Chapter 33
33
D ESPITE THE brIGHT ORB THAT is the sun, I see only smoke.
Ishmah—charred, crumbling Ishmah—is a smoldering ruin in the weeks following Prince Balior’s attack. The fumes are horrendous. My eyes suffer in a constant state of irritation, though I don’t know whether it’s from the smoke or the hours I have wept. Ishmah has weathered much, as have I, as have all who claim the Red City as their home.
Flesh heaps the streets, human and darkwalker alike. From the window of my study, I watch people drag bodies from collapsed buildings: mothers, cousins, uncles, friends. Loved ones fall to their knees in anguish. They scream and tear at their hair. They plead to the gods, to anyone who might listen. When this occurs, I press a hand to my heart and wish them peace in the afterlife.
Twice, I have ventured into the city, seeking comfort in Haneen’s tales of friendship, adventure, and triumph. Since the beast’s escape from the labyrinth, Amir is all but buried under reconstruction efforts. If he’s not in meetings with the council or helping rebuild the lower ring—where the worst of the devastation occurred—then he’s organizing functions to distract the court from what they’ve lost, the knowledge of a great evil unleashed.
I don’t attend these functions. Neither does Tuleen, who is with child. While Amir does his best to piece our broken city back together, I remain behind closed doors, my mind tearing itself apart in an effort to think my way out of a situation that can be neither altered nor wished away.
I have written letters. I have placed offerings at every crumbling temple, every scant, forgotten shrine. I have read every book, tome, scroll, and letter housed in Ishmah’s vast library. I have beseeched the gods. Save him , I plead. Save this god, whom I love.
The South Wind, who lies still in my bed.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, I lean over him, brushing the hair from his forehead. His broad chest swells and contracts with gentle exhalations. His skin, when touched, is warm.
He did not die, as I had assumed after he pierced his chest with Prince Balior’s dagger. When I realized he was still alive, I wept tears of gratitude. But the days passed, and he didn’t wake. Somehow, he is caught in an endless sleep.
In so many ways, I have failed him. So much wasted time. A wealth of bitterness and misdirected anger. If I had not been so utterly entrenched in the black cavity of my trauma, perhaps fate would have unfolded differently. As it is, there are no answers, no cure.
A knock sounds at the door. “Sarai?”
My eyes sink shut on a sudden wave of exhaustion. “Come in.”
Queen Tuleen Al-Khatib of Ammara enters my chambers, dressed in the black of mourning. The door closes with a soft click.
Rather than approach the bed, she moves toward the windows, their panes of glass shuttered behind the drawn curtains. Grasping the heavy fabric, she looks to me for permission. “May I?”
I shrug, and she pulls back the heavy drapes. Streams of frail sunlight pierce the gloom.
She then refills my glass of water from the pitcher resting on the bedside table. “Drink,” she says, offering me the glass. I accept it without complaint, draining every drop until it’s gone.
After settling onto the chair located on the opposite side of the bed, Tuleen regards me in concern. “Any changes?” she asks tentatively.
“No.” No matter my efforts, the South Wind will not wake.
She studies his smooth, unlined face. The skin around her eyes is puffy, signaling lack of sleep. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve done all that I can.” I must now ask myself what comes next. Do I allow Notus to sleep? Is it fair to keep him in this half-state when there is no hope for resurrection? How will that impact my life? Will I be able to move on, or will I obsess over Notus’ affliction as I’d obsessed over my own?
Tuleen eases back into the chair. “I didn’t think you were one to give up so easily,” she murmurs.
I stiffen. “I’m not giving up, I’m just—”
Ammara’s queen quirks a brow.
Giving up.
Helplessly, my lips pull into a smile. Crafty woman. She’s right. It’s not a question of accepting his condition. Rather, it is a question of how far I will go to bring Notus back. And I realize there is one thing I haven’t done, one thing that may wake the South Wind from his cursed sleep.
I shove to my feet, skin buzzing with an emotion I dare not name. “I’ll be back.”
She dips her chin, mouth curved in satisfaction. “I’ll keep watch over Notus for you.”
As I suspected she would. As for me…
I need a horse.
Hours later, I summit Mount Syr. An arid wind plucks at my hair, and I promptly dismount, Zainab wandering to graze whatever scant weeds shove through the cracks in the earth. The sky overhead is a great, swallowing mouth, poised to engulf the world whole. In the distance, Ishmah shimmers behind waves of heat, a blurred spot of red.
No time to waste. As I imagine Father did long ago, I kneel before the great throne overlooking Ammara, this holiest of sanctuaries. I’m so overcome by desperation I feel woozy. What if this does not work? Then again, what if it does?
“Lord of the Mountain, I beseech you. Please, will you grant me your time?”
The air flickers, and when I next blink, the Lord of the Mountain —Eurus—becomes visible, gracing the massive throne. He is prodigious, immense. Two spots of brightness burn inside the shadowy cowl of his hood.
Hello, Sarai. The low rasp of his voice scrapes along my nerve endings. I did not expect to see you again so soon.
Neither did I. Leaning forward, I allow my forehead to brush the eroded stone of the bottom step. Today, I am strong, and for all the days after. “Lord of the Mountain. Twenty-five years ago, my father prostrated himself at your feet, begging you to save my life. Now I have come to ask for a similar favor.”
The god is quiet. He watches me with predatory stillness.
“Notus has succumbed to eternal sleep,” I say. “I need to know how to reverse it.”
A hot wind skates over the barren earth. It smells not of the desert, but of sweet rain. When I glance skyward, however, I find not a cloud to mar the blue stretch.
How did this come to pass? the god asks.
Briefly, I explain the circumstances leading to the South Wind’s current state.
Describe this dagger.
“It was old, tarnished. There was an emerald set into its pommel.”
He straightens—the only indication of interest. Emerald, you say? I nod, curious. If that is true, it seems this Prince Balior managed to acquire a god-touched blade himself. The emerald pommel is indicative of any blade owned by the god Sleep. He coats them in a powerful elixir, which Notus has succumbed to. Unfortunately, the Lord of the Mountain goes on, it means Notus is beyond my help. He does not sound at all upset by this, though I suppose I should not be surprised, considering the brothers’ most recent interaction. Not even I have the strength to overpower Sleep’s influence.
“Then who does?” Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the divine, it’s that there always exists one of greater authority.
It doesn’t matter. You are mortal and are not permitted to speak with them.
“Says who?”
The Council of Gods.
If I’m not mistaken, Notus once mentioned this council. They were responsible for the Four Winds’—the Anemoi’s—banishment. Notus and Boreas, Eurus and Zephyrus, all exiled to opposite corners of the world. The odds are not in my favor, but I refuse to give up. “Please.” Once more, I lean forward until my forehead skims the stone. “I know you have no loyalty to your brother, but do you not have loyalty to yourself and what is right?”
The silence speaks. It tells me this god considers my words, albeit reluctantly. I can’t help you, he eventually says, the voice inside my mind riddled with cold, but there may be someone who can. Boreas—our eldest brother.
I sit upright. The sun is most bright. “How can I find him?”
You already know how.
“I assure you, I don’t.”
He drags a finger down the arm of the stone chair. There’s nothing more I can give you. The rest is up to you.
He claims I already know how to find Boreas, a god I have never met. All I know of him is that he rules over the Deadlands, the realm of the darkwalkers.
And then it hits me. There is a doorway to the Deadlands somewhere within the labyrinth. I must have traversed every inch of that infernal place, and not once did I see such a door, no way out… except the mirror.
What was it the Lord of the Mountain once told me? The mirror shows what has been, what is, and what will be. What if the mirror was the door all along? After all, it transported me to my memories. It displayed the fire and smoke of Ishmah under siege. Who is to say it cannot transport me to the Deadlands?
Though I cannot see inside the Lord of the Mountain’s hood, I’m certain his eyes seek mine. A feeling of pins prickles across my skin. Maybe Notus’ brother isn’t as heartless as I had first assumed.
“Thank you,” I say, and bow low as another rain-drenched gust buffets my back.
Good luck to you.
Leaping onto my horse’s back, I guide her down the trail edging the mountainside. Hours later, we arrive at the palace, and I dismount, sprinting toward the courtyard where the labyrinth squats. The area is deserted. Unsurprising. Many of the guards were killed during the attack. Others, gravely wounded and currently recovering in the infirmary. Thus, the labyrinth’s arched entryway lies open for any who dare enter.
Palm pressed against the symbol cut into the door, I push it open with a creak of aged wood. Fear is beyond me. I am keen, eager for what awaits, what I might change. Cool, whispering darkness grasps at me. It enfolds me in its frigid embrace, and drags me into high stone walls cloaked by a heavy gloom.
There the silver mirror hangs, as though awaiting me.
Staring into the reflective glass, I see a woman who has pushed herself to the very brink of what it means to be a daughter, a princess, a citizen of her people. She is twenty-five years of age, yet lines carve years into her face.
But it is her shoulders that I study. Where is the downward slope? Where is the hunch to her spine from carting heavy burdens? Gone. And as I straighten, I understand something else. Here stands a woman who has lived. Her life has been both ease and suffering, trial and triumph. She knows what she wants. She is no longer afraid to demand it.
I reach out, fingertips brushing the cool surface of the looking glass. Ripples drag outward, revealing a doorway leading into depths unknown. My mouth curves.
I step through.
I stand in a wide stone corridor marked by countless doors. They are constructed of glass and wood, plaster and mud and iron tipped in frost. Some possess round windows of colored glass. Others, minute tiles fashioned into breathtaking mosaics. And still there are more, painted lilac and scarlet, even one carpeted in clambering vines.
The icy air stings my nostrils. It holds no familiarity. Even its scent is foreign, bright and crisp, a snap against my skin. Slowly, I spin in place. Has the mirror brought me to the Deadlands, as I had hoped?
With a frown, I begin to walk, slippers hissing against the gray flagstones. At the end of the hall, I turn right. More doors, dozens of them. I open the nearest one, its battered wooden face covered in peeling white paint. I stare in shock. Snow-covered mountains, the glimmer of a frozen waterfall. I close that door, open the next one. A cramped lane leading to a market square. I shut it and hurry onward, without the slightest clue as to what I’m looking for.
“Who are you?”
The demand lashes forth, and I whirl, catching sight of a woman at the end of the corridor. In her arms, she shelters an infant swaddled in blankets. At her knees, a little boy clutches the hem of her moss-colored dress. She does not appear to be Ammaran, though her complexion is as dark as my own.
The woman steps forward, dark eyes flashing in warning. “Speak quickly, if you value your life. Who are you? How did you get in here?”
My stance is a reflection of hers: braced legs, squared shoulders. “My name is Princess Sarai Al-Khatib,” I say, in a declaration fit for this vast stone hall. “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
Through narrowed eyes, she demands, “How did you enter my home, Princess Sarai Al-Khatib?”
An excellent question, though she failed to give her name in response. Not that I blame her. “I realize this might sound odd, but I entered through a doorway in my own realm.”
The woman’s mouth curls in suspicion, the large scar on her right cheek pulling taut. Her boots, I notice, are scuffed with age. She is no coddled woman. “And what realm might this be?”
“Mama.” The boy reaches his small hand upward. The woman grasps it in wordless comfort.
“Ammara,” I say. “Specifically, I hail from Ishmah, the Red City.”
“I see.” She frowns as her son attempts to climb up her legs, and the child she holds in her arms begins to fuss. “It is true these doors lead to other realms. However, that doesn’t explain how you came to find yourself here. I wasn’t aware others could enter of their own volition.”
If I had even a shred of something resembling an explanation, I would offer it freely. As it stands, I have only the truth. “I don’t know how the labyrinth works, exactly, but I’m looking for someone in particular. I think that’s why it brought me to this specific location. Maybe it sensed that you could help me.”
“And how could we help you, Sarai Al-Khatib?”
“I’m looking for Boreas.”
Her eyes sharpen, and she wraps an arm around her son, shielding him. She glances over my shoulder, shaking her head slightly, but when I turn to look, nothing is there, only a flicker of light.
Quietly, she demands, “What business do you have with Boreas?”
Seeing as this woman appears moments away from either stabbing me or calling for reinforcements, I decide to lay everything out on the table. “I’m in love with his brother, the South Wind. He’s one of the—”
“Anemoi,” she says. “I know.”
We stare at one another with combined wariness and reluctant interest. A strange thing, a very strange thing, that I might look upon this woman, a stranger to me, and feel as if I am glimpsing a reflection of sorts. “What do you know of Notus?” I ask.
The woman hesitates. Her caution is plain, but curiosity is a much greater force. Holding the swaddled infant close, she murmurs something to her son until he lets go and drops to his feet, pouting. “My name is Wren,” she says. “Come with me.”
I’m led down an ornate staircase with a gleaming banister. Every hallway, marked by doors. There must be hundreds, thousands in this stone palace. Rounding a corner, we enter a library with sleek, curved walls bearing an impressive collection of books. Her son races across the library on stubby legs, screaming, “Papa!”
A man unfurls from a cushioned armchair near the window. The boy leaps. The man catches his son midair, swinging him into his arms with deep, rolling laughter. His alabaster features are carved from marble, his eyes the pale shade of frost. As soon as he catches sight of me, however, his expression shutters.
“Hello, my love.” Wren tilts her head up for a kiss, which he bestows with a gentleness that contradicts the aggression he suddenly exudes. When she tries to pull away, he tugs her close, positioning himself as a shield in front of her and their children.
“Who is this?” His voice slithers out, low and pocked by cold.
“This is Sarai Al-Khatib.” Seemingly unconcerned by his attempt to protect her, Wren offers him the blanket-swaddled infant, who emits a small cry of distress. “She’s our guest.”
“Yes, but who is she?” He gently bounces the child until it quiets, scanning me from head to toe with slitted eyes. “That name tells me nothing.”
“I just told you,” Wren says. “She’s our guest.”
“She was not invited.”
Wren sighs and turns to me, mouth quirked wryly. “My husband, Boreas, the North Wind.” She gestures to the glowering man, who appears as though he would rather stab fiery pokers into his eyes than converse with the likes of me. “I promise, he’s not as scary as he looks.”
So, this is Boreas. He could not be any more different to Notus than a bird to a fish, both in appearance and demeanor. If Notus is a grounding safety, then his brother is shaped by the blackness of winter.
“I’ve come to plead for your help,” I tell them. “Notus is in trouble.”
The North Wind straightens, appearing even more stiff in the frame, if possible. “What news have you of my brother?”
I shake my head. “It’s not good.”
“Please, sit.” Wren gestures me toward a nearby armchair, then calls, “Orla!”
A pleasantly plump woman dressed in a plain dress bustles into the library. “Yes, my lady?”
“Can you put the children to bed, please?” Boreas passes over the wrinkled bundle. Their son pouts, yet dutifully grips the woman’s dress, well aware of what bed means. “Thank you.”
As the woman exits the room, I blink in stupefaction. Do my eyes deceive me? That is most certainly candlelight I spot through the woman’s body—her transparent body. “What is this? She—I can see through her body.”
“Orla is a specter,” Wren responds, taking a seat in the chair beside her husband, “as are all who pass into the afterlife. As overlord of the Deadlands, Boreas is responsible for Judging the dead. They are quite harmless, I assure you.”
I look to Boreas. “And you have always judged the dead?”
“Since my banishment, yes. Though we don’t know what will happen once Wren and I pass, whether our children will take over, or if the Council of Gods will appoint another successor.”
“You are not immortal?” I ask the North Wind in surprise.
He looks to his wife before answering, “I haven’t been immortal in over two years now.”
The information sinks into me, oddity and realization both. I wasn’t aware that shedding one’s immortality was possible. I believed it to be inherent, of the blood.
The North Wind settles in, one long leg outstretched, a lock of black hair sliding over his brow. “What has happened to my brother?” he asks quietly. “I assume he still lives?”
How does one define life, really? What is the point of living when one cannot wake? “He’s trapped in an eternal sleep. A darkness has been released into my realm.”
Wren and Boreas exchange a look of silent communication, the softness and love evident between them. Wren quirks an eyebrow. Boreas frowns. She playfully rolls her eyes before turning back to me. “I sympathize with your plight,” she says to me, smoothing a hand down her thigh, “but I’m not sure how you expect us to help. We have never traveled to Ammara. We know nothing of this darkness you speak of, nor of whatever curse Notus has found himself under.”
“It’s none of our business,” the North Wind adds.
“Really?” I say. “Because from what I’ve gathered, the beast that escaped the labyrinth knows of you… and has a bone to pick with your brother, Eurus.”
“Eurus?” This from Boreas, his suspicion suddenly whetted. “What, exactly, is this darkness you speak of? What beast?”
“In my realm, there’s a labyrinth that was constructed a quarter of a century ago, built to imprison a beast that hails from the City of Gods. The beast blames Eurus for its imprisonment and has allied itself with a prince named Balior, who has now gained a dark new power. Prince Balior intends to help the beast enact its revenge, and spread darkness through the realms. Darkwalkers have multiplied in Ammara over the decades. We believe there is a doorway connecting the Deadlands to the labyrinth, which has allowed the darkwalkers to escape.”
Stillness swathes the vast chamber of books. Wren stares at me in horror. Boreas is more difficult to read—I suppose that runs in the family. After a moment, Wren turns to her husband and whispers, “I thought the darkwalkers had been cleansed.”
“They were.”
She gives him a pointed look. “All of them?”
“As far as I know, yes.” Boreas’ confusion gives way, makes room for a distressing realization. “The Chasm.” At his wife’s puzzlement, he elaborates, “All of the darkwalkers were cleansed—except those imprisoned in the Chasm. I assume that’s where they’re escaping from.” He runs a large hand through his hair. “I remember this beast. I remember how deeply Eurus’ loathing for it ran. I’m not sure how he managed to cast it out from the City of Gods, considering we’d been banished for centuries at that point. But I suppose he found a loophole.”
“Regardless of how your brother managed to imprison the beast,” I say, redirecting the conversation back to the issue at hand, “there are very few people powerful enough to fight this darkness. Notus is one such person. If there is any hope of defeating it—”
“You love him,” Wren says, eyes soft.
A harsh breath unspools from my chest. Gods, do I ever. “Yes.” After a moment, I go on. “I understand that we’ve only just met, and that you have no loyalty to me, but I’m begging you to help restore Notus to a conscious state. Is there anything you can do? Anything at all?”
Wren taps a finger along the arm of her chair, head canted, expression ponderous. The rhythm pauses. “The Council of Gods.”
Boreas scowls with more animosity than I have ever witnessed in a single person. It’s quite impressive. “They’re not an option. You know this.”
She shrugs, completely unperturbed by her husband’s reaction. “It’s worth the attempt.”
“It is a waste of time.”
“Ever the pessimist.”
I slide to the edge of my chair. Eurus mentioned them as well. “How can I speak with this Council of Gods?”
“You misunderstand,” Boreas replies with a glare in my direction. “Speaking with them is not an option. It’s prohibited.”
Which is exactly what the Lord of the Mountain told me. But if the labyrinth sent me to the Deadlands, there must be a way around that. “Why are you so reluctant to help your own brother?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help him,” Boreas snaps, his cheeks flushing in irritation. “I can’t help him. We were banished from our homeland, all of us. Our pleas will fall on deaf ears. There is nothing I can do.”
Though I am much smaller than Boreas, I lift my chin, peer down my nose at him. Former deity or not, the North Wind will know of my displeasure. “So what you’re saying is you’re useless?”
Wren snorts, a hand slapped over her mouth. “I like you,” she says to me, much to her husband’s exasperation.
Pushing to my feet, I begin to pace. I must. If I am in motion, the shadows cannot touch me. “I need to speak with this Council of Gods.”
“I forbid it,” the North Wind growls.
Wren kicks his shin with a warning glare. Boreas mutters an oath and falls quiet.
Then the woman turns to me. I see myself in her. She may have this home, this love and security, but it was not always so. Beneath the softened edges, I see those points that were once sharpest of all.
“My husband will deny it,” Wren says, “but every god has its weakness. What can you offer the council that they do not already possess?”
There had been a time when I would have said this: nothing, or little, or few. The divine desire power above all else, and I have none to give. But my hands are not as empty as I would believe them to be.
“There is something I have to offer,” I say, ignoring the twinge in my sternum. If that’s what must be done, then so be it.
“Then we have no time to waste,” Wren says.
I’m led from the library, trailing the North Wind and his strong-willed wife down numerous corridors. Eventually, we halt at a door wrought in gold, one of dozens lining the hall. Boreas studies the ornate handle with remarkable distaste.
“Whatever occurs beyond this door,” he informs me, “whether punishment or reward, I’m not responsible. Is that understood?”
I nod, my blood buzzing with a dangerous hope.
The door opens. Warm sunlight spills through.
“Good luck,” Wren whispers.