“I don’t want to live it without you.”
“It will only be for a short while,” he whispers, eyelids sinking low. “We will meet again. If not in this life, then the next.”
“Notus.” I grip his hand tightly enough to bruise “You must stay awake.”
“Sarai,” he slurs. “I will dream of you.”
The South Wind is gone.
33
DESPITE THE BRIGHT ORB THATis the sun, I see only smoke.
Ishmah—charred, crumbling Ishmah—is a smoldering ruin in the weeks following Prince Balior’s attack. The fumes are horrendous. My eyes suffer in a constant state of irritation, though I don’t know whether it’s from the smoke or the hours I have wept. Ishmah has weathered much, as have I, as have all who claim the Red City as their home.
Flesh heaps the streets, human and darkwalker alike. From the window of my study, I watch people drag bodies from collapsed buildings: mothers, cousins, uncles, friends. Loved ones fall to their knees in anguish. They scream and tear at their hair. They plead to the gods, to anyone who might listen. When this occurs, I press a hand to my heart and wish them peace in the afterlife.
Twice, I have ventured into the city, seeking comfort in Haneen’s tales of friendship, adventure, and triumph. Since the beast’s escape from the labyrinth, Amir is all but buried under reconstruction efforts. If he’s not in meetings with the council or helping rebuild the lower ring—where the worst of the devastation occurred—then he’s organizing functions to distract the court from what they’ve lost, the knowledge of a great evil unleashed.
I don’t attend these functions. Neither does Tuleen, who is with child. While Amir does his best to piece our broken city back together,I remain behind closed doors, my mind tearing itself apart in an effort to think my way out of a situation that can be neither altered nor wished away.
I have written letters. I have placed offerings at every crumbling temple, every scant, forgotten shrine. I have read every book, tome, scroll, and letter housed in Ishmah’s vast library. I have beseeched the gods.Save him, I plead.Save this god, whom I love.
The South Wind, who lies still in my bed.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, I lean over him, brushing the hair from his forehead. His broad chest swells and contracts with gentle exhalations. His skin, when touched, is warm.
He did not die, as I had assumed after he pierced his chest with Prince Balior’s dagger. When I realized he was still alive, I wept tears of gratitude. But the days passed, and he didn’t wake. Somehow, he is caught in an endless sleep.
In so many ways, I have failed him. So much wasted time. A wealth of bitterness and misdirected anger. If I had not been so utterly entrenched in the black cavity of my trauma, perhaps fate would have unfolded differently. As it is, there are no answers, no cure.
A knock sounds at the door. “Sarai?”
My eyes sink shut on a sudden wave of exhaustion. “Come in.”
Queen Tuleen Al-Khatib of Ammara enters my chambers, dressed in the black of mourning. The door closes with a soft click.
Rather than approach the bed, she moves toward the windows, their panes of glass shuttered behind the drawn curtains. Grasping the heavy fabric, she looks to me for permission. “May I?”
I shrug, and she pulls back the heavy drapes. Streams of frail sunlight pierce the gloom.
She then refills my glass of water from the pitcher resting on the bedside table. “Drink,” she says, offering me the glass. I accept it without complaint, draining every drop until it’s gone.
After settling onto the chair located on the opposite side of the bed, Tuleen regards me in concern. “Any changes?” she asks tentatively.
“No.” No matter my efforts, the South Wind will not wake.
She studies his smooth, unlined face. The skin around her eyes is puffy, signaling lack of sleep. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve done all that I can.” I must now ask myself what comes next. Do I allow Notus to sleep? Is it fair to keep him in this half-state when there is no hope for resurrection? How will that impact my life? Will I be able to move on, or will I obsess over Notus’ affliction as I’d obsessed over my own?
Tuleen eases back into the chair. “I didn’t think you were one to give up so easily,” she murmurs.
I stiffen. “I’m not giving up, I’m just—”
Ammara’s queen quirks a brow.
Giving up.
