“I understand the need for formality in the king’s presence,” I say, “butSaraiwill suffice when we are alone.”
In a liquid motion, Notus sheathes his scimitar. He does not even appear winded. “I was not aware that we were friendly enough for the informality.”
It takes a great effort to keep my attention above his neck. This would be much easier were he not carved to perfection. “We are friendly enough.” I do not give him the opportunity to negate this claim, charging forward with all the subtlety of a bull. “Am I correct in assuming you were not born in Ammara?” Though his coloring is similar to my people, the narrowed shape of his eyes suggests he was born elsewhere.
“You are.”
He offers nothing else. But I have cracked tougher shells.
“So what brought you here?” I ask, and can’t help the way my eyes rove over this man, every part of him. His fingers are strong and broad,the color of baked bread. To the east, opaline sunlight flutters across the Red City, brightening his left cheek.
“I suppose,” he says, frowning, “I am no longer welcome in the place where I was born.”
It is a start. But I am eager to know more. “Why?”
To this, he offers no response. Very well.
“If you will not gift me with an answer,” I say, “then explain to me why, out of the thousands of people here, you believe yourself capable of slaying the beast.”
His eyes—ebon stars shaded by thick lashes—glitter above the scarf shielding the lower portion of his face. Beyond his shoulders, the labyrinth looms, as it always does. A shallow tug in my gut compels me to approach. I ignore it.
“I am a god,” he says.
“A god.” Somehow, I know it to be true despite lack of evidence of his claim. “What are you a god of, exactly?”
The smallest pebbles clatter underfoot as he widens his stance. Our shoulders brush briefly, and my heart kicks hard against my rib cage. Then Notus stretches out his arm. The air stirs against his palm.
“Many know me as the South Wind,” he says. “I am responsible for the summer winds.”
I stare in wonder. He sends a gentle breeze to stir the strands of hair curled against my neck. My eyes leap to his. He does not shy away.
“If you’re a god,” I press, “then I can only assume that means you are immortal?”
“You would be correct.”
For a time, all is silent, snuffed out by the thickening mist. “I wish to know your thoughts.”
Notus looks to me with thinly veiled surprise. I imagine the curve of his mouth behind the scarf and wish for the barrier to be removed so that I might see his expression in full.
“I am thinking that it is quiet here,” he says. “I am unused to this weight, this… open stretch of flattened land.”
The wind gusts, its hollow timbre in my ears, a twining of pitches high and low. I pull my arms to my chest, wrapping them around my stomach for additional warmth. Every so often, one of the guards makes his rounds.
“What else?” I demand, angling my head just so. I wish to know all that he can give me.
He looks at me then. “But I have told you.”
“Tell me again,” I say.
“Sarai.”
I startle, Ibramin coming into sharper focus. He sits in his wheeled chair near the window of the music room, violin resting on his knee. Mine is tucked between my left shoulder and chin, bow hovering over the string.
“Your scales,” he says with evident irritation. “D harmonic minor, if you please.”
I comply, ascending and descending the scale with ease. My daily sessions always begin with scales. After nearly an hour, we move on to études. We spend so long on technique that my lesson comes to an end before we’re able to review my concerto.
As I tuck my violin back into its case, Ibramin rolls his chair toward me, face grave. “Sarai. The competition approaches. You must focus.”
