His timing could not possibly be worse. Between the South Wind’s return, Prince Balior’s arrival, and my own impending death, I do not have the mental capacity to pile yet another worry onto my plate. And I dread how our reunion might unfold. We did not part on the best terms. I begged him not to go, but Amir would not be swayed. Our argument grew heated. I ridiculed his lack of leadership. He mocked my inability to cope without him. Then he left. Without a proper goodbye, without… anything. Three months later, the memory remains bitter.
The palace staff are already deep in preparations for my brother’s return. It is to be expected. One day, he will bear the weight of a crown on his head, a kingdom on his shoulders. The responsibility was never his to carry, but such is life, changing as unexpectedly as the sands. I do not envy him this fate.
A wall of scorching heat blasts me as I emerge into the courtyard. A few attendants scurry between the various wings, carting baskets of laundry or cleaning supplies. Sunlight boils the stone slabs underfoot. The labyrinth gleams with an alabaster shine.
I circle the structure twice, but Notus is strangely absent. Is it possible the king called for him in the time it took me to travel from Roshar’s workroom? The labyrinth is rarely left unguarded. Still, a sentinel may fall prey to the beast. It is not unheard of. Prior to Notus’presence, King Halim struggled to retain guards. Too easily, they were lured inside.
As for the door to the labyrinth, it is constructed from neither clay nor sand nor metal nor stone. A symbol bearing a likeness to the moon or sun has been carved into its face, with a triangle slicing through its center. When my hand hovers over its surface, a whiff of frigid air billows against my palm.
Hello, Sarai.
I startle and whip around. “Notus?”
No one is there.
Disquiet slinks through me, and I hurriedly return to my chambers. There, I sit at my desk and remove my journal, which I open to the most recent page of numbers. An unending line ofx’s, which will soon cease to exist. Tomorrow, day forty-six. My heart palpitates at the thought.
I glance toward the window. Sundown. I’m late for my lesson.
The south wing’s main passage overlooks a light-filled atrium, a large garden sprouting from the first floor below. It holds a collection of climbing wisteria, fragrant laurel trees, and still pools bordered by pebbles. As I turn a corner, I hear it. The muffled reverberation of the violin’s lower register, followed by the slurred notes of an ascending scale.
My breath catches, and I slow upon reaching the music room, peering through the partially open door.
A wizened man swathed in pale yellow robes sits near the window overlooking the palace orchards. Ibramin: the greatest virtuoso of his generation. Brightened by a beam of waning sunlight, instrument cradled between shoulder and chin, he shifts from first position to third, the bow drawing forth a sound of deep anguish, notes warbling with a slow vibrato. I press a palm to my chest, teeth gritted as my eyes sting with feeling.
I have performed every manner of concerto, sonata, romance, caprice, partita, and show piece. I have mastered every étude, memorized every scale in every key. This, I do not recognize.
But I cannot deny its beauty, and its ache. When the music reaches its resolution, I am released from its painful spell. I wipe my eyes, loose a long, shuddering breath. Once my emotions are under control, I enter.
Ibramin smiles in greeting. “Good afternoon, Sarai.” He rolls his wheeled chair toward me. “I anticipate you’ve been working diligently this week?”
Every week without fail my teacher asks this. And every week without fail I reply, “I have.”
It matters not that I haven’t touched my instrument in years. I can barely look at it without thinking of Fahim, for he, too, loved the violin, was an even greater prodigy than I. We often took lessons together before his duties as heir forced him to abandon the endeavor. Granted, my career as a concert violinist is unusual, considering my station, but Father encouraged me to pursue music. I believe it helped him feel closer to our mother, who had once been an accomplished violinist herself.
Crossing the room, I settle into a chair opposite Ibramin. A faded green rug ornaments the floor, while shelves stuffed with sheet music span one wall. My life can be measured in memories of this place and all that I’ve achieved.
I am four years old, the smallest of violins placed in my chubby hands.
I am eight years old, drilling scales and études for four hours daily.
I am twelve years old, debuting with the Ishmah Symphony Orchestra.
I am fifteen years old, and my reputation precedes me. I perform in the most prestigious concert halls throughout Ammara, at every major city along the Spice Road. I witness places I have never been, things I have never seen.
I am eighteen years old, and in love. I practice with a frenzy I have never before experienced, joy unfurling with every singing note.
I am nineteen years old, and overcome with sorrow. When I tuck the violin beneath my chin, the music does not come. I place the instrument in its case, shove it into the back of my wardrobe. I abandon it, and myself.
“Sarai?”
I startle. Ibramin regards me in concern. “Apologies, sir,” I say. “My mind was elsewhere. Did you say something?”
“I asked if you would play something for me.Winter’s Lullaby?” He searches my face, seeking what, I am not sure. “You always loved that one.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. He is right. I do.Did. “I don’t know if I feel up to playing,” I respond, as I do each time he asks. “It has been a tiresome day.”
“Will you at least try?”
