“This is what you have to look forward to, Fahim.” Amir waves a hand toward the woman currently complaining to the king, in great length and extraordinary detail, that her crops have failed yet again. “I, for one, am thankful I was the second-born.” He slouches back with a gratified sigh.
Fahim’s lack of response draws my attention. His form is carved from granite, his face frozen into blankness. Five hours we have sat here, yet he has not spoken once.
Reaching out, I rest my hand on his arm. Though Fahim is older than me by six years, we share much, including the tendency to armor ourselves. “Everything all right?”
Two heartbeats pass before his eyes slide to mine. Something painful flickers in those gold-flecked irises. My stomach clenches in unease, for the distress there has surfaced often these past months. Each occasion, a darker blemish, a deeper void. “Fahim?”
“I’m fine.” He jerks his arm away.
I glance at Amir, who is too preoccupied with cleaning his nails to notice Fahim’s waning spirit. Regardless of my brother’s claim, I do worry. I worry a frightening amount.
I’ve accepted my fate of death by boredom when the doors to the throne room open. A rush of desert air infiltrates.
I straighten in interest. The man who enters bears an impressive physique, with broad shoulders and a wide chest stretching the ivory fabric of his robe. His strong torso reminds me of sturdy oak. A scarf veils the lower half of his face. Eyes the color of rich earth glimmer beneath black eyebrows.
Deliberately, King Halim rises to his feet. “So. You are the man who believes himself strong enough to slay the beast?”
I frown in response to this unexpected information. Rumors have sprouted in recent weeks of a newcomer promising to kill the beast imprisoned in the labyrinth. I believed it to be folly. Fahim, too, frowns in light of this announcement. Even Amir seems to be invested in the conversation.
The man bows low at the waist. “I am, Your Majesty.”
Deep and resonant is his voice, with a pull that reminds me of Ishmah’s lowest temple bells. Though he is but a single person, he possesses the presence of a thousand men.
“And how, pray tell, do you intend to do that?” King Halim demands.
My left hand taps a rhythm on the chair arm. A reasonable query. Either this visitor is a fool, or we are to underestimate him. Seven men have already been selected as sacrifice to satiate the beast’s growing hunger. Seven men every decade. They are to enter the labyrinth in less than four months’ time. This man believes himself capable of slaying the beast? It cannot be done.
“I would prefer to discuss that privately, if it’s all the same to you, Your Majesty.”
Father considers the visitor for a lengthy moment. Then, as if agreeing to the man’s request, he swings out an arm. “My children. The eldest and my heir, Prince Fahim, finest horseman Ammara has ever seen.”
Fahim dips his chin in acknowledgment. The man returns the gesture with respect.
“My second son, Prince Amir.”
Amir rolls his eyes good-naturedly, for he has never received the praise Fahim does. Such is the bane and blessing of the second-born.
“Lastly, my daughter, Princess Sarai.”
The man’s gaze shifts to mine. My breath catches.
“Princess Sarai.” The visitor’s voice, a complex upwelling of sound, is music I dearly wish to know more of. “I was once granted the opportunity to attend one of your recitals. You performed the Variations on a Theme of Three Ammaran Dances, if I recall.”
I blink in surprise, for that recital took place nearly three years ago. I am particularly fond of that piece.
When the visitor returns his attention to the king, I’m left oddly bereft.
Two days later, I learn the visitor’s name: Notus.
He is smoke in the halls. Some days, I am only able to catch a glimpse of his shoulders as he turns a corner, or hear the click of his bootheels against the marble floor. It is enough to hunt him in the pre-dawn gray each morning, peering through my bedroom window to where he trains in the courtyard below. There, he is a study of movement. Sword drawn, chest bare, he stabs and retreats, ducks and whirls, hacks and parries. His body is beautiful. It is particularly alluring when glazed in sweat.
In the week that follows, I become so consumed by Notus that I begin to neglect my practicing. Rare it is that I skip a day, but threemornings pass before I realize I have not touched my instrument. The attendants talk. They claim King Halim has offered Notus accommodations in the palace until he is to venture into the labyrinth. Of course, I must see for myself if this is true.
One morning, when the sun blisters the dunes into waves of burnished umber, I don my finest dress before descending the stairs to the central courtyard. The morning bell tolls the seventh hour. A cool mist dampens the gray stones underfoot.
Notus is a darker silhouette against the shadow cast by the labyrinth. Beads of perspiration slide down the grooves of his abdomen. He sidesteps, his back to me, cutting in a brutal arc of molten silver. The bunch of muscle in his shoulders arrests my attention, wholly and completely. I stop a healthy distance away and clear my throat. “Good morning, Notus.”
Midway through his exercise, he stills, arm outstretched. It is almost unnatural how rapidly he turns toward me and bows at the waist. “Princess Sarai.” Low and rich, his voice shivers across my skin. It contains an accent I cannot trace.
