He had no notion of consciousness; he couldn’t tell which realm he wandered. He felt only that he was being slowly suffused in darkness; smoke exhaling into his airways, sinister sensation curling around his bones.
The devil was close.
Shadows shifted all around him, encroaching; black whorls lapped at the edges of his perception like foul tongues. Bone-chilling, chittering sounds echoed between his ears as the stench of death encompassed everything; shafts of light fell across the dark of his mind, disorienting him further. His head was heavy, delirious; he was parched; half-blind. Pain spasmed steadily through his limbs, a sharp ache pulsing behind his eyes, his pupils quickly dilating. He felt as if his mind and body were separate entities, as if his physical self had been planted elsewhere, perhaps across the room. It occurred to him, faintly, that he was incompletely dressed.
He knew not where he was.
He was hardly aware of who he was.
“Cyrus?”
He startled badly at the sound of his name, backing away on instinct, his legs catching in soft sheets as his head met hard resistance, pain flaring against skull.
Her voice.
He felt her more than he could see her, a silhouette blurred before him as if through warped glass. She wasn’t supposed to be here. His eyesight was uncertain, heat crowding his thoughts. He struggled to breathe.
Was he dreaming?
He could no longer tease apart day and night; he felt out of his head with fever. Cyrus knew well the distinctive signs of the devil; he’d learned to anticipate the horrifying moments before Iblees arrived; before the bloodshed and brutality began. This hallucination was doubtless some abomination of reality, or else some new and terrible approach to torture. Cyrus didn’t want to sully the essence of her with the smear of him, didn’t want her anywhere near the rotted breath pressing up against his senses, diffusing across his skin—
He stiffened. His stomach heaved; revulsion rose inside him as the familiar horror crescendoed—
“No,” he cried. “NO—”
“We took your soul and stained it,” the devil whispered, “rinsed it with blood and debt. We took your mind and claimed it, chained it with regret—”
“Get out,” Cyrus said desperately. “Get away from me—”
“Your heart we broke for pleasure,” Iblees went on, “our reasons remain our own. All these years of rage and silence, all these centuries alone—”
“But I don’t want to leave you—”
His breath caught. It was her voice, again.
God, her voice.
He thought he could see her now, could see her rising before him in a prismatic vision, her edges blurring, blasted with light. He blinked and the windows flared behind her, giving her the impression of wings, and he knew then, his heart pounding desperately in his chest, that he could no longer trust his own eyes.
“We possess you now and always,” Iblees whispered.
Was this a dream?
Cyrus’s blind eyes darted around the room in acute panic, but the voices wouldn’t stop—
“We possess you now and always,” said the devil, “our schemes are rarely fair—”
“Please,” she said, “let me stay—”
“Still, we offer congratulations; to the overlooked, unwilling heir—”
“I want nothing from you,” he cried. “Get out—get out—”
“Cyrus—”
He backed up again violently, cracking his head once more against a hard surface, pain sparking behind his eyes.
“I only want to help you,” said the angel, moving suddenly toward him.
Cyrus drew a ragged breath.
She looked as if she were a disembodied halo, a detachment of radiance, and he understood then that his dreams were bleeding into reality—that he’d come unraveled from reason—
“Never have we lost a match, we swear it by the stars. Never shall you have the girl, her fate is twined with ours—”
“NO,” he cried. He felt manic; feverish. “Get away from me— Leave me alone—”
“Still we offer congratulations; to the overlooked, unwilling heir. We possess you now and always; our schemes are sometimes fair—”
“I won’t abandon you,” she said, though he knew not from where. Her face was entirely illegible, erased by the flare of light. “I won’t neglect you in this state—”
Cyrus was shaking; he’d lost control of his body.
“Oh, the jester is delighted, to see you so distressed! In exchange you are entitled, to this splendid bequest—”
“I want nothing from you but what I’m owed!” he exploded, his chest heaving. A bead of sweat rolled down his throat, breaking against his collarbone. “Get away from me—”
The devil inched closer, and Cyrus went taut, roiling with disgust as the dark susurrations sunk deeper inside him. “To make the journey simpler,” Iblees said softly, “to seek out her fabled power; we’ll allow the girl to have her book, which she’ll filch within the hour—”
“What’s happening?” said the angel. “Tell me what’s wrong—”
She drew yet closer and Cyrus tore away from the searing haze of her, falling off some kind of ledge and hitting the ground badly.
“Stop,” he shouted, his voice strangled. “Stop—”
His body was tangled up in cloth, and he tore at this fabric with a madness he couldn’t explain.
“We’ve put a pause on torture. Your bloodletting will cease. No longer will we batter you. We offer you this ease—”
“Cyrus—”
“You offer me nothing,” he gasped, fighting his sheets. “I want nothing from you except what I’m owed—”
“Please—”
“We offer congratulations; to the overlooked, unwilling heir; your heart we broke for pleasure; our reasons remain unfair—”
“GET—OUT—” he screamed.
ONE
id, curled up inside the hearth. Moonbeams slanted through the diamond-cut windows, bathing her in silver as she deftly embroidered goldwork roses, the metallic threads glimmering against a backdrop of flame. Her movements were deceptively efficient, these practiced motions elevating the excruciating work to a venture so effortless that many a gaping idiot had felt emboldened to suggest that they, too, might stitch together a wedding ensemble in a sequence of hours, if only they had the time.
“It don’t seem hard at all,” announced a stable boy to the coachman, his face squashed against the windowpane. The boy blinked, glass smearing against one widened eye. “Quick and easy, see? Don’t know why everyone is yappin’ ’bout it.”
The coachman, a grizzled fellow who’d once earned a smile from Alizeh in broad daylight, gave the boy a shove before dragging him back toward the stables. “Feckless ingrate,” he muttered, tossing a dark look at the clutch of incomers shoving into the vacated positions by the window. The new arrivals were by trade a blacksmith, a shepherd, and a fletcher, respectively, yet just then the trio took up the common work of squashing their cheeks and noses against royal glass. The warm breath of gossip occasionally fogged from view the very subject of all their discussion; one could almost hear the squeak of a sleeve rubbing circles upon the window.
Alizeh managed to smile.
She might be encouraged to find the situation funny if it weren’t for the fact that every window she encountered depicted the same scene: faces pressed like dough in a frame, teeth knocking against the casement as lips moved, fingers searching for purchase as legs pushed up on toes for a better look. Curtains had proven useless against the relentlessly curious, who saw the draperies as an obstacle to be overcome with etiquette: they simply knocked at the darkened windows until someone came to draw the shades. Invisibility was futile, as Alizeh’s onlookers were a healthy mix of Jinn and Clay; and though she might’ve sought refuge in a room higher up in the castle, she was afraid to stray too far from Cyrus, who, after surviving the gruesome blood oath, had been delivered to an accessible guest room on a lower floor. Her preference, of course, had been to take shelter beside him—but as this was no longer an option, she’d been forced to take refuge in the familiar.
Alizeh shifted away from the flames, less inclined to pitch her typically frozen body into the fire now that Cyrus’s steaming blood ran through her veins. In fact, recently she’d been experiencing an altogether novel sensation: sometimes she ran quite hot.
She took a breath, paused her needle, smoothed the fabric, and reminded herself to look up at her audience.
Cook was sitting at the long wooden table bisecting the kitchen, face propped up in her hands, forgetting to blink as she stared. A gaggle of snodas had been extruded into the room over the course of an hour; now, a neat dozen stood gawping before her. Footmen gilded the walls; a house cat shot her an arch look as she slunk past; the butler stood frozen, parcels in hand, before the pantry door.
Alizeh rolled her shoulders back and brazened through these indignities. She lifted a hand to acknowledge the many eyes aimed in her direction, and even attempted a smile at the fogging windows; but with three pins between her teeth, the impact was uneven.
Still, at her salutation, the murmur of unintelligible voices grew suddenly more chaotic. Fists pounded at sashes; knuckles pecked at glass. Cook sat back in her seat, wood screeching. The snodas recoiled and sprang apart, like startled birds. The cat took a cautious step closer, poised to nick her position near the fire.
Alizeh cleared her throat, then lowered her eyes.
Having spent so many years as a servant, she’d come to think of the hearth as an extension of herself. Unconsciously, she’d formed positive associations with the sundry sounds of a kitchen: knives slicing and kettles boiling and bristles brushing. Even now she could smell dried herbs; the spritz of lemon; the bite of copper polish. She loved the whiff of milk soap; the crackle of a good fire; the clouds of flour. A quiet, clean kitchen at the end of a difficult day had long been a place of refuge for a snoda without a home of her own.
And heavens, but these had been difficult days.
The trouble was, these habits of hers were familiar to no one else. Certainly no one could understand her need to be braced by something—anything—familiar, no matter the impropriety. Then again, they might be forgiven for finding the actions of a prophesied Jinn queen confounding, for the royal household had
only recently been introduced to Alizeh, as she’d been heretofore hidden away at the Diviners Quarters for nearly a month without word.
Now the wedding was nearly upon them, and the impending queen of Tulan had finally stepped into full view of the royal household, exposing herself, at long last, to a breathlessly awaited inspection.
The results were so far inconclusive.
While most everyone agreed that the bride-to-be was possessed of a devastating beauty, there was no consensus yet as to whether she was in possession of a sound mind.
Or the king’s heart, for that matter.
Alizeh exhaled sharply at the thought, the action unsettling whorls of ash into the air.
Perhaps, she considered, it was time to retire.
With great care she gathered up her needles and notions, snapping everything into an ornate sewing case that had appeared just minutes after she’d asked the housekeeper for supplies. Gently, she folded into her arms the shimmering heft of a silk-lined cape, which was all but finished. She’d been working tirelessly these past few days, and this article was the last of the ensemble; any loose threads could be snipped in the morning.
Alizeh stood and shook out her skirts.
Cook jumped up so quickly she knocked over her chair. “Your Majesty,” she said, and curtsied. Then bowed. Then, after a moment’s consideration, saluted.
“Please, do sit down,” said Alizeh gently. “You need not trouble yourself.”
At the sound of her voice, the snodas shrieked; the footmen all but ran from the room; the butler clasped his aging heart, dropped his parcels, then bent in half at the waist.
Alizeh tried to hold her smile with all the graciousness of a queen.
“I’m so grateful for all you’ve done in preparation for tomorrow,” she said to the assembled staff, taking care to lift her eyes to the windows, too, as she spoke. “I’m terribly sorry for all the delays. I know I’ve said this many times already, but I hope you know how happy I am to be joining your household.
I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone better, in time.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” said the butler, still bent in half.
Then, hesitantly, his eyes on the ground, he said, “Are you quite confident the king will appear tomorrow?”
Alizeh’s cheeks heated.
She was preparing a diplomatic answer to this question when the housekeeper, a Mrs. Zaynab, strode into the room carrying an armful of linens. The woman gasped at the sight of her, then shied against the wall.
“Your Majesty,” she breathed. “I beg your pardon, I wasn’t expecting—”
“I apologize,” said Alizeh, who’d gone rigid with self-loathing. “I never meant to make the staff uncomfortable.” She lowered her voice even as her head remained high. “Forgive me.”
And she quit the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
TWO
e was propelled down the hall by an anger that had lately become her constant companion, fed each day by a frustration the flavor of which she’d never savored. These feelings were new and therefore incomprehensible to her; she was unaccustomed to this breathless tremble—to this genre of ache and anguish that disturbed her always. It was no one’s fault but her own that the staff didn’t know what to make of her; she hadn’t meant to upset the order of things. It was just that—
Well, she was overwrought.
She was overwrought, and she hadn’t known how to soothe herself. She’d needed a place to retreat; she’d wanted a respite from prying eyes and welters of gossip, and she’d been certain she’d find the kitchen abandoned at this late hour. Clearly, she’d misplaced her good sense.
She’d focused so intensely on the fact that she was supposed to be getting married tomorrow that she’d somehow forgotten the logistics associated with the fact that she was supposed to be getting married tomorrow.
The household was in a frenzy.
She felt there was nowhere she might go to escape the weight of her own mind.
It was bad enough that the very world was in a state of chaos; she’d abandoned all hope of marshaling her many fears about the future. The crowds swelling beyond the Diviners’ land had grown to unthinkable numbers, for people—Jinn and Clay alike—had been pouring in from all over. Many were arriving to pledge their allegiance to Alizeh, but more wished only to spectate the royal wedding. It was frankly embarrassing each time they’d postponed the ceremony.
Yet each delay brought in only greater crowds.
Were it not for the Diviners, who’d taken on the work of managing these unwieldy masses, Alizeh had no idea how they might’ve policed the pandemonium. It bothered her immensely that she’d neither seen nor spoken to her people since the recent attempt on her life. But then, without a crown she had no right to speak to them anyway, given that she had nothing to say.
She needed her magic. She needed an empire. She needed—
Heavens, she was supposed to be getting married.
Alizeh could feel her temper spiking, which seemed to be happening all the time now. This was meant to be the eve of her wedding day, and she’d never imagined such a night could be so bleak. She felt alone and confused and distracted, and the only person she wanted to speak with was refusing to see her.
In point of fact, he’d barred her from his rooms.
Alizeh startled at a series of sharp gasps; she’d been so buried in thought she hadn’t realized she’d walked directly into the great hall, where a dozen busy servants had gone still at the sight of her, a few falling to their knees with a cry.
Alizeh came to a halt.
“Good evening,” she said, forcing herself to regain her composure and smile. “I beg you do not inconvenience yourselves on my account. Please do carry on.”
There was a moment of silence before the snodas slowly, carefully, reanimated.
It was as if the room released a sigh.
Despite Hazan’s many warnings that she not wander the halls alone, Alizeh found it impractical to always await a chaperone and unhelpful to imagine that everyone was trying to murder her. In any case, the servants needed more time to familiarize themselves with her, and she with them. After all, this palace was to be her home—
The thought struck her like lightning.
Alizeh’s heart beat faster, her skin pricking with uncomfortable sensation.
This palace was to be her home.
She would soon become mistress of this castle; this staff would be hers to manage; this land hers to rule; these citizens hers to govern. She’d own it all, though she’d kill her husband before she could claim any of it.
She felt suddenly ill.
Unease lancing through her, Alizeh moved blindly toward a chair by the roaring fire, the unseen eyes of snodas following her every move.
Surreal, to think they were once her peers.
There’d been a time in her life when she’d appealed ardently for such employment. Far preferable to decaying slowly in the streets, she’d prayed for the opportunity to scrub floors under a solid roof in a secured home. Her position in life had been defined utterly by the tulle mask she wore over her eyes and nose,
reducing her to an unseen nothing.
Oh, her fears had seemed so great then.
Once upon a time Alizeh had felt certain that power and position would bring her protection. She’d been the feeble tree fearing the tremble of fruitless branches; but now, weighed down with plenty, she feared the rot of all this bounty and the blade that might cut her down for daring to flourish. Only now was Alizeh learning that fears did not disappear as stations changed in life.
They only complicated.
Alizeh drew a breath before taking her seat, having chosen a soft, high-backed chair close to the crackling fire. She tucked the silk cape and sewing kit neatly into her lap, and nearly closed her eyes in exhaustion.
Candlelight glittered from a mammoth chandelier overhead; pools of lamplight gleamed in arched alcoves buttressing darkened windows; silk threads in lush, intricate rugs glimmered underfoot. The room was exquisitely appointed, anchored by a behemoth of a stone mantelpiece and dotted with elegant furnishings, the plush seating upholstered with both comfort and beauty in mind. Often Alizeh had wanted to curl up by the fire in this room and rest, but she enjoyed little to no privacy in open spaces, and hesitated to lose her placid smile for fear of feeding new gossip.
Today, none of this seemed to matter.
She didn’t want to return to the cold guest room she’d lately occupied to be closer to Cyrus. She felt she might go mad if she had to spend another minute staring at the same blank wall, imagining his agony. How could she hope to rest when she knew how he suffered? How could she calm herself when the tether between them pulsed within her as palpably as her own heart?
His blood surged even now through her veins, hot and heady. Even were she to lose her sense of sight and sound she knew she could forge a path to him; indeed she’d been walking a path to him now, she realized.
Alizeh was growing desperate.
She hadn’t seen Cyrus in four days.
In a turn of events she’d never anticipated, the
enigmatic Tulanian king, who was enduring what was arguably the most excruciating period of their recently minted blood oath, hadn’t been sighted by anyone but Hazan. If the king communicated at all, it was only through Hazan.
Cyrus had refused admittance to all others.
It was Hazan who’d stood sentinel in the doorway of the guest suite, head bowed in apology as he obstructed Alizeh’s path; it was Hazan who’d kindly but firmly asked her to maintain her distance; it was Hazan who’d turned her away despite her insistence that Cyrus was suffering—that her nearness would offer him relief as the magic ravaged his body.
Hazan would not be moved.
Neither would he elaborate on the king’s condition. He’d only politely asked her forgiveness and forbearance, setting a firm boundary before informing her that Cyrus would require another day to recover—
Then another; then another.
They’d postponed the wedding three times now.
Never had Alizeh foreseen a day such as this one, a day when she’d grown so furious with Hazan she’d dearly wanted to pummel him. Shout at him.
Fight him.
Four days, and no sign of the king.
Alizeh calmed herself with another deep breath, in the process inhaling the intoxicating aroma of luscious blooms. Cyrus’s enchanted pink roses had pushed their way into the castle through cracks in casements, nosing their way across walls and ceilings, weeping petals on every surface. Soft pink drifts were piling up in sinks and corridors, tumbling down staircases, breezing into parlors and bedrooms.
Managing the constant cleanup had driven Sarra, the Queen Mother, near to fury.
Alizeh looked up as a corolla glanced off her cheek. Her hands, open upon her lap as if in prayer, were filling slowly with petals. She couldn’t decide whether the reminders of him made her feel better or worse.
Somehow, both.
Cyrus, naturally, could not be called upon to put an end to the enchantment he’d cast across the city.
Four days.
p and discarded; cleavers had been hung back on their hooks, fatted chickens clucking far longer than expected. Trays of food for the king were often returned to the kitchens untouched; unopened missives and misshapen packages piling in teetering stacks in the butler’s pantry; while nobles and farmers alike had been dismissed at the entrance doors with hand-wringing apologies.
But it was on the second day of the king’s seclusion that stranger things had begun to happen.
“Might I— Would you mind if I joined you?”
Alizeh drew back and looked up, surprised at the sound of the familiar voice. ...
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