest in the labyrinth. Lastly, why would the prince seek to harm Ammara by releasing the beast when he intends to bind himself to this realm through marriage? It makes absolutely no sense. The only reason you’re bringing this up is because you hate to see another man claim my hand in marriage.”
His eyes flicker dangerously. “That’s not it at all.”
I’m sure. “So, you have no issue with my upcoming nuptials?” I press, hand propped on my hip.
Notus sighs, glancing up at the ceiling overhead as though he might find a bit of patience there. Interestingly, he fails to answer the question. “What if Prince Balior doesn’t intend to honor the marriage, only use it as a ruse to gain access to the labyrinth until he has succeeded in his plan?”
That, I did not expect. Here I was, placing my own pieces on the game board, when Prince Balior may have been shifting their positions while my back was turned. What if Notus is right?
What if he is wrong?
If I end the courtship, I sacrifice my best chance at obtaining information to break my curse. It’s possible this has all been a misunderstanding. And if I act against it? In believing Notus’ claim, I allow suspicion to cloud my gaze. I substitute research for nefarious motives. I brandish my future husband a traitor.
“I understand where you’re coming from, Notus, but we have no evidence to support your suspicions. I can’t make a decision on what may be.”
“That’s fair,” he says, because of course he attempts to see both perspectives, despite the disagreement. I admire him for that. “But there is something I would like to show you.”
At this point, I really have nothing to lose.
Moving silently, we depart the library, then the palace itself. As we stride down the Queen’s Road, the South Wind says, “Is that bakery in the lower ring still there, the one that makes those honey cakes?”
“It is,” I say, glancing at him sidelong. Quiet steeps the residential streets, but a few windows glow with candlelight.
He shortens his strides to match mine. “Do you ever…?”
“Sometimes.” It feels too vulnerable, this admission. That I still visit the bakery I once considered ours .
Notus smiles, which in turn makes me smile. “You always did love their honey cakes.”
Indeed, I did. Still do.
This is not a road I wish to revisit, yet I find myself saying, as we turn a corner past one of the smaller shrines, “Nadia asks after you on occasion.” Between the two of us, the old woman had her favorite, and it certainly wasn’t me. Not that I can blame her. Notus’ quiet nature endears him to even the most cantankerous personality.
“We could always drop by,” he suggests casually, casting me a suggestive glance. “No harm in it, right?”
My head snaps toward him in surprise, and despite the walls I have erected around my heart, I feel the slightest crack forming. Nadia begins her baking quite early—hours before dawn, if I am not mistaken. “What about the thing you wanted to show me?”
“It can wait.”
Well, I’m certainly not going to reject the opportunity to eat a honey cake fresh out of the oven.
The bakery is located at the end of a crooked lane shrouded in deepest shadow. We knock. I’m not expecting Nadia to answer the door at this hour, but to my surprise, she does, a wave of warm, sugar-dusted air billowing out onto the street. Flour coats the old woman’s apron and hair. One look at the two of us, and her entire face brightens. “Princess Sarai! And… is that Notus?” A girlish gasp escapes her. “My word, it is. Look at how you’ve grown!”
I bite back a shock of laughter. The woman has no idea Notus is immortal. He hasn’t aged a day since he left.
“Let me guess,” she says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re here for the honey cakes? Don’t you think that I’ve forgotten.”
Notus ducks his head sheepishly. “Guilty.”
All right, even I find his reaction adorable. It must be something in the air.
“Lucky for you,” she says, “they’ve just come out of the oven. Just a moment.”
When Nadia disappears into the back, the South Wind murmurs, “There’s a bakery in the City of Gods that is renowned for their cinnamon biscuits. Father would take my brothers and I when we were young.” He stalls there, as though unwilling to cross an unseen threshold. “Next door was the armory, and after purchasing a few sweets, we would wander the shelves of weapons. One day, Father told us each to select one.”
His hand drifts toward his blade. “Boreas selected a spear. Zephyrus a bow, and Eurus an ax. But I didn’t care for a weapon. I had no desire to spill blood. If allowed, I would have chosen to spend my days researching obscure texts. But Father didn’t like that. After all, I was one of the Anemoi. There was nothing more pitiful to him than a god unable to defend himself.”
And this is how I had originally come to know the South Wind. Years before, Notus had arrived in Ammara intending to slay the beast within the labyrinth. In the weeks, and then months, of his time at court, we came to know each other just like this: through story.
“It is how I came by this sword.” His fingers twitch around the hilt. “And I decided that I would become so brilliant a swordsman that none would be able to force my hand. It would be my shield. I would be free in all the ways that mattered.”
I understand. Truly, I do. That is partially why I practiced the violin so diligently. I witnessed how easily Father had stripped Fahim of his dream, despite his advanced skill. I would become greater, so great that there would be no question that I belonged to music, and it belonged to me.
“For what it’s worth,” I whisper, “you are a fine swordsman. You should be proud of how far you’ve come.”
Notus gazes at me for a long, breathless moment. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Moments later, Nadia returns bearing a tray of round cakes crisped at the edges. I select two. They’re still warm.
When she disappears into the back again, Notus gazes down at his dessert with a small, sad smile before slipping it into his mouth. Maybe it is this night. Maybe it is how present the past feels in this moment, but I do not like seeing the South Wind so forlorn.
“Your father was wrong to pressure you into becoming something you’re not,” I tell him.
He shrugs. We stand near enough that the motion buffets warm air against my side. “We cannot change others. I have learned that lesson again and again.”
“We should allow ourselves to choose what makes us happiest,” I say, holding his gaze, “don’t you think?” I slip the cake between my teeth.
His eyes flicker, then drop to my mouth. “Sarai—”
The pang in my heart hits unexpectedly. I step back. “It’s late,” I say, but the words do not come as easily as I’d hoped. “What is it you wished to show me?”
He nods stiffly, though I do not miss the hurt clouding his expression. “Of course, Princess Sarai.”
After bidding Nadia goodbye, we head west. Here marks signs of industry, the whiff of smelted metal billowing from cooling forges, wood dust layered like a pile of snow atop the pitted road. As we ascend the rise of a hill, Notus grips my arm, forcing me to slow.
Initially, I do not understand what I’m looking at. Then the clouds part. The moon drenches the land below in silver. I see horses, the sheen of dented armor, the dusty earth packed by the tread of a thousand boots.
An army.
Turning toward Notus, I demand, “Does Father know of this?” After all, King Halim specifically informed Prince Balior that his army was forbidden inside the walls until our marriage was legitimized.
“Not that I’m aware of. I only discovered it this morning.” The South Wind runs a rough hand through his inky hair. I remember all too well the sift of those silken threads. “Maybe Prince Balior’s interest in the labyrinth does pertain to his research. But consider this: Why would he bring his army inside the city unless he intends to use it?”
I am caught between tomorrow and today, the threat that was promised, and the threat that is current. The South Wind is right. Marrying Prince Balior would grant him significant power over my land and people, regardless of his motives surrounding the labyrinth. His army is evidence enough. It is too great a risk.
“You were right,” I admit, the words pitifully frail. Hooves thud against the distant earth as the prince’s soldiers corral their horses into a vast pen. Gods, how could I have been so stupid? “I trusted Prince Balior too soon. And now I fear I have invited an even greater threat into Ammara.”
“It’s not your fault,” Notus says. “But King Halim must know of this.”
I agree. And we’ve no time to waste.