Notus pries a wooden beam free of the hull with a sharp crack. I watch him with crossed arms. “What are you doing?”
Shrugging off his robe, he begins to tie the arms of his garment around the end of the board. “Making do with what we have.”
He proceeds to fashion a platform, mast, and sail from the remains of the sailer. A thin tunic hits mid-thigh beneath his robe, sweat-dampened fabric plastered to his skin. Despite my best intentions to avert my gaze, I fall prey to what I hunger for. The South Wind’s body is beautifully crafted, and I admire beautiful things.
“Sit here.” He gestures toward the makeshift platform, large enough for two people to squeeze onto. Once I’m settled, he slots into place behind me. “Tuck your knees against your chest. Now lean back.” A strong arm bands around my waist. Cradled between his bunched thighs, I sink against him. “Try not to make any sudden movements.”
Wind crams the makeshift sail, launching us forward. I hold tight to the arm around my waist as we soar across the dunes, toward Ishmah, toward home.
22
WE REACHISHMAH BEFORE SUNDOWN. Flinging myself off the makeshift sailer, I sprint for the capital gates, only to find myself barred by the line of sentinels stretched shoulder to shoulder beneath the great archway. I rip away my headscarf, baring my face. “Get out of my way,” I snarl.
Their eyes widen in recognition, and they instantly fold at the waist, allowing me to pass. I dart toward the small stable yard obscured in the shadow of the wall. “I need a horse!”
One appears in seconds. The mare is fractious, high-spirited, her coat a rich mahogany in the fading light. I mount, reins clamped in a trembling hand. One of the soldiers—a captain—steps forward in concern. “Your Highness—”
“Clear the roads,” I command.
He rushes off, barking orders. When I attempt to guide the mare down the street, she tosses her head, skittering sideways with nervous energy. “Drat it all,” I hiss. “Move!”
Someone catches the reins. I’ve half a mind to strike them down when the panic-induced fog clears, and Notus’ unruffled gaze fills my vision. Gray colors the drooping skin of his face. The long hours of travel have sapped the majority of his power.
“Let me,” he says.
I do not fight him on this. In truth, it is the greatest respite topass the responsibility of navigating the city onto him. Once the South Wind has settled at my back, he digs in his heels, and we spring forward, hurtling down the street with a sharp clatter of hooves.
Up, up into the upper ring, down the broad Queen’s Road. Notus directs us not to the central palace gates, but to a smaller entrance nearer to the king’s quarters. The moment we are through, I slide from the saddle.
“Sarai.”
I glance at Notus. He is magnificent atop the horse, the deep pools of his eyes welling with all the emotion he cannot speak. Perhaps he, too, regrets what was said in the desert.
Then he shakes his head. “Go.” And that is the last I see of him, for I plunge into the cool palace interior, past green alcoves and burbling fountains. My legs twinge with fatigue, yet I take the stairs three at a time to the third level, swinging myself around a pillar. By the time I reach the king’s chambers, I am near collapse. I stumble inside, gasping for air.
The shades: drawn. The lamps: sputtering, wicks charred black. King Halim’s quarters are substantial, burdened by the opulence of hanging silks, the air having curdled with the reek of old sweat. Despite the lethargic warmth of the room, the king’s bed is piled high with blankets, Father buried beneath. Amir sits at his bedside, head bowed, clasped hands pressed to his forehead. He is still, both shadow and man.
I step forward. “Amir.”
No movement. My heart quavers. I press a fist against it, trying to ward off the rising hysteria. “Amir!”
He stirs and lifts his head. In the muted glow of a nearby lamp, the skin around his eyes is inflamed, revealing what has likely been hours of weeping. The sight steals what little air remains from my lungs.
My brother manages to stand, with effort. His robe is a wrinkled mess. I wonder when he last bathed. “Sarai.”
At last, I close the distance, saying, “I came as soon as I could.” I brush Amir’s shoulder tentatively. He is fragile, my brother. Soon, his life will change, the crown passed onto his brow. “Where’s Tuleen?”
“I sent her away,” he mumbles, eyes lowered. “I do not wish for her to see me like this.”
It saddens me, though I understand Amir’s sentiment. That is how our family has always handled uncomfortable emotions. We strip them from our expressions. We scrub them from our skin.
I glance at Father. “Is he—?”
“No.” Amir looks toward the window despite the curtains shuttering the view. “But he doesn’t have much time.”
I’m afraid of peering closer at the body wasting beneath the thick blankets. It is a blight upon my mind. But it cannot be ignored. And so I turn, and gaze down at Ammara’s king.
His eyes are closed. The lids droop, and sweat clings to his brow. “Father.” But the title is too stiff. It has never sat comfortably in my mouth. “Papa.”
