A Sky Beyond the Storm

“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

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.