Chapter 17
17
I WAKE ON MY BACK, STARING into a sky the black of a crow’s wing.
My chest heaves. My skin prickles from the bone-dry air wafting from an opening beyond sight. I blink once, twice. Neither stars nor clouds nor moon. It feels as if I lie underground, though I’m not sure how that is possible. Gingerly, I push into a seated position. I remember falling. The silvery arc of Notus’ blade. Then: nothing.
“Hello?”
The sound gutters the moment it escapes my mouth. Whatever this place, the air hangs with an unfamiliar weight. It tastes of rust and damp.
After a time, my eyes adjust to the gloom. The space is small, hemmed in on all sides by pale stone. A tall mirror framed in silver leans against the opposite wall. There is a pull I cannot deny. It coaxes me to my feet, drags me nearer to the gleaming surface. When I reach out to touch the ornate frame, however, my fingers pass through. Not real, then. A dream.
It is real, Sarai.
I startle. My head snaps around, yet I am alone.
Except… am I alone, or am I simply blind to whoever else occupies this space?
“What is real?” I ask, continuing to scan my surroundings.
The mirror, says the voice that is everywhere and nowhere. Look again.
My attention returns to the looking glass. It casts no reflection. Instead, moving images emerge from beneath the silver surface. Over time, they alter in color and shape. I am looking at myself gazing out my bedroom window, my body masked in the black of mourning. My eyes are swollen, red-rimmed. These must be the early days following Fahim’s death.
“What is this?” I demand. “Why are you showing me something that has already come to pass?”
The mirror shows what has been, what is, and what will be.
“And what will be?”
Look in the mirror and find out.
The image melts away, becomes something else. I stumble back in horror. The South Wind lies on his back, eyes closed, the grime and blood of battle sullying his robes. He does not appear to be breathing.
This doesn’t make sense. Notus cannot die except by a god-touched weapon. If his downfall has been foretold, then what is fated to kill him? Why does that thought render me breathless with anguish?
I peer closer. No, he is breathing. But he is… asleep? And then I realize something else. The bed he lies in is mine.
The image fades, leaving me staring at my own reflection. I am pressing a hand against the mirror, relieved to find it solid, when something moves over my shoulder. I whirl around. A figure has materialized, broad-shouldered, cloaked in dark wool. A spacious hood has been pulled forward, veiling the face within.
“Who are you?” I dare ask.
You would not remember our initial meeting. You were an infant then, and sickly.
My eyes widen. “The Lord of the Mountain,” I whisper.
So, you do remember. The Lord of the Mountain sidles nearer. Beneath the cowl of his hood, I glimpse an opening, like a mouth. There is a flash of white—teeth? Do not worry, Sarai. I do not demand your life—yet.
I intend to reply, yet another, more distant voice demands that I wake. It is familiar, this voice. It promises peace. I’m certain it shouts my name.
Again, I glance around. These alien walls. This sky that is not a sky. The musk of pressed soil. I must be dreaming. It’s the only logical explanation.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask the Lord of the Mountain. “To frighten me? You will have to do better than that.” I must be mad, standing up to the divine. “Father banned black iris from Ammara long ago.”
Do you think the king’s policies will stop me from claiming what was promised to me? There is a pause. Look into the mirror and see.
The impulse is woven into my very core. As I peer into the mirror, my reflection dissolves. In its place stands the Red City. There are its curved archways and pillar-lined temples. There spring the grasses and sweet-smelling blooms of its abundant gardens. Yet I blink, and all becomes shadow, a smoke-like residue blotting out the shining rooftops and marble statues as darkwalkers flood the streets.
The Lord of the Mountain hovers over my shoulder, cold lips brushing my ear as he says, It is coming.
My eyes fly open, and I gasp. A white starburst floods my vision. The ground is hard beneath me, its heat scalding the length of my back, and the sounds of chaos descend, an assault on my ears following the quiet of that strange, unearthly place.
A large hand comes to rest atop my thundering heart. “Steady.”
The low, even tone wraps me in warm threads, and I calm.
The brightness fades as my vision adjusts to the stretch of blue overhead. The South Wind leans over me, dark locks haloed by the sun at high noon. His eyes churn with such deep emotion that for a moment, the walls I have erected around my heart falter. He is always in control. Now? I have never seen peace so far from his reach.
Slowly, I sit up. “What happened?” I croak.
Notus looks away, jaw clenched. I lie in a patch of shade cast by one of the nearby dwellings. A handful of soldiers hover at a distance while additional guards direct residents down the street. When Notus refuses to respond, I look to them questioningly.
Only one of the soldiers is brave enough to come forward. “You fell, Your Highness.” He glances at the top of the tower. It’s a long drop, a few hundred feet by my estimate. None could survive such a fall.
I have no awareness of reaching for Notus, but I must have, for suddenly my fingers slide against his. Just as quickly, he stiffens, withdraws. Curling my hand into a fist, I shove it against my knotted stomach. If he does not wish to touch me, fine. I will not beg for scraps.
“The South Wind caught you before you hit the ground,” the soldier adds. At Notus’ cutting glare, the man falls quiet.
Understanding settles over me. What power must it have taken the South Wind to travel from one end of the capital to the other in the span of time it would take a body to tumble from that height? It is not a matter of flying faster than the wind. He would need to become it.
“Leave us,” Notus barks.
The guards retreat, some helping to carry the wounded onto stretchers. I look to the gates, now shut and barred. Something massive slams them from the outside. They shudder, yet hold.
There was a time when darkwalkers only emerged under the cloak of night, sunlight poison to their existence. But something has changed. They grow stronger. One day, I fear the gates’ protective runes will fail.
“Notus.” I speak quietly.
The South Wind lurches to his feet. “You will need to see a healer,” he clips out, unwilling to meet my eye. “It’s possible you sustained injuries I’m not aware of.” Then he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his wide, solid chest. The crowd parts as he begins the return trek to the palace.
“Notus—”
“What in the gods’ names would drive you to position yourself at the gates when the city is under attack? Do you have a death wish?” Each word emerges choked, a snarl. Despite this, he holds me gently.
“Do you think I would stand by while my people were slaughtered?” I snap. “Is that the type of person you believe me to be?”
“It was a careless decision.” The Queen’s Road curves, and one cannot ignore the extent of the damage wrought. Many have already begun combing through the rubble of collapsed homes, searching for family and belongings. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
However sharp the hurt, I allow his judgment to drift over me. All I wanted was to help my people. What use am I to anyone shielded behind high walls?
“Think of me what you will,” I tell him, “but I don’t regret my actions. I would do it all over again. Ishmah is my home. I would do anything to protect my home.”
He wavers, and a bit of that wild wrath diminishes, cooling to a far more levelheaded disposition. It does little to quell the turmoil sucking me down. “I apologize,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
It’s too late for that. “Put me down.” We’ve arrived at the palace gates.
“Not until we’ve reached the infirmary.”
“Who goes?” someone calls from atop the wall.
“It’s Notus. I’ve Princess Sarai. She needs to see a healer immediately.”
The gates heave open with an ominous groan.
As we enter the main courtyard, attendants and hostlers halt their duties to watch us pass. If I were less drained, I might insist on walking myself. As it turns out, I’m perfectly comfortable in the South Wind’s arms.
The rocking motion of his gait soothes me. The scent of his skin is intoxicating. Against my will, my eyes slip closed. Then, the bright clip of Notus’ bootheels against the marble floors. After a few turns, a slightly astringent scent stuffs itself up my nostrils. My eyes snap open as he drops me onto one of the infirmary cots as if I’m no more fragile than a sack of rice.
“I need to check that the capital is secure,” he says, glancing at the doorway where the royal healer has entered. Her eyes widen upon catching sight of me.
I shift to the edge of the mattress, plant my feet on solid ground. “There are things I want to discuss with you first.”
“Can it wait?”
If it were at all possible to set someone on fire with a glare, I daresay the South Wind would be reduced to ash at this point. “No,” I say through clenched teeth. “It can’t.” The situation has become dire indeed.
The royal healer departs as quickly as she arrived, likely sensing how the air thickens. Notus peers at the door longingly, then takes a seat in a nearby armchair.
And now we sit, god and mortal, ex-lovers bound by the false promise of our engagement. No matter how I attempt to loosen my posture, tension crawls beneath my skin. “Why did you enter the labyrinth without telling me?” I demand, the words hoarse.
The South Wind rears back in surprise. “I wasn’t aware I needed to ask your permission to enter.”
“You don’t,” I snap, and am mortified by how swiftly a blush paints my cheeks. Notus is correct. He doesn’t need to ask my permission, but would it kill him to inform me of his intentions, especially ones so dangerous? “I thought we agreed to work together on this matter.”
“We did.” His dark eyes are watchful.
No, not watchful. Confused. Hurt, even, that I would repay him saving my life with aggressive accusations. “If I hadn’t seen you enter the labyrinth,” I explain, tone softening, “I would never have known you were in there. What if you hadn’t emerged?”
The change to his expression is subtle. My pulse stutters, for I know what he will ask before he opens his mouth. “You were… worried about me?”
Too often I have lied. What is one more, in the end? But I know myself. I cannot lie about this. “Yes, I was worried,” I sniff, patting the blanket into place across my lap. “So… please keep that in mind next time.”
Gravely, austerely, he nods. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“Apology accepted.” Now onto the matters at hand. “Did you find anything?”
“No.” He rubs a hand down his face. There is an unmistakable gray pallor to his skin. “The passages are too complex, and I feared I would lose my sense of direction. I haven’t figured out a way to mark my path back to the entrance.”
“How did you manage to escape the first time?”
He ducks his head in what I believe to be embarrassment. “Would you believe me if I said luck had everything to do with it?”
My mouth falls open. Then I snort, shake my head in disbelief. It lightens my spirits to see the smile stretch Notus’ mouth. It is a rare sight indeed. “I suppose luck would have something to do with it,” I say teasingly, and am pleased beyond measure to watch red paint the South Wind’s cheeks.
Speaking of which— “I think the darkwalkers are coming from the labyrinth,” I say.
The South Wind doesn’t appear the least bit surprised. “Truth be told, I’ve considered the possibility,” he says, easing into the chair’s cushioned back. “But aside from the ones that entered the capital today, the only darkwalker I’ve encountered in Ishmah was the one from the library. What makes you think that?”
“I was standing at the labyrinth entrance when the warning bell rang. Shadow seethed beneath the door—the same shadow the beasts are made of. I’m wondering if they’re escaping from the labyrinth underground, through a tunnel, maybe, that leads outside the city.” The palace itself has numerous tunnels, many long forgotten.
Notus rubs at his temple, thighs spread, deep in thought. I’ve the inane urge to drape myself across his lap. I would have, once. “It’s worth exploring, at the very least.” His attention returns to my face. “Have you learned more about the labyrinth?”
There is the conversation I had with the Lord of the Mountain, of course. But seeing as it concerns my curse, I’m reluctant to divulge it. Perhaps I should tell Notus. But… I don’t know. It seems pointless. Maybe I have already accepted the inevitable. After all, one cannot escape fate. Foolishly, I believed myself capable of outsmarting the divine.
“No,” I tell him. “Nothing.”
He peers carefully at me, perhaps sensing I am not being entirely truthful. “I ask because one of my contacts from Mirash got in touch with me this morning. He has some information he thought we’d be interested in. The sooner we can speak with him, the better.”
“The Festival of Rain begins next week,” I remind him.
“I remember,” he murmurs.
I wish it didn’t please me that he remembers Ammara’s customs, but I’m not as unfeeling as I try to appear. It does please me. It pleases me a great deal.
“The capital closes its gates in the days leading up to the festival.” The cot squeaks as I shift my weight. “We won’t be able to leave until the festival is complete.” What is another five days, really?
“That shouldn’t be an issue,” Notus says.
I hesitate, irritated by my sudden indecision. I promptly squash it. “Seeing as we are betrothed, it would befit our situation if you were to accompany me during the festivities.”
Now more than ever, my people are looking for certainty. They seek strength and direction. I will not let them down.
Notus lifts his head. His eyes are very dark. I feel as though I stare at my reflection, as though his pain is my pain, and this wound is shared. I fist the blanket across my lap, suddenly unmoored. “I would stand by your side,” the South Wind whispers, “if I believed you wanted me there.”
“I do want you there,” I say. Then, hurriedly, “For the benefit of Ammara, of course.”
The South Wind considers me for a long moment. Long enough that I grow uncomfortable. “If that’s what you want.”
I haven’t the slightest idea of what I want. “Are you still angry with me?” I ask.
“I wasn’t angry with you, Sarai.”
“Weren’t you?”
“Maybe it manifested as anger,” he admits, “but at its root, always, is fear and sadness and shame. I have never known fear until the moment I watched you tumble from the wall and believed I would not reach you in time.”
I manage a quiet, “Oh.” And slowly… slowly that long-standing wound inside my heart begins to close. He cares. Too much, I believe. Maybe it’s time I stop fighting what has been and start embracing what could be .
“Is that all?” he says, pushing to his feet.
It is and it isn’t. I am always hungry, always reaching, never soothed, never satiated. He’s reached the door when I call, “Notus?”
He halts, turns to look at me. My heart squeezes itself into silence.
“I know you’re angry with me,” I whisper with heartfelt remorse. “I know I did not act in the safest manner. And I know it’s your duty to protect me, but… thank you,” I say, “for saving my life.”
The softest wind grazes my cheekbone, akin to the brush of his callused fingertips. “I didn’t save your life out of duty, Sarai. I saved it because…” He takes a breath. “Because I don’t want to live in a world without you in it.”
His words heal me even as they frighten me. I know this. I think I have always known this. But I haven’t been prepared to accept the truth until now.
“Be safe,” I whisper. Then he is gone.
The royal healer returns to examine me from toe to scalp, then forces me to drink some vile concoction she claims will help clear my head. If only she knew what confusions resided there: a dark shade—the Lord of the Mountain, who covets my life.
An hour later, I’m released with the instructions to rest and hydrate. I return to my chambers to wash, then open the journal on my desk. Twenty-three days. The longer I stare at the inked number, the tighter my chest cinches. Yet another reminder of how powerless I am.
Seeing as I do not care to stew in my tumult, I go in search of Father. I find him in his chambers, abed. Amir and Tuleen sit at his bedside, speaking in low tones.
King Halim’s quarters are thrice the size of my own. They include an office, two sitting rooms, an impressive library, a bedroom, and a spacious bathing chamber. On the far wall, there lies the interconnecting door to the queen’s chambers. Empty for the last twenty-four years.
Upon catching sight of me, Amir lurches upright. “Where have you been?” He rounds the bed, scouring me for injury. “We checked your rooms but found you gone. I feared you were in the city.”
“I took shelter in the library,” I say to Amir. “I came as soon as it was clear.”
“Thank the gods for that.”
Slowly, I approach the king’s bedside. He is reduced, what remains when a body wastes. His drooping skin resembles moist parchment, and my concern morphs beyond the bounds I have drawn, a spiraling panic threatening. Still breathing—for now. I wonder who will leave this earth first: me or Father.
It hurts to witness, this slow deterioration. I have cried, I have screamed, I have begged and demanded miracles of the gods. It has made no difference. When the Lord of the Mountain demands a life, the when and where and how of it will not change.
“How are you, Father?”
He takes a sharp, wheezing breath. “I was discussing the laws of Ammara with Amir. There is much he still has to learn.”
“Why talk of such things now?” I lean forward, hand curled into a loose fist, as if I might hammer it upon that which builds before my eyes, this reality in which my brother rules and our father lies dead in the ground.
“The writing is on the wall, Sarai. I can no longer delay for fear of leaving Amir ignorant and uninformed. We cannot leave our people vulnerable.”
What of me? It is a soundless cry, voiced only in my mind. “Father—”
“Enough. We will speak no more of this. Am I understood?”
I look to Amir. He looks at me.
“Understood,” we murmur in unison.
While Amir pulls the king into further conversation, I select the empty seat next to my sister-in-law and dip my chin in greeting. “Tuleen.”
She smiles, though it lacks the ease I would expect from genuine pleasure at seeing me. It is likely deserved. I have shown no willing kindness toward Tuleen—my own mistake. There are some days I could absolutely use another friend in the palace.
“I wanted to offer you an apology,” I say.
She is watchful, but she dips her chin, signaling me to go on.
“I was unfair to judge you. You have shown nothing but kindness toward me—”
“Why did you?” Curt, clear, but kind.
I drop my eyes. “I feared you might treat me like the other women at court.” Nevertheless, I lift my head and regard her with respect. “But you are better than them, better than me. I’m sorry for how poorly I treated you. I want you to know how glad I am that you’re part of our family.”
Tuleen glances away, blinking rapidly. She swallows before turning back to face me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
That she is so willing to forgive is more than I deserve. And she is not the only one who’s forgiveness I need. But an awkward silence descends, broken only by Amir’s voice twining with that of the king. I ask Tuleen, “Have you visited Roshar yet, for your festival gown?”
“Roshar Hammad?” Her eyes widen. “But he is the royal tailor.”
“And you are Ammara’s future queen. It’s your right to request his services.”
Tuleen hunches forward in the chair. The silken strands of her unbound hair slip forward over her shoulders. “I don’t know…”
“He’s a friend of mine. I’ll send him a message,” I say. “We’ll meet with him in, say, two days’ time. I need a dress for the festival as well.”
“You’re sure?” Tuleen asks. “I don’t want to intrude on your friendship.”
“There’s no intrusion. You deserve a gown fit for a queen. My sister-in-law shall be the best dressed in all of Ammara.” My smile makes an appearance. It is genuine.
“The darkwalkers have been quelled?” King Halim suddenly rasps, the words garbled by fluid.
Shifting my attention, I reach for Father’s hand. His fingers twitch in my grip, yet he does not tear his hand away. My throat tightens. I can’t remember a time when I did not crave his affections. “You can thank Notus for that.”
“Glad to know he’s adequate at his job,” Amir drawls sarcastically, regarding me with crossed arms from the other side of the bed. “Can the same be said for his role as your betrothed?”
Oh, he’s not happy I kept that information from him. “As a matter of fact,” I reply with false sweetness, “it can.” Swiping the washcloth from the bedside table, I wet the fabric in the small pail of water at my feet and begin dabbing sweat from the king’s neck.
Amir glowers with childlike petulance. Typical. “You should have told me.”
I snort. “So you could run him off at the first opportunity? I don’t think so.”
“Why would I need to run him off,” he counters, “when he does that on his own?”
He’s not wrong. But I feel the inexplicable urge to shield the South Wind from my brother’s indignation. The history between me and Notus is ours alone. Amir has nothing to do with it.
“Speaking of the South Wind.” I rewet the cloth, wring the fabric free of water. “He will be accompanying us during the Festival of Rain.”
King Halim attempts to sit up, but his arms tremble from the strain, and he sinks back into the pillows with a sound of frustration. “How am I to explain his presence to Prince Balior? He’s under the impression you will come to your senses.”
This again. Gently, I wipe along the king’s collarbone where sweat pools. With the curtains drawn, the air is stifling. “As I’ve already told you, Father, I’ve made my decision. My mind will not change.”
“Sarai.” He sighs. “You must reject the South Wind’s hand for the sake of our people. Please. If you show genuine remorse for your actions, there might still be time to win him over.”
“Oh, I should apologize?” I scoff, tossing the cloth back into the pail. “For what? I agreed to court Prince Balior, but we were not formally engaged when Notus asked for my hand. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Except having made me look a fool, and our realm weak.”
Because it always comes back to Father’s image. No mention of my life, my impending death, though I suppose he would not mention that in Amir and Tuleen’s presence. “You must know that was not my intention—”
“Then what was your intention?” he demands. “Because as far as I’m concerned, everything you’ve done has been completely selfish.”
Selfish.
A tinny ringing fills my ears. I stare, and I stare, and I stare, but my bewilderment fails to lessen, only morphs, becomes something else, something white-hot beneath my sternum. Not now, I think. Wait until you are alone, without an audience. It’s not proper. It’s disrespectful. It’s what Father would want. But what about what I want? And so all that I have buried these long, long years rushes up and out, rupturing at last.
“If anyone is selfish,” I spit, stabbing a finger at him, “it’s you, Father. You, who have done nothing but belittle me, insult me, tear me down. You, who care more about impressing a visiting sovereign than your own daughter. You, who have never once made me feel as though I am free to be myself, never once made me feel as though I am loved just how I am.”
It is so, so quiet. Amir and Tuleen are frozen in shock. My vision is too blurred by tears to make out Father’s expression. It is for the better. I do not wish to witness yet more disappointment.
“Does it bring you joy,” I wheeze, throat swelling with emotion, “to crush your children’s spirits? Have the gods promised you a favorable afterlife if you can successfully mold your children into the same stern, rigid persona you possess?”
A soft, rattling inhalation breaks the stillness. King Halim shakes his head. “Sarai, I—”
“Let me tell you something, Father. I have done everything in my power to become this ideal princess, this perfect reflection of you. All the while—” I choke, suck in air, try again. “All the while, I feel myself slipping farther out of reach. It’s clear I’ll never live up to your impossible expectations. So I wonder: Why bother saving my life in the first place? As far as I can see, it was nothing but a waste of time.”
Tuleen gasps.
A hard breath shudders out of me, and another. Before long, the sobs will descend. I intend to be far from this room when that occurs. “It would have been better for you to let me die. At least then you wouldn’t be living in a state of perpetual disappointment.”
King Halim has never appeared smaller beneath the blankets, his mouth hanging open in dismay, eyes darkened by turmoil.
Quietly, I let myself out.