Stiffly, I push to my feet, brush the wrinkles from my dress. “Apologies, but there’s something I must see to.” Three strides, and I’m across the room, Roshar glancing between us in confusion. If anyone notices the tears streaking my face, I will simply blame them on the sun.
The annual Festival of Rain arrives with a slash of reddish light breaking through dense cloud cover to the east. It begins on Mount Syr at high noon, where an offering will be made to the Lord of the Mountain, a prayer to usher in the rains that Ammara sorely needs. It ends on the fifth day, with a grand ball hosted in honor of our most esteemed god.
After slipping on a light linen dress and settling a laurel crown on my brow, I dab color onto my cheeks, swipe kohl beneath my eyes. I purse my lips in the mirror. The puffiness above my cheeks can’t be helped. Last night, I awoke twice. Once due to the Lord of the Mountain whispering in my ear, reminding me that my time nears. And again, to the sound of Notus’ pacing. I wondered whether he had donned his sleep robe, or if he wore only trousers, or nothing at all. I’m not sure which thought haunts me more.
But I can’t avoid the day. And so, girding myself for what is to come, I turn toward the interconnecting door, only to find Notus already framed in the doorway, form haloed in amber light.
I blink in surprise, my stomach lurching toward my chest. “You startled me.” A second thought chases on its heels. “Were you watching me?”
He gives me a slow once-over as if in answer. My face warms. “You’re already dressed.”
I can’t discern his tone. Is he suggesting he would rather Iwasn’tdressed? As soon as the thought manifests, I promptly toss it away.
He enters the room, yet another shadow among darkness. I retreat toward the window, dawn’s pearly light visible through the dusty glass. From this angle, the rising sun drizzles orange light across the room, catching the green of Notus’ robes, the curled strands of his disheveled hair.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asks.
Arms crossed, I regard him coolly. “Funny,” I say. “I was under the impressionyouwere avoidingme.” I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since my visit to the infirmary. Not for lack of trying, however.
He regards me in puzzlement. “What reasons would I have to avoid you, aside from completing my rounds?”
I do not deign to answer, for I fear his reasons are many, though I do not want to know them. “You are aware our rooms share a connecting door? It’s not difficult to knock if you desire my company.”
“You didn’t knock either.”
“Did you hope I would?”
The question slips out. I swallow hard, well aware I cannot call it back.
Notus taps a finger against his thigh. His sword hangs alongside it. “And if I did?” His dark eyes meet mine. I wasn’t expecting, well,that. I don’t know how to respond to it. The immortal exasperates me to no end. I cannot bull my way to his surrender.
“If you want to spend time with me, all you have to do is knock,” I say, pleased that I sound quite unaffected by this awkward conversation.
“It would be easier to approach you,” he says, “if you did not act like I carried a pox.”
Really?“I don’t act like you carry a pox.”
He levels me a pointed look.
All right, maybe I do act like that, just a touch. A smidge. A small bit. But that’s only to avoid having to confront my body’s urges when he is in close proximity—as he is now. “Fine. Should we hold hands then?” I suggest.
Notus shifts his weight, clearly tense. “Isn’t that typically frowned upon in your culture? Displays of affection in public, I mean?”
My blush continues to crawl along my cheeks and neck. “An engaged couple may hold hands, even in Ammara. But you’re right. It was a stupid idea. Forget I mentioned it.”Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” If we play our parts well, hopefully we’ll show the world—and Prince Balior—how truly in love we are. The prince will lay down his sword. He will swallow his surrender. And he will leave, taking his army with him.
Together, we descend the stairs to the front courtyard, where Father, Amir, and Tuleen have gathered, their horses readied for the journey to Mount Syr. Cheers erupt beyond the shut gates, Ishmah’s citizens having assembled to line the streets. Behind them, the guards are positioned in rows of two, forty men deep.
My sister-in-law wears a simple olive dress that accentuates the green in her hazel eyes. She offers me a shy smile, and I return it, ashamed of the way I’d departed Roshar’s workroom earlier in the week. I’ll have to apologize when I get the chance.
I’m not certain whether Amir and Notus have made amends since my brother threatened to skewer the god with his sword, the fool. To my absolute horror, Prince Balior already sits astride his horse, observing me with a keen eye. When his attention falls to the South Wind, he frowns, but not before I spot the panic flickering across his expression.
The South Wind bows to the king. “Your Majesty.”
“Father.” I dip my chin stiffly, accepting Zainab’s reins from the hostler. My mare stamps her hoof with a loudclop.
King Halim glances between me and Notus. My heart thuds sickeningly, for I am fully expecting a scathing remark or disapproving look, but to my surprise, there is a sad crimp to his mouth. If I were less of a cynic, I might believe it to be regret. “Sarai—”
“We don’t want to be late for the start of the ceremony, right Papa?” I hold his watery gaze until he looks elsewhere. This is the last place I want to discuss the topic of our recent parting, especially with Prince Balior present. Today will be difficult enough. I must be blissful,engrossed, in high spirits, never mind the guilt surrounding this sham of an engagement, the regret I feel toward my father.
