Chapter 23
23
I T IS A FLAT GRAY morning when King Halim takes his final breath.
We gather at his bedside—Amir and I. Tears wet my brother’s cheeks, but I avoid making eye contact to offer him some semblance of privacy. Instead, I stare down at the lump beneath the blankets. I have been carved hollow of feeling. This man is not my father. King Halim was fiery, animated, beloved by all. This? It is a pile of old bones.
We sit in silence until the priest bestows the blessing that will grant the king safe passage into the afterlife. Shortly after, he takes his leave. I’m not sure what to say. I have lost a mother, a brother, and now a father. Soon, the curse will claim my life, Amir forced to rule alone atop the earth where our bodies are buried. Already, I ache for him.
Reaching out, I take my brother’s hand. His fingers curl, gripping with bone-breaking strength.
“I miss him,” Amir chokes out, before descending into another round of fitful weeping.
I understand, for I have missed Papa my entire life. He always extended his greatest efforts toward his sons.
But I rub Amir’s back. I soothe him with murmured nonsense words. I tell him things will be all right, not now, but someday. I remind him that he is strong, enduring, and most of all, loved.
With King Halim’s passing, the official period of mourning will commence at sunset this evening. Amir’s coronation is set for the end of the week. He will need all his resilience, all his strength. He has time neither to process nor grieve. I would not wish that duty upon anyone.
A knock sounds. The door eases open, and Tuleen pokes her head into the room. “The council wish to speak with you, Amir, when you have a moment.”
Ammara’s future king clutches me tighter, face tucked against my neck. “I don’t want her to see me like this,” he murmurs.
So do all who guard their hearts as fiercely as King Halim’s children. “You don’t give Tuleen enough credit,” I whisper in response, meeting the queen-to-be’s eyes over Amir’s shoulder. “She is understanding and kind. More importantly, she’s your wife. Let her help shoulder this burden.”
A shudder wracks his frame. Tuleen hovers near the doorway in uncertainty, heartbreak whetting her fine features to points.
“Amir.” Gently, I untangle myself from his arms. He peers at me through red-rimmed eyes, his face a mess of snot and tears. “There is no shame in grief. We all experience these things at some point in life. Let Tuleen help you. Let your wife,” I repeat, “help you.” I wipe his cheeks dry. “Go on,” I soothe. “It will be all right.”
Hesitantly, Amir shuffles toward Tuleen, who takes him into her arms. She, too, holds him close, shushing him as one would a child.
As they speak in low tones, I wander toward one of the open windows. The air is cool despite the rising sun. It comforts me, knowing Papa’s final view before darkness claimed him was the glorious spread of golden dunes.
The snick of the door draws my focus from the desert. Amir has departed. Tuleen, however, remains.
“May I?” she says, gesturing to the sitting area.
I dip my chin and select a chair facing away from Father’s bed. Tuleen settles across from me. Ivory drapes her form, a thin, beaded headband strung across her smooth brow. She balls her hands in her lap, mossy eyes dark with sorrow.
“I’m so sorry, Sarai.”
My eyes flutter shut on a fresh wave of pain. A tear slips out, which I wipe away. “Father’s health has been in decline for months,” I whisper. “I thought I was prepared. I thought I’d communicated everything I wished him to know. Now that he’s gone, I realize I could have taken three, five, seven more years to speak with him, and know him, and lo—” I open my eyes, lift a hand to my mouth as my voice cracks. “Love him.”
Wordlessly, Tuleen offers me a square of cloth, which I use to dab my eyes. “I hear you. My parents have both passed. Every day, I miss them.”
Grief, I understand. I have stood on its banks as the murk of its waters dragged at my ankles and shins and calves. For a time, I was free of it. Notus’ return brought frustration, confusion, yet also warmth and security and healing. But a tide always returns.
“Amir will take this hard,” I inform her, though she’s likely already aware. “He—” Gods, I hate this. “There was much he admired about our father, and they grew closer in the years following Fahim’s death.”
“I know.” Tuleen’s attention falls to the tea set arranged on a nearby table. “Tea?”
She does not await my answer. That’s fine. I watch as she pours from the beautifully wrought silver teapot, then passes me the teacup. Bitter. The leaves have steeped for too long.
After pouring her own tea, she eases back, saying, “I worry about him.” Tap-tap-tap goes her nail against the porcelain cup. In the end, she sets her drink onto the table untouched. “King Halim was a good man: honorable, well respected, admirable. You know this. It’s why his children are such upstanding citizens of the realm.”
My heart flutters from the praise, for it is something I did not expect. Still, I remain quiet, waiting for her to continue.
“But I want you to know how this has impacted Amir. He would not want me to tell you, but I’m of the opinion he needs more support than he realizes, especially during this transition…” Tuleen hesitates.
“Go on,” I urge. “I’m listening.”
“Amir often speaks of Fahim. Although I never met him, I can see how loved he was by our people. He was charming, upstanding, diligent. Favored, clearly. Amir never anticipated inheriting the throne. He never wanted it. Unfortunately, circumstances changed. He believes himself a disappointment, having failed to fill Fahim’s shoes. It was the reason we extended our honeymoon for as long as we did. Your brother was terrified of returning and being proven a failure.”
I consider my sister-in-law for a moment before looking elsewhere. “I see.” I didn’t realize Amir’s insecurity was the catalyst for their extended honeymoon. Here I was, resentful of his freedom, while he, too, fled from our father’s impossible expectations.
“We had conversations, the king and I,” Tuleen goes on. “I mentioned my concerns about the pressure he placed on Amir.”
My head whips around, eyebrows drawn all the way to my hairline. “You challenged Father?” I thought only I dared to challenge him.
“I did.” She ducks her head, fingers continually moving, fiddling with a pleat in her dress or tugging on a stray thread. “Though I’m not sure it did much good. He didn’t seem to understand that Amir was not Fahim. More sensitive, less dauntless. Unfortunately, with his advanced illness, King Halim didn’t have the luxury of easing Amir into his station. It has been… a lot,” she says, rubbing her brow in weariness. “Too much, I would argue. There wasn’t enough time to learn all of the information required to lead the realm before he passed.”
“There never is.” Then I sigh. Poor Amir. He has a long road ahead of him. There are things that must be done. For the next seven days, Ammara’s denizens will place offerings at the temples and shrines. The capital gates will close. The markets will shut down until the crown is inherited by another.
“I know we aren’t close,” Tuleen murmurs, “but I want you to know that I’m here, should you need me.” And now she takes my hand in hers, offering it a gentle squeeze. I accept the comfort for what it is: a grace. “You are my family, but more so, you are my friend. If ever there is a time when you feel you don’t know who to turn to, please come to me.”
A wave of gratitude moves through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. My family does not speak of such things. We do not divulge hardship. We expose neither unhappiness nor suffering. What a relief that this woman has entered our lives, allowing us to tread new paths.
“I appreciate that,” I whisper. She cannot know how much.
It is not so bad, I think, having a sister.
Time passes, and I find sanctuary in the gardens. Dawn and dusk, I find myself enveloped in green, doing all I can to avoid interaction. The white marble bench cold beneath me. The fountain burbling behind a shield of interlocking laurel leaves, and bougainvillea clambering up the face of the stone wall at my back, its buds painted in sunset shades of orange, rose, and lavender.
Today was particularly heavy. I could not stay in my quarters a moment longer. They are too vast, all that space for my spiraling thoughts. Here, the dense foliage piles and climbs. It enfolds me in the scents of loam and sweet nectar.
The crunch of pebbles underfoot draws my attention to the entrance. The South Wind, his violet robes blending into the shadows and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, hovers beneath a cluster of trumpet-shaped flowers. Even in the near gloom, his dark eyes possess a remarkable brightness.
“You’re up late,” I say. The midnight hour fled ages ago.
“I was finishing my rounds.” This low, careful manner of speaking holds a slow rhythm. “I thought I might find you here.”
The comment brings a small, sad smile to my mouth. Because he knows me, I realize. Perhaps better than I know myself. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s understandable.” There is a pause. I sense his indecision even as I sense it within myself. Notus is one such person I made an effort to avoid. “Roshar’s looking for you,” he says.
“I know.”
Earlier, Roshar knocked on my door. I didn’t answer. He left a note, along with an apricot tart, stating he would seek me out tomorrow. The tart sits on my desk, untouched.
The South Wind comes forward a step—just one. The stretch of darkness between us feels alive. Always, that push and pull, to fall or to flee. The truth is, I do not wish to be alone. His presence is not unwelcome.
“May I sit?” he asks.
My throat tightens, yet I nod, sliding toward the end of the bench to make room.
“I would have come sooner,” Notus whispers, angling toward me. “But I wanted to respect your need for privacy.” His expression twists in helplessness. “I’m so sorry, Sarai.”
I nod numbly. These passing days have been spent organizing his funeral, preparing for Amir’s coronation. One king exchanged for another. I’ve barely slept. “Fifty-seven years he ruled Ammara,” I say. Papa was only a boy of twelve when he inherited the throne.
“He was an honorable king.”
Indeed, King Halim was honorable, loyal, fair. Ammara’s citizens will remember his generosity and goodwill. As for me, I will cling to those few memories, the rare times I had Father rather than a king.
When I do not respond, Notus asks, “How is Amir?”
“As well as can be, given the circumstances.” The next words emerge before I have the opportunity to fully process them. “I know you don’t exactly care for him, but it’s important that we show the realm a united front, at least until Amir has settled into his new role.” Not that I will be here to witness it. “He would appreciate your support.”
“He told you this?”
“Well, no.” I clench my hands in my lap. “But I spoke with Tuleen, and I just want you to be aware of how difficult a transition this will be for him. He’s too proud a man to ask for help, and your acceptance would go far in alleviating some of his concerns.”
The South Wind sighs. “Amir and I have never seen eye to eye, and we likely never will. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe he is good. That doesn’t mean I won’t support him.” He is earnest as he says, “Amir will bring positive change to Ammara and build a legacy your father would be proud of. This I know.”
So few words, yet they help alleviate my worry before it has the opportunity to hook too deeply. I nod, slightly abashed. “Sorry.”
“No offense taken.”
How does he so easily forgive? I have insulted his character not once, but again and again since his return. The gods must have thick skins.
“Sarai.” At last, Notus’ hand engulfs mine, thawing the chill of my icy skin. My heart twinges. His touch has always grounded me. “What do you need?”
Perhaps I have been waiting for this question. There was a time I would have responded with lies of every possible shape and shade. But in this moment, I trust that I will not be brushed aside. “I wish for company, even if we do not speak.”
“Then I will sit here with you for as long as you need me to.”
And that is exactly what he does. This, too, heals me. To expose some deep-seated wound, and to be welcomed for it, to feel seen. “Will you tell me of your family?”
I asked him about his family multiple times during our previous relationship. Notus never deigned to answer with any depth. It frustrated me, for I only wished to know more of this unknowable god. I wished to know all that he could give me and more.
“If you’re looking for some tale of comfort and familial love,” he warns, “you won’t find it in the story I’m about to tell you.”
I wasn’t, as a matter of fact. I was looking for something real.
Gently, I squeeze his hand. His eyes leap to mine, swirling with vulnerability, the fear of being seen. I understand him. I see him. I know him, as I know myself.
“I was never close with my father,” the South Wind begins. “Boreas was the eldest, the favored child. Zephyrus was cunning, too clever by half. He often meddled in others’ affairs—not that he was ever punished for it. Eurus was… troublesome. He loathed our father and did everything in his power to make his life as difficult as possible. Of the four of us, Eurus received the most abuse.”
At this, the South Wind falls quiet. If I’m not mistaken, he appears unsettled, perhaps guilty, though I cannot imagine why. “I, however, am not like my brothers. A god who chose to spend his time with books rather than in combat?” His mouth curves bitingly. “They called me weak. Soft.”
Notus is the last person I would ever consider weak. There are soft parts of him, as there are soft parts of us all. I appreciate those pieces, for they are the most stable and secure. “You are a superb swordsman,” I assure him. “A protector in every sense of the word. There is no one stronger, no one else I would wish to guard Ammara.” Or my heart.
His head is bent, but his eyes crease in a way that suggests he is touched by the sentiment.
“I didn’t take up the sword for glory,” he says. “I took it up out of necessity. Without a weapon in my hand, I would be looked down upon, ostracized. As a result, I fell into the trap of changing myself to fit the persona others had created for me. This is why I struggled so greatly throughout my childhood. I never felt true belonging in the City of Gods.
“When I was banished to Ammara, I wandered for many a year. But one day, I heard of the sacrifice that would be made to the beast in the labyrinth. Seven men sent to die. And I thought, if I could kill the beast, perhaps I could prove to my father how great a leader I was. I’m not sure why I did it, exactly. Following the coup, my father was bound to the Chasm and would never again be free. But a part of me still sought his approval, even then.”
“I never understood why you stayed,” I say. “You’re immortal, more powerful than the most powerful mortal man. Why kneel before a king that wasn’t yours?”
He studies me for a time. “Maybe he wasn’t my king initially, but I came to respect your father. He was fair, just, if exceptionally hard on his children.” He sighs. “But to answer your question, I believed your father wanted a man like Eurus, or Boreas—a born fighter. I told him I wasn’t interested in shedding blood. I wished to help the people of Ammara. Your father respected my stance. He did not seek to change me.”
I had no idea Notus struggled so. Here I was writing my sad, sad story, having failed to share it with someone who might truly understand.
“And you brothers?” I ask. “What happened to them?”
“I admit, we lost touch a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Many centuries,” he says.
I nod, feeling terribly sad for him. It means something to me, that he has opened himself in this way, and shared these shadowed pieces of himself. I wish to know Notus wholly, deeply. I wish to touch his heart as he has touched mine.
“Do you miss your brothers?” I ask him.
“To tell you the truth, it’s hard to miss them without ever having truly known them. Of course I knew my brothers to a certain depth, but it never went beyond that. They never wished it to.”
Sometimes I think of these things. I know of my brothers only what they show me. I wish Amir and I were closer. I wish Fahim had trusted me enough to share his struggles.
Lifting pained, tear-filled eyes, I whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me Fahim sent you away?”
A sharp, driving inhalation cuts the air. At first, I don’t believe Notus will respond, but then he says, “Your father told you?”
I nod.
Notus grips both my hands. “Because,” he says, voice so quiet it’s nearly lost to the fountain spray, “I knew you still grieved him. I didn’t want to taint your image of him. He was a good man who was only doing what he thought was best for you.”
But Fahim must have realized the mistake he’d made. Is that what drove him to kill himself? Did the guilt of my despair eat at him? Or was it another burden he carried: the pressure of our father, the impossible pursuit of perfection?
“He didn’t know what was best for me,” I say, “and neither did you.”
He nods, expression pinched. “You’re right. It wasn’t fair to make that decision for you. I should have known better.”
“What exactly did he say to you?” Even if Fahim had demanded that Notus leave, I would still expect a goodbye. They had gotten along well, Notus and Fahim, at least—I assume—until my brother discovered my relationship with the South Wind.
This immortal, this god, studies his hands, which rest in his lap. Strong brown fingers marred by white scars. He balls them into fists. “You were preparing for a competition at the time,” he murmurs. “Fahim told me it was your last year of eligibility. You were to age out the following spring. If you did not win,” he says, lifting his eyes to mine, “you would likely lose your only opportunity to see the world.”
There was truth to his words. The King Idris Violin Competition, founded by Ammara’s first sovereign, attracted hundreds of elite violinists from lands near and far. The winner was granted the opportunity to tour with orchestras beyond Ammara, beyond even Um Salim, to those realms in the north and west and east. One such realm, Marles, boasted the world-renowned St. Laurent Symphony. Performing with them was something I had dreamed of since I was a young girl.
Notus goes on with an urgency that implores I listen. “Fahim opened up to me. He told me how painful it was to have sacrificed music for duty to the crown. It destroyed him, Sarai, and I… I couldn’t live with myself if I was the reason you lost your dream.”
I shake my head in disbelief. I hear him, but… “You could have talked to me about it. We would have figured something out.”
“Your brother had a point. It was unfair to string you along when it was unlikely I would stick around. Ammara wasn’t my home, no matter that I wished it were. A clean break was best for everyone.”
“Best for everyone,” I counter, “or best for Fahim?”
Notus opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it. A sweet breeze rustles the nearby laurel trees. “I know it was unfair,” he says, “but I’d hoped the letter I wrote would explain everything.”
My focus suddenly sharpens. “What letter?”
“The letter I asked Fahim to give you.”
Silence, broken only by the burbling fountain. “Notus,” I say. “I never received a letter.”
His expression twists into confusion, and I expel a pained breath. This message, another secret Fahim hoarded. I remember the anguish of Notus’ departure, how it ate me alive, these questions that had no answers. I remember elusive sleep, my days squandered. I lost years of my life in months. An entire summer, gone.
“If I’d received the letter,” I whisper, “maybe it would have helped me move on. But… it was unfair for you to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Sarai, I never wished to go, never wished to leave you.” His expression is made of layers: regret and misery, shame and remorse. He takes my hand. I haven’t the strength to pull away. “You must understand. I was a stranger in a strange land. As a princess, you are expected to marry for influence and power. I could not offer you anything resembling security. Yes, I am a god, but I have no ties to your culture, your people, your realm. And… people talked. Some of the things they said were not kind. I thought it best to remove myself from the situation entirely.”
“Since when do you care what others say about you?” My voice is hoarse, each word a shard of glass in my throat.
“I don’t.” He meets my gaze squarely, with challenge. “But I care what they say about you .”
It is just like him to think of me in place of himself. It makes it difficult to be truly angry with him. “You don’t know what it was like after you left.” A low keen wells in my throat. Five years of anguish, heartache, regret. “I failed to compete that year. I couldn’t even make it past my bedroom door. You were gone, and then Fahim died—”
“I’d heard. There was an accident—”
“It was no accident.”
Notus has fallen quiet. “What are you talking about?”
Gods, he will make me say it. “Fahim wasn’t killed in a hunting accident,” I choke, though that is the story my family disclosed. Fahim Al-Khatib, diamond-bright, fell from his horse, and broke his neck. An honorable way to die. “He hanged himself.”
The South Wind is so still it is difficult to separate him from the shadows at his back. His dark eyes are pearled, sheened by a shattering heartbreak. “Sarai,” he breathes.
A coarse moan of despair deflates me, and I hunch lower onto the bench, hands shielding my face as Notus gathers me into his arms. I do not fight it. In truth, I am far from this place, this shadowed greenery.
“Two weeks after you left,” I whisper, “Fahim didn’t come down for breakfast.” To this day, the smell of fuul—beans with lemon and salt—makes my stomach turn. “This was unusual. Most mornings, he was first to the table.”
There we sat: Amir, Father, and I. Four chairs placed at a table large enough to seat sixteen. Every so often, one of the king’s advisors entered the dining room to deliver a message. At the time, Father was in negotiations with Um Salim about a possible marriage contract—my marriage to Prince Balior.
I wish the memory stopped there. But one cannot stop a flood in motion. Softly, I continue.
“After breakfast, I went to Fahim’s bedroom to check on him. He’d mentioned not feeling well the previous week.” Fool that I was, I’d believed it to be an illness, not some poison rooted in his heart and mind, a darkness that was his alone. “I found him swinging from the ceiling rafters,” I push out, “a noose around his neck.”
Notus stares at me, horror having petrified his features. “Sarai.”
And just like that, I break.
Father never discussed Fahim’s death. Neither did Amir, neither did I. We moved forward, each carrying that unseen burden. There were times I thought my spine would break from it.
Five years following Fahim’s suicide, I am still no closer to healing than I was. What, then, have I been doing all this time? Running. After so long, I am weary. I seek only to rest.
Notus tightens his arms around me as I sob into his chest. “I’m so sorry.” He smooths the damp strands of hair from my tear-streaked face. “I know we can’t turn back time, but I’m here now,” he says. “I’m here.”
The tears flow fast and hard. I cry for Fahim. I cry for Father. I cry for my mother, whom I never knew. But mostly, I cry for myself. For all the turmoil, all the hardship, all the instability, the impossibilities I have faced, the battles. I allow the South Wind to comfort me. No, I welcome it. His arms, so solid and secure. Gradually, my sobs quiet and my body calms.
I pull away, just far enough for air to slip between us. My eyes drop to Notus’ mouth. His lips part, and the spice of his breath wafts against my face. We are unfinished, he and I.
“Notus.” Lifting a hand, I press two fingers against the flesh of his lower lip. I trace it to one corner of his mouth, then the other. I don’t want to ask permission. I want to take, to conquer and claim. And I want to give, to feed his hunger as he has fed mine. To give life—and receive it.
Leaning forward, I brush my nose against his, a velvet touch. His eyelashes flutter, and a low growl of need rises from his throat. The sound drags up my spine like a sharp nail. My nipples pucker; warmth travels through my belly—lower.
Our mouths open, become one. His blunt teeth. My eager tongue. Sliding his hands down my back, the South Wind fills his palms with my backside. I moan and press closer. Notus tastes like no one else in the world. He is like the sun, that pulse of brightness, which all creatures great and small gravitate toward. I have missed him more than I can say.
Deeper the kiss delves, plundering hidden depths. My mind blanks. I forget what has come before this moment. I know only the drive of my heartbeat, the shimmer in my blood. Soft strands of his hair slide between my questing fingers as the press of his body drags me into memory. We’d had this, once. We’d shared the intimacy of togetherness, belonging. We had trust then, and love.
“Wait.” Notus suddenly pulls back, sending me off balance. I clamp his shoulder to avoid tumbling into a nearby bush. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says, breathing hard despite having not moved from his seated position.
It stings. Despite this, I plaster on a winning smile. “We’re engaged, Notus. We can do whatever we like.”
He is grim-faced. “You’re mourning, Sarai. I won’t take advantage of you.”
What mourning does he speak of? Today, or all the days of my life? “You’re not taking advantage of me.” If anyone is taking advantage of the situation, it’s me.
He shakes his head, adamant. “You need time to heal.”
“Isn’t that my decision to make? I need this.” My fingers skim the worn softness of his robe. They curl into the cotton, and I anchor myself to him. “I need to feel alive .”
“I understand, but—”
I graze the front of his trousers with the palm of my hand, trace the length of him, feel it stiffen beneath my touch.
The South Wind wavers. To pull away? To lean close? I understand these conflicting needs. He is not alone in experiencing them.
But he removes my hands from his body, expression pained. “This isn’t the answer.”
My face scalds. I’m so overcome with humiliation that I have to physically fight the urge to flee the garden. Notus is right. I hate that he’s right. Maybe it would feel good in the moment, to give our bodies to one another. But I don’t want sorrow to taint the intimacy we would share. In the end, the rejection is no less painful.
Mouth pinched, I shove to my feet, adjusting my dress. “Very well. I bid you good night, Notus.”
He watches me with a sadness he does not attempt to hide. “I don’t want you to leave,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not tonight.”
Ask me to stay. But I fear voicing this desire. I am afraid in so many ways, and the grief, freshly bruised, is another complication. Perhaps it’s better for both parties if I take space.
I do not say goodbye as I depart the garden. But I do think of all that I regret.
Later, after crying myself to sleep, I wake to a knock on the door. My swollen eyes open the slightest crack. I blink, peering blearily into the gloom. What time is it? With the curtains drawn, it’s difficult to say. The knock doesn’t come again.
My joints creak as I slide from bed and shuffle across the room. I still wear my dress from earlier, having been too exhausted to change. “Hello?” I press my ear to the door.
No response.
I open it to find a small bunch of wildflowers on the ground, a note tied around their stems. As I pick the flowers off the ground, I open the message.
I’m sorry.
Notus’ handwriting. My mouth wobbles, and I seal my lips together in an attempt to regain control of my emotions. Perhaps I was too rigid, too hostile. He’s right. I am mourning. I wanted to feel close to him, but desperation overrode logic in the moment. I’m glad he stopped me before things went further.
I’m placing the bouquet in a vase of water when a sting darts through my finger. I glance down, vaguely noting the blood beading on the pad of my thumb where it sliced against the stem. Then I recognize the flowers I hold. Their velvet petals, so deep a violet they are nearly black.
Black iris .
I lunge for the door, but my vision blurs, smearing into shadow. The handle slips from my hand. As I slam onto the floor, my racing pulse beginning to falter, the Lord of the Mountain makes himself known.
Sleep, Sarai , he soothes. Sleep, my beauty.