I drop my eyes. “I feared you might treat me like the other women at court.” Nevertheless, I lift my head and regard her with respect. “But you are better than them, better than me. I’m sorry for how poorly I treated you. I want you to know how glad I am that you’re part of our family.”
Tuleen glances away, blinking rapidly. She swallows before turning back to face me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
That she is so willing to forgive is more than I deserve. And she is not the only one who’s forgiveness I need. But an awkward silence descends, broken only by Amir’s voice twining with that of the king. I ask Tuleen, “Have you visited Roshar yet, for your festival gown?”
“Roshar Hammad?” Her eyes widen. “But he is the royal tailor.”
“And you are Ammara’s future queen. It’s your right to request his services.”
Tuleen hunches forward in the chair. The silken strands of her unbound hair slip forward over her shoulders. “I don’t know…”
“He’s a friend of mine. I’ll send him a message,” I say. “We’ll meet with him in, say, two days’ time. I need a dress for the festival as well.”
“You’re sure?” Tuleen asks. “I don’t want to intrude on your friendship.”
“There’s no intrusion. You deserve a gown fit for a queen. My sister-in-law shall be the best dressed in all of Ammara.” My smile makes an appearance. It is genuine.
“The darkwalkers have been quelled?” King Halim suddenly rasps, the words garbled by fluid.
Shifting my attention, I reach for Father’s hand. His fingers twitch in my grip, yet he does not tear his hand away. My throat tightens. I can’t remember a time when I did not crave his affections. “You can thank Notus for that.”
“Glad to know he’s adequate at his job,” Amir drawls sarcastically, regarding me with crossed arms from the other side of the bed. “Can the same be said for his role as your betrothed?”
Oh, he’s not happy I kept that information from him. “As a matter of fact,” I reply with false sweetness, “it can.” Swiping the washcloth from the bedside table, I wet the fabric in the small pail of water at my feet and begin dabbing sweat from the king’s neck.
Amir glowers with childlike petulance. Typical. “You should have told me.”
I snort. “So you could run him off at the first opportunity? I don’t think so.”
“Why would I need to run him off,” he counters, “when he does that on his own?”
He’s not wrong. But I feel the inexplicable urge to shield the South Wind from my brother’s indignation. The history between me and Notus is ours alone. Amir has nothing to do with it.
“Speaking of the South Wind.” I rewet the cloth, wring the fabric free of water. “He will be accompanying us during the Festival of Rain.”
King Halim attempts to sit up, but his arms tremble from the strain, and he sinks back into the pillows with a sound of frustration. “How am I to explain his presence to Prince Balior? He’s under the impression you will come to your senses.”
This again. Gently, I wipe along the king’s collarbone where sweat pools. With the curtains drawn, the air is stifling. “As I’ve already told you, Father, I’ve made my decision. My mind will not change.”
“Sarai.” He sighs. “You must reject the South Wind’s hand for the sake of our people. Please. If you show genuine remorse for your actions, there might still be time to win him over.”
“Oh,Ishould apologize?” I scoff, tossing the cloth back into the pail. “For what? I agreed to court Prince Balior, but we were not formallyengaged when Notus asked for my hand. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Except having made me look a fool, and our realm weak.”
Because it always comes back to Father’s image. No mention of my life, my impending death, though I suppose he would not mention that in Amir and Tuleen’s presence. “You must know that was not my intention—”
“Then what was your intention?” he demands. “Because as far as I’m concerned, everything you’ve done has been completely selfish.”
Selfish.
A tinny ringing fills my ears. I stare, and I stare, and I stare, but my bewilderment fails to lessen, only morphs, becomes something else, something white-hot beneath my sternum.Not now,I think.Wait until you are alone, without an audience. It’s not proper. It’s disrespectful. It’s what Father would want.But what about whatIwant? And so all that I have buried these long, long years rushes up and out, rupturing at last.
“Ifanyoneis selfish,” I spit, stabbing a finger at him, “it’s you, Father. You, who have done nothing but belittle me, insult me, tear me down. You, who care more about impressing a visiting sovereign than your own daughter. You, who have never once made me feel as though I am free to be myself, never once made me feel as though I am loved just how I am.”
It is so, so quiet. Amir and Tuleen are frozen in shock. My vision is too blurred by tears to make out Father’s expression. It is for the better. I do not wish to witness yet more disappointment.
“Does it bring you joy,” I wheeze, throat swelling with emotion, “to crush your children’s spirits? Have the gods promised you a favorable afterlife if you can successfully mold your children into the same stern, rigid persona you possess?”
