Prince Balior is a preeminent scholar who has studied the region’s oldest myths. Father hopes his research will prove useful in finding a way to break my curse, end the drought, and halt the darkwalkers’ infiltration of our land. If Prince Balior’s negotiations with King Halim are favorable, our separate realms will soon marry into one.
Of course, the prince cannot know that his bride-to-be is cursed, or that the kingdom he hopes to one day rule is doomed. I will need to take care with how I approach discourse concerning his research findings. It weighs on me, this secret. Only Father is privy to it.
“Your Majesty.” Our guest kneels, blue headscarf brushing the snowy tile. “I am honored.”
Father considers the man’s prostrated form. After a moment, he states, “Rise, Prince Balior. Our Lord of the Mountain shines upon you. I trust your journey was fair?”
He sweeps to his feet with a fluidity I do not often witness. “It was. My men and I are humbled by the welcome.”
“And where are your soldiers now?”
“Beyond Ishmah’s walls. They await your permission to enter.”
King Halim presses the tips of his fingers together. “Unfortunately, Prince Balior, I cannot permit your army to pass into the capital. Not until the wedding ceremony is complete. This is for the protection of my people. I’m sure you understand. Your personal guard will of course be accommodated inside the palace.”
The prince frowns. His eyes flicker with some indecipherable emotion. This, he did not expect. While I agree with Father’s decision, it’s not exactly a hospitable introduction. But Prince Balior bows, saying, “I understand. Though, it has been a long journey—I cannot expect my men to return to Um Salim after having just arrived here.”
“Naturally,” the king replies smoothly. “They may camp beyond the wall as we await the ceremony.” Father gestures to me, though does not glance my way. “My daughter, Princess Sarai Al-Khatib.”
The prince regards me curiously. I dip my chin toward our guest, my smile thin and cutting.
King Halim continues, “I’m hopeful that we’ll reach an arrangement benefitting both Ammara and Um Salim in the coming weeks.”
My hand in marriage. My freedom exchanged for Ammara’s survival. In less than thirty days, the tattoo marking the left hand of every married person in Ammara will be inked on my skin.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Ammara has much to offer—”
Though Prince Balior continues to speak, my attention cuts to a sudden motion within the stillness of the chamber. A figure slips through one of the side doors behind the guards. Broad, sure-footed: the man with the white headscarf I saw loitering outside the library.
A rush of defiance sends me to my feet. “Halt! What business do you have with the king?”
The archers located on the second level angle their arrows toward the intruder. A hundred scimitars slide free of their scabbards. Prince Balior’s personal guard hastily forms a shield around their sovereign.
Father’s eyes flash in my direction. “Sarai. This man is a guest.”
“A guest who slips through the back door,” I snarl, “no better than a fox in the brush?” How did he get past the guards? Unless he has killed them? Unrest has bled into the realm’s widening cracks. As drought creeps toward its third decade, people’s desperation intensifies. “Step forward.”
For someone so broad, he moves with startling lightness. Something about the motion sends an odd shiver across my scalp.
“Sarai!” King Halim’s rage is total. “If you do not take your seat this instant—”
I am both dreaming and awake, for though the man’s face is partially veiled, I am certain I have seen it before. “Remove your scarf, sir.”
He lifts a hand, catching the fabric between two fingers. The cloth unwinds: nose, mouth, jaw. That face, bared and horribly familiar. My stomach drops as the South Wind speaks in a voice reminiscent of a deep, ceaseless current.
“Hello, Sarai.”
2
ASLOW, PRICKLING CHILL ICES MYblood. It leadens my limbs, encases my heart and lungs in impenetrable crystal. I am both Sarai of past and Sarai of present. I am eighteen years old and twenty-four. I am inspired, cherished, adored, then deceived, broken, alone. My throat squeezes so tightly I fear I will faint.
But I do not faint. No, that will simply not do. Vulnerability is the enemy.
Notus—known to all as the South Wind—regards me with eyes like clear, deep pools. I have not seen his face in five years, yet he has aged not a day. I have touched that face, kissed that face, loved that face, despised that face. How appalling that I still consider it beautiful. Skin of deepest brown and black, impenetrable eyes. A broad, stocky torso swathed in emerald and cream. The South Wind, who sees much, speaks little.
“Sarai!”
Father’s voice is distant, a wavering sun beyond the thickened haze. I force my legs to move—down the steps, across the tiled floor, expression fixed into one of intense loathing. The leather binding on the hilt of Notus’ scimitar appears fresh, newly wrapped. It is the only change I perceive.
