The South Wind (The Four Winds #3)

Chapter 18

18

“Y OU ’ RE SURE THIS IS ALL right?” Tuleen asks me, studying the plaque before us in uncertainty.

Roshar Hammad. Royal Tailor.

“Absolutely.” A swift rat-tat-tat against his door. “And I want to apologize again for the scheduling hiccup,” I say. We were supposed to meet Roshar three days ago, but Prince Balior insisted on a ride through the city, then another darkwalker was spotted lurking in the palace grounds, which forced Turleen and I to shelter in our respective rooms until the threat was quelled.

“It’s no trouble, really,” she replies. “I’m just happy Roshar was able to accommodate us.”

Less than a heartbeat later, it swings open. Roshar’s wire-rimmed spectacles magnify his long-lashed eyes. His robe is a bright shade of orange, his trousers a contrasting blue.

The man positively preens in Tuleen’s presence. “Your Highness.” He makes a deep bow toward my sister-in-law. “And Your Other Highness.” A shallower bow to me, the oaf.

“Tuleen, I’d like to formally introduce you to Roshar Hammad.” I gesture at him as he straightens, adjusting his hair to his liking. “Not only does he have excellent taste in clothes, but he has excellent taste in pastries as well.”

Tuleen smiles shyly. “Please,” she says. “Call me Tuleen.”

First-name basis with Ammara’s queen-to-be? Roshar looks about ready to faint. “Come. Let Roshar see what we have to work with.”

Inside his workroom, my sister-in-law examines the numerous works-in-progress curiously. A high-collared robe studded with clear beads draws her eye. The breadth in the shoulders signify a male garment, and the embellishment suggests a significant event, likely a wedding or funeral. Meanwhile, Roshar snags his measuring tape and begins to circle Tuleen, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“You have a gorgeous figure, very petite.” He stops, tilts his head this way and that. “I’m thinking empire waist, gossamer fabric at the bodice. No pleats. We don’t want Ammara’s future queen to look outdated.”

As he speaks, he pulls a small notebook from his pocket and begins to jot down ideas with a piece of charcoal. Then he snaps the notebook closed. “Let me take your measurements, dear, then I’ll gather some fabric samples. All right?”

Dazed, Tuleen nods, watching him waltz to the other side of the room.

“He has that effect on people,” I say to her.

“Oh!” Tuleen startles, and both hands fly to her mouth. “I forgot to tell him my favorite color!”

I snag her arm before she can approach Roshar, shaking my head in disapproval. “I wouldn’t,” I whisper.

“No?” Her voice drops to match mine. “Why not?”

“There are only two things you need to know about Roshar. The first is that he hates the color gray. Absolutely despises it.” Those who have commissioned him to design a gray dress or robe generally aren’t heard from again, interestingly enough. “The second is that he does not like being told what to do.”

My sister-in-law steps back in surprise. “But I’m not telling him what to do. I just thought if he knew my favorite color, it might make the process a bit easier for him…” Tuleen trails off as I slowly shake my head. “No?”

“No.” Sweeping an arm around her back, I guide her away from Roshar, just in case she decides to act rashly. “You’re making the right decision,” I assure her. “Trust me. Roshar has never steered me wrong. He has a gift. Your gown will be stunning, whatever the color or style.”

While Roshar busies himself cutting fabric, Tuleen and I take a seat in the armchairs near the window. Beyond the palace walls, the streets have already begun to transform for the festival. Thousands of flowers have been strung along the walkways, between the shop rooftops. My heart sinks as I scan the courtyard below. No sign of Notus.

“How long have you known Roshar?” Tuleen asks, settling in.

“About a decade, give or take. He was the only person aside from Fahim who was willing to put up with me.” Ten years later, he remains my only friend.

She glances over her shoulder to watch him pluck at a stack of fabric, charcoal caught between his teeth. He rounds the table, muttering to himself, head ducked as he completes a brief sketch in his notebook. “He seems very passionate about his work.”

“He’s a passionate person in general, but especially when it comes to fashion. By the way, do you have a Zarqan?”

Tuleen faces me, clearly puzzled. “I do.”

“Don’t tell him. He’s obsessed with them and may take it when you’re not looking.” I smirk to show that I’m mostly joking, and Tuleen laughs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Roshar calls Tuleen over to take her measurements. Alone, I stare out the window, my thoughts beginning to stew. I haven’t spoken to Father since my emotional outburst. I’ve considered apologizing. But it hurts to scream into a void. Hurts more to know my voice might never be heard.

Minutes later, Tuleen resettles into her chair. “How are things with your engagement?” she asks quietly.

Oh, gods. My engagement—fake engagement—is not a topic of conversation I care to discuss. But I’ve treated Tuleen quite poorly since her return to Ishmah, and she’s never been deserving of the poison I myself have swallowed.

“Honestly?” I slouch lower in the cushioned chair. “Not great.”

Tuleen seems surprised by my candid response, though she does her best to mask it. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

My mood darkens. The last couple of weeks have been absolutely excruciating. The torment of sleeping in the adjacent chambers to Notus, hearing every shift of his mattress through the wall… I haven’t slept well since he moved in.

“It’s normal, isn’t it?” I lift a hand in a gesture of indifference. “Relationships take effort. We all have our rough patches, right?”

Ammara’s queen-to-be does not seem to agree with the sentiment. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping,” she says, “but… I sense there’s a history between you and the South Wind.” She searches my face. Kind eyes, yet keen. “Or am I wrong?”

I’m surprised Amir hasn’t spoken to his wife about it. Then again, the South Wind isn’t a topic of conversation my brother cares to discuss.

“We were lovers years ago. We… didn’t part on good terms.” Indeed, I wasn’t aware we had parted at all until I found him gone. “I never expected him to return.” My jaw clenches. I force it to relax.

Tuleen’s face softens with a compassion I have not often encountered. It warms me even as I fight the urge to duck and hide. “You’re angry with him.”

At Notus, Father, my circumstances. The South Wind doesn’t deserve my anger. I know this. I’m trying to be better, to let go. It would be so much easier if a part of me—a larger part than I’m willing to admit—didn’t crave his affection.

“I don’t want to go too much into it,” I say, “but he broke my trust, and yes, we’re engaged now, but I learned my lesson once before. How can I trust that he won’t break my heart a second time?” And how pathetic I must look to Tuleen. I didn’t intend to bare my soul, but it poured out all the same.

My sister-in-law leans back, legs crossed, head tilted ponderously. “From where I stand, it looks like Notus is trying hard to rebuild the trust between you both.” When I peer at Tuleen in question, she elaborates, “When he looks at you, I see that he cares for you, deeply. But it seems to me you’re keeping him at arm’s length. He’s your betrothed. At some point, you will either learn to trust him, or you won’t. And if you won’t, it will in all likelihood destroy your marriage.”

Little does she know we won’t ever reach the wedding. “This goes much deeper than the surface, Tuleen. You claim he’s trying to rebuild trust? I don’t see it.”

“Why should he look upon a shut door and believe himself welcome?”

“You don’t understand,” I choke, fighting the sting in my chest. “Of course I would not let him in. He left .” And I had no one. My mother, dead. Fahim, dead. Amir, lost in the throes of grief. Father, too, distanced himself, as he had always done. “It’s obvious he didn’t want me.”

“You asked him this?” She regards me calmly.

I did not, for I was afraid of what he might say. I suppose a small part of me always clung to the idea that he left for something I had no control over, something that had nothing to do with me.

“He gave me his answer a long time ago,” I tell her.

She raises a sleekly groomed eyebrow. “Have you considered that he might be hurting too? Maybe he’s equally afraid of rejection.”

Maybe. But I have been blinded before. I dare not close my eyes for fear of it happening again.

For a time, she gazes out the window, and her attention eventually finds the labyrinth. She frowns at the structure, yet goes on, “I know how scary it is to place yourself in a vulnerable position, Sarai. Believe it or not, I experienced something very similar with Amir at the start of our developing relationship. It took him a long time to open up to me. I didn’t think he ever would. I guess what I’m saying is… I don’t want you to lose a world-ending love out of fear.”

My lips quaver. I press them together until they vanish into nothing. “Notus was welcome,” I growl, low and coarse. “He was always welcome. I wanted to be his home. I thought I was.” I’d given him my heart. I’d given him everything .

“Maybe you still are,” Tuleen murmurs.

I want to scream, or flee. I will run until my lungs crumple and my legs collapse, and let the desert do the rest. But—enough. I’ve had enough of these what-ifs . History has been written. I cannot expend any additional energy questioning something I know is untrue. Notus is not mine. He never was.

Stiffly, I push to my feet, brush the wrinkles from my dress. “Apologies, but there’s something I must see to.” Three strides, and I’m across the room, Roshar glancing between us in confusion. If anyone notices the tears streaking my face, I will simply blame them on the sun.

The annual Festival of Rain arrives with a slash of reddish light breaking through dense cloud cover to the east. It begins on Mount Syr at high noon, where an offering will be made to the Lord of the Mountain, a prayer to usher in the rains that Ammara sorely needs. It ends on the fifth day, with a grand ball hosted in honor of our most esteemed god.

After slipping on a light linen dress and settling a laurel crown on my brow, I dab color onto my cheeks, swipe kohl beneath my eyes. I purse my lips in the mirror. The puffiness above my cheeks can’t be helped. Last night, I awoke twice. Once due to the Lord of the Mountain whispering in my ear, reminding me that my time nears. And again, to the sound of Notus’ pacing. I wondered whether he had donned his sleep robe, or if he wore only trousers, or nothing at all. I’m not sure which thought haunts me more.

But I can’t avoid the day. And so, girding myself for what is to come, I turn toward the interconnecting door, only to find Notus already framed in the doorway, form haloed in amber light.

I blink in surprise, my stomach lurching toward my chest. “You startled me.” A second thought chases on its heels. “Were you watching me?”

He gives me a slow once-over as if in answer. My face warms. “You’re already dressed.”

I can’t discern his tone. Is he suggesting he would rather I wasn’t dressed? As soon as the thought manifests, I promptly toss it away.

He enters the room, yet another shadow among darkness. I retreat toward the window, dawn’s pearly light visible through the dusty glass. From this angle, the rising sun drizzles orange light across the room, catching the green of Notus’ robes, the curled strands of his disheveled hair.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asks.

Arms crossed, I regard him coolly. “Funny,” I say. “I was under the impression you were avoiding me .” I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since my visit to the infirmary. Not for lack of trying, however.

He regards me in puzzlement. “What reasons would I have to avoid you, aside from completing my rounds?”

I do not deign to answer, for I fear his reasons are many, though I do not want to know them. “You are aware our rooms share a connecting door? It’s not difficult to knock if you desire my company.”

“You didn’t knock either.”

“Did you hope I would?”

The question slips out. I swallow hard, well aware I cannot call it back.

Notus taps a finger against his thigh. His sword hangs alongside it. “And if I did?” His dark eyes meet mine. I wasn’t expecting, well, that . I don’t know how to respond to it. The immortal exasperates me to no end. I cannot bull my way to his surrender.

“If you want to spend time with me, all you have to do is knock,” I say, pleased that I sound quite unaffected by this awkward conversation.

“It would be easier to approach you,” he says, “if you did not act like I carried a pox.”

Really? “I don’t act like you carry a pox.”

He levels me a pointed look.

All right, maybe I do act like that, just a touch. A smidge. A small bit. But that’s only to avoid having to confront my body’s urges when he is in close proximity—as he is now. “Fine. Should we hold hands then?” I suggest.

Notus shifts his weight, clearly tense. “Isn’t that typically frowned upon in your culture? Displays of affection in public, I mean?”

My blush continues to crawl along my cheeks and neck. “An engaged couple may hold hands, even in Ammara. But you’re right. It was a stupid idea. Forget I mentioned it.” Stupid, stupid, stupid . “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” If we play our parts well, hopefully we’ll show the world—and Prince Balior—how truly in love we are. The prince will lay down his sword. He will swallow his surrender. And he will leave, taking his army with him.

Together, we descend the stairs to the front courtyard, where Father, Amir, and Tuleen have gathered, their horses readied for the journey to Mount Syr. Cheers erupt beyond the shut gates, Ishmah’s citizens having assembled to line the streets. Behind them, the guards are positioned in rows of two, forty men deep.

My sister-in-law wears a simple olive dress that accentuates the green in her hazel eyes. She offers me a shy smile, and I return it, ashamed of the way I’d departed Roshar’s workroom earlier in the week. I’ll have to apologize when I get the chance.

I’m not certain whether Amir and Notus have made amends since my brother threatened to skewer the god with his sword, the fool. To my absolute horror, Prince Balior already sits astride his horse, observing me with a keen eye. When his attention falls to the South Wind, he frowns, but not before I spot the panic flickering across his expression.

The South Wind bows to the king. “Your Majesty.”

“Father.” I dip my chin stiffly, accepting Zainab’s reins from the hostler. My mare stamps her hoof with a loud clop .

King Halim glances between me and Notus. My heart thuds sickeningly, for I am fully expecting a scathing remark or disapproving look, but to my surprise, there is a sad crimp to his mouth. If I were less of a cynic, I might believe it to be regret. “Sarai—”

“We don’t want to be late for the start of the ceremony, right Papa?” I hold his watery gaze until he looks elsewhere. This is the last place I want to discuss the topic of our recent parting, especially with Prince Balior present. Today will be difficult enough. I must be blissful, engrossed, in high spirits, never mind the guilt surrounding this sham of an engagement, the regret I feel toward my father.

“Yes,” Father croaks, suddenly doubtful. “You’re right. It would be in poor taste to be tardy, and I do not want to offend the Lord of the Mountain.” At last, he wanders toward the head of the procession, allowing me the space to breathe.

The South Wind dips his mouth to my ear. “What was that about?” he murmurs.

I shake my head, too inundated by emotion to speak. Zainab nudges my shoulder. I rub her neck, and the motion soothes me. With her, I can just be.

When I push toward the head of the procession, however, my hand is suddenly caught in a warm, solid grasp. My head snaps toward Notus, who gazes at me with deep, deep eyes. I hear what he does not say: I am with you. His hand, and mine, tightly clasped. It means more than I can say.

“I thought you didn’t want to draw attention with public displays of affection?” I quip, though my mouth eases into a curve, no heat behind the words, just warmth.

The corner of his mouth hitches in reflection to mine. “Anything to hasten Prince Balior’s departure, I figure.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before helping me mount Zainab. Seconds later, he swings himself into the saddle behind me, muscled thighs pressed against the outside of my own, wide chest brushing my back.

I stiffen as my eyes pop wide. “What are you doing!” I hiss. When I attempt to slide forward, the curve of the saddle forces me back. I remain in place, my position awkwardly held, wooden. “Where’s your horse?”

“We’ll ride together.”

“That’s not an answer!” When I spot Amir gazing at us with interest—and perhaps a bit of loathing toward the South Wind—I mellow my expression, wiping the shock and dismay from my features.

Notus and I are supposed to be in love. Happy. Comfortable in one another’s company. A large part of me wishes that were so, that we did not have to perform for thousands. That I could be loved, just as Sarai.

“I intend to keep you close,” he explains, and as I shift my head, his lips brush the shell of my ear. I bite my tongue so as to dam the whimper threatening to spill into the open. “After the last attack, I won’t take chances.”

Yes, yes, it all makes perfect sense, but it is a two-hour journey to Mount Syr. How am I to bear being pressed against the South Wind like a waxen seal?

The gates heave open like giants of old. Cheers peal out, Ishmah’s brightest faces welcoming our procession with joyful greetings and flowers tossed into the streets. The Queen’s Road slithers down the central hill, framed by thousands of citizens gathered for the festival. Flowers adorn every doorway, every cart and wagon. They are even twined around the necks of goats and dogs.

Notus and I rock side to side atop the mare. I do my best to ignore the brush of his chest against my back, but it has the irksome power of claiming my thoughts. One of his hands rests along my thigh, heavy with heat. The other clasps the reins.

Amir and Tuleen ride ahead with Father. As luck would have it, Prince Balior rides beside us on a chestnut gelding.

“Lovely weather today,” the prince comments.

I offer him a close-lipped smile. “Indeed.”

I hope this will put an end to the conversation, but Prince Balior then says, “Will you have time for a cup of tea this week?”

“Doubtful,” the South Wind cuts in irritably. “Princess Sarai and I will be quite busy. I’m sure you can understand.”

Prince Balior’s mouth thins. “Of course.” He glances between us, expression dubious. Notus and I sit stiffly in the saddle—like two thorn bushes rather than two people in love. I’m considering how best to respond when Notus’ hand slides up my thigh to curve around my hip. I nearly choke on my tongue. The gesture is a claiming. It says, Mine .

With a curled upper lip, the prince faces forward, nudging his gelding into a trot. I expect Notus to remove his hand now that Prince Balior’s attention is elsewhere, but he keeps it in place. I am painfully aware of his spread fingers, their heat through the fabric of my dress.

As we approach the gate separating the upper and lower rings, someone tosses a fresh bouquet onto the ground. Ebon petals, colored violet in the low light. Before I can fully process the sight, we trot past, easing around a bend in the cobblestoned road.

The first stirrings of unease ooze through me. Black iris. I recall that woman from the market over a month ago. It was my duty to report her. But… she wasn’t hurting anyone, and so long as I keep my distance from the deadly blooms, I’ve no reason to worry.

We exchange the jeweled windows and stately homes of the upper ring for the cracked doors and dilapidated porches of the lower ring, refuse piled high in the narrower alleyways. The capital is still in the midst of reconstruction following the darkwalker attacks. Yesterday, Amir and I attended a meeting with the king’s council to discuss what could be done to accommodate those who lost their homes. Funds will be redistributed to provide temporary shelter until the structures are rebuilt.

As though sensing my distress, the South Wind tightens his arm around my stomach in comfort. I waver, but eventually allow myself to sink against his chest with a grateful sigh. The thump of his heartbeat thuds along my spine. If I’m not mistaken, it picks up pace.

Hours later, we summit Mount Syr, where the earth is cracked and reddened, and the wind cuts the sand into glass atop the bluff. The heat is boiling. The sun is a brutal whiteness reflected across the hills and troughs of Ammara’s dunes. Fanning out in a half-moon around the throne, the procession watches King Halim kneel before the dais, head bowed. Does he plead, as he did a quarter of a decade ago? Does he bargain, or demand? Whatever he offers our Lord of the Mountain, he doesn’t speak it aloud.

Amir and Tuleen are next. Once they have spoken their prayer, they clear the area, and I kneel, easing forward until my forehead brushes the carved stone of the first step.

Lord of the Mountain?

A coarse wind cuts across my back, and I shiver, sensing his presence, though he does not appear.

Hello, Sarai. What have you come to offer me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Prince Balior approach the South Wind. As they converse, the prince gestures with his hands in evident frustration. Notus, unsurprisingly, remains calm.

Returning my attention to the task at hand, I reply, I’m not here to offer you anything. I’m here to beg for your mercy.

The wind abruptly dies.

Members of the Royal Guard glance around in apprehension. Here, atop the bluff, the air is always stirring, building into distant storms. I wait, nape prickling, for the Lord of the Mountain to smite me down. Perhaps I could have worded my request with a bit more reverence.

Please, I press. I don’t want to die. I want to live, I— My fingernails dig crescent moons into my soft palms. You owe me nothing. I know this. But my father is a good man who only wanted to save me. Why must I be punished for something I had no control over? I was just an infant. A terse breath hits the back of my clenched teeth. I’m begging you. Please, won’t you help me?

But the Lord of the Mountain does not answer.

On our return to the palace, King Halim is stopped by a haggard woman clutching a swaddled infant to her breast. The child is sickly. Wan face and yellow eyes. Paces behind, I am frozen atop the horse I share with Notus, stricken.

“Please,” says the mother, lifting her child toward the king. “I would ask for your blessing, Your Majesty. I have beseeched the Lord of the Mountain, but he continues to ignore my pleas. You are my last hope if my son is to live.”

One of the soldiers begins shoving the interloper aside when Father lifts a hand. “Wait.” Slumped forward in his saddle, he considers the woman before turning to one of his guards. “Help me down from my horse.”

The South Wind dismounts as well, positioning himself nearer to the king for protection. I watch Father take the baby into his arms. I remember a time when he gifted blessings most generously. Monthly, he ventured into the city. Young and old, healthy and infirm, none were turned away. Following Fahim’s death, he no longer paraded the streets, choosing instead to cloister himself behind the palace walls.

As Father bestows a kiss on the infant, a queue begins to form. The king’s blessing, more valuable than coin. Slowly, he makes his way down the line, until his crown slips out of sight.

Meanwhile, attention shifts from King Halim and settles onto the South Wind. At first, I can’t discern what the crowd is saying. The city sounds drown out but the nearest voices. Eventually, however, I catch their topic of conversation: my betrothal to Notus.

I hesitate before dismounting from Zainab, the Royal Guard driving back the gathering. “You are quite the person of interest,” I murmur to the South Wind. From their saddles, Amir and Tuleen watch King Halim bless Ishmah’s citizens.

“Give the princess a kiss!” someone cries.

The crowd stirs. Their mouths run away from them. Kiss? Did I hear that right? Holding hands as an engaged couple is harmless. Kissing is another beast entirely. Prince Balior still sits astride his horse, the clench of his jaw exposing his outrage.

“You say you’re truly engaged to the South Wind?” another person calls. “Then prove it!”

Soon, a second voice piles onto the first, and a third, until the chant rolls over our party.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…

I clear my throat, shift my attention to Notus, whose eyes come to rest on my face. Strands of dark hair poke from beneath his headscarf. He looks… not terrified, exactly, but wary. My cheeks heat in the passing moments. We made an agreement, he and I. Notus vowed to help me until Prince Balior departed Ammara. Watching the woman promised to him kiss another man—it might be enough to drive the prince from Ishmah for good.

I’m not sure who moves first, but somehow, I find myself in the South Wind’s arms, as though we have irrevocably agreed to do whatever is necessary to maintain this charade, damn the consequences. My vision momentarily blurs as his scent surrounds me. I sigh against his neck. Notus stiffens.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I murmur, for his ears only.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!

“Right.” He grips my hip with a broad palm. “It’s for show.”

I curl my hand into the front of his robe, drat its trembling. “Exactly.” His eyes begin to heat. I do not think I’m imagining it. “What if…”

My lungs hollow out. “What?”

He shakes his head, and the bristle sketching his jaw scrapes my cheek. My stomach drops so swiftly I swear it splatters at my feet. “Never mind,” he murmurs.

I can’t help the feeling of disappointment that follows. I’d thought… but no, that’s stupid. We promised to put on a show. And if it’s a show the people want, it’s a show they shall get.

Easing back, I peer at him through my eyelashes, our mouths a hairsbreadth apart.

“Do it,” I murmur.

A chaste thing. A small, impersonal peck. That was the intent. But the moment Notus’ lips touch mine, I open for him, drawing him as easily as a needle draws thread, into the velvet darkness of memory.

As soon as my tongue brushes his, something snaps in him. He growls low and gathers me close. His fingers spear through my hair. He tilts back my head, plundering my mouth of every sweet drop. His hunger is like mine: a bottomless pit. It pulls me down, and I go willingly, any semblance of modesty forgotten.

I didn’t expect this, but… I want it. I want him , the way a river seeks the sea. The circumstances that have forced us together aren’t ideal, but I can’t deny I still feel things for this immortal. I crave him.

A collective “ Ooooh” sounds, and we jerk apart like startled rabbits. The surrounding crowd is a streaming blur of color. My mouth feels tender, like a bruise. The South Wind’s face is nearly as red as mine.

“Again!” someone shouts. “Kiss again!”

“I think that’s enough for today,” I state loudly, so it carries to the farthest reaches of the street. When Notus catches my eye, I hurriedly look elsewhere, fearing he can sense my erratic breathing.

This is going to be a long day indeed.

“Princess Sarai. A word?”

I turn to face Prince Balior. We arrived back at the palace less than an hour ago, my mouth still tender from Notus’ kiss. The South Wind fled to his chambers as if pursued by death itself. I tell myself not to take it personally.

“I apologize, Prince Balior, but I need to change for dinner. Might we have this conversation over tonight’s lamb?”

“All I ask is five minutes of your time.” He steps closer, and a rush of clove-scented air barrages my senses. My eyes water from the strength of it. “Please.”

There is an earnestness to his expression I have not seen previously. It looks ill-fitted against his features. The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner I can return to not thinking about the kiss.

I nod, gesturing him into a vacant sitting room. He sinks onto an armchair. I select its turquoise-colored neighbor. Through the tall, arched windows spanning one wall, Mount Syr thrusts upward to pierce the blue, blue sky.

“First,” he says, “I wish to apologize for my behavior of late.” He sits straight in his chair, gaze direct. “It has been difficult coping with the knowledge that even the best-laid plans can veer off course.”

I nod in understanding, despite the disquiet worming through me. “I accept your apology.”

He appears relieved, and relaxes into the cushions. “I also want to apologize for keeping you in the dark regarding my research, as I mentioned during the ball. I promised to help you find a solution regarding the darkwalkers plaguing Ammara.” His foot taps once, twice, then stills. “I consider myself a man of my word, and I failed to keep that promise.”

“It’s all right,” I reassure. “We have both been busy. I would not expect you to drop everything in order to cater to my needs.”

“Regardless, I’m disappointed in myself.” Leaning forward, he props his elbows on his thighs, fingers loosely linked between his legs. “I haven’t put forth my best effort. Consequently, I sabotaged our relationship before it ever had the opportunity to flourish. And now the darkwalkers have attacked the city… I feel terrible. You could have been killed.”

None of Prince Balior’s men were reported among the casualties, as far as I know. Could that mean some level of involvement? Difficult to say. As for the rest, I do believe he is remorseful, but what’s done is done. “Prince Balior—”

“Can I ask why you broke off our courtship?” He studies me in a ponderous manner, like I am something to be dissected. I’ve the inane urge to shield my chest with my arms. “When I thought deeply on the matter,” he continues, “I couldn’t believe that my research was the crux of it. After all, I’ve been open with you about my fascination with the labyrinth, haven’t I?”

“You have.”

Prince Balior nods, pleased that his hunch was correct. “Was it something I said? Have I offended you in any way, your culture or your people?”

This conversation feels far more fragile than I had expected it to. I do not wish to offend Prince Balior further. Neither do I wish to anger him. Ammara is unstable enough and cannot shield itself against additional strain. Has Prince Balior invited darkness into Ammara’s heart?

“I know it may be difficult to accept,” I say, “but the South Wind and I have a history, and while a union with Um Salim would provide certain advantages, the South Wind is still the most powerful being in the realm. Binding my life to his comes with undeniable advantages.”

He shakes his head, mouth quirked in an emotion that is decidedly not humor. “See, that doesn’t make sense to me. King Halim was quite aggressive in his pursuit of joining our realms. He was also enraged to learn of your deceit. It gave me the impression that there was another reason you rejected my proposal.”

Since our conversation during the ball, I’ve questioned the next step. What is the good of trying to free myself if my people turn around and find themselves conquered by Um Salim? But maybe I’ve been navigating this all wrong. I’ve been acting on assumption only. Not truth. Not evidence. As a result, I’ve failed to give the prince an opportunity to defend himself.

“If we are to become husband and wife,” I begin slowly, “then I would expect you to act with integrity. You must be someone whose word I could trust.”

“You can’t trust my word?”

Deep breath. In, and out. “I… came across certain information that made me question your motivation for agreeing to the marriage.”

“Ah.” His head drops forward, hand pressed against his mouth. “The army.”

When he lifts his gaze, I’ve the distinct feeling of having been cornered, despite sitting in a spacious room, a hot breeze coasting through the open windows. I’ve a handful of seconds to determine how I might react.

I reply with a single word. “Why?”

He smiles, a little bit sharp, a little bit mean. “For the same reason your father stationed guards at my chambers and has a handful of his men shadowing me at every turn. I can’t forget our history. Ammara and Um Salim have been politically strained for decades. Can you blame a man for requiring safety when visiting an enemy nation?”

As a matter of fact, I cannot. “Why did you fail to divulge this information to the king?”

“But I did.”

“What?”

“With all the darkwalker attacks, I asked King Halim if my men might take refuge within the capital, and he agreed.”

Never in my wildest dreams would I believe Father to welcome an army into Ishmah’s walls. As his sickness worsens, I fear the deterioration of his mind.

“If it would ease your worry,” the prince says, “I will remind him at tonight’s meal that my men remain in the city. If he requests that the troops be removed from the capital, I will dismiss them without argument.”

Admittedly, it would do much to ease the strain on my nerves. “Thank you.”

“Is that enough reason for you to reconsider our engagement?”

My hands drop onto my lap. The lead bracelet gleams dully. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. And that is the best I can offer at the moment. “Whether or not this has been a misunderstanding, I’m still engaged to the South Wind.”

“You’ve already shown how easily a promise can be broken.” He levels me a pointed look.

And that, too, is a truth. Though I will need to think deeper on what I truly want, what is best for Ammara’s future. “I will think on it.”

“That’s all I can ask of you.”

Once standing, the prince dips his chin toward me, seemingly in better spirits than he was prior to this conversation. “Good day to you, Princess Sarai.”

And so the festival unfolds. Each evening, following time spent in the city, offerings placed and markets attended, I return to my quarters, sunburned and dehydrated, yet filled with joy at spending time among my people. One night, Notus knocks on the interconnecting door between our rooms. I all but trip in my haste to open it.

“Hello,” I say breathlessly, swiping strands of hair from my eyes.

The South Wind lifts an eyebrow in curiosity. “King Halim requests our attendance in his chambers.”

My heart sinks. Right. Because of course that would be the only reason for Notus to knock. The last thing I need is Father challenging my engagement yet again. I’m not ready to speak to him just yet. “Can’t we just… take a walk?”

I would like that, I think, to walk with the South Wind in the streets of Ishmah, and to blend past with present.

Soon we are strolling the King’s Road, veering toward one of the public gardens. All is quiet but for the sounds of Ishmah bedding down. The stamp of horses’ hooves. The din of merchants closing up shop. The snap of cloth, laundry hung out to dry on ropes woven from goat hair and strung between buildings.

“I heard you and Prince Balior spoke privately the other day,” Notus murmurs, hands behind his back as we ease around a corner. Moonlight brightens the paving stones, gleams silver across the rooftops.

I fight the urge to look at him. “We did.” My slippers scuff the hard ground.

He hesitates, and from the corner of my eye, I watch him fight the urge to look at me, too. “It’s none of my business, but I can’t help but wonder why you keep giving him the time of day, considering what we know of him.”

I’m not sure whether to be pleased that Notus is affected by my conversation with the prince, or irked that he doesn’t trust me. “Prince Balior doesn’t surrender easily, and I’m wary of angering him now that he intends to stay. Better if he thinks he has a chance to change my mind about the engagement.”

“Would you?” He pulls me to a halt in the middle of the street. The garden entrance lies only steps away, its wrought iron gates a shield over interlacing leaves. “Change your mind?”

“What?” I stare at him, completely flummoxed. “About Prince Balior?”

He glances away in what I believe to be embarrassment. “It’s not that problematic of a question, is it?”

The longer I study the South Wind, the more certain I am of one truth: he cares. More than I realized, more than he is willing to admit. The thought warms me, ears to toes. “No,” I say softly. “I suppose it’s not.”

“Do you feel anything for him?” His gaze returns to mine, imploring.

“Aside from mistrust? No.” Then I do something utterly foolish, and glance down at his mouth.

It curves slightly, as though he senses where my attention has shifted. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you,” he says.

“Oh?” I am calm, absolutely calm. “About what?”

“The kiss.”

I tilt my head curiously. “Which one?”

The South Wind scans my face. His eyes drop, dragging across my bared neck to the neckline of my dress. Lower, to where the fabric bands across my breasts and waist. My mouth goes parchment dry. Only by sheer force of will do I manage not to faint. “Does it matter?” he asks.

I’m not a corpse. I’ve thought of both kisses an embarrassing amount. But I refuse to inform him of that. This immortal, who has more power over me than he knows. And now I question if the mistake was mine, to have invited him on a walk through the city at dusk, placing myself within arm’s reach of his heat and scent.

“I’m telling myself to let it go,” he murmurs. “To not look too deeply into something. But—” And then he lifts his head, eyes very dark. “I wanted it. And you wanted it, too.”

The ground slowly slips from under me, the world skewed at an angle. “You’re sure about that?” It’s the first thing out of my mouth—and it’s the wrong sentiment entirely.

Notus tilts back his head, scrubs his face, hard. I’m given barely a glimpse of his wounded expression before he strides ahead.

“And there you go walking away,” I snap, stomach dropping toward my toes at the sight of his retreating back. “It’s what you do best.”

“That’s unfair.” He pivots, glaring with hot eyes. “No matter how many times I attempt to communicate with you, you either deflect or place undue blame onto me.”

“Undue?” My eyes all but bulge from their sockets. “Are you ser—”

“Half the time, I don’t understand what you want,” he cuts in, tossing up a hand. “You want me close. You want me gone. You want me to kiss you. You want me to stop. You want my company, you despise my company.”

Does he think he is alone in his confusion?

“Do you think this is easy for me?” I hiss. “I want to be near you, but then sometimes, I feel like I need to run. I can’t explain it. It’s like my body remembers what it was like when you were gone, and I need to leave before you make that choice for me.”

He scoffs. “So this is my fault, is that what you’re saying?”

“What? No!”

“So what do you want?” he demands.

“I don’t know.” The words are thrust through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to tell you—”

“You do know,” he says. “But you’re afraid.”

Why do I fail to speak plainly? Stupid question. I know why. What might Notus think if he were to see how deep my fear of driving him —or anyone—away runs?

The South Wind stares down the deserted road, his expression cast in shadow. The public garden, so near yet so far. If only we had reached the iron gates. Might this miscommunication have been smoothed over? “I think I understand,” he says.

How could he? If he knew my heart, he would never have left. So he must have seen something that he did not want, some flaw in me.

“You know what? This was a mistake.” Arms crossed, I angle away from him. “We should return to the palace, discuss whatever it is Father wants to discuss.” Though that only succeeds in plunging my mood into a darker place. “It might be better if we spoke with him separately.”

He shakes his head. If I were not absolutely certain of Notus’ restraint, I might worry that he would put a hole through the wall of a nearby shop. “And how will that look to everyone?” he demands, voice rising. “We’re engaged.”

“It doesn’t matter!” I scream. “It was never real to begin with!”

I have misstepped. That is made absolutely clear as Notus’ eyes shutter and he retreats a few paces. A small, pained sound falls from his mouth. It is too broken to be a laugh. “You know why I returned, Sarai? Not because your father sent for me. Because I believed our story remained unfinished. But you have made it clear since I walked through those throne room doors that I am not welcome in your life. So why do I continue to fight?” he grinds out, every shattered word forced from his throat. “Why do I continue clinging to hope?”

I fight for breath. It hurts to witness his pain. “Hope for what?”

“As if you don’t already know.”

I barge into my chambers with all the wrath of a storm. The door slams shut with enough force to rattle the picture frames along the walls. A single lamp casts amber onto the patterned rugs and heavy curtains.

I spot my violin case in the open wardrobe. It rests beside my music stand, which sags beneath the weight of études, sonatas, the occasional show piece, all coated in dust. Kneeling beside the case, I run my hand along its oblong shape. There had been a time when particularly tempestuous emotions would draw the violin toward my chin, hours spent in concentration until I calmed. The moment my fingers brush the metal clasps, however, something falters in me, and I shove it aside.

With a groan of frustration, I toss myself onto the mattress, limbs spread, staring at the ceiling. My skin is flushed, my nipples peaked. A dull pulse between my legs, and my eyes flutter shut as I cup my breasts in my palms, squeezing slightly. I’m not sure what is more humiliating: Notus hacking my defenses to shreds, or the fact that I still desire him despite his blasted refusal to explain why he left all those years ago.

Our hungry kiss before the public resurfaces. The engagement is a farce. It will collapse should anyone scrutinize it too closely. But we have history, Notus and I. It endures despite my attempts to kill it.

Sometimes, the best cure for sexual frustration is sexual vengeance.

I’m hitching up my dress when a floorboard squeaks from the other side of the wall.

Slowly, I push into a seated position against the pillows. The ground vibrates beneath the force of the South Wind’s tread. His footsteps pause, perhaps near the window. I imagine he stares down at the labyrinth, as I have done, and questions its purpose and presence. Shortly after, clothing thumps onto the ground. Then, the creak of his bedframe: Notus, settling into bed.

The layout of our suites are reflections of one another, which means his bed shares a wall with mine. The realization sends my pulse racing. If needed, I could knock against the wall, and Notus might answer. I’m easing back into the pillows when a low rasp snags my attention. It comes again, a sound of drawn-out tension, a stifled groan.

The hair on my body spikes in awareness. My ears recognize what my eyes cannot. I straighten, blankets bunched in my hands.

The South Wind touches himself on the other side of the wall.

My sweaty palm slides down my torso, balls into a fist against my quivering stomach. When I was younger, I would lie awake in bed and imagine what might happen should the South Wind enter my room. I envisioned the hot glide of his tongue. I anticipated the heat of his breath, the flex of muscle, the thrust of hips.

As his bed begins to knock against the wall in a slow rhythm, I quickly shed my dress and undergarments, grabbing the small vial of oil from my bedside table drawer. Gods, I am too twisted for words. The South Wind is a man grown. He has a right to privacy. But I’ve my own release to tend to. A woman has needs. Surely none can blame me for scratching an itch?

Legs spread, I slip my oiled fingers down my drenched center. My flesh quivers in excitement as I guide my hand to the small nub shielded behind the thatch of dark hair. The slightest brush sends pleasure curling through me, and I whimper.

I stare up at the ceiling, imagining the South Wind’s muscled torso arranged against the blankets. He would be naked, bronzed skin dusted in sparse black hair. His sex would hang heavy between his powerful thighs. His eyes, all pupils.

My core clenches in response, yet I do not allow the circular motion to falter. It propels me, higher and tighter and brighter. My toes curl. My heels dig into the mattress. Sweat dampens my skin, plastering the bedsheets to my flushed body. An ache spirals through my pelvis like a bowstring drawn taut.

Then there are his hands: wide of palm, thick fingers toughened by calluses. I imagine them slipping between my thighs, gliding through my wet folds. His fingers slowly penetrating my entrance, a feeling of fullness gathered there. As a trembling spreads outward from my core, I bite my lip, angle my hips nearer to my hand. More pressure. A firm pinch against the bud, and I cry out, the coiling in my pelvis exploding outward in a wave of warm, shimmering pleasure.

Sated, I sag into the mattress, among the wool blankets and cotton sheets. My eyelids begin to sink shut.

Someone hammers against the connecting door. I startle, a scream wrenched from my chest.

“Sarai?” Notus calls. “Sarai, open the door!”

I sit rigidly in place, face flushed, hand shoved between my thighs. My teeth grind in frustration. “What do you want?”

“Let me in.”

“Oh, now you want to speak with me?” My voice cracks. “It’s late, Notus.”

“If you don’t let me in, I’m breaking down this door.”

My head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut. The heat of climax begins to disperse in the passing moments. “Just a moment,” I croak. Shit . Snagging a clean cloth from my armoire, I wipe between my legs, beneath my damp underarms, before tossing the cloth onto my bedside table and hurriedly pulling my dress back on. Fumbling the lock, I heave the door open.

His broad figure demarcates the shadowy interior of his chambers. Loose trousers hang low on his hips, his muscled abdomen unfairly taut. The bare expanse of his chest fills my vision. I see nothing else. “What do you want?” I demand breathlessly.

“Are you all right?”

Only when I yank my attention from his pectoral muscles does my addled mind make sense of his question. “Excuse me?”

Notus stares at me as if I am a simpleton. “I heard a cry.” At my confusion, he explains, “You sounded like you were in distress.”

A subtle heat warms my cheeks. Distress . That’s one word for it. I didn’t realize my release had been so, well, exuberant.

“I’m fine, as you can see.” I gesture toward my rumpled dress impatiently. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I begin to shut the door.

His foot catches the jamb. Our eyes collide, mine cautious, his skeptical. One hard push, and Notus forces his way inside.

Arms crossed over my chest, I track his powerful form across the room. Beneath my dress, my nipples pebble to points. “Just because we share a connecting door does not mean you are free to come and go as you please. Shall I call the guards?”

Notus doesn’t respond, instead vanishing into my study, apparently searching for something. Moments later, he reappears before venturing into my bathing chambers, then my sitting room. As his attention passes over my rumpled bed, however, he halts. I realize with horror that the cloth I’d used to wipe myself clean is balled atop the bedside table, the bottle of oil resting beside it.

Clearing my throat, I step forward, drawing his focus away from the damning evidence. “What do you want, Notus? I don’t appreciate having my rest disturbed.”

“No one is here?” he presses. “You are alone?”

I lift a hand, drop it. “Clearly.”

Once more, his attention returns to the cloth. I’ve half a mind to toss it out the window, though that would certainly reinforce the truth of its purpose. But really, what have I to be ashamed of? Nothing. I was simply doing as the gods intended. Why should a woman not pleasure herself in the privacy of her rooms, as all men do?

Slowly, he angles toward me. I am not aware I’m holding my breath until the pinch behind my sternum forces me to exhale. “You were pleasuring yourself?”

My chest flares with heat. It is wrong for such filthy words to be wrapped in so rich a sound. “I was,” I state. “As were you.” When my eyes drop to the front of his trousers, I’m met with the unmistakable stiffness of his erection. “Do you deny it?”

And the South Wind says, “I do not.”

Dark pleasure slides through me. Here are unexplored riches, and I wish to pry them open, plunder every delicious drop. “Did you think of me?” I ask, reaching for Notus, my hand cupping his erection through his trousers. I press my thumb against the wide head. It leaps in my grip, a hard, throbbing heat. “Did you think of my mouth on you? How it might feel for our bodies to relearn one another’s? To think, we could have found release together, instead of attending to our needs separately.”

Beneath my touch, his will weakens. I am glad of it. I will topple him stone by stone. And when all that remains is dust and ruin, I will begin the process all over again.

“Let me make something absolutely clear,” he says. “There is only one person I desire in this life, and that is you.” The low, gritty texture of his voice rakes across my skin like coarse grains of sand. “The thoughts I have of you…”

I swallow, hard. “Wh-what thoughts?”

His eyes are wholly black. “I wish to fill my hands with your curves. To clamp your ripened flesh in my palms and mark your skin with my mouth so that all who gaze upon you will know you’re mine.”

My mouth parts, the shock of his words staggering me.

“What do I desire?” he continues, easing nearer, one hand claiming the curve of my hip. “The sweetness of your throat poured into mine. The clasp of your sex around my cock. The pliancy of your limbs, your breathlessness, the racing of your heart alongside mine. You ask what I desire?” His voice drops lower, if possible. “Everything that you can give me.”

I can neither move nor speak nor breathe.

“Do you not see how I hunger for you, Sarai? Do you not recognize how I pace this cage, eager for whatever scrap of affection you toss my way?”

A pinch behind my ribs. I feel breathless with the understanding that it has caused him pain, this wanting and pacing and waiting and yearning. It completely overwhelms my defenses. “So why did you leave me? Because I’m not enough?”

He looks like I’ve slapped him. “No, Sarai.” He is suddenly cold. “It’s not you. It’s me, it’s…” Notus retreats a step—just one.

My heart sinks. “You’re leaving.” All I want is an explanation, honesty. Yet he is always running.

His gaze holds mine. I haven’t the courage to break it. “We travel to Mirash at the end of the week,” he reminds me. “Don’t forget.”

“Don’t worry,” I mutter to his retreating back. “I won’t.”