“I am trying,” he grinds out, “to do what is right by you, by your father, by your realm. What more do you want from me?”
Too easily, the noose slips tight around my neck. The truth is, I haven’t an answer for him. What do I want? Not this. Never this.
“Nothing,” I hiss. “I want nothing from you.” Spinning around, I stride down the corridor, my footfalls slapping loud against the tiles.
Notus’ scoff reaches me. “And you callmea liar?”
I halt. Were Father in this position, he would continue onward. He is not someone who needs the last word. But I am not my father. It is a bitter thought as I whirl around, my gaze burning with the potency of a thousand desert suns.
Yet when I look at Notus, all that flame is swiftly doused, for I recognize the sorrow within those black eyes as a reflection of my own.
“I know you, Sarai,” he murmurs. “I know when you’re hurting, when you’re frightened, when you’ve been brought so low as to feel nonexistent. I do not wish to cause you any more grief than I have, but the fact is, I will be here until Ishmah is declared safe from darkwalkers, and I do not know how long that will be. Can’t we at leastattemptto discuss what happened between us?”
My spite folds onto itself, small, smaller, a piece of coal that burns hotter and brighter over time. If I could, I would tear my heart free of my body and wander the earth without its insufferable weight. But if I were to discuss my wretched emotions with the South Wind, I fear that I would fall to pieces, unable to find the strength to put myself back together. Some days, it is all I have anchoring me, this ire.
“We cannot,” I say.
He appears pained, yet departs without argument, for which I’m grateful. It is a small grace, this empty corridor. No guards to witness me sag against the wall, eyes closed, body trembling with a combination of rage, confusion, and self-loathing. Five years, and my shields are brought low with but a handful of hurled accusations.
“Lover’s quarrel?”
I startle, snapping upright to face Prince Balior. Arms crossed, he leans against the wall, dressed in a clean gray robe, hair damp from his bath.
I regard him pointedly. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”
The prince is properly abashed. “These halls are not exactly conducive to privacy. You sounded distressed.”
“As you can see, I am well, though tired after our outing this morning.” And in desperate need of a wash. “Are you feeling rested?”
“I am, thank you.” He gives me a lingering once-over. “You and the South Wind do not see eye to eye.”
I brush my palms down the front of my dress. “You were right before. The South Wind and I have a history. I knew him as a young girl. There was a time when I almost believed myself in love with him.”
“I see.” It is steady, his gaze. “And now?”
Stepping forward, I slot my smile, however hostile, into place. “Prince Balior, if you are as observant as I believe you to be, you must know that the only thing I feel for the South Wind now is revulsion. You have come to request my hand in marriage, and I truly hope that we will soon be betrothed. Might we discuss our impending nuptials over a pot of tea?”
His smile spreads. It is positively triumphant. “Sarai,” he says. “I thought you would never ask.”
“I need your help.”
Roshar glances over at the blue velvet chaise on which I currently lounge. Apparently, the chaise cost him an entire month’s wages. The price is absolutely absurd, but I must admit it’s the most comfortable chair I’ve sat on in my life.
“Of course you do, my dear.” He lowers the square of cloth he’s using to polish his rings. “What is it you need from Roshar?”
I pick at a stray thread on one of the pillows. “You’re adept at conversing with men.”
“Adept?Sarai, honestly.Youare adept at conversing with men.Myskills are unsurpassed.”
Well. I certainly cannot argue with that.
“I’m to meet with Prince Balior after dinner tonight. What are some topics of conversation I can broach with him? If we are to wed by the month’s end, surely we should be able to speak of more than just politics.”
“An established man like Prince Balior? Shouldn’t be too difficult.” Lips pursed, he lifts one hand, watching the bejeweled rings spear facets of color onto the wall. “Compliment his hair. Tell him he smells delicious. Fawn over how strong he is, how brilliant and intriguing and clever. Inflating a man’s ego is all but guaranteed to get you into his good graces.”
Except I do not desire to be in the prince’s good graces. I desire for our union to be fair, honest, respectful, supportive. I am aware that I’m leading him astray. But I cannot afford to follow my conscience when death looms.
“What of your hobbies, pastimes?” Roshar asks.
