Chapter 1 1 FORTY-SEVEN DAYS. My stomach cramps at the sight, yet I carefully mark an x through the number, one of dozens recorded in the pages of my journal. Tomorrow, day forty-six will follow, then forty-five, forty-four. I wonder if I might not end it now, in the small study attached to my bedchamber. Topple the candle wavering atop my desk. Surrender to the smoke. Defeat the curse before it defeats me. A bell clangs. Its echo leaps from the shining rooftops of the city's prosperous upper ring to the stately, wind-eroded pillars of the Queen's Road. I smooth the wrinkles from my dress with a trembling hand, for the time has come sooner than I wished. Pushing to my feet, I move to the window. An enemy approaches Ishmah's border. From my vantage point overlooking the Red City, I observe the line of soldiers snaking across the raw, sunburned earth. Sunlight glints against a thousand hammered shields. The gates will open at Prince Balior's arrival. There will be a feast held in his honor. The streets will swell with citizens, oleander blooms plucked from the public gardens and tossed onto the cracked, dusty roads. For this enemy is welcome. My palm lifts, pressing flat against the windowpane. For twenty-four years of my life, my left hand has lacked the opal rune that would identify me as a married woman. But my twenty-fifth nameday approaches. If I am to do my part in securing my people's survival, then I will wed this prince, whom I know nothing of. We must all make sacrifices. Returning to my desk, I spot the journal lying open, rows of numbers etched in blackest ink. A rush of despair consumes me, wholly and completely. Forty-seven days seems like an age, but chill mornings will bleed into stifling afternoons. Time, unable to alter or slow. I hurry toward my wardrobe, hauling open the doors to reveal a collection of brown, gray, and black dresses. Utterly lackluster, painfully drab. I brush them aside to reveal a smaller collection of jewel-colored gowns. I am Princess Sarai Al-Khatib of Ammara, yet I am not even allowed a bit of color or sparkle. Father's word is law. Reluctantly, I tug two colorless dresses from the wardrobe, accidentally knocking my violin case from where it had been shoved in the back corner. It topples onto the rug with a muffled thump. I wince, kneeling to pull the leather case onto my lap. Fahim would scold me for my carelessness. But Fahim is not here. My throat tightens, and after returning my instrument to its place in the back of the wardrobe, I hold up both dresses in the mirror. Linen of dull brown, which blends into the mahogany of my skin, or ivory, which promises purity? My mouth curls bitterly. Brown, most definitely. Gathering my heavy locks of ebony hair, I weave a ribbon through the plait that begins at the crown of my head. With a steady hand, I apply kohl to the corners of my dark eyes. A threadbare cloak drapes my shoulders, sandals strapped across my oiled feet. After a slow, calming exhalation, I head for the door, murmuring, "Duty to one's kingdom is duty to one's heart." I must, of course, fulfill my duty in greeting Prince Balior. But not now. Not yet. I cannot escape the palace quickly enough. The immense edifice engulfs a hill amidst the stately homes of the upper ring. Despite Ishmah's moniker--the Red City--its palace walls are alabaster pale: glossy marble, weathered limestone. They curve into hollowed ceilings and deep, romantic archways, everything exquisitely tiled in mosaics. One pillared corridor flows into another, with spacious, open-aired chambers concealed in cleverly designed niches, their ceilings exposed to the elements. An occasional courtyard shaded by tall fronds materializes as a burst of yellow brightness amidst the sheltered passageways and still pools. As I turn a corner, movement in my periphery snags my attention, and I slow, angling toward a dark shape near the vast double doors leading to the Library of Ishmah. The man is broad of chest, an unnatural stillness swathing his form. He wears loose ivory trousers and an emerald, knee-length robe. A white scarf wraps his hair, shielding the lower portion of his face from the boiling sun. Though I cannot see the man's eyes, I experience the intensity of his gaze, as if the sharpest of arrows pierces my breast. It cannot be. Years have eroded much of my past, yet some memories retain their clarity. I swear I recognize him. "Excuse me--" But the man retreats down a side corridor. By the time I reach the end of the hall, he has vanished. It takes a moment for my heart's rhythm to settle. I must have been mistaken. The man was likely a traveler who lost his way. When he does not reappear, I hurry past the library toward the stables. Generally, I would bribe the watchmen at the palace gates to let me pass, but not today. Due to the prince's arrival, the palace is doubly guarded. None may enter or depart without the king's permission, including me. But a secret passage hidden in the stable walls grants me access to a cool, dark tunnel, which deposits me beyond the palace grounds in the upper ring. The Queen's Road cuts south through Ishmah, with the perpendicular King's Road stretching east to west. Tidy, single-story homes hewn from red clay line the streets, and glorious windows of stained glass reflect colored light onto the paved road. Drought has touched everyone in Ishmah, including the wealthy. Where hedges once ornamented green lawns, only sand and shriveled branches remain. Dressed in my nondescript cloak, I blend in with the passersby easily. The roads narrow. The jeweled windows vanish. The stones underfoot fracture to gravel, packed soil, dust. In the lower ring, wagons multiply, and stalls spring up to clutter the streets. Merchants hawk their wares as unruly children scrabble underfoot, chasing a herd of goats through the crowd. Eventually, the road squeezes to a thread, halting anything aside from foot traffic. An arched entryway marks the entrance into the souk. It is, on the best of days, disorderly, and on the worst, absolute madness. Beyond the crumbling wall, alleyways fold around sharp corners, the area so littered with carts, tents, and stalls that it is impossible to pass through without knocking against something . The offerings are varied and numerous. Colors assault my vision and scents dizzy me with their potency. Fruits and nuts and grains, pottery and tapestries and useless trinkets. "The Red City's finest rugs! Buy now!" "--can't agree to a lower price, I'm afraid I'll have to go elsewhere--" "What did I tell you about eating things off the ground?" Coins are passed into outstretched hands. A young mother attempts to shepherd her five children through the rush. Always, there is more. Shallow bowls of hammered copper, inside which pile small hills of spices acquired along the Spice Road: the fired red of sumac, the ochre of cumin, turmeric, ginger. As I ease around a bend, I accidentally jostle a young man carting a crate of live chickens. He snarls at me; I snarl back. Then, suppressing a smile, I hurry onward. A door dressed in peeling yellow paint lies slightly ajar at the end of the lane. I slip inside, into cool darkness tinged with the warm, earthy scent of sandalwood. Children seated on colorful woven rugs occupy the small room I have found myself in. At the front sits a wizened woman draped in a frayed shawl. Her name is Haneen. She perches on a three-legged stool, her milky eyes staring sightlessly. As though having sensed my arrival, her mouth curves. But of course that is impossible. How is a blind bard to know that the princess of Ammara attends her weekly storytelling hour? "Now," she begins, her voice like a creak of aged wood. "Where did I leave off?" The air stills as the room holds its breath. Last week, our fierce and loyal Aziza enlisted in Ammara's army by disguising herself as a man and declaring her grandfather's identity. War was coming. And if Aziza was to save her grandfather from being conscripted into the army, then she must become his replacement. Training was ruthless. These soldiers were strong, agile, prevailing. Aziza was the weakest by far. None knew she was a woman. She was forced to bathe far from camp in the dead of night and hike back before dawn. But Aziza didn't give up. One month passed, then another. Her muscles hardened. Her will became unbreakable iron. I listen to the tale of Aziza with the desperation of one who fears it might all be stripped away. This transportive narrative, a glimpse of what could be. As the story slowly unravels and the hour slips its knot, I find myself in awe of this bold, selfless woman, who managed to overcome unsurmountable odds. One night , Haneen continues, her tone darkening, Aziza was not so careful. She failed to realize that Omar, one of the men from her unit, had heard her leaving the tent to wash. He wondered where she was going and decided to follow her. The children gasp. Even I catch my breath. I did not wish Aziza to be discovered. She was brave--braver than I hoped to be. After arriving at the small oasis where she bathed, Aziza shed her clothes and began to submerge herself when the scuff of a boot stopped her cold. "Yousef?" the man whispered. There is a pause. I expect Haneen to go on, but she merely sits there, more satisfied than the fattest of cats drunk on cream. "What happens next?" a young boy cries. "What happens to Aziza?" She grins. "You will have to return tomorrow to find out." The slap of my sandals travels the length of the palace corridor with the percussive rhythm of hide drums. I have nearly reached the throne room when someone drawls, "I hear celebrations are in order, Princess Sarai." I slow, angling to the right. A buxom woman draped in yellow silk reclines against one of the smooth pillars--and she is not alone. Three noblewomen flank her. My pleasant mood promptly sours. Dalia Yassin. Somehow, I manage to plaster a close-lipped smile across my mouth. "And what, exactly, are we celebrating?" That dress makes you look like an old goat. Dalia bats her eyelashes. "Why, your forthcoming betrothal to Prince Balior, of course." You don't deserve him, hag. My smile wanes. That information has not been publicly announced. Then again, countless cooks, attendants, handmaidens, and stableboys are employed by members of the court to snoop and pry, including Dalia's family, one of the oldest and wealthiest in Ammara. "Although, I'm not sure if celebration is the right word," the woman goes on, easing off the pillar, arm outswept in an absurd display of dramatics. Her followers gaze on, captivatied. "King Halim must be truly desperate for a match if he is selling you off to the enemy." My eyes narrow in warning. "That's not--" "But who can blame the man?" she cuts in smoothly. "It's not like you're getting any younger. A princess in her mid-twenties with zero prospects? Well," she tsks . "That is a shame." A furious blush flames red across my cheeks. What is worse? This poison she spews, or the fact that I cannot deny its verity? In my younger years, I was too busy studying music to make a strategic match. "I myself had my pick of eligible noblemen." She glances at her nails. Rich, glossy pink. "My husband is lucky to call himself mine." Lucky . That's not exactly the word I'd use. "Didn't I hear your husband married you to help pay his father's gambling debts?" Our audience titters behind their hands. Dalia grows so red I am convinced she will succumb to fever. "I'll have you know that I was tutored alongside one of Prince Balior's cousins as a child," she seethes. "So I would take care with your words." I offer a wide, toothy grin. "You should have kept in touch." The noblewomen's gasps trail me as I stride purposefully toward the throne room. Two expansive doors painted the pale blue of the midmorning sky open with a groan. It is vast, this chamber--the great belly of the palace. Guards ornament the walls. Archers, unseen but for the points of their nocked arrows, command the second level. Gleaming marble tiles toss light from the high windows onto the mosaiced ceiling. A long, woven rug connects the entrance to the dais in the back of the room. King Halim occupies the most impressive seat: a deeply cushioned chair that drips with jewels. To his right sits an equally impressive yet slightly smaller throne. It has been vacant since my mother's passing nearly twenty-five years before. To his left, three additional thrones: mine, Amir's, Fahim's. Upon reaching the dais, I kneel. "Father." "You're late." The drop in my stomach is a feeling I know well. Lifting my head, I glance around. The chamber is empty. "Our guests have yet to arrive." He stiffens. "Excuse me?" His voice is low, dangerously so. "So long as I am seated before they are," I say, "why should it matter that I am a few moments behind schedule?" "It matters because I know that you are tardy. I have spoken to you about this before." I regard Father coolly. King Halim was once an impressive man. The breadth and solidity of his shoulders, arms, and back. The curve of his proud belly. He stood taller than most men, black beard shining and full. But the man who surveys me now is but a shade of my father. His musculature has wasted with disease. He looks frail beneath the folds of his ivory robe. The skin around his jowls hangs loose with age. "And what of Amir?" I press. "You and I both know he struggles with timeliness." The king is not amused. "Amir is not tardy today . He is on his honeymoon, as you well know. Do you expect your brother to be in two places at once?" He does not allow me the opportunity to respond before he adds, "Tardiness is unacceptable for someone of your station. See to it that it doesn't happen again." I bite into the soft flesh of my inner cheek. Too easily, my tongue sharpens, its barbs threatening to spew forth. I remind myself of what's at stake: my kingdom, my life. "Duly noted," I clip out. Father grunts in acknowledgment as I rise, taking my place on the smallest throne. Only when I am settled do the doors open once more. "Announcing Prince Balior of Um Salim to His Majesty, King Halim Al-Khatib of Ammara." A man, tall and well-built, strides through the doors. Twelve men dressed in loose, ebon robes flank him, scimitars hanging from their belt loops--his personal guard, I assume. The prince is young, not yet thirty. Handsome, though even the most pleasing countenance may obscure a rot beneath. Black hair curls over his ears, and color reddens his sharp cheekbones from the sweltering heat. A fairer complexion than I am used to, though if he were to spend considerable time outdoors, his skin would likely turn as brown as mine. For many years, the realms of Ammara and Um Salim were at war. And who could blame the larger realm for attempting to invade? Ammara is rich with wealth, particularly its capital, Ishmah, though the people of Um Salim do not know just how much this prosperity has waned. Twenty-five years of drought, for which I am to blame. And there is the threat of the encroaching darkwalkers to consider, too. Prince Balior is a preeminent scholar who has studied the region's oldest myths. Father hopes his research will prove useful in finding a way to break my curse, end the drought, and halt the darkwalkers' infiltration of our land. If Prince Balior's negotiations with King Halim are favorable, our separate realms will soon marry into one. Of course, the prince cannot know that his bride-to-be is cursed, or that the kingdom he hopes to one day rule is doomed. I will need to take care with how I approach discourse concerning his research findings. It weighs on me, this secret. Only Father is privy to it. "Your Majesty." Our guest kneels, blue headscarf brushing the snowy tile. "I am honored." Father considers the man's prostrated form. After a moment, he states, "Rise, Prince Balior. Our Lord of the Mountain shines upon you. I trust your journey was fair?" He sweeps to his feet with a fluidity I do not often witness. "It was. My men and I are humbled by the welcome." "And where are your soldiers now?" "Beyond Ishmah's walls. They await your permission to enter." King Halim presses the tips of his fingers together. "Unfortunately, Prince Balior, I cannot permit your army to pass into the capital. Not until the wedding ceremony is complete. This is for the protection of my people. I'm sure you understand. Your personal guard will of course be accommodated inside the palace." The prince frowns. His eyes flicker with some indecipherable emotion. This, he did not expect. While I agree with Father's decision, it's not exactly a hospitable introduction. But Prince Balior bows, saying, "I understand. Though, it has been a long journey--I cannot expect my men to return to Um Salim after having just arrived here." "Naturally," the king replies smoothly. "They may camp beyond the wall as we await the ceremony." Father gestures to me, though does not glance my way. "My daughter, Princess Sarai Al-Khatib." The prince regards me curiously. I dip my chin toward our guest, my smile thin and cutting. King Halim continues, "I'm hopeful that we'll reach an arrangement benefitting both Ammara and Um Salim in the coming weeks." My hand in marriage. My freedom exchanged for Ammara's survival. In less than thirty days, the tattoo marking the left hand of every married person in Ammara will be inked on my skin. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Ammara has much to offer--" Though Prince Balior continues to speak, my attention cuts to a sudden motion within the stillness of the chamber. A figure slips through one of the side doors behind the guards. Broad, sure-footed: the man with the white headscarf I saw loitering outside the library. A rush of defiance sends me to my feet. "Halt! What business do you have with the king?" The archers located on the second level angle their arrows toward the intruder. A hundred scimitars slide free of their scabbards. Prince Balior's personal guard hastily forms a shield around their sovereign. Father's eyes flash in my direction. "Sarai. This man is a guest." "A guest who slips through the back door," I snarl, "no better than a fox in the brush?" How did he get past the guards? Unless he has killed them? Unrest has bled into the realm's widening cracks. As drought creeps toward its third decade, people's desperation intensifies. "Step forward." For someone so broad, he moves with startling lightness. Something about the motion sends an odd shiver across my scalp. "Sarai!" King Halim's rage is total. "If you do not take your seat this instant--" I am both dreaming and awake, for though the man's face is partially veiled, I am certain I have seen it before. "Remove your scarf, sir." He lifts a hand, catching the fabric between two fingers. The cloth unwinds: nose, mouth, jaw. That face, bared and horribly familiar. My stomach drops as the South Wind speaks in a voice reminiscent of a deep, ceaseless current. "Hello, Sarai." Excerpted from The South Wind by Alexandria Warwick All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
