“Yes,” Father croaks, suddenly doubtful. “You’re right. It would be in poor taste to be tardy, and I do not want to offend the Lord of the Mountain.” At last, he wanders toward the head of the procession, allowing me the space to breathe.
The South Wind dips his mouth to my ear. “What was that about?” he murmurs.
I shake my head, too inundated by emotion to speak. Zainab nudges my shoulder. I rub her neck, and the motion soothes me. With her, I can just be.
When I push toward the head of the procession, however, my hand is suddenly caught in a warm, solid grasp. My head snaps toward Notus, who gazes at me with deep, deep eyes. I hear what he does not say:I am with you.His hand, and mine, tightly clasped. It means more than I can say.
“I thought you didn’t want to draw attention with public displays of affection?” I quip, though my mouth eases into a curve, no heat behind the words, just warmth.
The corner of his mouth hitches in reflection to mine. “Anything to hasten Prince Balior’s departure, I figure.”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before helping me mount Zainab. Seconds later, he swings himself into the saddle behind me, muscled thighs pressed against the outside of my own, wide chest brushing my back.
I stiffen as my eyes pop wide. “What are you doing!” I hiss. When I attempt to slide forward, the curve of the saddle forces me back. I remain in place, my position awkwardly held, wooden. “Where’s your horse?”
“We’ll ride together.”
“That’s not an answer!” When I spot Amir gazing at us with interest—and perhaps a bit of loathing toward the South Wind—I mellow my expression, wiping the shock and dismay from my features.
Notus and I are supposed to be in love. Happy. Comfortable in one another’s company. A large part of me wishes that were so, that we did not have to perform for thousands. That I could be loved, just as Sarai.
“I intend to keep you close,” he explains, and as I shift my head, his lips brush the shell of my ear. I bite my tongue so as to dam the whimper threatening to spill into the open. “After the last attack, I won’t take chances.”
Yes, yes, it all makes perfect sense, but it is a two-hour journey to Mount Syr. How am I to bear being pressed against the South Wind like a waxen seal?
The gates heave open like giants of old. Cheers peal out, Ishmah’s brightest faces welcoming our procession with joyful greetings and flowers tossed into the streets. The Queen’s Road slithers down the central hill, framed by thousands of citizens gathered for the festival. Flowers adorn every doorway, every cart and wagon. They are even twined around the necks of goats and dogs.
Notus and I rock side to side atop the mare. I do my best to ignore the brush of his chest against my back, but it has the irksome power of claiming my thoughts. One of his hands rests along my thigh, heavy with heat. The other clasps the reins.
Amir and Tuleen ride ahead with Father. As luck would have it, Prince Balior rides beside us on a chestnut gelding.
“Lovely weather today,” the prince comments.
I offer him a close-lipped smile. “Indeed.”
I hope this will put an end to the conversation, but Prince Balior then says, “Will you have time for a cup of tea this week?”
“Doubtful,” the South Wind cuts in irritably. “Princess Sarai and I will be quite busy. I’m sure you can understand.”
Prince Balior’s mouth thins. “Of course.” He glances between us, expression dubious. Notus and I sit stiffly in the saddle—like two thorn bushes rather than two people in love. I’m considering how best to respond when Notus’ hand slides up my thigh to curve around my hip. I nearly choke on my tongue. The gesture is a claiming. It says,Mine.
With a curled upper lip, the prince faces forward, nudging his gelding into a trot. I expect Notus to remove his hand now that Prince Balior’s attention is elsewhere, but he keeps it in place. I am painfully aware of his spread fingers, their heat through the fabric of my dress.
As we approach the gate separating the upper and lower rings, someone tosses a fresh bouquet onto the ground. Ebon petals, colored violet in the low light. Before I can fully process the sight, we trot past, easing around a bend in the cobblestoned road.
The first stirrings of unease ooze through me. Black iris. I recall that woman from the market over a month ago. It was my duty to report her. But… she wasn’t hurting anyone, and so long as I keep my distance from the deadly blooms, I’ve no reason to worry.
We exchange the jeweled windows and stately homes of the upper ring for the cracked doors and dilapidated porches of the lower ring, refuse piled high in the narrower alleyways. The capital is still in the midst of reconstruction following the darkwalker attacks. Yesterday, Amir and I attended a meeting with the king’s council to discuss what could be done to accommodate those who lost their homes. Funds will be redistributed to provide temporary shelter until the structures are rebuilt.
As though sensing my distress, the South Wind tightens his arm around my stomach in comfort. I waver, but eventually allow myself to sink against his chest with a grateful sigh. The thump of his heartbeat thuds along my spine. If I’m not mistaken, it picks up pace.
Hours later, we summit Mount Syr, where the earth is cracked and reddened, and the wind cuts the sand into glass atop the bluff. The heat is boiling. The sun is a brutal whiteness reflected across the hills and troughs of Ammara’s dunes. Fanning out in a half-moon around the throne, the procession watches King Halim kneel before the dais, head bowed. Does he plead, as he did a quarter of a decade ago? Does he bargain, or demand? Whatever he offers our Lord of the Mountain, he doesn’t speak it aloud.
Amir and Tuleen are next. Once they have spoken their prayer, they clear the area, and I kneel, easing forward until my forehead brushes the carved stone of the first step.
Lord of the Mountain?
A coarse wind cuts across my back, and I shiver, sensing his presence, though he does not appear.
