“I see there’s been a shift in the weather,” he said.
Mazen smirked. It was a disconcertingly perfect mirror image of Omar’s usual smile. “What an astute observation.”
Aisha glanced up at the sky. The full moon looked hazy, almost like a mirage. She saw no encroaching clouds, so it was unlikely a rainstorm was coming. What, then? Was the bodyguard just referring to the colder winds? That was not unusual for this time of year.
“It is hardly noteworthy.” She returned her gaze to the merchant, who looked like she was fighting a chill with her arms crossed beneath her cloak. Qadir, on the other hand, appeared completely unperturbed by the cold. And Prince Mazen—Aisha could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering.
“Shift or no shift, we’ll arrive at Dhyme tomorrow,” he said. “We will not have to fear the weather being a hindrance when we are within the city walls.”
The merchant raised a brow. “What an astute observation, High Prince.”
Mazen blinked, looking stupefied.
Aisha pointedly cleared her throat and diverted the conversation. “Do not forget about the wali of Dhyme, sayyidi. He will be expecting us to pay him a visit when we arrive in the city.” Omar never passed through Dhyme without visiting the city’s guardian.
It was a small reassurance that Mazen would already know Ahmed’s demeanor. Mazen was a prince, after all, and he’d doubtless met the wali when he visited Madinne on business.
The prince sighed. “Of course. I could never forget Ahmed. He’s too dramatic for that.”
Loulie al-Nazari flinched. It was a slight motion but noticeable, given her silence. She knows him, Aisha thought. But her curiosity sparked and died in the same breath. She could not read the merchant’s feelings off her face, and she did not care enough to pry.
Silence encompassed the area. They all stared solemnly, quietly, into the fire. And then the merchant threw a stray stick into the blaze. The flames crackled and flared, painting her face with shadows that made her scornful gaze look even harsher.
“Well,” she said. “Where the weather is concerned, I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait and see what tomorrow brings.”
The next day brought a godsdamned dust storm.
Tenacious winds cleaved at the landscape, and harsh gusts tore at their clothing and whipped at their skin. One needed only to glimpse at the eerie orange sky to know they were in the middle of a sandstorm. The city of Dhyme, which ought to have been a few hours away, was nothing but a blurry shape barely visible beyond clouds of dust. The single indication they were going in the right direction was the merchant’s compass, which dutifully pointed north.
Or so Aisha assumed. The merchant and her taciturn bodyguard had disappeared into the haze, and she could no longer see them.
The wind howled in her ears, throwing so much dust in her face she had to conceal it behind her scarves. She cursed as the world collapsed into sand and wind and gloom. The sand was there even when she squeezed her eyes shut, sticking to her lashes and prickling the backs of her lids. It was in her throat, turning every exhale into a painful, wheezing cough.
She wanted to kick herself for not realizing the foggy sky had been a precursor to this. She had foolishly expected tamer traveling weather because it was the beginning of the Cold Season, but she ought to have known by now that desert weather was a fickle thing.
She chanced a look at her surroundings as the wind’s shriek died into a mournful moan, squinting into the dust for any sign of human motion. The Midnight Merchant was still absent from sight, but Aisha could see another figure approaching. His face was covered, but she would have recognized Omar anywhere.
Even when he was not himself.
Aisha urged her mare toward the prince. Closer and closer—until the wind picked up again and a thick curtain of dust descended upon them. Her vision went black.
Time ceased to exist in the darkness. It was useless to push forward, so Aisha gripped her reins, ducked her face into her scarves, and retreated into the calm of her mind. The wind battered her so heavily from every side that she soon lost all sense of direction. She simultaneously felt as if she had been flung into the air and also like she was being buried. It became difficult—nearly impossible—to breathe. Only one thought kept her anchored to her saddle: I will not be bested by a storm.
Long minutes passed, and she repeated the words over and over again until, eventually, the wind abated and the sky lightened to a dim red. Taking advantage of the break in the storm, she pulled down the cloth covering her stinging eyes and looked up. Sand trailed down her cheeks like tears as she examined the desert.