Chapter 11
11
T HE S OUTH W IND MAY BE a pillar beside me for how motionless he stands. Even the air hangs in suspension. His winds have died, wholly and completely.
“Excuse me?” King Halim’s features are so twisted they appear to have gone to war with one another.
I consider my response. Too meek—I toss it aside. The next: too forceful, teeming with resentment. That one will not do either. I discard them all, each one lacking, until I unearth the very core of myself, this polished, hardened heart of metal. “I believe you heard me well enough, Father.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek, gathering himself. “Whatever hoax this is, Sarai, I do not appreciate it. Have I not been giving you enough attention? Is that why you feel the need to jest?”
Once a king, always a king. No matter that I am his daughter, disrespect will not stand in King Halim’s court. “It is no hoax, Father.” It takes an effort to smooth the raw edges of my response. His assumption stings more than I care to admit. “Notus and I are engaged.”
“Since when?” he barks.
“Yesterday evening.”
My attention slides across the room to Prince Balior. He, too, is immobile, carved in equal measure by affront and disbelief. That is to be expected. The fury igniting his dark eyes, however, is potent enough to send me back a step. It is too wild a thing.
“Meaning no disrespect, Princess Sarai, but I was with you yesterday evening, roaming the palace grounds.” The prince smooths the front of his robe, giving motion to his evident frustration. “At what point did Notus have time to ask for your hand?”
A perfectly valid question, for which I have no answer.
“Princess Sarai and I crossed paths in the corridors,” the South Wind says. I glance at him in surprise. He is a flawless image of placid waters, as though this is all unfolding exactly as intended. “I wanted to make sure she arrived at her chambers safely, but I couldn’t wait. I asked then.”
Prince Balior appears moments away from stabbing Notus through the heart. After casting a glare in the immortal’s direction, the prince turns to me, his expression deeply wounded. “You told me there was nothing between you and the South Wind,” he says. “Was that, too, a lie?”
I am acutely aware of Notus’ heated gaze razing the side of my face. I refuse to look at him. “Not exactly,” I begin, wetting my lips, “but after some reflection, I wondered if I had been too quick to judge his past actions—”
Prince Balior scoffs and turns from me. “I can’t listen to this anymore.”
I look to King Halim, who glowers at me, hands clamped around the arms of his chair. “Explain.”
Does he demand this of me as a father, or as a king?
“I’m not sure how else to explain it,” I say with notable composure. “Yesterday, Notus asked for my hand in marriage. I accepted. Should the gods will it, we will be wed.”
Father shakes his head. His gaze is so cutting I imagine he wishes to chisel this image into something else. “You tread too soft of sand, Sarai.” That I have accepted Notus’ engagement without Father’s knowledge—without anyone’s knowledge—is cause for potential scandal.
I startle as the strength of Notus’ fingers encloses mine, and my eyes leap to his. He does not understand what is happening, yet he stands with me. A gratified warmth blooms against my sternum, which I tuck aside for consideration at a later time.
“Your Majesty,” the South Wind says, with the bass resonance of canyon winds, “Sarai speaks the truth. I’ve asked for her hand in marriage. I understand it is sudden and that it may complicate matters—”
“You’re damn right this complicates matters!” Spittle flies from Father’s mouth. “I don’t know what marital customs exist in whatever realm you hail from, Notus, but in Ammara, they are not to be treated carelessly.”
“I do not treat your customs carelessly, Your Majesty.” The solemnity with which Notus speaks rings in the way only truth can. “However, I understand my actions may suggest otherwise. I have only the utmost respect for you, Princess Sarai, and your realm. All I wish is to bring your daughter happiness.”
My fingers twitch inside his palm, and Notus tightens his grip in what I convince myself is comfort. A past version of myself—young, naive—at one point wished to hear this sentiment. Now, I’m uncertain whether the South Wind speaks the truth or is simply going along with the ruse because he hopes to foil the prince’s reprehensible plans. Would it matter, in the end? If I’m promised to another man, Prince Balior will leave Ammara. There would be no reason for him—or his army—to stay.
With calm resolve, I inform King Halim, “As you know, Father, Ammara’s customs dictate it takes two parties to consent to an engagement, but only one to break it. If you cannot honor the fact that I’d already accepted Notus’ proposal before this meeting, then at least honor the traditions of our realm.” So long as Notus and I refuse to renounce our betrothal, the king hasn’t the authority to prohibit it. This is our law. And it would be in poor taste for the king to disregard the laws of the realm in front of a visiting prince.
Father blinks once, twice, before a bit of laughter slips out and unrolls in hoarse waves of disbelief. Notus and I exchange a wordless glance. Across the room, Prince Balior observes the South Wind with crossed arms, his expression downright scathing.
“I see what this is about,” the king manages once he regains control of his emotions. “It is a jest. A means to get my attention. Well, you have it. I admit, I have not been present enough, Sarai, but please understand there are more important matters at hand. Enough of this.”
“That’s not it, Father. Not at all.” And it hurts unbearably that he would make light of a very real, very unmet need in my life.
He sits straight-backed in his chair, mood darkening. “I arranged this with your future in mind. Prince Balior is what you need. What we all need.”
Does he think I don’t understand? Of course I do. Without Prince Balior’s research, darkwalkers will continue to infiltrate. But if I am to protect my realm from a potentially larger, more insidious threat, this is my only path forward.
Quietly, I say, “Please, Papa.”
Something fractures the king’s expression. Sorrow, perhaps, or grief. I have not called him this since I was a child. But it is what I have always yearned for: to reach for Father, knowing that he will reach back.
“King Halim.” Prince Balior turns toward him. “You assured me that a union between our realms was guaranteed. Now I learn that your daughter is promised to another man?” His lip curls. “I have traveled far, and for what? To be publicly humiliated by a second-rate royal and this foreign scoundrel—”
“That’s enough,” Notus cuts in.
The air coils onto itself, a serpent in its nest. The South Wind’s black eyes lock onto Prince Balior in warning. Sensing the mounting tension, the guards stationed along the walls reach for their swords.
Quietly, Notus says, “Remember whose home you occupy, Prince Balior. Do not think to disrespect the royal family.”
A deep flush inflames the prince’s cheeks. “This whole thing reeks of deception,” he growls.
“There is no deception on my part, Prince Balior.” The king lifts a quavering hand to rub at his eyes. “I don’t know what madness has overtaken my daughter, but I assure you this union does not have my blessing.”
“Blessing?” he hisses. “What good is your blessing when your hands are tied?”
“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Father says hurriedly, seeking to console his prospective son-in-law. “An engagement can be broken as swiftly as it is made. Once Sarai has come to her senses, I’m certain she will renounce their engagement, and everything will go ahead as planned.”
But the prince will not be pacified. “Princess Sarai was promised to me .” He lunges for me, fingertips grazing my elbow before a wall of wind plows into him with enough force to send him careening against the wall. He hits it with an oof and drops to the marble floor.
A wretched howl tears through the war chamber, ripping curtains from their rods, snatching maps and documents from the table. At once, guards surround King Halim, who stares at Notus with a combination of awe and fear. Those spiraling gusts gather closer to the South Wind’s body as he advances toward Prince Balior. He is an impossibility, a living, breathing body of wind. Unsheathing his sword, he tucks its curved edge beneath the man’s chin.
“If I ever see you lay a hand on her,” Notus growls, “you will learn the true depth of my wrath. Do we understand each other?”
Prince Balior’s face has gone ashen. He swallows, then nods, flinching back when Notus removes the blade from his neck.
The South Wind’s dark promise feeds through my bloodstream with surprising heat. I am ashamed that it has the power to render me weak in the knees. Notus is calm, always calm—until he’s not. I can’t allow myself to hope that he protects me for any other reason than duty.
Father glances at the prince in uncertainty. Our guest’s behavior has likely given him pause, as it has given me. Angered or not, assault is unacceptable.
And yet, Father has too much pride to change his mind. He turns to regard me in disappointment. “You are the Princess of Ammara.”
“I am also your daughter.”
“Nonetheless, you and I had an understanding. Now you go back on your word?” Then, softer: “What would Fahim think of your selfishness?”
Only years of practice allow me to swallow the gasp before it escapes. His barbs, which never fail to pierce the softness of my heart. So long as Prince Balior is present, I cannot tell him that I fear he is being deceived.
“Think of me what you will, Father, but a decision has been made and my mind will not change. Notus and I will wed at the end of spring.” Time enough to break this curse, to oust Prince Balior. If I fail, it won’t matter who I marry, for I’ll be dead.
“I forbid you to speak of this mockery,” the king bites out. “You do not have my blessing. Nor do you have my respect.” He tosses out a hand. “Dismissed.”
As soon as the doors of the war chamber shut at our backs, Notus withdraws his hand from mine. The absence of his touch carries an unexpected chill.
“You better have a good explanation for this,” he mutters.
As a matter of fact, I do not.
But I merely flash my teeth in a feral grin, burying my uncertainty and sorrow with all the rest. “Follow me.” This is no place for private conversation.
As soon as I turn the corner, Notus must realize where our destination lies, for he strides ahead of me, descends a nearby staircase, taking the shortcut we utilized in those early days of our budding relationship. Eventually, we reach a small garden, its shadowed alcove framed by laurel trees and ornamented with night-blooming orchids. Moonlight cascades in hues of snow and silver through the circular windows cut into the ceiling high above.
I have not returned to this refuge in half a decade. In fact, I have avoided the entire western wing. It is here that the South Wind’s rooms were once located, rooms I found myself in most nights, tangled in damp bedsheets, pressed against heated skin.
I remember our first encounter.
The morning hung wet and heavy as sopping wool. Father searched for me, demanding I attend dinner with some visiting dignitaries later that evening, but I had refused and sought solace among the plants, who would not attempt to recast silver into gold.
The scuff of a shoe drew my attention to the garden’s entryway.
A man stood partially shielded by vines, his eyes cool and unfamiliar above the scarf shielding the lower portion of his face. I glared at him, not at all in the mood for company. He wore no weapons. I could not decide whether it was the mark of arrogance or foolishness. Hours later, the South Wind would be properly introduced, but I could not have known then what purpose he had in the palace.
“Who are you?” I’d demanded.
Shaking my head to clear the memory, I step forward into the garden, exchanging then for now . I cannot say for certain what emotion grasps hold. There is no separation between sorrow and longing, bitterness and grief. All are woven into the same tapestry.
Dropping onto a bench beneath a trellis, I sigh. “That went about as well as I expected it to.” I massage my temples wearily.
Notus glares into the gloom dripping shadow onto the foliage. A muscle tics in his jaw, the most irritated metronome. He will not look at me. I hate that I am weak enough to desire otherwise.
“Well?” I say. “Speak your thoughts, if you have them.”
His attention slides to me momentarily before flitting elsewhere. “Why does it sound like I am to blame for that ridiculous display? It wasn’t as if I was an informed participant.”
I stare at him, perplexed. “Of course you’re not to blame.”
“But you are angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Yes, you are.” That dark, penetrative gaze manages to strip me of flesh, muscle, down to bone. “Perhaps you have simply lived with anger for so long you no longer recognize its face.”
I haven’t the words, only this murky pool cloaking my heart, in which I see nothing, not even my own reflection. The conviction with which he speaks only solidifies how uncertain I am. Why does fear so often manifest as ire? He cannot understand these grains of sand I attempt to collect in my outstretched hands. They slip through my fingers and are gone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. He’s right, of course. It’s unfair to place blame onto the one person who is willing to stand by my side through this mess. The hurt I feel toward Father is irrelevant. He has insulted me plenty over the years, but that dig about Fahim was too raw, too fresh.
I open my mouth to respond when Notus drops his head into his hands. “Some forewarning would have been nice.”
“I know.” I bite the inside of my cheek. At the very least, the pain helps push thoughts of Father aside. “It likely doesn’t matter, but I didn’t know I was going to say those words until they’d already left my mouth. I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice.”
Even as my irritation boils toward the surface, I tamp it down. Notus could have outed me as a liar, could have renounced the engagement and put an end to this. But he didn’t. For that, he has my gratitude.
“I just… I couldn’t see it any other way,” I whisper. “Time is a luxury we can’t afford. If Prince Balior intends to release the beast from the labyrinth, I won’t make his quest for power any easier by marrying him. I’d hoped that by taking marriage off the table, he would be forced to leave the city and take his army with him. I didn’t anticipate Father’s stubbornness—or that the prince might consider staying to court a woman who has committed herself to another.”
He lifts his head. “What of the position you’ve placed me in, or your father? What of the consequences I will soon face for appearing to having asked for your hand?”
A bit of guilt digs at me. Once again, he is reminding me of all the ways I have made some imprudent decision of desperation. “Father may be stern, but he is no fool. He would not make an enemy of you, no matter how displeased he is about our engagement.”
“Will you continue to make excuses?”
For the second time in as many moments, I am left unbalanced, exposed, vulnerable. “I’ve already apologized. I take full responsibility for placing you in this situation. I can understand what a burden it must be for you,” I choke, the words like shattered glass in my throat, “to tie yourself to me through marriage. But worry not. This is only a ruse until Prince Balior gives up and departs the capital.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” he says.
I’m sure. “What is this really about, Notus?”
Moonlight dusts his fathomless eyes. Even after all this time, I struggle to identify his emotions. “You don’t want to marry the prince. But nor do you want to marry me.”
Eighteen-year-old Sarai would have argued differently.
He eases nearer, the ferns framing the garden path rustling against his ankles, stirred to life at his passing. “I am a tool,” he goes on.
Better a tool than a victim. Better the needle than the thread. “If that’s how you choose to perceive this, then that is your own prerogative. But I was under the impression you disliked the prince. Aren’t you glad to be rid of him?”
Notus eases onto the bench beside me, our shoulders brushing. A whiff of warm, salted air hits my face, and I swallow, fighting the urge to bury my nose into his neck.
“A man like Prince Balior will not accept defeat,” he says.
I am well aware. In rejecting the prince’s hand, I damn myself and my realm. Prince Balior was to be our salvation. Now I fear he will become its ruination.
“Prince Balior will beseech Father to reconsider his stance on Ammara’s customs. He will threaten war and demand our marriage be established. But I will not bend. And Father will not stand against our union.”
“How can you be certain?”
As if it is not already obvious. “You are the South Wind,” I tell him, and when he turns his face toward mine, I find our mouths separated by the smallest distance, warm shadow spiced by breath. “You are formidable. Immortal. Our greatest weapon in defeating the darkwalkers. But more so, you are an incredibly powerful deity, and Father would not wish to anger you for fear of retaliation.”
“I would never bring harm to Ishmah,” he says.
“I know.” It is why I trust him now, despite swearing never to do so again. “But Father doesn’t know you as I do. We can use that to our advantage.”
“And what of Prince Balior’s army? Who is to say he will not retaliate to this disgrace with force?”
It may take time—days or weeks—but eventually, Prince Balior will lower his blade, lift the white cloth of surrender. He will not wish to steep in this humiliation.
“Prince Balior is too proud to resort to threats,” I explain. “He wants his victory to be earned, not coerced.”
“Sarai—”
“I know,” I rush to say. “And you’re right: I’ve placed both you and Father in difficult positions. And I’m sorry, truly. I know how it feels to be trapped into something you don’t want. But what’s done is done. Now I must figure out how to protect Ammara to the best of my ability.”
It is not surrender. I am not baring my belly to the god who shattered my heart. But as much as I wish otherwise, Notus’ cooperation is necessary. I’m no longer the girl I was. My skin does not tear so easily.
“Will you help me?” I implore him.
The South Wind’s gaze leaps to mine. Those shining pupils gleam with a focus so acute I am temporarily left wanting. All of this, every effort, to bind myself in appearance to the immortal I despise. For Ammara. For my people. Nothing and no one else.
In the end, it is Notus who looks away first. “What must I do?”