Colossal rock formations rise around us, undulating cliffs and gorges so massive and intricate they take my breath away. Enormous slabs of brown, orange, and tan curve around us into a deep canyon, the swirling multihued ribbons mesmerizing. Hints of greens, pinks, and violets shimmer through the bedrock, changing even as the light hits it.
“This is incredible,” I murmur.
Roshan nods. “These canyons are millions of years old, scoured into place by an infinite number of storms.”
Warm wind lifts my hair and gusts over my face, cooling slightly with the increased speed of the coach. Oddly, I don’t feel claustrophobic as the canyon narrows around us. I feel free and glad to be out of the city walls. We ride past a rock swirl that arches overhead, dipping down to eventually create a wide cavern that tunnels down into the rock. The air cools even more, and somehow, it smells like rain.
“What is that?” I whisper. There’s something shimmering in the distance. “Stars above, is thatwater?”
“It’s a submerged aqueduct,” he replies. “Water is scarce here in Nyriell, but it’s not completely gone, just hidden in pockets like these. Natural hot springs.”
He draws the horses to a stop and lights a lamp. Rock deposits in the walls reflect the light in a multitude of different colors even more so than the canyon walls above. Malachite-hued stalactites and stalagmites curve around us, covered in glowing lichens that make the cavern seem magical, like thousands of stars caught in the grip of an underground sky. I gasp, my eyes falling to the inky shimmering reservoir of water before me, catching the light and refracting it back. I’ve never seen anything like it.
There’s a rustling sound behind me.
I turn and go utterly speechless at the sight of Roshan shedding his clothing. Hills and valleys of rich brown skin and the sculpted, sleek muscles of his back ripple when he pulls his shirt over his head. My throat dries as he turns, the warm expanse of his broad chest and sculpted abdomen caught in the flickering lamplight. Sands on fire, the man ismesmerizing.
Boots and trousers go next before I realize I’m holding my breath. As I suck in a shuddery lungful of air, my eyes drop to the snug pair of linen underwear slung low on narrow hips... that do absolutely nothing to hide the bulge of his masculinity between thick, hair-covered thighs.Gods. Yes, I realize I’m calling on ancient gods outlawed by a bigoted monarchy, but it seems fitting: this man could be a deity in the flesh. I feel my cheeks scald and warmth pool in my belly.
“What are you doing?” I mumble.
“Swimming, what else?” With a shout, Roshan runs to the edge and dives in. I stand, unable to do anything but stare as he kicks his way to the surface. “Are you going to come in? It’s warm!” Water droplets shimmer in his hair and drip in tantalizing lines down his skin, andholy mother of immaculate perfection. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be in that pool.
I don’t look at him as I strip down to my own linen undergarments and quickly dive in. The wateriswarm, deliciously so, kissing and caressing my dry, moisture-starved skin. Laughing aloud, I kick out into the center and turn to float on my back, watching the lights around us flicker. It’s much darker down here, but it almost seems clearer as my pupils adjust.
“I wouldn’t have thought there were many water holes in the desert.” Droplets trickle over my lips, and my tongue darts out to taste them. “It’s salty!”
“High mineral content. Not potable, but it won’t hurt you in small amounts. Who taught you to swim?” Roshan’s voice echoes somewhere to the right of me. The dappled darkness gleams with pockets of light from the lichen, the sparse lamplight, and the reflection off the surface. His face comes into view and then disappears as he treads water. The effect is both mesmerizing and eerie.
“My mother,” I say. “She used to take me to the fancy public baths as a treat on my birthday. Said all young girls needed to know how to swim, even desert-bound ones.”
“My mother taught me, too.”
I turn to face him, absently rubbing my hand over my chest against the ache of nostalgia. “What was she like?”
He doesn’t speak for a long time, and I wonder if it’s too personal a subject. But then he clears his throat, the sound echoing over the water. “She was kind, warm. She laughed a lot. She’s the reason I love books so much.”
“Mine, too,” I admit, delighted that both our mothers had been bookworms. “My mama and I would read stories and then invent our own endings. We used to pretend to be princesses in the palace all the time.”
“Whenever I felt sad or upset or angry, which was often, especially when it came to Javed, mine would bring me a new book from the library. It became our love language—the stories had a way of helping us through tougher times. She always knew the best books to pick, too.”
I smile, touched by the poignancy in his words. “That’s beautiful.”
“Books can be the best kinds of bridges.” He shrugs, the water lapping against his shoulders, a melancholy timber to his voice. “The library in the palace has nearly three stories of books. Maybe I can show it to you one day...”
Roshan trails off as if remembering who and where we are: fugitives with little chance of returning to Kaldari not clad in irons, much less embarking on a tour of the royal library. Regret fills me for everything he has lost—not just his parents but the only home he’s ever known.
“I’m sorry she’s gone, Ro.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not. She’s in a better place, and I’m sure wherever she is, she’s surrounded by the things she loved—her books and her art.”
Roshan moves toward me, the water rippling over my skin the closer he gets. He ducks under the water. I don’t swim back, and I can feel his nearness before I see the dark outline of his head and shoulders emerging and bobbing a few feet away. He moves closer still, until I can mark his features in more detail in the guttering lamplight, his dark hair plastered to his skull and sparkling droplets on his long, spiky eyelashes. He looks like some kind of mystical water spirit, ready to lure me to his depths. I shiver with awareness and a breathless anticipation.
“What was your favorite thing about her?” I ask, unable to breathe properly with him so close.
“She loved to paint. Mostly landscapes. She painted the gardens in the palace, especially when the flowers were in full bloom. I liked how happy it made her.”
I purse my lips, surprised. His mother had been welcome in the palace? I don’t know why I’d had it in my head that Roshan’s mother had been a commoner—maybe it’s because of the way Javed treats him. But I’m not sure how to ask the question. “Was she an artist?” I say instead.
