“You overstep, Notus. As you can see, I am safe.” I sweep an arm toward our surroundings. The land, the sky, the rising trees, and me. Alone, as I have always stood. “Now, I must collect our horses, and my guest. Father will have my head should I return without them.”
The moment we enter the palace stable yard, Prince Balior dismounts, his face a motley of streaked sweat, sunburned skin, and grit creasing the lines bracketing his mouth. Dust dulls the vibrant cobalt of his robe.
Father will be furious.
In what ways will Prince Balior retaliate? Will he demand a meeting with the king? Will he pack his bags and return to Um Salim, our courtship dissolved before it was made known?
“I wish I could say the trip was enjoyable,” the prince bites out, passing the reins to one of the hostlers, “but we both know that’s a lie.”
I’m sorry,I might say, though am I really? While I may not condone Notus’ assault against Prince Balior, my husband-to-be did not respect my boundaries. Indeed, he viewed them as obstacles to overcome.
I quickly dismount. Zainab noses the ground for bits of dried grass sprouting through the cracks in the stone. Hours in the saddle have left my legs sore, my patience thin. Whether or not I agree with his behavior, Prince Balior has his use. “On behalf of King Halim,” I say, “I wish to extend my sincerest apology.”
“Apology?” Terse, disbelieving laughter belts across the stable yard. “Begging your pardon, Princess Sarai, but I do not care for an apology. What I want,” he says, “is justice.”
Justice. The word drips cruelty.
“I understand,” I say, hoping to soothe his boiling ire. “The South Wind will be punished for this. You have my word.”
Prince Balior cuts a glare in Notus’ direction, though the ruddy tinge to his cheeks suggests embarrassment over his speedy defeat at the oasis. The South Wind has dismounted and proceeds to unsaddle his horse. He remains at the perimeter of the stable yard to offer us privacy. His hearing, however, is keener than most.
“If this were Um Salim, yourchaperonewould never have returned to Ishmah alive. I question King Halim’s integrity, that he would allow an untrained animal into his service.”
My chin lifts, spine steeled, legs braced in aggression against the prince. Personal insults I am well equipped to handle. Insults against the king? Unacceptable.
“My father is the greatest king Ammara has ever known,” I snap. “Take care with the words you speak, Prince Balior.”
He meets my glare with one of equal ferocity, though I’m almost certain a bit of fear lurks beneath his outrage. Standing paces away, his guards await their orders. For once, I am thankful for Notus’ presence. He possesses the strength of a hundred men. Now that the prince has witnessed the South Wind’s power, it is unlikely he would risk an assault.
In the end, Prince Balior looks away first. “Do you want me here?”
I’m so blindsided by the question that I do not immediately respond. “Of course I do.” What else is there to say? The truth will not extend my life. It will not save my realm.
“I know when I’m not welcome.” Again, he looks to Notus. “The South Wind was prepared to drive his blade into my heart. It makes me question whether he is a mere guard, as you claim, or something more. I do not like to share what is mine.”
Mine. A pretty bird in a cage. I swallow the words bristling on my tongue.
“I promise you,” I say. “There is nothing between us now.”
“You saidnow. Does that suggest there oncewassomething between you?”
I do not seek to lie. It is too complex a web. But I fear the truth will drive Prince Balior, and his research, back to Um Salim.
“Please.” It is painful, this word, yet I voice it nonetheless. “It has been a difficult morning, and I don’t wish this miscommunication to sour negotiations. The attendants will draw you a bath. You will feel better once you have washed and rested. Then we will talk.”
Irritation is creased in the lines pleating his features. But he nods and quits the stable yard, his guards accompanying him back to the guest wing. After passing Zainab to a hostler, I veer toward the palace as well, eager for a hot bath and peace.
“Sarai,” Notus calls.
I remind myself of who I am: Princess Sarai Al-Khatib of Ammara. My time is not an obligation.
As expected, his heavy footfalls trail me, sturdy, yet with that unexpected swiftness that mirrors the wind. To my left, the labyrinth gleams alabaster white, thin cracks clambering up its eroded walls. My attention momentarily falls onto the entrance, and I pause, eyeing the swirling symbol carved into the door.
Hello, Sarai. Won’t you step into the dark?
Notus catches my wrist. “Don’t touch,” he warns.
I startle and come to. Somehow, I stand less than an arm’s length from the veiled, ancient doorway, a dry chill pulsating against my outstretched fingers.
