The pleading in his voice does not go unnoticed.Try. It does not seem so perilous a word. Harmless, really, without any expectation attached.
Generally, Ibramin and I spend lessons reviewing music theory and counterpoint. Most days, we sit in silence. I pretend to study, and he pretends I have not completely abandoned music. But sometimes… sometimes, he asks me to perform. Always, I decline. But today? Something new.
I nod in compliance, watching as Ibramin wheels to my side before offering me his instrument. A deep red varnish coats the flamed maple back. My violin’s coloring is much lighter in comparison, a uniform gold with darker whorls near the tail piece.
As I accept the familiar weight of the violin, my throat narrows, and I remember all that I wish to forget.
There is Fahim’s face, the pearly flash of his laughing mouth as I watched him perform. Then, years later, the fatigue dulling his once-bright eyes. There is the unease of silence during meals where merriment had once thrived. There is his bedroom door, my palm resting against the cool wood, confusion and fear intertwined after he’d failed to come down to breakfast. And there is what lies beyond that door, which still haunts me to this day.
“Will you play?” Ibramin asks.
Gently, I return the violin to its case. “I will not.”
4
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THERE’S Aknock on my door.
“From His Majesty,” the messenger states, the king’s waxen seal still warm when I pluck the parchment from the man’s grip.
Prince Balior will join us for dinner tonight. I expect your arrival promptly at seven. Do not be late.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I crumple the parchment in my fist. “Please notify the king that I will be in attendance,” I inform the messenger, then shut the door.
Quiet seethes into my chambers, slithering through the cracks in the floor. An echo of an old panic eats at me.
Moving toward the window, I peer out over the Red City. A blistering flare of color daubs the horizon. The sandstorm is miles off, yet it cloaks all in a red haze: ideal conditions for a darkwalker attack.
I cast my eyes down to the palace grounds below. A figure, blurred behind the encroaching dim, shifts across the courtyard with an effortlessness belonging only to the divine.Of coursethe South Wind is practicing his swordsmanship, andof coursehe would do so bare from the waist up. At this hour, the air still holds a chill, but sweat glazes his muscled torso, threads of black hair plastered against his neck. Admittedly, I have never met anymore more gifted with a sword. It is to him as the violin once was to me. I watch the shift of muscle as he cutsdown an invisible opponent, and my face stings with heat. I may loathe the immortal, but I’m not dead—yet.
I force myself to turn away, no matter how compelling the sight. Ishmah calls to me. I cannot stay.
After tossing on my cloak, I quickly descend the stairs, taking a few lesser-known corridors to reach the smaller western gate. As an adolescent, I would often escape into the city when Father’s expectations began to feel particularly taxing. Hours I would spend, exploring the public gardens, the crooked footpaths of the souk. When Father discovered my disobedience, he sealed the gates, forbidding me to enter the city without an escort. In retaliation, I bribed his watchmen.
“Your Highness.” A middle-aged man named Mohan dips his chin in acknowledgment. The younger guard beside him, Emin, beams at me.
One by one, I drop five gold coins into each of their palms. “I will be returning in approximately two hours.”Clink, clink. “If Father asks after me”—clink—“you know what to say.”
Mohan flashes his teeth as the gold disappears inside his fist. Emin appears positively giddy over his heavier pockets. “You were last spotted reading in one of the gardens and asked not to be disturbed.”
I have trained them well.
It does not take long to reach the Old Quarter. Head ducked, hood shadowing my face, I dive into the vibrancy of the souk, skirting the area where farmers congregate, their wagons and carts cluttered together like toys in a chest. Aromas of onion, garlic, and pepper wend through the mill of patrons, layering themselves upon the mouthwatering scent of grilled meat.
And yet, the produce is diminished, touched by disease. The grains are shriveled, the fruit scarce and picked over. Farmers are forced to travel many miles to the nearest oasis for water, which depletes year after year. It is not enough to sustain the city. But we do what we can.
A stall near the end of the lane draws my eye, and I halt, shock rooting me in place. A woman sits behind a display of black iris, calmly biting into a bruised peach. Velvet petals painted the black of a deep well. The forbidden bloom.
King Halim ordered the removal of black iris from Ishmah decades ago. It was a lengthy affair, and thorough. Every dusky bud ripped from the flower beds, the gardens, the smallest pots sunning themselves in kitchen windows. All imports were permanently banned. If black iris is discovered in a citizen’s possession, the penalty is death.
For that is how I am to die, according to our Lord of the Mountain. A prick from the thorn of Ammara’s most beloved flower.
Which begs the question: How didthiswoman manage to slip past the gates with the deadly blooms? I glance around. No one seems to detect the flowers, or care. She is breaking the law, yet I do not wish for her to die. It is so hard to make a living in this drought-stricken land. As long as I do not touch the flower itself, I am safe.
I browse another cart farther on. This merchant sells fine necklaces of hammered copper and silver, among other things. I frown, touching the surface of a small, ruby-inlaid mirror with a fingertip. I’m certain I saw something move within the looking glass. As I peer closer, my hand stills.
I need not spot the South Wind to sense his presence. It arrives as a cloud of heat against my nape, the scent of salt and hot stone. I grit my teeth against the unexpected ache. My body remembers that scent viscerally.
“If your plan is to stalk me without notice,” I drawl, “you are doing a poor job of it.”
