But time is treacherous. Seasons may have waxed and waned, yet I stood before the South Wind mere hours ago and felt as if I were once again a girl of eighteen.
“Honestly?” I swallow painfully. “Confused.” It took years to rebuild my life. During that time, I’d grieved not only Notus, but Fahim as well. I decided then that vulnerability would never again hold power over me. My heart would belong only to myself.
Roshar squeezes my fingers in solidarity. “That is valid. Expected, even.” He frowns, perhaps noticing how my hand trembles. “What’s your plan?”
“Plan?”
“I assume you are already plotting how best to murder the South Wind?”
My mouth relaxes into the smallest curve. “How did you know?”
“How will we do it? Tell me.” He leans forward with all the eagerness of a young pup. “You know I’m always here to help bury a body.”
I do know. And I appreciate him for that. But I do not wish for Notus’ death. Merely his suffering.
“I’ll need time to think about it,” I say.
Seeing that my mood has improved slightly, Roshar wanders to a far window, where he halts. “Oh, my.” The glitter of his rings catches the light as he rests a hand over his chest. “Sarai. It’s him! He looks even more handsome than I remember.” He glances over his shoulder, notes my sour-faced expression, and winces. “Honestly, dear, you have eyes. Tell me he isn’t one of the most delectable men you’ve ever seen!”
Despite my knotted gut, something tugs me gently, then with insistence, toward the window overlooking the central courtyard, where a rounded, crumbling structure the color of bone squats. For twenty-five years, the labyrinth has shadowed the palace’s very heart. It was built immediately following the bargain King Halim struck with the Lord of the Mountain. In exchange for my life, the all-powerful god required a stronghold secure enough to contain a beast for all eternity. That should have been the end of it.
When the annual floods failed to appear the following year, however, Father suspected something was amiss. He returned to Mount Syr, demanding an explanation. It was then the Lord of the Mountain revealed the true price of his benevolence.
In exchange for my life, Ammara would suffer a slow decay. No longer would the summer rains enrich the soil, swell the dams, quench the farms. Though I would live, it would be a cursed existence. Foron my twenty-fifth nameday, the Lord of the Mountain will return to claim my life.
Shifting my attention to the far side of the labyrinth, I watch Notus circle the courtyard. Every so often, his hand drifts to the hilt of his scimitar. That quiet gaze, always seeking, never still.
Once a decade, seven men are sacrificed to the beast imprisoned within the labyrinth. A blasphemous creature, its appetite must always be satiated. No matter the efforts, none could slay it. Notus, however, arrived in Ishmah six years ago promising to slay the beast. He was unsuccessful. To this day, he is the only one to have escaped the labyrinth. In a way, it makes sense that he should be the one to guard it.
“Look at his shoulders, thosethighs.” Roshar bumps his hip to mine. “I wouldn’t mind having those wrapped around my—”
“Roshar!”
His high, cackling laughter chases my outburst. I shake my head, then shove him for good measure. He only laughs harder.
Abruptly, he straightens, nose pressed against the glass. “And who is this?” An eagerness whets his tone. “Your future prince?”
My eyes cut left. I spot Prince Balior emerging from the guest wing of the palace. The moment he enters Notus’ line of sight, the South Wind slows.
They regard each other across the expanse of baked stone. Prince Balior glances at the labyrinth, frowns, then approaches Notus. I lean closer, face plastered to the searing glass. God and prince, ex-lover and future husband. They converse for an uncomfortably long time.
Roshar angles toward me, mouth pursed. “One woman caught between two men. There are worse things in life.”
I am not so certain. The god who broke my heart, or the man I must bind myself to for the remainder of my days, whether I want to or not?
When Prince Balior advances toward the labyrinth’s arched entryway, Notus sidesteps, blocking his way forward. Though I cannot read the South Wind’s expression behind the headscarf shielding his face, I imagine his response to be low, calm, thrumming with command. None may approach. That is law.
Eventually, Prince Balior gives up and returns to the guest wing. I step back from the window. The air has grown heavier, if possible. These walls sag inward, smothering my skin.
“I need air,” I mutter, heading for the door.
“Wait!” Roshar scurries after me. “Take this.”
He offers me a second pomegranate tart. I peer at him in exasperation.
“You’re going to need it,” he says.
Amir is scheduled to return to Ishmah with his new bride in a matter of weeks.
