Every so often, the hull rattles at our backs. I try to ignore it with varying levels of success. Over the hours, our domed barrier hasdwindled. Though Notus’ power is vast, it is also finite. I question how much longer it will hold.
“I’m still mad at you,” I quip.
“I know.”
“You should have let me go.”
He shakes his head. “I already made that mistake once. I do not plan on repeating it.”
In the farthest reaches of my heart, I want to believe him. “If you say it’s a mistake, then why did you?”
Because I did not want you.
I stiffen, the words carving into me like sharpest teeth. My molars clench so hard it drives a painful twinge into my temple. “If that’s how you truly feel,” I snap, “then why are you here?”
Notus regards me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You just said—”
“I didn’t say anything.” He searches my face with a combination of puzzlement and concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
Do not believe this god. He will lead you astray.
Deep into the sand my fingers sink, into the coolness awaiting beneath the surface. That voice, it has visited me during my dreaming and waking hours. The figure cloaked in shadow from my vision. The Lord of the Mountain. How did I not realize how similar his voice was to the South Wind’s?
“Sarai.”
I startle. “What?”
“Where did you go?” Notus asks.
In my younger years, I would occasionally hear from the Lord of the Mountain, though I did not know it at the time. In recent months, however, his voice makes itself known far more often, sometimes multiple times a week. I am afraid of what it means.
“Nowhere.” Tugging free of his grip, I ease onto my side, my body contouring to the soft sand beneath. Round and round my thoughts spin. I have been so focused on the Festival of Rain, traveling to Mirash, uncovering potential leads about the labyrinth, that I completely forgotwhat day it is. Eight days hence, my nameday will arrive. The Lord of the Mountain does not want me to forget.
I doze for a time, albeit fitfully. The desert chill dives beneath my dress, stippling my flesh. Even Notus’ body heat fails to banish it.
It seems as though no time has passed before I’m shaken awake. My eyes peel open, slitted against the unexpected glare: dawn, breaking over the horizon.
“The storm has passed,” Notus says.
“And?” I bite back a groan as I sit up. The aches and pains of yesterday’s fall have settled into my joints. “The sailer is still broken.” As for my father, I do not know whether he survived the night.
The South Wind does not remove his touch as I expect him to. Rather, he cups my nape in one large hand, thumb pressed against the side of my clenched jaw. “Will you look at me?” he whispers.
He asks with a compassion I cannot deny. Shifting my position, I tilt my face toward his.
Dark tresses fall in unruly layers around his ears. In the youth of our relationship, I recalled how their silken threads slipped between my questing fingers. I recall, too, the quiet strength in his gaze, and I fear the power it holds over me. His eyes promise a lifetime of peace. I have yearned for such things.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “for my behavior yesterday. I tried my best to protect you in the only way I know how, but I fear my methods lacked the proper compassion. I was not open to your concerns.”
His apology is an unexpected balm. “Father is dying, Notus.” A thin, depleted plea. “I must go to him.”
“We will reach your father,” he says, squeezing my hand in the warmth of his wide palm. “I promise.”
He has made plenty of those. We both have. I’m too fatigued, too beaten down, to challenge him.
After helping me to my feet, Notus examines the remnants of our shelter. I scan the landscape, awash in the brightness of early sun. The dunes have shifted location. They lie flat, like dogs in the sweltering heat. Ammara, smoothed of imperfections.
