Chapter 19
19
“I S THIS SUFFICIENT FOR YOUR silence?”
The guard, his face shadowed, regards my outstretched hand in uncertainty.
Inwardly, I sigh. He drives a hard bargain, this one. Very well. A gentle clink as I drop another coin onto the pile rising from my palm. To the east, the sky begins to pale. I haven’t much time.
“Your Highness—”
“What have I told you, Emin?” I understand his concern. Truly, I do. It is early, an unusual time to venture from the palace.
The capital sleeps. It didn’t take long to slip from my rooms unnoticed and ready Zainab in the deserted stables. My mare stands calmly, tail lazily flicking at flies. Notus will not seek me out until seven—the time we agreed to depart. By then, I plan to be far from Ishmah’s gates. I don’t need an escort. What I need is freedom. Mirash is half a day’s journey northwest, and I’m perfectly capable of traveling alone. Once I reach our destination, I’ll wait for Notus at the entrance. Barring delays, we will return home by nightfall.
The young man’s lips quiver. A tuft of facial hair sprouts from his chin. “That I’m not to address you by your official title.”
“And?”
“And that you have the power to make my life very difficult if I do not obey.”
I have taught him well. “Excellent.” I add another coin onto the growing pile.
As Emin ogles the heap of gold, I glance over my shoulder, but the courtyard is deserted, nothing to interrupt the night sounds but the occasional whicker of a horse from the nearby stables. Tucked in the shadow of the palace walls, it is unlikely any guards completing their rounds will spot me.
“Emin?” He startles, and I gesture to the locked gate. “With haste, please.”
His eyes flicker toward the gold, and I stifle a huff of laughter. Of course. Payment first. As I reach for his hand, however, a larger, stronger hand swallows my wrist, halting the motion.
Emin’s eyes widen. My head whips around, and I am pinned. Two dark eyes glitter below a headscarf of flaming red. My heart leaps so forcefully I’m certain it has wedged itself inside my throat.
“If I recall,” Notus says quietly, with that leashed patience I have come to know, “we agreed to journey to Mirash together.” He regards me without blinking. “Have you changed your mind?”
We both know the answer to that question.
He shifts forward, his warmth bleeding through the frigid desert night. My skin tingles from his proximity, damn my traitorous body, but I remain in place, unwilling to give ground.
Emin glances between us in puzzlement. Right. Notus and I are supposed to be engaged. Foolishly in love.
Curling my hand into the ivory fabric smoothed across his chest, I peer at my betrothed through lowered lashes. The South Wind was not expecting this display of affection. Perhaps it’s petty of me, but I feel pleased by the power I hold over this immortal. Angling my head, I tap my cheek expectantly.
Notus glances at the young guard, who promptly gazes elsewhere, granting us a bit of privacy as the South Wind leans forward to brush a kiss against my cheek.
The spice of his breath overwhelms me. I can’t deny that a part of me wishes to shift my head and claim his mouth, as I’d wished to do after learning he had touched himself to thoughts of me in his bedroom.
“How did you know I would be here?” I demand.
“Because I know you,” he murmurs.
At this point, I can’t deny it. He understands my need for freedom. I understand his desire to share, and be known.
“How well?” I challenge, feeling suddenly bold.
He fights a smile. “You forgot your cloak.” As he passes it over, he says, “Check the pockets.”
I do so, pulling out two honey cakes wrapped in cloth, still warm.
Now it’s my turn to fight a smile. What an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture. He must have gone into the city earlier, knocked on Nadia’s door, and bought these for the journey.
Lifting my eyes, I ask Notus, “Did I ever tell you how I discovered Nadia’s bakery?” I swear we’ve drawn closer together.
He smooths a hand down my arm. “Remind me.”
Oh, gods. I press my hand to my forehead, soft laughter bubbling up at the memory. “Father forbid sweets after Fahim ate an entire plate of cookies in one sitting. It didn’t stop my brother. He simply snuck into the city and acquired them himself. When he brought me back one of these honey cakes, I demanded that he show me the bakery.” They were so mouthwatering, I needed them.
And so when I took Notus to the bakery for the first time, I was telling him without words what it meant to be able to experience joy without restrictions. After that, he would often bring me honey cakes, stashing them in my bedroom, the music room, the garden. It was our little game, our secret, a thread of our developing story. And I thought of him then as I do now.
Clearing my throat, I step back. The sky has begun to shed its gray pall.
“Open the gate,” I order Emin before my attention shifts to the South Wind. “Are you coming or not? We mustn’t delay.”
I can’t be certain how long Notus searches my face. Perhaps he, too, knows of this desire I continually subdue. Who will break, who will bend? Not me. Never.
After tugging the reins from my grasp, he places them into the guard’s hands. “Return the horse to the stables,” he says. “We’ll be taking my sailer.”
Half a mile west of Ishmah’s outer wall, Notus’ sailer rests beneath the scant shade of a parched date palm. The vessel is sleek, arrow-shaped: twin masts, white canvas sails. It appears out of place amongst the desert’s rolling curves of tawny and rust red.
Sand hisses beneath our trudging footsteps as we ascend a particularly steep dune. Despite my struggles, the South Wind maintains pace at my side, shortening his strides to accommodate me. The gesture both infuriates and warms me in turn.
While Notus unties the sails, I climb aboard. A few crates have been secured to the floorboards with rope. The creak of the wood stirs a particularly vibrant memory. It rises like a leaf upon a forgotten oasis pool. Wind, the world blurred into color and light. A feeling as close to flying as I have ever experienced.
I sit cross-legged at the bow, wincing at the stickiness dampening my underarms. I pull my waterskin from my satchel and take a deep drag. Moisture washes the dust from my mouth, the bitterness of a bygone era.
It hurts more than I can say to sit here, in a place I’d once known. To know that time will never return.
I glance at the stern where Notus grips the rudder. Our eyes catch, and the world momentarily stills. Do you remember those days? I wish to ask him. Do you remember our shared laughter, the vision of tomorrow we built? Do you remember?
A cloud passes across the South Wind’s expression. I sense his need to speak, but in the end, he faces forward, legs braced. A powerful gust explodes into the sails, and we speed into the dawn.
The vessel skips across the ground before blasting up the side of a dune. Higher and higher we ascend. My hands clamp the lip of the hull as the summit nears, wind roaring in my ears. And as sunlight emerges to greet a new day, we release our hold on the earth.
Laughter tickles my chest. I fight its rise, yet it bursts its cage. We soar, weightless, through the air. We cannot be stopped. I marvel at the wonder of it all.
Slipping down the back of a neighboring dune, I look over my shoulder at the South Wind. His teeth, rarely seen, gleam in the first pale rays of morning. Time slips its knot. I am eighteen years old, riding the South Wind’s sailer beneath a star-flecked sky.
It was my first taste of freedom. The possibility of another life spun like madness through me. Imagine if there were no walls to retreat behind, all the earth my inheritance? What might I find? What might I learn about myself? But that life was never mine to claim. I could only view it from a distance.
Suddenly, my laughter fractures, and I clamp my teeth around a budding sob.
“Sarai.”
Notus crouches at my side. The sailer skates at a brisk pace over the flattened earth.
My head hangs. Tears drip down my cheeks, plopping onto my cloth-covered thighs. Gently, he cups my face in concern, lifts it toward his own. “Why do you cry?”
My lips quaver as another memory escapes its confines. His gentleness in those quiet moments, tangled in bedsheets and each other’s arms. It soothes me even as some bottomless wound tears open wider than before.
“Because the world is beautiful,” I choke, “and I am a stranger to my own realm.”
No, not to my realm. To myself.
Which makes me question if I have ever known myself. All my life, I was told what to wear and how to act and what to say and what to eat and when to sleep and how to study and who to be. I was, in all ways, faultless. But I wasn’t me.
He appears saddened as he wipes my tears. But he lets me cry. He doesn’t attempt to stifle the emotion. He makes space for it, just as he has always done. I am reminded of how easily I fell for the South Wind. He is still the same thoughtful god he’s always been.
“I’m all right,” I croak, sniffling. Despite the impulse to bury my face against his chest, I pull free of his embrace.
He considers me for a lengthy moment. Then, as if deciding I’m well enough, he rises to his feet and retakes his position at the rudder. And as Notus steers the sailer toward Mirash, I settle back against the crates, and I remember what it felt like to be alive and free.
If Ishmah is a red heart nestled amongst golden sands, then Mirash is polished ebony, all imperfections smoothed away. Long before Ishmah touted the honor of Ammara’s capital, Mirash once held that title. When its oasis ran dry, however, its residents forsook the gleaming city. They chipped Ishmah from the adjacent cliffs and piled high the red stone. Rains wet the earth, and the Red City flourished, Mirash left in the dust.
After slowing the sailer to a halt beneath a cluster of date palms, Notus and I disembark. My hair is a scraggly mess. I grimace, attempting to pat the windblown strands into place.
As with all major cities in Ammara, Mirash is circled by a high wall, its gates carved with protective runes to shield against darkwalkers. From our vantage point, I’m able to survey the region in full. A sizable portion of the former capital has been carved from the massive cliff face stretching east to west: small dwellings with square-cut windows, whittled stairs worn smooth. I recognize the larger, more elaborate doorways as temples or shrines, the largest paying tribute to the Lord of the Mountain.
The southern edge of Mirash is all sprawl. Tents litter the cracked ground in white canvas, their numbers incalculable, displaced families huddling beneath the insubstantial coverings. The oasis is a spot of green wilting in the northeastern corner. Due to the prolonged drought, only a small, muddy pool remains.
Notus and I take our places at the back of the line of people awaiting entry into the city. I shift in place, lift a hand to shield my eyes. Seven years. Has it really been that long since I visited Mirash? I was touring at the time, here for a single night before my next performance led me farther west. I’d had little opportunity to explore.
“You are not to reveal your identity,” Notus murmurs into my ear. “Let me handle this.” He tugs the hood of my cloak down over my forehead.
When I turn my head, I find our mouths less than a hairsbreadth apart.
I lick my lips. The line moves forward, but the South Wind makes no effort to retreat. Neither do I. My attention drops to his mouth, its full lower lip, before flitting elsewhere. “Well?” I clear my throat. “Are we going?”
Notus steps away, eyes unreadable. Only when he has faced forward again do I release the breath I hold.
We reach the front of the line swiftly. After spinning a tale of visiting relatives in the city, the guards wave Notus and me through, completely unaware that Ammara’s princess is in their midst. Truth be told, I prefer the anonymity. It is a freedom I do not often experience, to wander the earth unacknowledged.
The main thoroughfare, which runs parallel to the cliffs, is hectic at this hour. Due to the lack of space available on the perimeter, a few artisans have set up shop in the middle of the street, much to the frustration of Mirash’s denizens. At one point, movement comes to a standstill as a farmer herds his cows across the road.
Continuing down the crowded lane, I can’t help but notice the interest Notus piques. Mainly women, even those who are married, opal runes inked upon their left hands. I glare with all the ire I possess until the interlopers slink away.
Notus coughs into his fist, though it sounds more like a laugh.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.” But his mouth ticks up at one corner.
“They should keep their eyes to themselves,” I sniff. Notus and I are, after all, engaged. It’s perfectly acceptable to stake a claim on the immortal I am to wed, charade or not.
“Careful,” he murmurs, “or I might begin to think you’re jealous.”
“Then I’m playing my part well, because that is exactly what an engaged woman would feel when strangers ogle her betrothed.”
As usual, Notus moves through crowds with an ease I fail to replicate. Always, he is searching, awareness of his surroundings touching upon smaller details I might overlook.
“You’ve been here before?” I ask him, nudging aside an elderly fellow lodged in the current of the market.
“Not in years.” Notus leads me down a crooked alleyway squeezed between two stone structures with flat rooftops. I follow closely on his heels. “If you recall,” he says over his shoulder, “I asked you to accompany me once.”
He had. At the time, I didn’t trust him, this unknowable god whose power was something I could not comprehend, though I could not stop my eyes from seeking the South Wind out at every opportunity. “I remember.”
“You turned me down.”
I press my arm against my nose as we maneuver around a pile of refuse, home to a thousand buzzing flies. It reeks of decomposed animal parts. “To tell you the truth,” I say, “I thought you were only asking me out of service to Father.”
“It was never out of service.”
“I know that now.” With the refuse behind us, I drop my arm, breathe in the cleaner air. Ahead, a spot of brightness signals the end of the alleyway. “I stopped by the stables that morning,” I confess.
Halting, Notus turns to face me, his expression creased in confusion. A droplet of sweat wends down the side of his neck. I fight the maddening urge to lick it clean. “When?”
And so descends the urge to flee, fast and far, for as long as my legs might carry me. Yet paired with this impulse is the desire to be reassured and held close. If I were bolder, I might press the pad of my finger along the crease edging the South Wind’s mouth. I image how the touch would burn. “Just after dawn.”
“I looked for you,” he says, searching my gaze in the gloom between the buildings. “I didn’t see you.”
“According to the gatekeeper, I missed you by a handful of minutes.”
Notus appears deeply conflicted to learn this. Would it have made a difference if he had known? “I thought you didn’t want to travel with me,” he says. “If I had known you would show, I would never have left.”
I had recently turned nineteen. I didn’t understand why this worldly immortal would ask me to accompany him on a trip to a nearby city, though at the time, I wanted desperately to be worthy of his attention. With the competition fast approaching, I couldn’t afford to take time off with practicing, but I hadn’t cared.
“You would have,” I say, unable to temper my bitterness.
“Why do you say that?” He sounds more curious than anything else.
“You had no loyalty toward me. You probably thought I was an annoyance more than anything else.”
Notus looks positively perplexed. “That’s not how I felt about you—at all.”
Don’t do it. But I have rarely taken my own advice. “Then what did you feel?”
He shifts his weight, taps the hilt of his blade. If vulnerability was difficult for me, it was far more difficult for the South Wind, a god who rarely spoke of his past, or his feelings.
“I valued what we had,” he says. “It felt like we were building something that belonged only to us.”
Felt . A word fixed firmly in the past.
But what of his recent confession to me? There is only one person I desire in this life, and that is you. One cannot return to their old life. I understand that. Too much has changed. I have changed.
Yet in this moment, I allow my armor to fall. Piece by piece, it surrenders itself. Notus can’t know what it was like when he left, but I let him see. Daily, I stood at my window and looked upon the whole of Ishmah, hoping for a glimpse of the South Wind. I had never felt so obsessed, so alone, and so weak.
I shrug, my smile pained. “Pointless regrets.” But as I attempt to brush past him, Notus catches my arm.
I feel the air change between us. Its subtle spike hardens my nipples. Immediately, I yank free of his hold, clamping my arms over my chest.
He glances at my chest. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes have darkened. “You regret not accompanying me?” he murmurs lowly.
The truth emerges whether I wish it to or not. “I regret many things, Notus, including not accompanying you that day.”
But we’re here now, in Mirash, together. Perhaps we can make the most of it.
An hour of wandering leads us to the ceramic district, with its glossy earthenware and clay-hardened pots. The stalls are tucked uncomfortably close, cluttered with cups glazed in rainbow hues of citrine, ruby, turquoise, aquamarine. As we continue beyond its borders, the city gradually deteriorates. Young families squat in murky corners, some having taken up residence in piles of rubble, those few structures that still possess standing walls. It hurts my heart. So many without homes or food or clean clothes. Were the rains to return, it would heal much of what is broken.
“What exactly do you know of this lead anyway?” I ask Notus as we round a corner. Every so often I’m certain I feel his hand on my lower back, a pale touch of reassurance. I’m likely only imagining it.
“Amad is a jeweler, well-known throughout the region. He is trustworthy.”
“How can you be certain?”
We turn down a deserted street and stop in front of a nondescript building with a sagging roof. “One’s reputation is built on their word. Leading me astray would risk more than my wrath. It would risk his entire livelihood.” He jerks his chin in indication for me to follow.
Notus enters the shop first. The morning is bright, yet shutters cloak the windows, the air uncomfortably stagnant. Shelves along the walls cradle teardrop emeralds, moon-pale quartz. A single candle burns atop a nearby table, sputtering in a pool of hot wax.
The man at the counter regards us with the wariness of one who cannot afford to lower his guard. Two knives hang from his beltloops. A knotted scar blots the skin of one sun-darkened cheek.
“Meetings are by appointment only,” he says, polishing a small oval of turquoise. “You will have to come back at another time.”
Notus pulls back his hood, murmuring, “Amad.”
The jeweler grunts in acknowledgment. When I remove my hood, however, he straightens in surprise. “Your Highness.”
I incline my head in greeting.
Immediately, he bends at the waist. “I apologize. I wasn’t aware you would be joining us.” Hurriedly, he rounds the counter and locks the door.
“I trust that you’ve kept this arrangement to yourself?” Notus says as the jeweler, Amad, returns to the counter.
“Of course.” This paired with a sincere smile, but if I’m not mistaken, tension lingers around his eyes. He is uncomfortable. It does not escape my notice.
Leaning over the counter, I ask, “Notus says you have information about the labyrinth. How did you come by it?” No matter this man’s reputation, I don’t personally know him. He must first prove himself trustworthy.
Amad casually eases back. He holds my gaze with confidence—a good sign. “I’ve a client who possesses a significant number of rare and obscure texts.” He sets aside the turquoise, selects a yellow gemstone the size of my thumbnail. “We made a trade, he and I. When Notus reached out asking if I knew anything regarding the beast in the labyrinth, I happened to have this scroll in my possession.”
My eyes narrow. I sense the South Wind’s skepticism as well. “You just happened to have the scroll in your possession?” I say. “Sounds awfully convenient to me.”
“Agreed,” says Notus.
We stand shoulder to shoulder. Princess Sarai Al-Khatib, and one of the divine? The jeweler must realize what he’s up against, for he drops his eyes.
“All right,” he concedes. “It is true that I already had the scroll in my possession, but that’s because someone else was looking for the same information you were.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Who?”
“Prince Balior of Um Salim.”
My eyes close on a wave of apprehension. Notus swears softly. Here I thought we were steps ahead of the prince, when really, we were trailing at his heels. “Did you inform Prince Balior we were interested in the same information?” I ask the jeweler.
“No.” He shakes his head adamantly. “I met with the prince before Notus wrote to me.”
The South Wind and I exchange a heartfelt look. Then we’re in the clear—so far.
Amad pulls a box of polished wood from beneath the counter. “The prince wasn’t too happy with the information I offered him. You may find some interest in it, however.”
The wood is quite old, bleached white and full of cracks, its face carved with dark whirls. When I brush a finger against the fine grain, my ears pulse from the low vibration running through the room. Neither Notus nor the jeweler appear to be affected.
The top opens with a soft creak. Inside lies a scroll tied with a strip of leather. Gently, I lift it from the box. A piece of parchment flakes off as I untie the binding and open the scroll.
My stomach hollows out. Lifting a trembling hand, I trace the musical notation arranged on the staff, quarter notes and eighth notes, accidentals and beats of rest gathered to create the whole of a melody I recognize immediately. It was one of Fahim’s favorite pieces. Somehow, this connects to the labyrinth, though I haven’t the slightest idea how. Notus is equally perplexed.
“The client you traded with to acquire this scroll,” I say, lifting my eyes to the jeweler. “Do you have a name?” There must be something we’re missing, some loophole. It is all eerily familiar, yet just beyond the threshold of comprehension.
“I’m sorry to say I don’t. He was a trader passing through.”
The heat and breadth of Notus at my side momentarily draws my attention from the notation. “May I?” he asks. I nod and pass it to him.
His brow creases as he scans the scroll. I allow myself a small smile. Many do not know that music is a language, and few are fluent in it.
He then peers closer at one of the corners. “Did you see this?”
“What?” I gaze over his shoulder to where he points. There is a simple sketch in black ink I hadn’t noticed before. It showcases what I believe is a winged man. “Do you recognize it?”
“I can’t be sure, I—” He shakes his head, skims a brown fingertip across the illustration. Amber light from the nearby candle ripples across the parchment. “I think I need to send a message to my brother.”
“Boreas?”
“Eurus,” he replies.
Interesting. This is one of only a handful of times he has mentioned his family. In the past, any attempt at learning more of his relatives was met with stony silence. It frustrated me to no end. “You think he has something to do with the labyrinth?”
“I’m not sure.” The creases lining his mouth deepen. “Possibly.”
I’d hoped we might discover a possible weakness the beast has, or a clue concerning whatever power it may possess once it’s freed from the labyrinth. What are we to do with a scrap of musical notation?
Then I think deeper on the matter. There is something here. Something I’m not seeing. “Could this be related to my curse?”
Notus’ head whips in my direction. “Curse?”
My eyes widen. I didn’t intend to speak that aloud. “Ah—”
There comes a knock on the door.
The jeweler stiffens. The South Wind falls motionless, as do I.
A voice calls, “Princess Sarai?” The door rattles as whoever stands on the other side attempts to open it.
Notus draws his sword in one fluid motion. “You told me none knew of our arrival,” he growls at Amad. The tension emanating from his body is a physical thing. It crawls beneath his skin, crests to pool in those dark-pupiled eyes. At last, rage cracks open that stony facade, and it is a glorious sight to behold.
Amad yelps as Notus prowls forward, and he scrambles to put distance between himself and the South Wind, using the counter as a shield. “It wasn’t a lie!” he cries. “I swear it!”
Wind snaps at my legs and tears at my cloak. One of the precious stones on display tumbles from its perch and hits the floor with a sharp ping. Amad glances toward the jewel, expression stricken.
“Then why has someone shown up at your place of business asking for the princess?” A band of air whips out, snagging Notus’ quarry around the neck and lifting him high. Amad clutches the noose, face purpling from lack of air. He chokes, wheezes out, “I promise you, I—”
“Sorry to bother you,” the visitor at the door calls. “I’ve a message for Princess Sarai from Prince Amir. Someone claimed they spotted her entering this shop?”
My mouth parts in surprise. Amir? Quickly, I stride for the door. As I reach for the handle, however, Notus stays my hand.
“Let me,” he says quietly.
Nodding, I step aside while he opens the door. A thump behind us indicates Amad has dropped onto the ground.
It’s Emin. The poor lad is out of breath, drenched in sweat. “Your Highness.” He bows, hands braced on his knees, and holds out the crinkled message. “Prince Amir’s courier came to the stables shortly after you departed, looking for you. I did not wish to betray your trust by telling him of your whereabouts, but he said the letter was most urgent. So I agreed to deliver it myself.”
For a handsome fee, no doubt. I shake my head in incredulity. “How did you find me?”
“You and Notus mentioned Mirash,” he puffs. “I rode here as fast as I could, asked people in the streets if they’d seen a woman traveling with an armed man. That led me here.”
And with little time to spare. “Thank you, Emin.”
The moment the parchment brushes my fingertips, I break the wax seal and begin to read.
Sarai,
I’m not sure if this will reach you in time. It’s Father. He is fast fading. Please come. I fear it is already too late.
—Amir