I can’t be certain how long Notus searches my face. Perhaps he, too, knows of this desire I continually subdue. Who will break, who will bend? Not me. Never.
After tugging the reins from my grasp, he places them into the guard’s hands. “Return the horse to the stables,” he says. “We’ll be taking my sailer.”
Half a mile west of Ishmah’s outer wall, Notus’ sailer rests beneath the scant shade of a parched date palm. The vessel is sleek, arrow-shaped: twin masts, white canvas sails. It appears out of place amongst the desert’s rolling curves of tawny and rust red.
Sand hisses beneath our trudging footsteps as we ascend a particularly steep dune. Despite my struggles, the South Wind maintains pace at my side, shortening his strides to accommodate me. The gesture both infuriates and warms me in turn.
While Notus unties the sails, I climb aboard. A few crates have been secured to the floorboards with rope. The creak of the wood stirs a particularly vibrant memory. It rises like a leaf upon a forgotten oasis pool. Wind, the world blurred into color and light. A feeling as close to flying as I have ever experienced.
I sit cross-legged at the bow, wincing at the stickiness dampening my underarms. I pull my waterskin from my satchel and take a deep drag. Moisture washes the dust from my mouth, the bitterness of a bygone era.
It hurts more than I can say to sit here, in a place I’d once known. To know that time will never return.
I glance at the stern where Notus grips the rudder. Our eyes catch, and the world momentarily stills.Do you remember those days?I wish to ask him.Do you remember our shared laughter, the vision of tomorrow we built? Do you remember?
A cloud passes across the South Wind’s expression. I sense his need to speak, but in the end, he faces forward, legs braced. A powerful gust explodes into the sails, and we speed into the dawn.
The vessel skips across the ground before blasting up the side of a dune. Higher and higher we ascend. My hands clamp the lip of the hullas the summit nears, wind roaring in my ears. And as sunlight emerges to greet a new day, we release our hold on the earth.
Laughter tickles my chest. I fight its rise, yet it bursts its cage. We soar, weightless, through the air. We cannot be stopped. I marvel at the wonder of it all.
Slipping down the back of a neighboring dune, I look over my shoulder at the South Wind. His teeth, rarely seen, gleam in the first pale rays of morning. Time slips its knot. I am eighteen years old, riding the South Wind’s sailer beneath a star-flecked sky.
It was my first taste of freedom. The possibility of another life spun like madness through me. Imagine if there were no walls to retreat behind, all the earth my inheritance? What might I find? What might I learn about myself? But that life was never mine to claim. I could only view it from a distance.
Suddenly, my laughter fractures, and I clamp my teeth around a budding sob.
“Sarai.”
Notus crouches at my side. The sailer skates at a brisk pace over the flattened earth.
My head hangs. Tears drip down my cheeks, plopping onto my cloth-covered thighs. Gently, he cups my face in concern, lifts it toward his own. “Why do you cry?”
My lips quaver as another memory escapes its confines. His gentleness in those quiet moments, tangled in bedsheets and each other’s arms. It soothes me even as some bottomless wound tears open wider than before.
“Because the world is beautiful,” I choke, “and I am a stranger to my own realm.”
No, not to my realm. To myself.
Which makes me question if I have ever known myself. All my life, I was told what to wear and how to act and what to say and what to eat and when to sleep and how to study and who to be. I was, in all ways, faultless. But I wasn’t me.
He appears saddened as he wipes my tears. But he lets me cry. He doesn’t attempt to stifle the emotion. He makes space for it, just as he has always done. I am reminded of how easily I fell for the South Wind. He is still the same thoughtful god he’s always been.
“I’m all right,” I croak, sniffling. Despite the impulse to bury my face against his chest, I pull free of his embrace.
He considers me for a lengthy moment. Then, as if deciding I’m well enough, he rises to his feet and retakes his position at the rudder. And as Notus steers the sailer toward Mirash, I settle back against the crates, and I remember what it felt like to be alive and free.
If Ishmah is a red heart nestled amongst golden sands, then Mirash is polished ebony, all imperfections smoothed away. Long before Ishmah touted the honor of Ammara’s capital, Mirash once held that title. When its oasis ran dry, however, its residents forsook the gleaming city. They chipped Ishmah from the adjacent cliffs and piled high the red stone. Rains wet the earth, and the Red City flourished, Mirash left in the dust.
After slowing the sailer to a halt beneath a cluster of date palms, Notus and I disembark. My hair is a scraggly mess. I grimace, attempting to pat the windblown strands into place.
As with all major cities in Ammara, Mirash is circled by a high wall, its gates carved with protective runes to shield against darkwalkers. From our vantage point, I’m able to survey the region in full. A sizable portion of the former capital has been carved from the massive cliff face stretching east to west: small dwellings with square-cut windows, whittled stairs worn smooth. I recognize the larger, more elaborate doorways as temples or shrines, the largest paying tribute to the Lord of the Mountain.
The southern edge of Mirash is all sprawl. Tents litter the cracked ground in white canvas, their numbers incalculable, displaced families huddling beneath the insubstantial coverings. The oasis is a spot ofgreen wilting in the northeastern corner. Due to the prolonged drought, only a small, muddy pool remains.
Notus and I take our places at the back of the line of people awaiting entry into the city. I shift in place, lift a hand to shield my eyes. Seven years. Has it really been that long since I visited Mirash? I was touring at the time, here for a single night before my next performance led me farther west. I’d had little opportunity to explore.
“You are not to reveal your identity,” Notus murmurs into my ear. “Let me handle this.” He tugs the hood of my cloak down over my forehead.
