A Sky Beyond the Storm

by Sabaa Tahir

  For a long moment, I do not answer. The drummers cease and a group of oud players strums a slower tune.

  After Harper’s death, I wanted to rip out my heart to stop it aching. Learning what his spirit said to Elias—a message my friend brought to me himself—offered me no comfort. I paced the streets of Antium late at night, cursing my actions, reliving the battle. Tormenting myself with what I could have done.

  But as the days turned into weeks and months, I grew accustomed to the pain—the same way I learned to live with the scars on my face. And instead of hating my heart, I began to marvel at its strength, at the fact that it thuds on insistently. I am here, it seems to say. For we are not done, Helene. We must live.

  “Before she died,” I say, “Livvy told me I’d have to reckon with all that I tried to hide from myself. She said it would hurt. And”—I meet my old friend’s gaze—“it does.”

  “We’re trailing ghosts now, Hel,” he says, and there is strange comfort in knowing that at the very least, there is someone in the world who understands this pain. “All we can do is try not to make any more.”

  “Pardon me, Elias.” Musa appears, moon cake in hand. I promptly steal it from him. I’m starving. “May I cut in?”

  Elias bows his head, and Musa waits patiently as I devour the moon cake. The second I’m done, he takes my hand and pulls me close.

  Very close.

  “This is a bit inappropriate.” I glance up at him and find myself slightly breathless.

  “Do you like it?” Musa arches a fine, dark eyebrow. Surprised, I consider his question.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Then who cares.”

  “I hear Adisa’s new king reinstated your lands and title,” I say. “When does your caravan leave?”

  “Why, Empress? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Am I? Musa has been invaluable in court, charming Illustrian Paters as easily as he has Scholars. When we broke up the estates of Keris’s top allies, it was Musa who suggested we award them to Scholars and Plebeians who fought in the Battle of Antium.

  And when grief threatens to consume me, it is Musa who appears with a meal and insists we eat it out in the sunshine. Musa who drags me to the palace kitchens to bake bread with him, and Musa who suggests a visit to Zacharias, even if it means canceling two weeks of court.

  I thought at first that the Scholar had wights watching me to make sure I did not fall too deeply into despair. But the wights, he told me, are no longer his spies.

  Knowing too many secrets isn’t particularly pleasant, he said when we were out riding one day. How am I supposed to take the Pater of Gens Visselia seriously when I know he spends most of his time composing odes to his hounds?

  “Empress?” He waits for an answer to his question, and I shake myself.

  “I don’t want to keep you in the Empire”—I can’t quite look at him—“if you don’t want to stay.”

  “Do you want me to stay?” Despite the arrogance that he wears like armor, I hear a thread of vulnerability in his voice that makes me look up into his dark eyes.

  “Yes,” I say to his uncertainty. “I want you to stay, Musa.”

  He lets out a breath. “Thank the skies,” he says. “I don’t actually like bees very much. Little bastards always sting me. And anyway, you need me around.”

  I scoff and step on his foot. “I do not need you.”

  “You do. Power is a strange thing.” He glances out at Afya and Spiro, clapping and spinning a few feet away, and at Mamie, feeding a gleeful Zacharias yet another moon cake. “It can twist loneliness into despair if there is not someone nearby to keep an eye out.”

  “I’m not lonely!” A lie, though Musa is too much a gentleman to call me on it.

  “But you are alone, Empress.” A shadow passes across his face, and I know he thinks of his wife, Nikla, dead six months now. “As all those in power are alone. You don’t have to be.”

  His words sting. Because they are true. His usually mirthful face softens as he watches me.

  “It should have been him dancing with you,” Musa says, and at the raw emotion in his voice, my eyes heat.

  In that moment, I ache for Harper’s hands. His grace and his rare smile. The way I could look at him level, because I was nearly his height. His steady, quiet love. I never danced with him. I should have.

  Part of me wants desperately to shove my memories of him into the same dark room where my parents and sister live. The room that houses all my pain.

  But that room should not exist anymore. My family deserves to be remembered. Mourned. Often, and with love. And so does Harper.

  A tear spills down my cheek. “It should be her beside you,” I tell Musa.

  “Alas.” The Scholar spins me in a circle, then pulls me back. “We’re the ones who survived, Empress. Unlucky, perhaps, but that’s our lot. And since we’re here, we might as well live.”

  The fiddlers and oud players take up another tune, and the drums thump along, demanding a faster, wilder dance.

  Though I was reluctant moments ago, now I find that I want to give in to that exuberant beat. So does Musa. So we laugh and dance again. We eat a dozen moon cakes and chase away the loneliness, two broken people who, for this night, anyway, make a whole.

  Later, when Mamie Rila calls us for Laia’s story, and as we settle with Zacharias and the rest of Tribe Saif onto the rugs and cushions strewn across the caravanserai, I lean in to Musa.

  “I am glad you are staying,” I say. “And I will be thankful for your company.”

  “Good.” Musa flashes me his brilliant smile, and for once, it is not mocking. “Because you still owe me a favor, Empress. And I plan to collect.”

  My answering laugh is one of delight. Delight that I can feel a thrill when a man I care for makes me smile. That I can look forward to a story told by my friend. That I can find hope in the eyes of the little boy I hold in my arms.

  That despite all I have survived, or perhaps because of it, there is still joy in my heart.

  LXXII: Laia

  Mamie finds me in my wagon, pacing in the small space, muttering the Tale to myself. The moon is high outside, and the smell of cardamom and honey and tea fills the caravanserai.

  “Laia, my love,” she says. “It is time.”

  When I step out of the wagon, she straightens my dress, a traditional Scholar kurta and shalwar, the clothes we wore long ago, before the Martials came. The cloth of the kurta is the same warm ebony as the close-fitting pants beneath, and falls to my knees. It gleams with geometric embroidery in silver and green thread, to honor the Kehanni teaching me. The neckline is low and square, the K that Keris carved into me clearly visible.

  “It stands,” I told Elias earlier, “for Kehanni.”

  “Do you know the story you will tell?” Mamie asks me as we make our way to the Kehanni’s stage, where a massive crowd has gathered. Aubarit and Gibran spread blankets and rugs, while Spiro—who has made his home in Nur—helps Afya pass mugs of steaming tea from hand to hand.

  “I know the story I wish to tell,” I say. “But—it’s not very fitting for the Moon Festival.”

  “The tale chooses you, Laia of Serra,” Mamie says. “Why do you wish to tell this one?”

  The crowd fades for a moment, and I hear the Meherya in my mind. Do not forget the story, Laia of Serra.

  “This tale is the gibbet in the square,” I say. “The blood on the cobblestones. It is the K carved into a Scholar girl’s skin. The mother who waited thirty years for her child. The agony of a family destroyed. This tale is a warning. And it is a promise kept.”

  “Then it must be told.” Mamie makes her way to her own spot in the packed crowd.

  As I ascend the stage, the audience shushes itself. Elias leans against a wagon, his hair falling into his eyes, gaze far away. Helene sits near him with
Musa, her guards close by, her attention given over to Zacharias, who bounces up and down in her lap.

  I raise my hands and everyone falls suddenly, reverently quiet.

  Do not be surprised at the silence, Mamie taught me. Demand it. For you offer them a gift they will carry with them forever. The gift of story.

  “I awoke in the glow of a young world.” My voice carries to the farthest corners of the caravanserai. “When man knew of hunting but not tilling. Of stone but not steel. It smelled of rain and earth and life. It smelled of hope.”

  I draw the story from deep within my soul, pouring my love into it, and my forgiveness, my anger and my empathy, my joy and my sadness.

  The audience is rapt, their faces ever changing—going from shock to gladness to horror—as I take them through the unrelenting storms of the Meherya’s life.

  They knew him only as a murderer and tormentor. Not as a king or father or husband. Not as a broken creature, forsaken by his creator.

  I realize as I tell the tale that I have forgiven the Meherya for what he did to me. To my family. But I have no right to forgive what he did to this world. His crimes were too great—and only time will tell if we heal from them.

  When I arrive at Rehmat’s mercy, at the Meherya’s end, even Zacharias is silent, his hand stuffed in his mouth as he stares, wide-eyed.

  “In that moment, the wind ceased.” My voice drops, and everyone leans forward as one to hear. “All fell silent. All went still. For the Beloved who woke with the dawning of the world was no more. And for a single, anguished moment, the earth itself mourned him.”

  My shoulders droop. The tale is over, and it has taken its toll. No one says a word after I finish, and I wonder, briefly, if I have made some sort of error in the telling.

  Then the Tribes erupt, clapping, shouting, stamping their feet, crying, “Aara! Aara!”

  More. More.

  In the long buildings that edge the caravanserai, figures shift in the shadows, sun eyes flashing. They disappear the moment I look at them—all but one. Beneath her hood, I catch a glimpse of dark blue eyes and white hair, a scarred face and a hand lifted to her heart.

  Mother.

  After the fires have dimmed and festivalgoers have gone to their homes and wagons, I leave the caravanserai and make my way into the desert. It is the darkest hour of the night, when even ghosts take their rest. Nur gleams with thousands of lamps, a constellation in the heart of the sands.

  “Laia.”

  I know her voice, but more than that, I know the feel of her, the comfort of her presence, the cinnamon scent of her hair.

  “You did not have to come,” I say to her. “I know it’s hard to get away.”

  “It was your first story.” She does not stutter anymore, and exudes a gravitas that reminds me of my father. She has begun to forgive herself. “I did not wish to miss it.”

  “How are the jinn?”

  “Grumpy,” Mother says. “A bit lost. But starting to find their way, even without the Meherya.” She squeezes my hand. “They liked your story.”

  We walk in silence for a time, and then stop atop a large dune. The galaxy burns bright, and we watch the stars wheel above in their unknowable dance, letting ourselves appreciate their beauty. She puts her arm around me, and I sink into her, closing my eyes.

  “I miss them,” I whisper.

  “As do I,” she says. “But they’ll be there, little cricket, on the other side. Waiting for us when our time comes.” She says it with a longing I understand. “But not yet.” Mother nudges me pointedly. “We have much left to do in this world. I must go. The spirits call.” She nods over my shoulder. “And there’s someone waiting for you.”

  Elias approaches after Mother has already windwalked away. “She’s about a thousand times better at soul catching than I ever was,” he says.

  “You were excellent at it.” I turn for Nur and hook my arm into his, reveling in his solidity, his strength. “You just hated it.”

  “And now that I’m free,” he says, “I was thinking I need to find something to do. I can’t very well loiter about the caravan while you’re hard at work becoming a Kehanni. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “You will be maddeningly wonderful at whatever you choose, Elias. But what do you want?”

  He answers swiftly enough that I know he’s been thinking on this for a long while.

  “Tas wants to learn scimcraft along with a few other children in the Saif caravan,” he says. “And our future emperor will eventually need lessons in a dozen subjects.”

  The thought of Elias teaching Tas, the Saif children, and Zacharias makes my heart melt a bit. “You’ll be an incredible teacher,” I chuckle. “Though I feel for those children. They will not get away with anything.”

  Elias pulls away from me, and I realize after a moment that he is holding an object, spinning it so fast that I cannot get a look at it.

  “Before any of that, I—ah—have something for you.” He stops and lifts his hands to reveal an armlet—intricately carved with apricot blossoms and cherry blossoms and Tala blossoms, a veritable garden of fruit. Along the edges, in vivid script, he has inscribed the names of my family. Words fail me, and I reach out to take it, but he does not give it to me. Not yet.

  “I wish I could live a thousand lives so I could fall in love with you a thousand times,” he says. “But if all we get is this one, and I share it with you, then I will never want for anything, if—if you—would—if you—” He stops, hands gripped so tight around the armlet that I fear he’ll break it.

  “Yes. Yes.” I take it from him and put it on. “Yes!” I cannot say it enough.

  He pulls me up into a kiss that reminds me of why I want to spend my life with him, of all of the things I want with him. Adventures, I told him. Meals. Late nights. Rainy walks.

  Later—much later—I lift my cloak from the earth and shake the dust off.

  “You can’t complain.” He runs his hand through his hair, and a torrent of sand pours out. His smile is a white flash in the night. “You did say you wanted me to talk you out of your clothes in inappropriate places.”

  He dodges my shove with a laugh, and I pull him to his feet.

  Elias laces his fingers through mine as we walk. He tells me what he hopes to do on his first full day home, his baritone thrumming in my veins like the sweetest, deepest oud playing a song that I wish to hear forever. What a small thing it seems, to walk with the one you love. To look forward to a day with them. I marvel at the simplicity of this moment. And I thank the skies for the miracle of it.

  A thick layer of cloud rests atop the eastern horizon, and the sky pales, the deep orange glow of an ember breathed into life. High above, the stars whisper their goodbyes and fade into the depthless blue dome of the firmament.

  —30—

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  How do I thank you, reader, for staying with me to the end? You create fan art and cosplay and wait for hours to have books signed. You name kids and kittens and puppies after Ember characters. You cheer with me and cry with me and lift me up. With all my heart and soul, thank you.

  For thirteen years, my family has ridden the highs and lows of this journey with me. My loving appreciation to Mama, Emberling #1. Your duas have carried me farther than I ever dreamed. Daddy, thank you for the gift of willpower and for always asking how I’m doing, first.

  Kashi—for letting me steal your softest shirts and our greatest memories, for gales of midnight laughter, for listening to me read and dwelling on the shape of a word, and most of all for believing, long before I ever did—thank you.

  My boys, my always-little ones, your patience and positivity inspire me every day. All of it, every good thing, is for you.

  Amer, late-night writing partner, calmest of voice, fiercest of allies. Thank you for helping me find my way through this book and life in gene
ral. I would be lost without you. Haroon, champion to end all champions. You are a badass, and every year that passes cements this further. Thank you for fighting on.

  Alexandra, fellow warrior and worrier, she who always believes. I know this end is really just a beginning, but I cannot imagine any of it without you. May we reach ever higher.

  To my sister Tala—with each book, I failed to find the words for us. So I’ll just say that I will never hear a DM song and not smile and think of all we have survived together.

  Great love to Heelah, for the laughter and memes; Uncle and Auntie, for your duas and belief in me; Imaan, Armaan, and Zakat, for reminding me why I write; and Brittany, Lilly, Zoey, Anum, and Bobby, for your prayers and love.

  Cathy Yardley, mentor and friend, I am so thankful for your steady encouragement and for helping me make sense of my own weird brain.

  Penguins, thank you, thank you, thank you: Jen Loja, for believing in and supporting me, but most of all for time, a gift I shall never forget; Casey McIntyre, Ruta Rimas, and Gretchen Durning, for your patience and for tirelessly going over this manuscript a million times; Shanta Newlin and the always-hustling publicity team; Felicia Frazier and the phenomenal sales team; Emily Romero and the wildly inventive marketing team; and Carmela Iaria and the awesome school and library team.

  My deep appreciation also to Felicity Vallence, Jen Klonsky, Shane Rebenschied, Kristin Boyle, Krista Ahlberg, Jonathan Roberts, Jayne Ziemba, Rebecca Aidlin, Roxane Edouard, Savanna Wicks, and Stephanie Koven; and to the international publishers, editors, cover artists, and translators, for making the Ember books the best they can be in so many beautiful languages.

  Ben Schrank, life takes us on unexpected paths, and I’m glad that for this bit, we walked together. Thank you for all that you have done for me and for this series.

  Nicola Yoon, I could not have done this without you. Thank you for reminding me of all the beauty the darkness holds. You are an extraordinary friend and a beautiful person. Renée Ahdieh, beloved sis and always ally, thank you for your wisdom and love, for being you, through thick and thin. Lauren DeStefano—who was there with kind words on the hard days and a stern word on the lazy ones, my forever DRiC, I’m very grateful for you.