King Halim is no fool. He will make me spell it out. Very well. “Why have you allowed Notus to return unpunished?”
“Because I have need of him. Our realm has need of him. As of this morning, he has accepted a position in the Royal Guard.”
“Guard?” I struggle to catch my breath. “Why have you placed Notus in a position of power?” Why welcome him back into our home with open arms? My hands tremble. I fist them in the folds of my dress.
“Must I explain something so obvious?” he snaps. “Fahim was never so slow to understand and did not waste his breath asking questions.”
It always takes me by surprise how swiftly the grief rises. Despite five years having passed, it still feels as if my brother’s death occurred yesterday. Bright, beloved Fahim, the eldest of Father’s sons.
“I did not realize my concern was a waste of breath,” I reply stiffly. “I will be sure to temper it the next time I believe our realm to be under threat.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, as though my hurt is an inconvenience. “You know what I meant.”
I don’t, actually. But I keep that bitter thought close. “I do not see what is obvious about allowing a deserter into the Royal Guard.”
“Deserter or not,” Father explains, “Notus is the strongest person in this realm. You know as well as I do that the drought has weakened Ishmah. Years of failed harvests, and we cannot even afford to feed our people, much less an army. Darkwalkers gain strength by the day. Many have fallen prey to their hunts.”
I know. Of course I know. Ishmah, strategically hewn from the valley’s clay walls, once utilized the annual floodwaters to supply its extensive irrigation system, including numerous wells, reservoirs, and canals. But rain has not fallen in Ammara for over two decades. The capital’s high walls, carved with runes to repel the darkwalkers, provide adequate protection from the beasts. Yet each passing year, they seem to multiply. Some claim darkwalkers have already infiltrated the city, but I have seen no such evidence.
As for the South Wind, Father is right. Notus is the only person to have ever entered the labyrinth and return alive. His power will help quell the darkwalkers—even if that means admitting him as a member of the Royal Guard.
“Times are changing, Sarai.” The king surveys me with eyes touched by fatigue. “Sometimes we must take drastic measures if we are to endure the worst of what’s to come.”
He appears defeated. Perhaps I should not have behaved so recklessly in Prince Balior’s presence. After all, Father risked everything to save my life as a sickly infant. I owe it to him to be dutiful. “I understand, but how can you trust that Notus will not desert us a second time?”
“I trust him, Sarai. That’s all that matters.”
“He turned his back on our kingdom!”On me.
His expression hardens. No matter my concern, no matter my hurt, my feelings will always be deemed as insignificant in the eyes of a king. “I have not forgotten,” he replies, “but I have forgiven. Perhaps it’s time you do the same.”
3
ROSHARHAMMAD. ROYAL TAILOR.
The plaque displays a tidy script carved into the wood’s pale grain. My mouth quirks at the ornate penmanship, its dramatic flourishes. The original plaque had been modest, uniform, unremarkable. In other words, far too dull for the likes of Roshar. Muffled conversation drifts through the door.
“I said a two-finger hem, not three,” a man barks. “Don’t give me that look. Redo it. I don’t care how long it takes.”
There is a pause.
“Are you insinuating I do not know the difference of an inch? My dear, I have clothed the royal family for a decade. I have designedthefashions of the season for the highest governmental officials, the wealthiest of merchants, and the most influential families. You dare suggest I do not know something as fundamental to tailoring asinches?” Whoever he speaks to utters a quiet response. “That’s what I thought.”
Lifting a fist, I knock.
The door cracks open, then pulls wide. Large, hazel-green eyes swim with irritation behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. A blink, and the man frowns. “Sarai?”
“Is this a bad time?” I whisper.
Beyond his shoulder, three women and two men crowd around anarticle of clothing spread across a large table. They stare at me in unease, likely wondering why the princess has come knocking.
“For you? Never.” Roshar snaps his fingers. “Everyone out.”
A flurry of cotton, a rush of lemon-scented air, and we are alone.
Quiet presses upon my ears. With space enough to breathe, I enter the room and collapse onto a cushioned armchair near one of the many windows. Beyond, the sky is brutally clear. I cannot remember when clouds were last stitched into its blue fabric.
Tilting back my head, I close my eyes. Deep breath—in, and out. And again.
