The change to his expression is subtle. My pulse stutters, for I know what he will ask before he opens his mouth. “You were… worried about me?”
Too often I have lied. What is one more, in the end? But I know myself. I cannot lie about this. “Yes, I was worried,” I sniff, patting the blanket into place across my lap. “So… please keep that in mind next time.”
Gravely, austerely, he nods. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“Apology accepted.” Now onto the matters at hand. “Did you find anything?”
“No.” He rubs a hand down his face. There is an unmistakable gray pallor to his skin. “The passages are too complex, and I feared I would lose my sense of direction. I haven’t figured out a way to mark my path back to the entrance.”
“How did you manage to escape the first time?”
He ducks his head in what I believe to be embarrassment. “Would you believe me if I said luck had everything to do with it?”
My mouth falls open. Then I snort, shake my head in disbelief. It lightens my spirits to see the smile stretch Notus’ mouth. It is a rare sight indeed. “I suppose luckwouldhave something to do with it,” I say teasingly, and am pleased beyond measure to watch red paint the South Wind’s cheeks.
Speaking of which— “I think the darkwalkers are coming from the labyrinth,” I say.
The South Wind doesn’t appear the least bit surprised. “Truth be told, I’ve considered the possibility,” he says, easing into the chair’s cushioned back. “But aside from the ones that entered the capital today, the only darkwalker I’ve encountered in Ishmah was the one from the library. What makes you think that?”
“I was standing at the labyrinth entrance when the warning bell rang. Shadow seethed beneath the door—the same shadow the beasts are made of. I’m wondering if they’re escaping from the labyrinth underground, through a tunnel, maybe, that leads outside the city.” The palace itself has numerous tunnels, many long forgotten.
Notus rubs at his temple, thighs spread, deep in thought. I’ve the inane urge to drape myself across his lap. I would have, once. “It’s worth exploring, at the very least.” His attention returns to my face. “Have you learned more about the labyrinth?”
There is the conversation I had with the Lord of the Mountain, of course. But seeing as it concerns my curse, I’m reluctant to divulge it. Perhaps Ishouldtell Notus. But… I don’t know. It seems pointless. Maybe I have already accepted the inevitable. After all, one cannot escape fate. Foolishly, I believed myself capable of outsmarting the divine.
“No,” I tell him. “Nothing.”
He peers carefully at me, perhaps sensing I am not being entirely truthful. “I ask because one of my contacts from Mirash got in touch with me this morning. He has some information he thought we’d be interested in. The sooner we can speak with him, the better.”
“The Festival of Rain begins next week,” I remind him.
“I remember,” he murmurs.
I wish it didn’t please me that he remembers Ammara’s customs, but I’m not as unfeeling as I try to appear. It does please me. It pleases me a great deal.
“The capital closes its gates in the days leading up to the festival.” The cot squeaks as I shift my weight. “We won’t be able to leave until the festival is complete.” What is another five days, really?
“That shouldn’t be an issue,” Notus says.
I hesitate, irritated by my sudden indecision. I promptly squash it. “Seeing as we are betrothed, it would befit our situation if you were to accompany me during the festivities.”
Now more than ever, my people are looking for certainty. They seek strength and direction. I will not let them down.
Notus lifts his head. His eyes are very dark. I feel as though I stare at my reflection, as though his pain is my pain, and this wound is shared. I fist the blanket across my lap, suddenly unmoored. “I would stand by your side,” the South Wind whispers, “if I believed you wanted me there.”
“I do want you there,” I say. Then, hurriedly, “For the benefit of Ammara, of course.”
The South Wind considers me for a long moment. Long enough that I grow uncomfortable. “If that’s what you want.”
I haven’t the slightest idea of what I want. “Are you still angry with me?” I ask.
“I wasn’t angry with you, Sarai.”
“Weren’t you?”
“Maybe it manifested as anger,” he admits, “but at its root, always, is fear and sadness and shame. I have never known fear until the momentI watched you tumble from the wall and believed I would not reach you in time.”
I manage a quiet, “Oh.” And slowly… slowly that long-standing wound inside my heart begins to close. He cares. Too much, I believe. Maybe it’s time I stop fighting whathas beenand start embracing whatcould be.
