“Let me be absolutely clear,” I say, stepping aside so a harried mother carrying two swaddled infants can pass. “There are no darkwalkers inside Ishmah’s walls. They have never been breached. Your fearmongering has no place here.”
My pace quickens as I push onward. No longer do I neatly skirt those in my path. No, I knock those smaller and weaker aside, elbowing my way past women carting large skeins of cotton and wool. Meanwhile, Notus dogs my heels, an unwelcome shadow at my back.
“Will you inform the king of my outing?” I call over my shoulder, turning into another alley. Notus matches my stride with frustrating ease.
“That depends.” He sounds scarcely out of breath. “Will you continue to explore the market despite your father’s orders?”
“I will do as I please.”
“Then I have no choice but to notify him of your whereabouts.”
At this point, I would be thrilled to lose him, whether he informs Father or not. The faded yellow door at the end of the lane is a welcome sight, and I ’m rushing toward it when Notus catches my arm. “Where are you going?” he demands.
Despite the power of his grip, his fingers tighten only enough to halt my forward motion. “Let me pass,” I snap. “I’m late for the story.”
“Story?”
I wrench free of his hold. Do I wish him to know I sit at a grandmother’s knee to hear her tales? No. But I have failed to shake him loose. “I visit the storyteller often. I started attending when—” I shake my head, unwilling to mention Fahim’s passing. “It’s harmless. Just a handful of children listening to an old woman speak. If you wish to be of service to my father, then make yourself useful and stand watch.”
Notus eyes the battered door with deep mistrust. One end of his scarf has pulled lose, but he tucks it back in place, strands of black hair poking free of the cloth. “I would prefer to accompany you inside. What if one of them is a threat?”
I scoff. “They’re children, Notus. I’ll be fine.”
He merely glares at me. “I’m serious.”
“As am I. These people don’t know who I am. I want to keep it that way. Stay here.” Spinning on my heel, I slip inside, grateful for the darkness that cools my rising frustration. Quietly, I settle in the back of the room. Haneen has already begun to weave her threads. Hopefully I have not missed much.
Aziza snatched up her tunic, hurriedly shrugging it on to cover her nakedness.
Omar stared at her in bewilderment. “You’re a woman.”
Aziza lifted her chin in defiance. Yes, she was a woman masquerading as a man in their nation’s army. The punishment was death. “And? Will you turn me in?”
“You know that I must.”
Her lip curled in disgust. “You would have lost your life in the last battle if not for me.” The first few weeks of training, Aziza had wondered if she would survive. But she had learned. She had pushed herself when others had languished. She had refused to accept defeat.
Omar scanned their surroundings, as if only now realizing their isolated location. Aziza glanced at where she’d leaned her sword against a nearby boulder. Omar eyed it as well.
A few children gasp in panic. A slow grin spreads across my mouth as I lean forward, watching the woman’s milky eyes flicker deviously.
“Don’t do it,” Omar warned as his hand went to his own sword.
For whatever reason, Omar’s mistrust after months spent side by side in combat made Aziza’s heart sink. “Kill me then,” she whispered.
Omar frowned, yet he did not shift any nearer. Perhaps he was recalling how Aziza had saved his life. “Why would a woman choose a soldier’s life?”
“I took my grandfather’s identity to protect him. He would not have survived the war.”
Omar was quiet for a time, gazing out over the river. Eventually, he said, “And when your secret comes to light? I will be connected with that deceit. I, too, will face certain death.”
“Then we must keep it between ourselves.”
When Haneen stops for the day, the children begin filing out, chatting amongst themselves excitedly with the promise of next week’stale. I spot Notus near the door, blending into the shadows. My mouth thins as I stride over to him. “I told you to wait outside.”
The South Wind takes stock of the room. It is sparsely furnished, wanting. The old bard perches on her stool, head canted in our direction. Despite my attempts to corral him out the door, Notus will not budge.
“This is where you go when you leave the palace?” he questions.
