The South Wind

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Description 1

To Mr. Simmons, who gave me music

PROLOGUE

THE CHILD WAS BORN INTO silence.

Initially, the midwife believed her to be stillborn. No cry cracked the gold-tinged dusk, no almighty declaration of arrival. Dense lashes fanned her round cheeks, which appeared to have been sapped of all color and warmth. Yet there was a subtle stirring, the weak flutter of a pulse. Alive, but only just.

The child required immediate healing. But her mother, sickly and frail following that long, laborious birth, lifted a trembling hand and gestured for the midwife to approach. The child was passed into her mother’s arms. So slight, my daughter. It would be the queen’s last thought, for she took one final breath and was still.

When the king learned of his wife’s passing, he screamed, and tore the window drapes from their rods, and pleaded with the highest deities, and wept. The child was rushed to the palace physician who, despite his best efforts, failed to stabilize the flagging newborn. The blue tinge to her skin, the sporadic hitch of her chest—she would not survive the night.

The king was powerless. He did not understand why misfortune had befallen him, of all people. Was it fate? Retribution? Why should his child enter this world, only to be snatched from him on the heels of her mother?

And so, he went to Mount Syr, the holy site that stood watch over Ammara’s blistering sands. Upon summiting the bare, rocky peak, he fell to his knees before the dais, atop which rested an empty throne. It was there the king called upon the Lord of the Mountain, the mightiest of those primordial gods.

When a cloaked man materialized before him, the king prostrated himself. The Lord of the Mountain was as vast as he was broad, his face shielded by the cowl of his cloak. In the hours that followed, the king bargained for his daughter’s life. Wealth, power, even the realm itself—the king offered all that he was worth. But the Lord of the Mountain was merciful. He agreed to save the child’s life—for a price. In a rush of desperation, the king accepted the deal without question. And thus, the trap was set.

Later, after the bargain had been struck, the king entered his children’s bedroom. His sons slept soundly, unaware of their mother’s passing. He kissed their brows, then approached the crib where his newborn daughter lay. She was awake. Color had returned to brighten her brown cheeks. Her small mouth pursed as she gazed up at him with wide, dark eyes.

Believing himself to be alone, the king began to weep. He failed to notice a shade of a figure hovering over the crib alongside him. Nor did he witness the phantom’s shadowy hand press onto his daughter’s brow.

Sleep, crooned the voice.

Sleep, my beauty.

PART 1

THE BUD

1

FORTY-SEVEN DAYS.

My stomach cramps at the sight, yet I carefully mark an x through the number, one of dozens recorded in the pages of my journal. Tomorrow, day forty-six will follow, then forty-five, forty-four. I wonder if I might not end it now, in the small study attached to my bedchamber. Topple the candle wavering atop my desk. Surrender to the smoke. Defeat the curse before it defeats me.

A bell clangs. Its echo leaps from the shining rooftops of the city’s prosperous upper ring to the stately, wind-eroded pillars of the Queen’s Road. I smooth the wrinkles from my dress with a trembling hand, for the time has come sooner than I wished.

Pushing to my feet, I move to the window. An enemy approaches Ishmah’s border. From my vantage point overlooking the Red City, I observe the line of soldiers snaking across the raw, sunburned earth. Sunlight glints against a thousand hammered shields.

The gates will open at Prince Balior’s arrival. There will be a feast held in his honor. The streets will swell with citizens, oleander blooms plucked from the public gardens and tossed onto the cracked, dusty roads. For this enemy is welcome.

My palm lifts, pressing flat against the windowpane. For twenty-four years of my life, my left hand has lacked the opal rune that would identify me as a married woman. But my twenty-fifth nameday approaches. If I am to do my part in securing my people’s survival, then I will wed this prince, whom I know nothing of.

We must all make sacrifices.

Returning to my desk, I spot the journal lying open, rows of numbers etched in blackest ink. A rush of despair consumes me, wholly and completely. Forty-seven days seems like an age, but chill mornings will bleed into stifling afternoons. Time, unable to alter or slow.

I hurry toward my wardrobe, hauling open the doors to reveal a collection of brown, gray, and black dresses. Utterly lackluster, painfully drab. I brush them aside to reveal a smaller collection of jewel-colored gowns. I am Princess Sarai Al-Khatib of Ammara, yet I am not even allowed a bit of color or sparkle. Father’s word is law.

Reluctantly, I tug two colorless dresses from the wardrobe, accidentally knocking my violin case from where it had been shoved in the back corner. It topples onto the rug with a muffled thump.

I wince, kneeling to pull the leather case onto my lap. Fahim would scold me for my carelessness. But Fahim is not here.

My throat tightens, and after returning my instrument to its place in the back of the wardrobe, I hold up both dresses in the mirror. Linen of dull brown, which blends into the mahogany of my skin, or ivory, which promises purity? My mouth curls bitterly. Brown, most definitely.

Gathering my heavy locks of ebony hair, I weave a ribbon through the plait that begins at the crown of my head. With a steady hand, I apply kohl to the corners of my dark eyes. A threadbare cloak drapes my shoulders, sandals strapped across my oiled feet.

After a slow, calming exhalation, I head for the door, murmuring, Duty to one’s kingdom is duty to one’s heart. I must, of course, fulfill my duty in greeting Prince Balior. But not now. Not yet.

I cannot escape the palace quickly enough.

The immense edifice engulfs a hill amidst the stately homes of the upper ring. Despite Ishmah’s moniker—the Red City—its palace walls are alabaster pale: glossy marble, weathered limestone. They curve into hollowed ceilings and deep, romantic archways, everything exquisitely tiled in mosaics.

One pillared corridor flows into another, with spacious, open-aired chambers concealed in cleverly designed niches, their ceilings exposed to the elements. An occasional courtyard shaded by tall fronds materializes as a burst of yellow brightness amidst the sheltered passageways and still pools.

As I turn a corner, movement in my periphery snags my attention, and I slow, angling toward a dark shape near the vast double doors leading to the Library of Ishmah.

The man is broad of chest, an unnatural stillness swathing his form. He wears loose ivory trousers and an emerald, knee-length robe. A white scarf wraps his hair, shielding the lower portion of his face from the boiling sun. Though I cannot see the man’s eyes, I experience the intensity of his gaze, as if the sharpest of arrows pierces my breast.

It cannot be. Years have eroded much of my past, yet some memories retain their clarity. I swear I recognize him. Excuse me—

But the man retreats down a side corridor. By the time I reach the end of the hall, he has vanished.

It takes a moment for my heart’s rhythm to settle. I must have been mistaken. The man was likely a traveler who lost his way. When he does not reappear, I hurry past the library toward the stables. Generally, I would bribe the watchmen at the palace gates to let me pass, but not today. Due to the prince’s arrival, the palace is doubly guarded. None may enter or depart without the king’s permission, including me.

But a secret passage hidden in the stable walls grants me access to a cool, dark tunnel, which deposits me beyond the palace grounds in the upper ring. The Queen’s Road cuts south through Ishmah, with the perpendicular King’s Road stretching east to west. Tidy, single-story homes hewn from red clay line the streets, and glorious windows of stained glass reflect colored light onto the paved road. Drought has touched everyone in Ishmah, including the wealthy. Where hedges once ornamented green lawns, only sand and shriveled branches remain.

Dressed in my nondescript cloak, I blend in with the passersby easily. The roads narrow. The jeweled windows vanish. The stones underfoot fracture to gravel, packed soil, dust. In the lower ring, wagons multiply, and stalls spring up to clutter the streets. Merchants hawk their wares as unruly children scrabble underfoot, chasing a herd of goats through the crowd.

Eventually, the road squeezes to a thread, halting anything aside from foot traffic. An arched entryway marks the entrance into the souk.

It is, on the best of days, disorderly, and on the worst, absolute madness. Beyond the crumbling wall, alleyways fold around sharp corners, the area so littered with carts, tents, and stalls that it is impossible to pass through without knocking against something. The offerings are varied and numerous. Colors assault my vision and scents dizzy me with their potency. Fruits and nuts and grains, pottery and tapestries and useless trinkets.

The Red City’s finest rugs! Buy now!

—can’t agree to a lower price, I’m afraid I’ll have to go elsewhere—

What did I tell you about eating things off the ground?

Coins are passed into outstretched hands. A young mother attempts to shepherd her five children through the rush. Always, there is more. Shallow bowls of hammered copper, inside which pile small hills of spices acquired along the Spice Road: the fired red of sumac, the ochre of cumin, turmeric, ginger. As I ease around a bend, I accidentally jostle a young man carting a crate of live chickens. He snarls at me; I snarl back. Then, suppressing a smile, I hurry onward.

A door dressed in peeling yellow paint lies slightly ajar at the end of the lane. I slip inside, into cool darkness tinged with the warm, earthy scent of sandalwood.

Children seated on colorful woven rugs occupy the small room I have found myself in. At the front sits a wizened woman draped in a frayed shawl. Her name is Haneen. She perches on a three-legged stool, her milky eyes staring sightlessly. As though having sensed my arrival, her mouth curves. But of course that is impossible. How is a blind bard to know that the princess of Ammara attends her weekly storytelling hour?

Now, she begins, her voice like a creak of aged wood. Where did I leave off?

The air stills as the room holds its breath.

Last week, our fierce and loyal Aziza enlisted in Ammara’s army by disguising herself as a man and declaring her grandfather’s identity. War was coming. And if Aziza was to save her grandfather from being conscripted into the army, then she must become his replacement.

Training was ruthless. These soldiers were strong, agile, prevailing. Aziza was the weakest by far. None knew she was a woman. She was forced to bathe far from camp in the dead of night and hike back before dawn. But Aziza didn’t give up. One month passed, then another. Her muscles hardened. Her will became unbreakable iron.

I listen to the tale of Aziza with the desperation of one who fears it might all be stripped away. This transportive narrative, a glimpse of what could be. As the story slowly unravels and the hour slips its knot, I find myself in awe of this bold, selfless woman, who managed to overcome unsurmountable odds.

One night, Haneen continues, her tone darkening, Aziza was not so careful. She failed to realize that Omar, one of the men from her unit, had heard her leaving the tent to wash. He wondered where she was going and decided to follow her.

The children gasp. Even I catch my breath. I did not wish Aziza to be discovered. She was brave—braver than I hoped to be.

After arriving at the small oasis where she bathed, Aziza shed her clothes and began to submerge herself when the scuff of a boot stopped her cold.

Yousef? the man whispered.

There is a pause. I expect Haneen to go on, but she merely sits there, more satisfied than the fattest of cats drunk on cream.

What happens next? a young boy cries. What happens to Aziza?

She grins. You will have to return tomorrow to find out.

The slap of my sandals travels the length of the palace corridor with the percussive rhythm of hide drums. I have nearly reached the throne room when someone drawls, I hear celebrations are in order, Princess Sarai.

I slow, angling to the right. A buxom woman draped in yellow silk reclines against one of the smooth pillars—and she is not alone. Three noblewomen flank her. My pleasant mood promptly sours. Dalia Yassin.

Somehow, I manage to plaster a close-lipped smile across my mouth. And what, exactly, are we celebrating? That dress makes you look like an old goat.

Dalia bats her eyelashes. Why, your forthcoming betrothal to Prince Balior, of course. You don’t deserve him, hag.

My smile wanes. That information has not been publicly announced. Then again, countless cooks, attendants, handmaidens, and stableboys are employed by members of the court to snoop and pry, including Dalia’s family, one of the oldest and wealthiest in Ammara.

"Although, I’m not sure if celebration is the right word, the woman goes on, easing off the pillar, arm outswept in an absurd display of dramatics. Her followers gaze on, captivatied. King Halim must be truly desperate for a match if he is selling you off to the enemy."

My eyes narrow in warning. That’s not—

But who can blame the man? she cuts in smoothly. It’s not like you’re getting any younger. A princess in her mid-twenties with zero prospects? Well, she tsks. That is a shame.

A furious blush flames red across my cheeks. What is worse? This poison she spews, or the fact that I cannot deny its verity? In my younger years, I was too busy studying music to make a strategic match.

I myself had my pick of eligible noblemen. She glances at her nails. Rich, glossy pink. My husband is lucky to call himself mine.

Lucky. That’s not exactly the word I’d use. Didn’t I hear your husband married you to help pay his father’s gambling debts?

Our audience titters behind their hands. Dalia grows so red I am convinced she will succumb to fever.

I’ll have you know that I was tutored alongside one of Prince Balior’s cousins as a child, she seethes. So I would take care with your words.

I offer a wide, toothy grin. You should have kept in touch.

The noblewomen’s gasps trail me as I stride purposefully toward the throne room. Two expansive doors painted the pale blue of the midmorning sky open with a groan. It is vast, this chamber—the great belly of the palace. Guards ornament the walls. Archers, unseen but for the points of their nocked arrows, command the second level. Gleaming marble tiles toss light from the high windows onto the mosaiced ceiling.

A long, woven rug connects the entrance to the dais in the back of the room. King Halim occupies the most impressive seat: a deeply cushioned chair that drips with jewels. To his right sits an equally impressive yet slightly smaller throne. It has been vacant since my mother’s passing nearly twenty-five years before. To his left, three additional thrones: mine, Amir’s, Fahim’s.

Upon reaching the dais, I kneel. Father.

You’re late.

The drop in my stomach is a feeling I know well. Lifting my head, I glance around. The chamber is empty. Our guests have yet to arrive.

He stiffens. Excuse me? His voice is low, dangerously so.

So long as I am seated before they are, I say, why should it matter that I am a few moments behind schedule?

"It matters because I know that you are tardy. I have spoken to you about this before."

I regard Father coolly. King Halim was once an impressive man. The breadth and solidity of his shoulders, arms, and back. The curve of his proud belly. He stood taller than most men, black beard shining and full.

But the man who surveys me now is but a shade of my father. His musculature has wasted with disease. He looks frail beneath the folds of his ivory robe. The skin around his jowls hangs loose with age.

And what of Amir? I press. You and I both know he struggles with timeliness.

The king is not amused. "Amir is not tardy today. He is on his honeymoon, as you well know. Do you expect your brother to be in two places at once? He does not allow me the opportunity to respond before he adds, Tardiness is unacceptable for someone of your station. See to it that it doesn’t happen again."

I bite into the soft flesh of my inner cheek. Too easily, my tongue sharpens, its barbs threatening to spew forth. I remind myself of what’s at stake: my kingdom, my life. Duly noted, I clip out.

Father grunts in acknowledgment as I rise, taking my place on the smallest throne. Only when I am settled do the doors open once more.

Announcing Prince Balior of Um Salim to His Majesty, King Halim Al-Khatib of Ammara.

A man, tall and well-built, strides through the doors. Twelve men dressed in loose, ebon robes flank him, scimitars hanging from their belt loops—his personal guard, I assume.

The prince is young, not yet thirty. Handsome, though even the most pleasing countenance may obscure a rot beneath. Black hair curls over his ears, and color reddens his sharp cheekbones from the sweltering heat. A fairer complexion than I am used to, though if he were to spend considerable time outdoors, his skin would likely turn as brown as mine.

For many years, the realms of Ammara and Um Salim were at war. And who could blame the larger realm for attempting to invade? Ammara is rich with wealth, particularly its capital, Ishmah, though the people of Um Salim do not know just how much this prosperity has waned. Twenty-five years of drought, for which I am to blame. And there is the threat of the encroaching darkwalkers to consider, too.

Prince Balior is a preeminent scholar who has studied the region’s oldest myths. Father hopes his research will prove useful in finding a way to break my curse, end the drought, and halt the darkwalkers’ infiltration of our land. If Prince Balior’s negotiations with King Halim are favorable, our separate realms will soon marry into one.

Of course, the prince cannot know that his bride-to-be is cursed, or that the kingdom he hopes to one day rule is doomed. I will need to take care with how I approach discourse concerning his research findings. It weighs on me, this secret. Only Father is privy to it.

Your Majesty. Our guest kneels, blue headscarf brushing the snowy tile. I am honored.

Father considers the man’s prostrated form. After a moment, he states, Rise, Prince Balior. Our Lord of the Mountain shines upon you. I trust your journey was fair?

He sweeps to his feet with a fluidity I do not often witness. It was. My men and I are humbled by the welcome.

And where are your soldiers now?

Beyond Ishmah’s walls. They await your permission to enter.

King Halim presses the tips of his fingers together. Unfortunately, Prince Balior, I cannot permit your army to pass into the capital. Not until the wedding ceremony is complete. This is for the protection of my people. I’m sure you understand. Your personal guard will of course be accommodated inside the palace.

The prince frowns. His eyes flicker with some indecipherable emotion. This, he did not expect. While I agree with Father’s decision, it’s not exactly a hospitable introduction. But Prince Balior bows, saying, I understand. Though, it has been a long journey—I cannot expect my men to return to Um Salim after having just arrived here.

Naturally, the king replies smoothly. They may camp beyond the wall as we await the ceremony. Father gestures to me, though does not glance my way. My daughter, Princess Sarai Al-Khatib.

The prince regards me curiously. I dip my chin toward our guest, my smile thin and cutting.

King Halim continues, I’m hopeful that we’ll reach an arrangement benefitting both Ammara and Um Salim in the coming weeks.

My hand in marriage. My freedom exchanged for Ammara’s survival. In less than thirty days, the tattoo marking the left hand of every married person in Ammara will be inked on my skin.

Thank you, Your Majesty. Ammara has much to offer—

Though Prince Balior continues to speak, my attention cuts to a sudden motion within the stillness of the chamber. A figure slips through one of the side doors behind the guards. Broad, sure-footed: the man with the white headscarf I saw loitering outside the library.

A rush of defiance sends me to my feet. Halt! What business do you have with the king?

The archers located on the second level angle their arrows toward the intruder. A hundred scimitars slide free of their scabbards. Prince Balior’s personal guard hastily forms a shield around their sovereign.

Father’s eyes flash in my direction. Sarai. This man is a guest.

A guest who slips through the back door, I snarl, no better than a fox in the brush? How did he get past the guards? Unless he has killed them? Unrest has bled into the realm’s widening cracks. As drought creeps toward its third decade, people’s desperation intensifies. Step forward.

For someone so broad, he moves with startling lightness. Something about the motion sends an odd shiver across my scalp.

Sarai! King Halim’s rage is total. If you do not take your seat this instant—

I am both dreaming and awake, for though the man’s face is partially veiled, I am certain I have seen it before. Remove your scarf, sir.

He lifts a hand, catching the fabric between two fingers. The cloth unwinds: nose, mouth, jaw. That face, bared and horribly familiar. My stomach drops as the South Wind speaks in a voice reminiscent of a deep, ceaseless current.

Hello, Sarai.

2

A SLOW, PRICKLING CHILL ICES MY blood. It leadens my limbs, encases my heart and lungs in impenetrable crystal. I am both Sarai of past and Sarai of present. I am eighteen years old and twenty-four. I am inspired, cherished, adored, then deceived, broken, alone. My throat squeezes so tightly I fear I will faint.

But I do not faint. No, that will simply not do. Vulnerability is the enemy.

Notus—known to all as the South Wind—regards me with eyes like clear, deep pools. I have not seen his face in five years, yet he has aged not a day. I have touched that face, kissed that face, loved that face, despised that face. How appalling that I still consider it beautiful. Skin of deepest brown and black, impenetrable eyes. A broad, stocky torso swathed in emerald and cream. The South Wind, who sees much, speaks little.

Sarai!

Father’s voice is distant, a wavering sun beyond the thickened haze. I force my legs to move—down the steps, across the tiled floor, expression fixed into one of intense loathing. The leather binding on the hilt of Notus’ scimitar appears fresh, newly wrapped. It is the only change I perceive.

Guards! I shout, halting an arm span away from the South Wind. Take this immortal to the dungeons to await my arrival.

The flare of Notus’ dark eyes reminds me of volcanic rock, forged fresh by blistering heat. A breathless pang grips me. I promptly squash the emotion.

You have no such authority, Sarai, Father snaps, voice laced with displeasure. Notus is here at my behest. As such, you will treat him with respect.

You must be mistaken, Father. If you recall, he deserted Ammara years ago. According to our laws, desertion is punishable by death.

The chamber falls silent.

When the king speaks, it is with a chilling lack of warmth. You dare to question my decision?

No, Father. I respond without removing my attention from the South Wind. He will witness neither fault nor crack. But we have laws for a reason. I suggest we make an example of him.

The South Wind is, after all, immortal. As a god, he cannot be killed except by a god-touched weapon. The only sword in this room that could kill him is his own. Why, I could slide that scimitar of his through his chest if I chose. But a swift death? That is a grace he does not deserve.

Return to your seat, Sarai.

Father’s command cuts severely enough that I flinch. I must obey, yet some deep-seated part of me fears the South Wind will vanish should I turn away.

There’s no need to treat me like a child, I say. I am only trying to help.

"If you act like a child, then I will treat you like one. Notus’ presence does not concern you. Return to your seat. Now!"

Many of the guards shift uncomfortably. Even Prince Balior gazes on with sympathy.

Somehow, despite my weighted legs, I return to the dais with a smooth, unfaltering stride and settle onto the immense throne. For the entirety of my life, I have despised this chair. Today of all days I am acutely aware of how it swallows me.

I turn toward the king. Father—

Not another word. Then, lowly: You dishonor me.

His strike lands precisely where it is intended. Heat climbs my chest and paints my face in shameful red. I did not mean to dishonor Father. I only wished to protect him from this banished god.

Notus continues to scrutinize me with an impassive expression. The strength required to maintain such a mask is too great—strength I do not possess. I drop my eyes. After this embarrassment, I doubt Prince Balior will be keen to bind his life to mine. Have I ruined the only chance of saving my life, the lives of my people, before it has even begun?

When the barest of breezes stirs the hem of my dress, my attention flits back to Notus. This, too, I remember: his emotions and the wind, forever intertwined. I glance at his hands, from whence those winds come. Broad palms and callused brown skin. Even now, my body remembers their weight.

King Halim dismisses the South Wind with the promise to discuss matters later. I do not watch Notus depart. The doors heave open, hammer shut.

It is an age before the king speaks again.

Prince Balior, I want to apologize for that deplorable scene. He regards the much younger man with meaningful remorse. My daughter—

There is no need for an apology, Prince Balior replies, hands lifted in a gesture of goodwill. His personal guard has since retreated, having returned to their stations. Ruling a kingdom is quite messy, as I’m coming to learn. I do not fault your daughter in wanting to protect your best interests.

A wave of unexpected gratitude warms me. It is a kindness I do not deserve.

If we are to wed by the month’s end, I daresay I would be foolish not to put this incident behind us. A small, secret smile plays about the prince’s mouth. I look forward to spending time together, Princess Sarai.

I nod, though my attention slips its knot, sliding over the throne room doors where Notus departed moments earlier. I force my eyes back to Prince Balior’s. I look forward to that as well.

King Halim lifts a hand, and an attendant steps forward. Ilan will show you to your chambers. I imagine you are weary from the long journey. Tomorrow, we feast in celebration of your impending nuptials.

The prince bows low. I appreciate your hospitality, Your Majesty. I look forward to dining with you and Princess Sarai. Good night. Then he takes his leave.

As soon as we are alone, I round on Father. Why?

He slumps back into his chair with a sigh. Time has faded the scarlet cushions to the color of rust. "Why what, Sarai? I need specifics. Why is not enough."

King Halim is no fool. He will make me spell it out. Very well. Why have you allowed Notus to return unpunished?

Because I have need of him. Our realm has need of him. As of this morning, he has accepted a position in the Royal Guard.

Guard? I struggle to catch my breath. Why have you placed Notus in a position of power? Why welcome him back into our home with open arms? My hands tremble. I fist them in the folds of my dress.

Must I explain something so obvious? he snaps. Fahim was never so slow to understand and did not waste his breath asking questions.

It always takes me by surprise how swiftly the grief rises. Despite five years having passed, it still feels as if my brother’s death occurred yesterday. Bright, beloved Fahim, the eldest of Father’s sons.

I did not realize my concern was a waste of breath, I reply stiffly. I will be sure to temper it the next time I believe our realm to be under threat.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, as though my hurt is an inconvenience. You know what I meant.

I don’t, actually. But I keep that bitter thought close. I do not see what is obvious about allowing a deserter into the Royal Guard.

Deserter or not, Father explains, Notus is the strongest person in this realm. You know as well as I do that the drought has weakened Ishmah. Years of failed harvests, and we cannot even afford to feed our people, much less an army. Darkwalkers gain strength by the day. Many have fallen prey to their hunts.

I know. Of course I know. Ishmah, strategically hewn from the valley’s clay walls, once utilized the annual floodwaters to supply its extensive irrigation system, including numerous wells, reservoirs, and canals. But rain has not fallen in Ammara for over two decades. The capital’s high walls, carved with runes to repel the darkwalkers, provide adequate protection from the beasts. Yet each passing year, they seem to multiply. Some claim darkwalkers have already infiltrated the city, but I have seen no such evidence.

As for the South Wind, Father is right. Notus is the only person to have ever entered the labyrinth and return alive. His power will help quell the darkwalkers—even if that means admitting him as a member of the Royal Guard.

Times are changing, Sarai. The king surveys me with eyes touched by fatigue. Sometimes we must take drastic measures if we are to endure the worst of what’s to come.

He appears defeated. Perhaps I should not have behaved so recklessly in Prince Balior’s presence. After all, Father risked everything to save my life as a sickly infant. I owe it to him to be dutiful. I understand, but how can you trust that Notus will not desert us a second time?

I trust him, Sarai. That’s all that matters.

He turned his back on our kingdom! On me.

His expression hardens. No matter my concern, no matter my hurt, my feelings will always be deemed as insignificant in the eyes of a king. I have not forgotten, he replies, but I have forgiven. Perhaps it’s time you do the same.

3

ROSHAR HAMMAD. ROYAL TAILOR.

The plaque displays a tidy script carved into the wood’s pale grain. My mouth quirks at the ornate penmanship, its dramatic flourishes. The original plaque had been modest, uniform, unremarkable. In other words, far too dull for the likes of Roshar. Muffled conversation drifts through the door.

I said a two-finger hem, not three, a man barks. Don’t give me that look. Redo it. I don’t care how long it takes.

There is a pause.

"Are you insinuating I do not know the difference of an inch? My dear, I have clothed the royal family for a decade. I have designed the fashions of the season for the highest governmental officials, the wealthiest of merchants, and the most influential families. You dare suggest I do not know something as fundamental to tailoring as inches? Whoever he speaks to utters a quiet response. That’s what I thought."

Lifting a fist, I knock.

The door cracks open, then pulls wide. Large, hazel-green eyes swim with irritation behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. A blink, and the man frowns. Sarai?

Is this a bad time? I whisper.

Beyond his shoulder, three women and two men crowd around an article of clothing spread across a large table. They stare at me in unease, likely wondering why the princess has come knocking.

For you? Never. Roshar snaps his fingers. Everyone out.

A flurry of cotton, a rush of lemon-scented air, and we are alone.

Quiet presses upon my ears. With space enough to breathe, I enter the room and collapse onto a cushioned armchair near one of the many windows. Beyond, the sky is brutally clear. I cannot remember when clouds were last stitched into its blue fabric.

Tilting back my head, I close my eyes. Deep breath—in, and out. And again.

Rough day? asks Roshar.

If only he knew. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the tension between my eyes to dissipate. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.

Roshar tsks as though I’m admitting to some horrible offense. You can’t mean that. I may be the royal tailor, but at the end of the day, I am still a tailor.

Yet he is unburdened, and free.

I glance around the room. It is draped in riotous color: ruby and citrine and amber and jade. Heaps of fabric weigh down the long tables shoved against the walls. Various works-in-progress hang from the ceiling, including a long, ivory robe embellished in silver thread.

Roshar is equally embellished: scarlet trousers, tawny robe, white headscarf. I am forever in awe at how far my friend has come. Ten years ago, he was but a lowly apprentice. Now, he is tailor to the royal family.

What’s on your mind, dear?

Nervous energy bristles under my skin. It flows down my left arm, through my fingertips, into a subtle tap-tap against the chair arm in a rhythm I have not thought of in years. Even now, the melody that accompanies this rhythm shimmers against my eardrums in a ghostly echo of the past. I flinch and curl my fingers into a fist.

Once again, I say, I fear I fall short in my father’s eyes.

Is that all? he asks with too much knowing, taking a seat in a neighboring chair.

No. It is not even the half of it.

I never say the right things. I continually dishonor him. My actions are humiliating, disgraceful, unwanted. I clench my jaw in an effort to ward off the rising shame. Sometimes I wonder if my father wouldn’t prefer that Fahim were here in my stead. And me buried beneath the earth.

Roshar’s expression falls into a rare somberness. You don’t mean that.

I do, I whisper. I very well do.

Reaching out, he takes my hand between his thin, bandaged fingers. Blood spots the cloth where one too many needles have pricked him. Customarily, no man may touch an unmarried woman. But why should I not accept comfort when it is offered? I am to die in just over a month, and the affection of a friend is much needed. Besides, Roshar prefers men in his bed, not women.

Springing upright, Roshar moves to the opposite side of the room and returns with a plate bearing a small pomegranate tart. Wordlessly, he sets the plate in my hand, passes over a fork. You look like you need it.

My smile wavers in gratitude. Thank you. I was born into privilege, Ammara’s riches my inheritance, yet I have but one friend. I do not trust the women at court. They slip their fingers between the bars as though I am a bird in a cage, offering me morsels, crumbs. Apparently, I am only good enough for favors.

All right. Roshar plops onto a stool upholstered in olive green fabric, a cup of refreshing mint tea in hand. Tell me what happened.

Gently, I tap the tines of my fork against the plate. I met the man I am to eventually marry this morning.

I see. He takes a sip. Let me guess. He was dreadfully dull.

I shrug. I haven’t formed an opinion of him yet. Though I appreciated Prince Balior’s effort to shield me from Father’s ire. These initial weeks, the prince and I will court, until the engagement is formalized. Then: marriage. And… there’s more.

Oh? Roshar perks up, takes another sip.

I abandon all propriety and shove the entire pastry into my mouth. Through bulging cheeks, I manage, Notus has returned.

Roshar spews his tea everywhere. What!

I mop the tea from my face with a square of cloth, mouth quirked. Must I repeat myself?

He snaps into motion: across the room, to the door, the window, back to the stool. By the gods, Sarai. You can’t just drop this information into my lap without warning. Gradually, his astonishment hones itself into a bright, eager curiosity. When did this happen? Why? Have you seen him? I need details.

I respond around the sweet acidity of pomegranate jam. Our meeting occurred just this morning. No, I was not aware he had returned. Yes, Father knows of his presence. Oh, and he appointed Notus as a member of the Royal Guard.

The Royal Guard? Oh, goodness. I need to sit. He collapses onto the stool, fanning himself with one of his sketches. Does Amir know? A sharp gasp sounds as his hand flies to his mouth. Can you imagine the bloodshed?

My stomach quivers with unease, and I set the plate aside. Perhaps I should not have eaten so much so quickly. No, I reply. He’s still on his honeymoon. Lucky him, that he should be granted the opportunity of seeing the world while I am expected to remain here, forever tied to the prince. I’m sure it will be fine. He has more important things to worry about than petty revenge.

Roshar’s gaze communicates his disagreement, but thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue. How are you though, truly? His eyes soften behind his glasses. It’s been years since he left, but…

But time is treacherous. Seasons may have waxed and waned, yet I stood before the South Wind mere hours ago and felt as if I were once again a girl of eighteen.

Honestly? I swallow painfully. Confused. It took years to rebuild my life. During that time, I’d grieved not only Notus, but Fahim as well. I decided then that vulnerability would never again hold power over me. My heart would belong only to myself.

Roshar squeezes my fingers in solidarity. That is valid. Expected, even. He frowns, perhaps noticing how my hand trembles. What’s your plan?

Plan?

I assume you are already plotting how best to murder the South Wind?

My mouth relaxes into the smallest curve. How did you know?

How will we do it? Tell me. He leans forward with all the eagerness of a young pup. You know I’m always here to help bury a body.

I do know. And I appreciate him for that. But I do not wish for Notus’ death. Merely his suffering.

I’ll need time to think about it, I say.

Seeing that my mood has improved slightly, Roshar wanders to a far window, where he halts. Oh, my. The glitter of his rings catches the light as he rests a hand over his chest. "Sarai. It’s him! He looks even more