Chapter 15
15
“Y OU DID WHAT ?”
Glaring at Roshar from where I sit curled in one of the oversized armchairs occupying his workroom, I shovel another pistachio cookie into my mouth. “Do I need to repeat myself?” I mumble, mouth full of crumbs.
The man is a coil of nervous energy. His long legs propel him to the window, the door, around the tables piled high with silk and muslin, wool and linen. The emerald fabric of his elegantly cut robe flaps around his shins.
“Oh no, my dear. I heard you perfectly the first time. I’m just beginning to question if I’m dreaming or if I am, in fact, dead.”
Pacing and pacing. Yet more pacing.
“Roshar,” I snap. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“Oh, I’m making you dizzy?” He halts in place, pivots to face me. His spectacles magnify what is a spectacular pair of hazel-green eyes, long-lashed and bright with undeniable irritation. “Let me get this straight. You kissed the South Wind… while being engaged to Prince Balior. Is that right?”
Calmly, I set down the plate of cookies. I am no stranger to Roshar’s moods. They change more swiftly than the season’s current fashions.
“Prince Balior and I hadn’t solidified our engagement. We were only courting,” I say. “I’m engaged to Notus.”
Roshar shakes his head in denial. “I see what this is.” He begins to roll up his sleeves with quick, perfunctory motions. “You’re angry because I sewed that musical notation into your dress without your knowledge. Now you wish to surprise me in a similar fashion. I understand, my dear, I do. Roshar loves petty revenge as much as the next spurned bride, but I had hoped you would recognize those stitches as an act of love.”
“Roshar.” I wait until he meets my gaze. “It’s the truth.”
He doesn’t want to believe me, but he must, and huffs in vexation. “Forgive me, Sarai. You can’t spring this information on a person who has not even had his morning tea yet.”
His fingers tear through his impeccably coifed hair. Then, as if realizing what he’s done, he hurries toward the floor-length mirror and brushes the unkempt locks back into place.
My eyes meet Roshar’s in the mirror’s reflection. His expression is a kaleidoscope of emotion. Horror. Outrage. Intrigue. Outrage. Disbelief. Yet more outrage.
Voice hushed, he asks, “When did you and Notus get engaged?”
“Last week, before the ball.”
He drops his arms, eyes comically wide. “Last week? And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“It’s not my fault you were called away on a commission, though I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
And then I see what I have overlooked amidst Roshar’s preening and dramatics, the flashy nature of his character. There is a wounded bend to his mouth. I have hurt my friend’s feelings, though that was never my intention.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was going to tell you, but it hasn’t been easy.” I flick the edge of the plate in frustration. It doesn’t help much. “To tell you the truth, my father isn’t supportive of the union.”
His shoulders slump, and he frowns into the mirror. “I suppose that makes sense,” he replies thoughtfully, “considering his plans for your arranged marriage have been tossed out the window.”
I nod, relieved that he is able to see my perspective. “It was unexpected. Prince Balior is… not pleased.” An understatement. And there’s his army to contend with as well. “I am sorry—”
“Please.” He lifts a hand. “It’s not your fault. It’s none of my business, honestly. I’m just being a sorry sap, is all. It’s bad enough I missed the social event of the season. And for what? To stitch a gown for a woman who is bat-shit insane? And I thought I had high expectations!” He abandons the mirror to slump into the chair opposite mine. The tray of cookies catches his eye. He grabs two and shoves both into his mouth. “Look at what she’s turned me into. At this rate, I’ll be up four trouser sizes by next month!”
I nestle deeper into the cushions. Gray steeps beyond the window—a rare fog blew in overnight. It hangs in filmy strips over the labyrinth. I’m certain something shifts behind the thickened mass, but when I stare at it for too long, my head throbs, and I feel compelled to look elsewhere.
After a time, Roshar settles. “Can I ask you something?”
“No, you can’t borrow my lip rouge.”
He huffs a laugh. “Different complexions, dear. Scarlet looks terrible on me.” Then he sobers. “Why Notus? Your union with Prince Balior would have granted you more security than one with a god who has no ties to the realm. I thought you hated the South Wind.” He searches my gaze. “Do you have feelings for him?”
The more apt question is, what feelings do I not experience when in the South Wind’s presence? They are vast as Ammara is vast, full of unexplored depths. It terrifies me that I might be forced to dig deeper and face whatever pain still lingers.
“What I feel for Notus is… complicated.”
“You know you can always come to me, Sarai. I’m here to listen.”
“I would have come to you,” I say, “had I not spent the last few days hiding in my room avoiding Father.”
Daily, King Halim sends me messages in a near-illegible scrawl, demanding I attend dinner, apologize to Prince Balior, rescind my engagement to Notus, present a public apology. What is worse, today would have likely been my wedding day, had Prince Balior and I both committed to the engagement.
But that is neither here nor there. I’ve slept poorly since the night of the ball. Twice, I have awoken standing at my bedroom window, peering down at the labyrinth below, though I have no recollection of slipping from bed. I have even begun to sleep with my lamp lit, for at times I am certain the shadows move. When I ask Notus if he’s encountered any further darkwalker activity, however, he denies it.
“You know what?” Roshar waves a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Yes, you should have told me, but I’m over it. Really. Now, on to more important matters.” His smile stretches, cheek to cheek. “How was the kiss?”
Despite my best attempts at appearing unaffected, the blush rages red across my face. Last night, I fell asleep to phantom hands across my breasts, between my legs.
Calmly, I reach for my cookie, only to realize I have consumed it entirely. I draw the platter onto my lap. “It was fine.”
“Oh, Sarai, no ! Unacceptable.” He snatches the plate of cookies from my grip. I squawk in protest.
Slipping a finger beneath my chin, Roshar draws my face toward him, eyebrows wiggling. “I see it all, my dear. Look at those lips. Pouty and swollen.” To my horrified amusement, he sniffs my neck. “What is that woodsy scent you’re wearing? Did he kiss you here?”
I shove him away. “You’re ridiculous.” When I reach for the plate, he holds it out of reach.
“Ah ah!” He holds up a finger. “Not until you tell me the truth.”
Cookies, or my sanity? Today, I am weak. “All right, it was remarkable. Earth-shattering.” As I knew it would be. That is, until I pushed him away. Days later, I regret it. He wounds me. I wound him. When will the cycle end?
Roshar takes pity on me, offering the dish of desserts. But my appetite has fled.
“I feared telling you,” I admit, “because of your loose tongue. No offense.”
He huffs. “Do you imply I would have spilled your secret? I would never!”
I level him with a long, pointed stare.
His fingertips tap the chair arm in a quickening tempo, rings winking with reflected light. “What evidence do you have of this?” he demands.
“Age fourteen, late summer. You told Jem I had a crush on him.”
He crosses his arms. “A simple misunderstanding. I thought for sure he felt the same. I was just trying to help.”
“Age sixteen, you informed Father I had abandoned the spring ball to practice for my upcoming recital.” That had been a particularly nasty fight between me and Father.
“King Halim demanded to know your whereabouts. I could not lie to him—”
“Age seventeen, you told one of the noblewomen that I thought her nose looked like a warty squash.”
He grows flustered. “Tell me you don’t hold that against me. I mean, really, what was I supposed to do?”
“You also gifted her one of my gowns!”
“She offered me a Zarqan, Sarai. A Zarqan! Do you know how hard it is to get ahold of one?”
Only a mother’s love for her child rivaled Roshar’s obsession with the rare and beautiful handbags. “If you wanted a Zarqan, you could have just taken one from my wardrobe. I have plenty of bags I’ve never even touched.” It’s not uncommon for nobility to offer the royal family gifts of favor. Years later, they sit, gathering dust.
He emits a frail, choking sound, as though he has been brutally impaled. “A Zarqan is not just a bag. It is exemplary, of the highest standard in Ammaran fashion.”
Of course it is.
Very soon, Sarai, we will meet.
My head snaps in his direction. “What did you say?”
Roshar lifts a curious eyebrow. “Only that a Zarqan is so much more than a bag?” There is a pause. “Are you feeling all right?” He presses the back of his hand to my forehead in concern. “You do feel warm. Have you visited the physician?”
“I’m fine.” But I’ve heard that voice before. I hear it on the edge of sleep, when waking and dreaming become one. It is no voice I recognize, yet I fight its pull.
“Do you mind if I complete some reading while you work?” I ask him.
“Reading?” His expression folds into one of distaste. “Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends.” Then he springs to his feet and retreats to the other side of the room, soon disappearing behind a small mountain of cloth.
Reaching into the small bag resting at the base of the chair, I remove the book I saved from the night of the darkwalker attack. Seeing as it is the only resource I have at the moment, I’ve been wary of leaving it in my chambers. Already, I’ve read this volume thrice through, scanning for overlooked details, information that may benefit us. If Prince Balior intends to release the beast, then the only option is to kill it.
Cracking open the spine, I begin to read. Every so often, Roshar’s mutterings pull me from my research. Occasionally, I hear the plink of a sewing needle hitting the floor.
After what feels like an hour, he uncurls from his hunched position, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn before wandering to the window. I’m rereading the beast’s personal account when Roshar abruptly straightens, pressing a palm against the glass. “Sarai.” He glances at me with enough severity to make me sit up straight. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”
Setting aside my book, I move to stand beside Roshar.
The labyrinth, with its curved walls and crisscrossing inner passageways, dominates the center of the courtyard. Notus advances toward it with a confidence some might mistake as arrogance. Upon reaching the entryway, he brushes a hand against a curtain of black tendrils seething beneath its massive door.
“By the gods,” Roshar whispers.
The hair along my arms stands straight on end. Nose pressed against the glass, my exhalation rushes forth to steam the window.
The veil parts. The door opens. Notus steps through.
I gasp in alarm. When Notus said he would conduct his own research on the labyrinth, I didn’t think he meant he would enter it alone. I thought we were working as a team.
Roshar turns to me, oddly mute. “What is the South Wind’s interest in the labyrinth?”
There are things I can speak freely about to Roshar. This is not one of them. “I’m not sure,” I say, pulling away, “but I’m going to find out.”
Down and down and down the central staircase, before I burst through one of the doors leading out into a heat so thick my airway sears with each breath. The sun is blinding. I lift a hand to shield my eyes against it. Dust puffs beneath the heels of my slippers.
And then I am before the labyrinth. It is tall, it is wide, it is unknown. Notus has yet to emerge. Panic—I feel its roots, its slow-opening bud. What if he is trapped? The last time he faced the beast, he failed to kill it. His powers were not sufficient. How am I to know if he needs help?
Beneath the dense, pulsing shadows shielding the doorway are words chiseled into stone, a language the world has forgotten. The left pillar of the archway contains a large, round ruby. My eyes pass over it curiously. Strange. Never before has the jewel glittered in this manner, as though lit from within.
I glance around the courtyard. A few guards observe me warily, yet do not attempt to approach, likely due to fear of the labyrinth. I could go after Notus. But there is always the risk that I will lose myself in its twisting depths.
Hello, Sarai.
Won’t you step into the dark?
This voice. It sings to me. It knows me. Reaching out, my fingers brush the coiling shadows. Frost prickles my fingertips. Rather than snatching back my hand, I allow it to sink deeper into the darkness, its chill coating my fingers, wrist, elbow. I step closer. The toes of my slippers brush the door.
A startling clang wrenches my attention skyward, and I stumble back, falling onto my bottom with an oof . The capital bell heaves. One, two, three, four, five…
Ishmah is under attack.