Every Spiral of Fate, page 23
In exchange, he had requested a single favor.
A single favor, the scope of which was unknown and unqualified. A single favor that could be fulfilled only by a direct descendant of the Naran line, and which would be called in to account at a time of the devil’s choosing.
Desperate and foolish, the first Naran king had consented—and for a hundred years, Tulan had thrived under this bleak bargain, routing its enemies with inexplicable vengeance and establishing itself as one of the greatest empires on earth.
For a hundred years, the devil had been patient.
Now, finally, Iblees had come to collect.
Now, finally, Iblees had demanded a favor of Cyrus’s father that had withered the man’s soul to dust—and in the grip of horror, King Reza had flatly refused.
The single rejection had been enough.
There were no second chances; then and there the king had been struck from the register, doomed to suffer in a state of purgatory until the day that this debt should be cleared.
Of course there was more.
Iblees had then laid out the broader terms for defaulting: in repayment for the century-long protection offered to the people of Tulan, the devil would restore the empire to its natural state:
He would exterminate them all.
“The fifteen million residents of Tulan might never have existed without the devil’s intervention,” Reza explained in anguish, “and he says he will reverse his generosity and right the scale. Should no direct descendant of the Tulanian line be willing to fulfill the terms of the devil’s request, our people will be massacred by the very beasts who’ve been assigned to protect them all these many years.”
Hearing this, Cyrus nearly fell apart.
In fact he’d felt certain, at one point, that he was actively dreaming. Not only was it impossible to process the breadth of such horrors, but he could hardly reconcile his disillusionment. His entire legacy was a lie. Tainted. Upheld only by the devil. The pride he’d taken in his family name, in their armies, in their strength this last century—
It was all dishonor.
Cyrus listened as if from a great distance, at once suffocated by his skin even as he felt apart from it. “What did he ask of you?” he said, his heart beating dangerously fast. “What was it that Iblees wanted?”
King Reza swallowed. “I cannot say. I am not allowed to say.”
Cyrus had begun to overheat. He looked up, looked away, dragged a shaking hand down the length of his face.
The sun was bruising the sky as it unfurled, light fighting darkness, fighting the fate of the hour. Cyrus, too, could feel the rise of a terrifying change happening within him; honor clashing with horror colliding with grief and revulsion. He knew what his father was asking of him even as he was afraid to name it—even as he knew he was not being offered a choice.
There was no choice.
The results of this metamorphosis took hold slowly, mercilessly remaking him one bone at a time; and as he disconnected by excruciating degrees from his life, Cyrus found he could no longer feel the cold. It was with an alarming dispassion that he whispered, “Where is my brother? Why has he fled?” even as he already suspected the answer.
Iblees, of course, had already approached the next in line—the proper heir of Tulan—his older brother, Bijan.
King Reza looked ashen. “Your brother thinks he can outrun the devil.”
“Can he?” asked Cyrus.
“He did not make my mistake,” said the king, prevaricating. “He did not starkly refuse; he merely fled. He thinks he might avoid the fallout by decamping to another empire.”
“Can he?” asked Cyrus again, this time experiencing his first taste of rage.
When the king only sagged farther down the wall, soft sobs wracking his ever-frailer body, Cyrus suddenly understood.
“He wants me to do it,” he said softly.
Reza shook his head in anguish. “He says you were going to give your life to the temple anyway—that you’ve already stripped yourself of the material, that you already wish to give up your titles, your inheritance, your very name—that you have no intention of marrying or engaging with the world—”
“Is this what you think of me, too, Father?” Cyrus swallowed. “That I am so categorically worthless?”
“No,” he said, looking up sharply. “Never. I only—I don’t know what to do—I cannot bring your brother home. I cannot get him to listen. He will not take my council—I fear he has let his lesser self consume him—”
Cyrus suddenly stilled.
“Father,” he said on a breath. “What is happening to your face?”
King Reza started, then touched a trembling, atrophied hand to his cheek, where the skin had begun to hollow and sag, aging him at an astonishing rate. “He’s coming,” he whispered. “We are nearly out of time—”
“What does that mean—”
“You must act quickly,” he said, reaching painfully for the dagger sheathed at his waist. “My son, there is no defeating the devil. There is only the possibility of outsmarting him”—he gasped for air—“for there is nothing a gambler loves more than greater odds—”
“You—you’re saying you want me to make the devil another bargain?”
“Do what you can,” he said, struggling for breath, “for your people. I will be gone by the time the sun has finished its ascent, and when I am gone, take the bloodied dagger to the Diviners, for you will need them to prove it carries my blood. When I am gone, tell them you threw my dead body from the turret, into the sea—you need not wait long, for I’ve already alerted the magistrates, and they will discover you in moments—”
“What?” Cyrus was electric with horror. “What are you saying? What are you doing—”
“You have always been so honorable,” said the king, reaching out a final time to touch his withering hand to Cyrus’s cheek. “If this is the last I see you, know that I have always loved you, even as I failed you. Forgive your mother for what might become of her. Forgive your brother his frailties. Forgive me, my dear son, forgive me—”
“Father!”
King Reza had turned the dagger on himself then, plunging it directly into his heart.
Thirty-Nine
NOW, AS ALIZEH STEPPED UP to the mountain face, Cyrus clenched his jaw against the cold, holding fast to the slim hope that the miseries of his life might finally be nearing their finish. It did not matter to him that he, too, would end with the end of it, for he’d committed from the first to this sacrifice—and the stakes were higher than he could ever express.
What the devil wanted was dark indeed.
Iblees had whispered his sick favor into Cyrus’s heart, and the ask had been so revolting it had stricken him simply to receive it. Cyrus had felt then, with rising horror, that nearly anything might be preferable to acquiescence; and as his father suggested, he’d done his utmost to negotiate a different avenue.
In the end, Cyrus had thrown himself at the mercy of a deal so poorly pitched against him that Iblees couldn’t resist the gamble. Should Cyrus be successful, he might secure an unprecedented, astonishing win.
Should he lose—
Should he lose, he would lose everything. Were Cyrus to renege on any aspect of the agreement, the devil would not only take the wins of the many services rendered, he would get everything he wanted, conceding nothing: Iblees would annihilate the people of Tulan and claim his vile favor, too. The hell of the last year—the torture, the tasks, the dissolution of his soul—would all amount to nothing.
It was no great feat to lay down his life in sacrifice, not when the alternative was death, regardless.
This was why the devil continued to hound him, attempting always to break him. Cyrus was bound by all manner of cruelties. He was not allowed to speak of his bargain, for example; should anyone so much as guess at the terms of the wager, he would forfeit. Neither was he allowed to die in order to escape the bargain; should he take his own life or else allow someone else to kill him before completing the tasks, he would be forcibly revived, then forfeit. Iblees hoped to succeed in any scenario, but forcing a forfeit would win him a far greater hand.
Which meant there was no latitude for error, not an inch.
Cyrus took a bracing breath, inhaling the frigid air. Despite the thickening gloom that consumed his life, he was surprised to discover he was still capable of hope. If nothing else, he had been changed by Alizeh, remade by proximity to her. She’d inspired him to believe once more in the enduring magic of the human heart. She was living proof to him that darkness did not always prevail. It was an honor to bear witness to her humble rise to power, where every step she took was a historic event on the path to justice. If the purpose of his life could be distilled to this: that he was to die so that she might live, he might depart this world contented.
She squeezed his gloved hand before letting go, and he felt bereft even as he experienced her joy upon glimpsing the fireflies perched on the rock face. The odd little insects threw themselves in the air as she approached, flashing and dancing before her, circling her head—and he thought he heard her laugh, or perhaps cry, when she finally placed her bare hands against the snowy mountain, and flowers began to bloom under her fingers.
The transformation was astonishing.
There was no delay, no complication; frost melted from under her hands as if it had not been a thousand years of rusted impatience, but eager and present anticipation. Like the currents that ensured the fresh water of a river, the heart of this extraordinary magic had never stopped beating; never faded nor faltered.
Cyrus watched in awe as the snow gave way to moss, tufts of grass, blossoms and tangled vines. A towering arched door began to forge from apparent nothing, wild earth and blooms stretching to sketch out the shape before darkening, dying, then petrifying into something like wood. Alizeh seemed to know to keep her hands where they were, never drawing away until a solid door settled firmly into place. When she finally stepped back, the panel opened with a soft exhale, hinges cleanly releasing to reveal a glimpse of murky depths lit by dim, hazy light.
Cyrus felt his chest constrict.
Alizeh looked back at him first, her eyes bright with emotion. He didn’t know what she saw in him then, whether she could feel his heart racing for her, or whether she understood the sublime insignificance he felt in her presence, but she held his gaze the longest, breaking into a brilliant smile even as a single tear tracked down her cheek. Only then, as he stood there, winded from the force of her attention, did she turn to look at the bundled others, who’d all been rendered still despite the violent gusts that continued to batter their bodies. Speech remained impossible over the howling winds, and Cyrus waited—as they all did—for their queen to cross the massive threshold.
When she did, a shaft of light laid itself at her feet, illuminating the uncertain path ahead.
Forty
INSIDE, THE MOUNTAIN WAS WARM.
Alizeh watched as the door fused shut behind them, the tremendous wood panel restoring itself to the raw stone interior of the cave they now occupied.
They appeared to be in some kind of vestibule.
The ceilings were high, the space somehow both cavernous and cozy. The warm light that lit them now appeared to glow from nowhere, rendering them all in liquid, dreamlike forms. There was no adornment, nothing beyond the entrance, now erased, to otherwise indicate they might’ve entered a den of magic. As they were sealed inside they heard only the drip of water, the steady patter coming from a single melting icicle, the ominous spike of which hung above their heads like a sword.
Alizeh turned in a circle as they divested themselves of gloves and overcoats, the susurrations of soft movement lifting like whispers. Alizeh was soon enclosed within the ring of her friends, backing by accident into the puddle forming in the center of the room.
Her boots splashed; the sound carried. Alizeh was overwhelmed with wonder. She searched for Hazan, and in his gaze she found the emotion no doubt mirrored in her own.
She couldn’t believe it had finally happened.
Everything her parents had promised her—all the stories she’d been told—
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to Cyrus.
These were the first words anyone had spoken since entering the mountain, and they shattered the glass silence like a mallet.
In response, Cyrus only lowered his head.
“Is this it, then?” Omid was studying the cave with a frown. “What do we do if we have to use the bathroom?”
“Omid,” said Huda, aghast. “Didn’t you use the bathroom before we left?”
“Yes, miss, of course I did, only I’m just wondering—”
The ground gave a sudden lurch.
The cave shuddered around them, the din like dim thunder, and they all turned to watch, astonished, as stone hooks grew like gnarled fingers from the roughly hewn walls. A series of low benches then formed beneath these hooks, exhuming themselves from the ground with eerie, spectral sound.
“Brilliant,” said Omid, slack-jawed.
“Astonishing,” whispered Deen.
“I’ve never heard of a room magicking itself to life,” said Kamran quietly. “I’ve only seen such enchantments in children’s fables.”
Alizeh glanced at the melting icicle as they made their way to the newly born hooks, for the steady drip of water had seemed suddenly to intensify. She frowned at the sight even as she hung her pelisse and scarf, and then again as she unearthed the Book of Arya from a pocket of her skirts. She was surprised and distracted to discover that the slim volume had lost its cold.
It now emanated an unusual, pulsing warmth.
She turned it over in her hands and gave a gasp of surprise. “Oh,” she said. “It’s changed.”
“How?” said Hazan, drawing forward.
Everyone save one brooding king quickly huddled around her, and though Alizeh looked up at Cyrus, hoping he might join them, his gaze remained fixed on the growing puddle.
“Here,” she said quietly, turning the book so they might see.
One new word had debossed itself onto the front cover. Where before there was nothing, now it read:
BLOOD
“No, I don’t like that,” whispered Huda.
“It wants blood?” asked Omid, frowning. “The book wants blood?”
Cyrus looked up sharply.
“It appears so,” said Deen. “Quite a traditional form of payment, as these things go—”
“Hazan,” Alizeh said, her eyes lifting once more to the ceiling, for the sound of dripping water had again intensified. She nodded at the diminishing icy tusk, the puddle beneath. The icicle seemed to be melting at an unnatural rate. “What do you make of that?”
“It seems ominous,” he said, frowning. “It might be a defensive mechanism—”
“It’s a ticking clock,” said Cyrus suddenly, his eyes brightening with alarm. “I should’ve realized— Your time is limited—”
Alizeh gasped.
A lash of pain had struck her without warning, and the book fell from her grip, hitting the ground with a soft thud and the lisping breaths of fluttered pages. She turned her eyes to the source of the discomfort, where the soft flesh of her hand had been neatly, deeply severed.
Dark red blood was pooling in her palm.
She heard a blast of sound, something like a shouted voice, but Alizeh felt hazy. Heavy. Her limbs had gone loose and warm, the feeling strengthening as the seconds passed. She lifted her head with difficulty and the room blurred, almost as if she were inside of a dream.
Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to sleep.
She would have, too, except that more voices clamored around her—more strangled, undecipherable sound keeping her cruelly awake—and then, there, the clasp of something like safety, and in relief she surrendered herself to arms that steadied her. She felt nearly euphoric as she pressed her face to a solid warmth, sighing as her body liquified, yielding to slumber even as voices swarmed and warped about her head.
“—abbb bb errrrrrr errrr aaaaaaannnnnnndd—”
“Whhhaa you you kiiiiiiiiiiiingggggg—”
“—errrrr aaaaaaand—”
Then, like a door slamming shut, sound sped up with a disorienting crash.
“—herhandherhandwhatareyoutalkingaboutherhand—”
“Will no one grab her bloody hand!”
Alizeh straightened with a sharp, painful inhalation, looking up in time to see that the palm of her hand had been pressed flat against a blank page in the Book of Arya. She watched, transfixed, as her blood was absorbed by the parchment, red whorls marbling the white sheet as they spread, like smoke, across the open spread.
Forty-One
“ALIZEH? ALIZEH, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
She blinked at the sound of Cyrus’s voice, then lifted her head slowly, realizing only then that she was braced against his chest, his arm bound around her waist.
“Cyrus?”
Her heart was racing dangerously fast. Her senses were both dimmed and overwhelmed; she felt she couldn’t sort herself out quickly enough. It didn’t help that she’d never been pressed like this against Cyrus’s body, or that he was studying her with an intensity so poorly veiled it was almost impossible to misunderstand.
“What are you—” she tried to say. “What did I—”
“Your actions appear to be constrained by time limits,” said Hazan, who was standing just to the other side of her. He looked stricken. “Forgive me,” he added softly. “I should’ve realized there might be a ticking clock.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, searching the room as the fog cleared from her eyes. The icicle, she noticed, had stopped dripping. “You couldn’t have known. Even I didn’t realize—”
“Alizeh,” said Cyrus, his voice tight. “Are you feeling strong enough to manage on your own?”
She looked up at him, stunned all over again by his closeness. Her head clearing, she studied his face even as she grew acutely aware of the hard press of his torso, the firm heat of his chest, the weight of his arm around her waist. She almost thought he smelled of apricots.
