“Must you always argue for the sake of argument?” he snaps. “Notus will accompany you. That is final.” He begins to exit the stables.
I should be used to the sight of Father’s retreating back, but it has the unsettling power of reducing me to a child, mindless with panic at his refusal to stay.
“All my life you have brushed me aside.” Despite the rigidity of my posture, the stubborn thrust of my chin, I am ashamed to hear cracks in my voice. “Yet now you act as if I am suddenly dear to you?” Whether or not he acknowledges it, Father remembers my relationshipwith Notus clearly, for once it came to light, it proved just how little he truly knew his own daughter. Is this punishment, I wonder, for having gone behind his back in my younger years, for seizing my heart’s desire?
Slowly, the king turns to face me. His expression hurts to look upon. “I don’t know what’s come over you of late, but remember that everything I do is to keep you safe. Time is running out, Sarai. What else do you expect me to do?”
I glance at Notus, who is frowning in mystification, likely at the king’s vague exclamation. There is some truth to what Father said. I would not be here were it not for him. He risked everything to save my life when I was a newborn. Perhaps I am being ungrateful.
Prince Balior abruptly appears in the doorway, hair freshly combed, beard oiled and trimmed. The rising sun hangs as a red star above his shoulder.
“Prince Balior. Welcome.” Drawing him near, King Halim bestows a kiss on the prince’s cheek. “I trust you slept well?”
“Indeed.” He bows to me. “Princess Sarai.”
I smile wanly, suddenly regretting having made this commitment to spite Notus, for I am left drinking its poison. “Prince Balior.”
The prince’s gaze flicks to the South Wind before settling once more on the king. “May I ask what the pastries that I received for breakfast this morning are called? They were delicious.”
“Ah.” A rare grin creases Father’s face. “They are our prized apricot tarts. I will ask the cook to send a fresh batch to your rooms upon your return.”
With that, the king departs, and we mount our horses. Prince Balior appears comfortable enough atop the stallion, directing him with a firm hand while Notus saddles a roan gelding. The prince regards the South Wind for an uncomfortably long time. “Will your guard be accompanying us?”
I offer him a strained smile. “Unfortunately.”
Five miles west of the capital, the landscape sheds its skin. Sand dissolves to hardened earth, parched red rock that wavers beneath the blistering air as the Ramil Mountains near. At the foothills, a ring of shocking greenery interrupts the otherwise monochromatic landscape, a thick density of tough, woody trees. Ishmah sits as a smudge in the distance, a rust-colored stain against the gilded backdrop of spreading dunes.
After sipping from my waterskin, I tuck the small container into the bundle of supplies tied to Zainab’s saddle. Sweat dampens my underarms, though my light linen dress ensures I do not overheat.
“Do you require a reprieve?” I ask Prince Balior as we ride shoulder to shoulder. “There is shade up ahead.”
“Unnecessary.” He sits astride the stallion’s broad back, reins slack in one hand, sweating quite profusely. Color slashes the paler skin of his cheeks. “The sooner we reach Kir Bashab, the sooner we can return to the palace—and a cooling glass of mint tea.”
My mouth quirks. “That’s fair.” From what I recall of my studies, Um Salim is located at a much lower elevation. Its coastal position provides a cool sea breeze that Ammara lacks. “It’s not much further,” I reassure my riding companion. “The journey will be worth it, I assure you.”
“I trust it will be.” There is a pause. “What is that formation in the distance?”
I look to where he points. Splayed across the flattened mountaintop, an ancient stone structure reflects the white light of the sun. “That is Mount Syr, the holiest site in Ammara.” Visited during the annual Festival of Rain, the monument contains a large dais and a vast stone chair that may have once been a throne.
“I see.” Clearly, I have piqued Prince Balior’s interest. “Might we stop for a short visit?”
I wince. Normally, I would agree, but I doubt our chaperone would permit an unplanned detour. “We don’t have the time, unfortunately.”
The prince frowns in disappointment. Again, he peers out at the holy site before facing forward with a sigh. “So many of our beliefs can be traced back to those ancient places. Even the labyrinth is a wonder.Though your guard would not allow me to approach when I visited it the other day.”
“I apologize for that. It is a measure of security, but I’m sure we can make an exception.” I offer him a small smile. “I will speak to Father.”
Sweat continues to drip down Prince Balior’s face, which he wipes with the cloth of his sleeve. “There’s no rush. If I am to one day rule Ammara by your side, all that is yours will become mine. There is time yet to explore it.”
I stiffen in response to his word choice. All that is mine willnotbecome his. It will be shared.
Abruptly, the prince drops his voice. “Who is he, by the way? Your chaperone?”
I fight the urge to glance over my shoulder, where Notus sits astride his gelding. “He is the South Wind.”
Surprise flickers across my companion’s expression. “He is immortal, then? Weren’t he and his brothers banished from the City of Gods?”
Of course Prince Balior would have heard of the Anemoi, the Four Winds, divine brothers who possess enormous power, a wellspring always overflowing. And the prince is correct. Ammara is not Notus’ home. It is simply the place he was banished to.
