Chapter 13
13
A BEAD OF SWEAT SLITHERS DOWN my spine, slipping along the notched bones. This was a mistake. Who wears a long-sleeved dress in the middle of summer? I do, apparently. I fear I will melt before the stars materialize.
The ballroom doors lie open to the eastern gardens. Drooping branches and trimmed hedges offer shady reprieve beneath their foliage. Guests wander the garden paths, drinks in hand. I cannot count their number. Visiting dignitaries from neighboring realms, governors from far-flung cities along the Spice Road, aristocrats whose coin purses run deep.
Amir and I loiter near a pillar at the perimeter of the ballroom. Across the vast chamber, Father overlooks the festivities from his throne atop the dais. As afternoon cools to night, he begins to sag into the opulence of his seat.
The palace physician checks on him every so often. He offers the king a draught that is continually refused. I bite my lower lip in worry. Father should not be here in this condition. He is better off resting in his chambers.
Amir seems not to notice. He downs his drink—the second of the evening—with an air of utter woe. Meanwhile, I scan the area for a set of broad shoulders. I’ve yet to spot Notus. I do, however, spy Dalia accompanied by her small entourage. The smirk curling her luscious mouth twists my gut in apprehension.
“To think my days will be spent rubbing elbows with people I despise,” Amir moans. “No wonder Fahim avoided these events.”
I glance sidelong at my brother, Dalia momentarily forgotten. He is right and he is wrong. Fahim was always the most animated of King Halim’s children. But after Father forced him to abandon the violin, he withdrew. His studies grew more demanding. He often skipped meals. In the year leading up to his death, I no longer expected his presence at dinner. I can imagine how unbalanced his life became, forever crushed beneath our father’s impossible expectations.
Angling toward my brother, I ask, “Are you ready?” No further clarification necessary. From the crimp of Amir’s mouth, he knows of what I speak.
“It doesn’t matter whether I’m ready or not,” he says. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” As soon as the words escape his mouth, he frowns, his features tinged with a familiar bleakness. “I suppose Fahim hadn’t a choice in becoming king either.”
I recall such a look in Fahim’s eyes—an overwhelm of responsibilities. That in turn sparks panic, for I do not wish Amir to befall the same fate.
“Amir.” I grip his arm hard. He glances at me, startled. “If ever there is a time when you feel lost or like you aren’t sure who to turn to, please come to me.”
For a long while, we stare at one other, caught in the pain of memory. “I will,” he promises.
As I turn to face the gathering, a slender woman escorted by an elderly man—her father, I assume—greets my brother with a kiss on his cheek. “Hello, darling,” she says.
Amir smiles, gathering Tuleen into his arms. She tucks herself against his side joyfully. I try not to stare. Is it envy I feel? Awareness of my own loss, a happiness I had once lived before all burned away?
“Our Lord of the Mountain shines upon you, Sarai.” Tuleen’s voice reminds me of the desert winds: low and airy.
I brush a kiss to my sister-in-law’s cheek. Her scent, perfumed with night jasmine, clings to my nostrils as I retreat. “And you, Tuleen.”
She glances at my brother, but Amir’s attention has been captured by a group of advisors at the far end of the room. They call him over, and he excuses himself, winding through the mingling, the drinking, the swaying.
Tuleen fiddles with one of the buttons on her elaborate green gown. It is a shade lighter than her mossy eyes. “Congratulations. I hear you are soon to be betrothed to Prince Balior.” She gestures toward me, then drops her hand, as though self-conscious of the gesture.
“Thank you.” I sip my drink, continuing to scan the room. Of course Tuleen would think that. As promised, Notus and I have given no indication of our engagement. King Halim clings to the hope that I will see my error before the court realizes circumstances have changed.
“We will have to celebrate,” she says.
I make a noncommittal sound. If she wishes to celebrate my engagement to a man who is no longer my betrothed, that is her own prerogative, but I, unfortunately, will not be in attendance.
Tuleen opens her mouth, hesitates, then promptly closes it. Inwardly, I sigh in relief. There can be no greater waste of air than trivial small-talk.
Why Tuleen chooses to remain in my company when there are plenty of noblewomen eager to converse, I have no idea. Like me, she grew up at court, having been born into an old, aristocratic family. And that is precisely why I keep her at arm’s length. These noblewomen are hungry for weakness. The slightest crumb will soon be devoured.
“You look lovely this evening,” Tuleen suddenly says, with a desperation that sets my teeth on edge. “Where did you get your dress?”
I tap my fingertips against the glass, considering how much trouble I would be in if I removed myself from this conversation. My relationship with Amir has suffered enough strain the past few years to risk it.
“This was commissioned by Roshar Hammad. He is the best tailor in the realm.” If only he were here! Roshar delights in these functions—scandal is what he loves best.
“His work is exquisite,” she says, eyeing my gown. “I love the detailing near the bodice. Are those music notes?”
I glance down. The pads of Tuleen’s brown fingers trace what is undoubtedly a collection of eighth notes. I’ve worn this dress on three separate occasions, yet this is the first time I have noticed this embellishment.
“Quite fitting for a musician,” she says, and drops her hand.
I set my glass onto a nearby windowsill, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by fondness for my friend, that he would stitch musical notation into my gown, allowing me to carry music without my knowledge.
“And you look very…” I peer at my sister-in-law, grasping for possible compliments. “Healthy.”
Her expression falls. Unsurprising, as it is a word used to describe livestock, not a pretty woman draped in silk. “Thank you,” she responds. “That is kind of you.” She then glances toward the ballroom doors. “Your intended is quite handsome.”
My head snaps around. But—no. Prince Balior has entered the room, resplendent in white silk. His eyes hook into me with predatory intent. I regard him calmly until he moves off. That is fine. It is not his face I have fallen asleep thinking about these past few nights.
“He is,” I agree curtly. And yet, my attention continues its wandering. Dalia has slithered closer as the evening has progressed, and now I begin to notice a few guests glancing at me in distaste. I look down, thinking perhaps I’ve spilled something on my dress. Not a speck.
“What is his personality like?”
Why are we discussing Prince Balior? We should be discussing why the other guests appear to find offense in me. When I catch the eye of a particularly distinguished noblewoman, her expression contorts in repulsion. “He deserves better than you,” she all but spits, then whirls and vanishes into the throng.
I stare at the crowd, utterly baffled.
“What was that about?” Tuleen whispers in concern.
“I don’t know. I—” A man in lavender robes snags my attention as he crosses the room—the royal physician. “Excuse me, Tuleen.” I hurry forward to intercept him, slippers sliding across the marble in my haste to catch up. “Sir!”
He startles, glasses sliding down his nose as he turns. “Princess Sarai.” The physician adjusts his robes self-consciously before casting his eyes briefly around the room. He is perhaps a decade younger than the king, ash gray hair combed to the side to hide his bald spot. “Is there something you need?”
A dancing couple jostles me from behind. “What is that tonic you were trying to give Father?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I level him a pointed look. “Sir.”
He sighs. Bruises press the puffy skin beneath his eyes. I have heard he rarely sleeps more than a handful of hours, due to the involvement of Father’s care. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just a remedy to help him put on weight.”
When a particularly nosy attendee hovers nearby, I glare at him until he scurries elsewhere. This is probably not the best place to discuss Father’s health. Quickly, I draw the physician into a shadowy nook for privacy. “So why won’t he drink it?”
“He says it tastes vile.”
I bite back a grin. That certainly sounds like King Halim. “Well, does it?”
“Of course it does!” The physician rubs his temples in exasperation. “There is little I can do about that. Some days, he will accept it. Most days, he won’t. As long as he refuses to drink it, he will continue to lose weight.”
“I see.” Vile taste or not, King Halim would not want to appear feeble in front of his guests. No king would. It is the only argument in my arsenal. “What if I gave it to him?”
“At the very least, it’s worth the attempt.”
He discreetly passes me a small glass of green liquid. We part ways, and I visit the king at his seat. I bow as a sign of respect. “Father.”
“Sarai.” He glances over my shoulder with blatant disapproval. “Where is your betrothed?”
“Notus will be here.” He promised. Yet I wonder how deep my foolishness runs, to trust the word of a god whose promises have become lies.
The king does not appear amused. “I was referring to Prince Balior.”
I whittle my mouth into something resembling a smile. Of course he was.
“Firstly,” I say quietly, mindful of the eyes and ears turned our way, “Prince Balior was never my betrothed, considering I had already promised myself to another. Secondly, I know you disapprove of my relationship with Notus, but please believe I am only doing what is best for Ammara.”
“Best?” he hisses. “How can this be best? The South Wind is powerful, certainly, but he does not possess the information we need.”
“As I said before, I am happy to discuss it with you—in private.”
King Halim stares at me with all the indifference one would expect toward a particularly lazy hound, not his daughter. “It seems to me you have already made your decision. As far as I can tell, it would only be a waste of time.”
It is not easy masking the hurt that rises, edged and bristling with points. “Is that how you view me? A waste of time?”
“You are putting words into my mouth.”
“I’m only stating what you yourself have already established.”
Father shakes his head in frustration. We have always bumped shields, he and I. “Don’t you care for your life?” he whispers.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why this farce with the South Wind?”
It softens me momentarily, to hear the pain in his voice. If the curse weighs on me, then it certainly weighs on him. I have often wondered if he blames himself for Ammara’s precarious position, my impending death.
“I don’t expect you to understand my choices,” I say, “but I wish you would trust me enough to let me live a life that is meaningful, in whatever time I have left.”
King Halim looks elsewhere. He is confused, torn in some way. Perhaps brokenhearted. But I cannot take responsibility for emotions that do not belong to me.
Tugging aside the fabric of my dress, I offer the glass of medicine. Father blinks in surprise.
“I know things have been hard lately,” I say, “but the physician told me it’s important for you to drink this. Will you do so, for me?”
His eyebrows slash low over his eyes. “Sarai—”
“Please.”
And now I let those shields fall. I allow Father to see how I worry for him, how I lose sleep over nightmares in which I learn that he has passed without having said goodbye. King Halim is a hard man, but he is still my father, and he was willing to give up this kingdom for my life. That is something I will never be able to repay.
I’d like to believe my vulnerability placates him, since he gestures for me to come forward and downs the remedy without argument. When I whisper “Thank you,” he drops his eyes.
“I’ll come check on you shortly,” I promise. Then I cross to the other side of the room, taking my place at Tuleen’s side. The dull hum of conversation expands to a roar in my head. She glances at me in concern.
I sense the South Wind before I see him. A hot breeze invades the space, smelling of the desert at high noon. There, near the arched doors emptying into the garden—citrine robe, black trousers, ivory headscarf.
It feels like an inevitability, that his gaze should find mine from across the room. Notus strides toward me, and my heart flutters. I’m not ready for this. I need more time. There must be no indication that we are more than passing acquaintances.
Turning my back on him, I begin to engage Tuleen in inane conversation.
“Princess Sarai.”
Notus’ gruff voice lifts the hair on the back of my neck. He is close, the entire length of my spine warmed by his body. I continue conversing with Tuleen, ignoring him completely. Eventually, he moves off, though I find it difficult to focus on anything beyond his lingering scent.
“Who was that man?” Tuleen asks.
This answer requires a drink in hand. I pluck my abandoned wineglass from the windowsill and swallow deeply. The burn is as uncomfortable as it is necessary.
“The South Wind,” I clip out. “He works for Father in safeguarding Ammara from the darkwalkers.” I sigh, lean against the pillar at my back. Tonight’s attendees mill about drowsily, like flies around a corpse.
She hesitates. “He appeared upset that you ignored him.”
Well, he’s going to have to deal with it.
After polishing off my wine, I signal to one of the servers for another drink. The full glass bolsters me with false confidence. Only then do I allow myself to search for Notus in the crowd. Too easily, I spot him. But he is not alone.
She is lovely. That is the first of my observations. A gown of liquid silver fans about her waist while a trio of ruby pins adorns her elaborately braided hair. They converse in what I imagine to be low tones, their heads bent, Notus angled toward her.
A hot wad of emotion fills my throat as his mouth curves in response to something she says. Not quite a smile, but close enough. It is so rare a sight I find it difficult to look elsewhere.
I have questions. Namely, who is this woman? How is she able to thaw his rigid features into something resembling affection? Why am I unable to do the same? I am his betrothed. Granted, it has yet to be officially announced, but that is beside the point. That he engages with another woman—unmarried, for her left hand lacks the opal rune—is a mark of humiliation and disrespect.
“Sarai?” The voice comes from behind. Oily and rich.
I do not need this right now. But I arrange my features as I turn, my expression blossoming like a flower bathed in sun. “Good evening, Prince Balior.”
From the corner of my eye, I observe Tuleen glancing between us in curiosity. The prince carries a half-consumed glass of wine. “Can I steal you away for a moment?” His voice is low, beseeching. “There’s something I wish to discuss.”
Funny, how he is suddenly accommodating, now that his back is against the wall. “I don’t want this to be more difficult than it has to be, Prince Balior. I’ve made my decision. Again, I sincerely apologize for how poorly I’ve treated you. It was unfair, and you did not deserve—”
“Is it about my research?” Carefully, he probes my gaze. “I know I haven’t been forthcoming with you regarding my interest in the labyrinth,” he says, “but I hope you know it was not my intention to withhold information from you. I’ve found myself in another king’s realm, among people who are not my own, and I do not always know who to trust. Can you understand my concerns?”
“I can,” I reply, and I’m startled to realize I am sincere. “But it’s not that.”
“Then what is it? I don’t understand how someone can go from completely loathing a person, as you claimed to loathe the South Wind, to being in love with him, and engaged.”
Tuleen sucks in a sharp breath.
Shit .
Prince Balior stares at me expectantly. “Well?”
I don’t think anyone heard him but Tuleen, though I remain convinced that the guests regard me with cold judgment, gossiping with one another about something when my back is turned. The evening is not unfolding as planned, and I wish only for darkness and solitude.
“If you had been upfront about your interest in the labyrinth beforehand,” I say to the prince, voice lowered, “maybe I would have seen things differently.”
“But I do wish to share all that I know.” He steps closer. Tuleen stiffens beside me. “Given enough time, I believe your trust in me will be rebuilt. I ask you for another chance to prove that my intentions are noble. I wish to bind my life to yours, and I hope you wish the same.”
“Prince Balior—”
“Your father only wants what is best for you. He loves you dearly. The praise he sings of you behind closed doors? I only wish you could hear it.”
A flutter of uncertainty alights behind my sternum. How can this be true if I have never witnessed it?
“Will you reconsider?” he presses, insistent now.
I don’t know what to believe, but I say, “I will think about it.” At the very least, it will get him to leave me in peace.
“Then we will speak again soon.”
Before I’m able to respond, he moves off, drawing yet another unsuspecting individual into conversation.
Dread bleeds along my nerve endings. What is truth, what is lies? Was I unfair in prematurely judging Prince Balior’s character? A loveless marriage is not exactly a death sentence. I believe I could grow to respect the prince, assuming I had time.
Unfortunately, Dalia appears, likely having been summoned by malevolent forces. She watches the prince depart with a salacious curl to her mouth. “You certainly know how to keep things interesting around here.”
I do not have time for this. “What have you heard?”
“Something about a betrothal.” Her eyes cut to the South Wind. “Only, not to the man your father arranged for you to marry.”
My pulse rises, beating a staccato against my neck. There is a time and a place to reveal my engagement to Notus. This is not it.
I step forward. “Dalia—”
Tuleen reaches the woman first. Though she is of slighter build, the chill in her gaze is enough to cow even the strongest of war-hardened men. “What interest do you have with Princess Sarai? Because as far as I can see, your only purpose this evening is to spread gossip at court.”
Dalia takes a step back from the future queen of Ammara, suddenly watchful. It seems her entourage has abandoned her.
“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” Tuleen clips out. She looks past Dalia, lifts a hand, and curls two fingers in a come hither gesture. Three guards approach. “Please escort Lady Yassin from the ballroom.”
A hush descends. As one, the attendees crane their heads toward the commotion. All those eyes, all that judgment choking the air. Even King Halim observes from his perch.
Dalia appears to have swallowed a mouthful of sand. “Excuse me?”
Tuleen keeps her eyes trained on the buxom beauty. “You are a noblewoman. Gossip is below you. See to it that you keep the idle chatter to yourself.” With that, Dalia is escorted from the premises.
Conversation explodes in the wake of the woman’s departure. By the end of the night, everyone will know how Lady Dalia Yassin was dismissed by Ammara’s future queen. But none will know that was due to my inability to defend myself. It is humiliating not to be able to stand on my own two feet.
“Princess Sarai?”
I grind my teeth, not in any mood to feign civility, and turn toward my brother’s wife. How I wish she hadn’t witnessed the ease with which Dalia caught me beneath her thumb. I should be stronger than that. I am stronger than that. “Yes, Tuleen?”
Gone is the tender queen-to-be, those green-flecked eyes like churned water. In her place stands a woman inflamed, jaw locked, mouth thin. “You do not like me very much, do you?”
All day, I must flatter and socialize, smile and preen. It is utterly exhausting, wearing my own skin. “It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s that I don’t trust you.”
She regards me calmly. “Why not?”
“Because you are a woman of the court, bred to scheme, and as such, you and I will never understand each other.”
“You sound certain of this.”
“I am.”
“Yet I just defended you from that horrible creature.”
My reply disintegrates before it has the opportunity to form, and I shift uncomfortably in place. She is right. Then again, what is one favor? Who is to say she will not use this as leverage in the future?
“You are entitled to your opinion,” she says, softly but not weakly, “but I do hope to prove you wrong, in time.”
Before I can respond, Amir returns, pulling Tuleen against his side, a drink in one hand, the other curved around his wife’s hip. Tuleen attempts to smile, but her unhappiness is plain. Guilt pricks at me.
Suddenly, Amir straightens. “What the hell is he doing here?”
My stomach plummets.
The king-to-be has locked on to Notus across the room. I stare as well. The woman draped in silver, plastered to his side still, always within reach. An onslaught of fury boils under my skin. Did he touch her, or did I only imagine it? No, I’m certain I saw his hand brush her lower back.
“Father has employed the South Wind’s services,” I explain. They are barbed, these words. I practically spit them out. “He arrived three weeks ago.”
Amir looks as though he would enjoy nothing more than to set Notus on fire. “Since when does Father welcome traitors back into our realm?”
My sentiment exactly. Although without Notus, I would likely be dead, torn apart by the darkwalker in the library. He is here to protect Ammara. That, too, is important.
“You understand the pressure Father is under. The drought persists. Trade is in decline. Darkwalkers continue to multiply for reasons unknown. Notus’ power is a boon to Ammara during this time.”
“What does it matter that the South Wind has power if he flees at the first sign of trouble? There are others able to protect us. Others that are more trustworthy.”
He is right and he is wrong. There are others, but none possess the South Wind’s might.
“If Notus doesn’t stop staring at you,” Amir growls, “I will pluck out his eyes and feed them to the crows.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “You’ve been drinking.” As have I.
Tossing back the rest of his wine, he places the empty glass onto a table. A lethal gleam coats his eyes like a fine polish.
“Amir,” I warn.
As my brother takes off across the room, I lunge for his arm. “Wait.”
He shakes me loose. I spin like a leaf in the wind.
“Amir!” I speed after him, nearly colliding with a group of governors in my haste to reach him. Notus’ female companion, I’m pleased to note, has fled. Good riddance.
The South Wind greets my brother with a low bow. “Amir.”
The king-to-be’s expression hardens. “That’s Prince Amir to you.”
“My apologies, Prince Amir.”
My brother bares his teeth. Tuleen tries to get his attention, but she may as well attempt to corral a wall of stone. Amir’s will is unbending. We are alike in that way.
“You have a lot of nerve, returning to Ishmah,” he spits. “Father may have his own ideas about what this realm needs, but the moment I take up the crown, I will banish you to the Wastes.”
At this point, the majority of the guests have gathered to witness the affair, forming a half-circle around us. Notus does not fall prey to Amir’s antagonism. Instead, his glittering black eyes slide to mine, and they hold a question. What does he know? I fear to answer.
Stepping between the two men, I push a hand against my brother’s chest. “Amir, stop. As I said, Father requested Notus’ return. You cannot fault him for answering the king’s summons.”
“I can, and I will.”
Five fingers gently wrap my upper arm. Notus’ hand is so broad he’s able to encircle the limb easily. “Will you explain,” he murmurs against my ear, eliciting a shiver from me, “or should I?”
“Take your hands off my sister,” Amir snarls.
When Notus refuses to remove his hand, my brother lunges, but doesn’t expect the South Wind to sidestep so quickly. A night sipping on wine has dulled his reflexes. He slams face-first into a nearby table. It tips, sending a group of spectators into a messy sprawl. Plates and cutlery topple onto the floor. Glass shatters.
King Halim watches the spectacle with mounting horror. Meanwhile, Prince Balior observes with arms crossed, mouth a pitying slash. The princess, the king-to-be, and the South Wind in a tangle? Such gossip will live on for years.
“We’re leaving.” My voice cuts low as I turn toward my sister-in-law. “Tuleen, please ensure Amir reaches his rooms safely.” I gesture to a nearby guard for aid.
As Amir struggles to his feet, face curdled red beneath his beard, he draws his blade. And I am already in motion, stepping between the sword and Notus’ heart.