Epilogue In which the South Wind Attempts to Read a Map
“WE ’ RE LOST .”
The declaration dripped reproach. Notus, who scanned Marqa’s central square, with its singular well and plethora of penned goats, turned to regard Sarai calmly. “On the contrary, we are exactly where we are supposed to be.”
Her mouth curled in an expression he knew well. After an hour spent wandering, dust and sweat layering her skin, she did not appear amused. “And where is that, exactly?”
“Marqa,” he clipped out.
Sarai clacked her teeth together. It was a sound he had heard with increasing frequency these last few months as they explored Ammara north to south, east to west. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted in warning. He, the South Wind, a once-powerful immortal, quailing under the threat of his wife’s temper. Imagine that.
“I’m aware this is Marqa ,” she growled, dark eyes flashing. “What I wish to know is where the souk is. That is where we’re headed, isn’t it? Or are we to wander in circles for the rest of the morning?”
Marqa, a town to the far north of Ammara, was their last stop along the Spice Road. Due to its remote location, few travelers visited. It was a quaint village surrounded by oases, its streets lined with date palms offering scant shade from the sun that boiled down. Some of these oases were known to possess healing properties, but that was not why Notus desired to visit.
“Yes, we’re looking for the souk.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, glaring and trying to ignore the passersby eavesdropping on their conversation. “Don’t give me that look.”
She batted her eyes, the image of utmost innocence. “What look?”
“The one that says you know best.”
A comment that would, of course, draw defiance into Sarai’s spine, shoulders squaring beneath her sapphire dress. Wisped strands of hair spiraled around her face, crimped in the insufferable heat.
“As it turns out,” she said pointedly, “I do know best.”
There was no point in arguing with the truth. However—
“You said you wanted adventure,” he reminded Sarai. And look where it had taken them: the Spice Road, beginning to end, the cities that studded its brilliant route, from the arid valleys of the south to the plateaus in the east, the high cliffs of the west. Each region, a striking facet of the place he called home.
“Yes, but I would prefer not to melt in the process, if it’s all the same to you.”
A smile softened the creases around his eyes. Notus reached for her left hand, placed it upon his chest, over his beating heart. The opal rune that signified their marriage marked her skin. The lead bracelet, twin to his gold, adorned her wrist. “Is that any way to speak to your husband? The man you love most in the world?”
Sarai scoffed. “You think quite highly of yourself.” Yet color pinkened her face.
“Do you deny it?” He tugged her closer, lips pressed to her sun-warmed cheek. Then her brow, nose, mouth, where he lingered for a time. Sarai relaxed against him—surrender, however brief.
“No,” she murmured. “I deny nothing.”
Her ear found his heartbeat. In the evenings, Sarai often rested her head on his chest, as though to confirm he was still breathing. The thought that he might never have awoken were it not for the sacrifice his wife had made tightened his throat with an unbearable pain.
Nevertheless, Notus had never seen her shoulders so unburdened as they were on this journey. He thought perhaps this was the happiest Sarai had felt in a long time. As he well knew, freedom was a gift.
Prior to departing Ishmah, they had wed in the palatial gardens, under a pergola of black iris, with King Amir, Queen Tuleen, and the newborn Prince Raj as their witnesses. They had exchanged vows, and kissed, and sealed their commitment to one another until the end of days. Notus had never felt so full, both in heart and in soul. He was hers and she was his. He wanted nothing else.
“I’m beginning to question your ability to lead us to whoever this merchant is before sundown, Notus.” The frustration in his wife’s voice was plain. “Who are we meeting again?”
“A family friend.” Technically, a friend of the royal family, though Sarai did not need to know that. It would absolutely spoil the surprise, a plan that had been in the works for months.
“You keep saying that,” she murmured, pulling back to scrutinize him. “How much longer must we wander?”
“Not much.” He hoped.
Sarai pursed her mouth, an eyebrow raised. Clearly unconvinced.
“Look,” Notus protested. “It isn’t easy navigating these roads. Half of them aren’t on the map.” He would know. He checked every three minutes.
“Let me be the first to remind you that, were it not for me, we would have likely found ourselves stranded, with no civilization for hundreds of miles.” Her smile sharpened. “Give me the map.”
She snatched for the oiled parchment, which he held out of reach. “You said I could handle it.”
“That was before I realized you didn’t know how to read one.”
Now, that wasn’t entirely true. What need had he for maps and directions when the wind identified east or north, south or west? Unfortunately, since losing his power and immortality, he felt strangely detached from his environment. The wind was little more than sensation, a brush of air against his skin. It spoke to him no longer.
It was a small price to pay for the life he shared with Sarai. His wife was joy, she was comfort, she was security, she was companionship, affection, belonging, home . He would do it all over again, give it all up, in order to live out his days with her.
“My map-reading abilities are perfectly fine,” Notus said, with only a small amount of indignance.
Sarai tossed up a hand in exasperation. “Why won’t you just admit that we’re lost?”
“Because we’re not.”
Head bent, she pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Well, when you figure out where we are, come find me.” And she stomped off.
Notus watched her vanish down a side street. That was fine. At the very least, it allowed him to read the map in peace. Which was exactly what he did.
The luthier should be somewhere nearby—maybe. His shop was located at the end of a road just east of the main square. Unfortunately, multiple roads cut through the town, whereas the map only designated one. His only hope was to wander until he stumbled upon it by happenstance.
Notus selected a street at random and began to walk. Upon reaching a dead end, he retraced his steps, chose another chaotic road, which eventually led to a small, open-aired stall marked by a wooden sign. It boasted no wares but for a single bow resting lengthwise atop the table.
The luthier hunched forward in his chair, slowly carving into a piece of wood. From the curved ridges, it appeared to be the scroll of a violin. The man himself possessed frazzled, storm-cloud colored hair. The channels of a thousand smiles creased his bronze skin.
What were the odds of multiple luthiers in a town so small? “Are you Hassan Odeh?” Notus asked.
The man set down his carving. “I am.”
Notus passed over a message bearing the king’s seal. He had carried it all these months, hidden in the front of his robes. The luthier would be expecting him—the message was to simply confirm his identity.
Wordlessly, the gray-haired man drew out a leather case from behind the stall and placed it on the table. “The violin hails from the realm of Marles,” he said. “I acquired it from a traveling salesman last year. It possesses a fine sound, bright and full, perfect for the solo performer.” He hesitated, then said, “Any luthier would be honored to have their instrument played by Sarai Al-Khatib.”
“Notus?”
He turned. Sarai was now wending toward him through the crowd. She appeared uncertain, gaze leaping between Notus and the luthier in silent inquiry. Upon catching sight of the case, she froze. “What is this?”
It had taken months of correspondence. Notus had first approached Amir prior to their departure from Ishmah six months before. He wished to gift Sarai music, as she had gifted him her heart. An instrument she could carry on their travels. A means to heal this wound she now bore.
Sarai had known nothing. A feat, to get anything past her. But Notus had been so, so careful, all to witness this moment, of the luthier opening the case to reveal the contents inside. Nestled in soft velvet there sat a full-size violin.
His wife lifted a hand to her throat, and tears streamed down her face. Notus’ lungs ached, for he remembered, in the way of painful things, their departure from Ishmah. As they’d packed their bags, Sarai had removed her case from the back of the wardrobe, knelt with it on her bedroom floor. There, she’d touched her violin, and wept. As steadfast as she was in her decision to save his life, it hurt her, to live without music.
“I know it’s not the same as your violin back home,” he said, suddenly fearful of having overstepped. “But this is the best money can buy.”
Mutely, she brushed the strings. Pulled the lowest one, a hard pluck.
Fifteen months had passed since Sarai had lost her gift of music. He recognized the hole in her heart, even if she herself denied it. Maybe she no longer possessed the aptitude of a prodigy, but there was today, this fresh, radiant morning. She could begin anew.
“You don’t have to accept it,” he said, “but Amir and I covered the cost. It’s yours, if you want it.”
Again, she plucked the strings, lowest to highest. Her hand trembled. “It’s in tune.” Sarai glanced at the luthier. “Do you have a shoulder rest? Rosin?”
As the man gathered the requested materials, Sarai threw herself into her husband’s arms. “I love you,” she choked out, teary-eyed. “That you went through all this trouble… you didn’t have to do this for me.”
On the contrary, he absolutely did. “I will do everything in my power to bring you happiness,” he murmured into her hair. “This I promise you, for all the days of our lives.”
Sarai trembled with a soft cry of pain. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for sharing this life with me. I just… love you.”
He pressed a kiss against her ear. It was no hardship. Indeed, loving Sarai was the easiest thing he’d ever done. “I love you, too.”
By the time they pulled apart, a small crowd had gathered. Even now, he caught a few excited whispers, their eagerness to hear her perform sparking the dry air like static. Sarai Al-Khatib, Princess of Ammara. The realm had known her. The world had known her. Of course people would remember.
After sliding the shoulder rest onto the body of the violin, Sarai tucked the instrument beneath her chin, curved her fingers around the frog of the freshly rosined bow. Yet she hesitated. “It feels… strange.” She searched his gaze, her indecision plain. “What if I sound terrible?”
How could anything born of the heart be terrible? “You won’t.” Notus smiled at his wife in reassurance, his heart near bursting. “Play,” he urged.
Sarai Al-Khatib placed the bow upon the strings, and played.