All This Twisted Glory, page 7
“Alizeh!”
Her head shot up at the sound of Cyrus’s voice. He was still a dozen feet away, still following the path along the edge of the bluff, but he was close enough now that they could see each other properly. She met his wild eyes with panic of her own, absorbing his anguish just in time to witness the first arrow pierce clean through his leg.
She screamed.
Ten
CYRUS HISSED AS THE BOLT tore through muscle, the impact nearly knocking him over the cliff, parallel to which he stood precariously, even now. Mercifully, the shot had been so forceful the point made a clean exit through the back of his leg—a fact that would be helpful to him in a moment. For now he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as he listened to the clamor of his heart, the swell of nearby water, the crash of the falls.
He was too tired for this.
In swift, practiced motions he snapped off the fletching of the arrow, wrapped his fingers just under the arrowhead and, without allowing himself to consider the repercussions, yanked the shaft out of his thigh. He gasped, blinking as the edges of his vision went briefly white. Still, he’d glimpsed the weapon: a broadhead tip with three barbed blades. Had the arrow not gone neatly through his leg, he wouldn’t have been able to pull it free without tearing his flesh apart in the process. As it was, the pain was so extraordinary it was a miracle, even to him, that he didn’t scream. To distract his mind, Cyrus bore witness to the maddening episode playing out before him; this mayhem, after all, was of his own making.
He deserved to be shot.
The evening prior he’d lifted the protective enchantments around the castle, all so Alizeh might return to her rooms without obstacle. She’d followed him off the grounds without knowing these expulsive shields went up after dark, and she had no reason to know: such defenses were technically illegal. The Nix accords drawn up long ago had made it criminal to place magical boundaries between lands, and Cyrus, who always sealed this magic right up to the escarpment, couldn’t have cared less. Besides, he’d just killed a bordering sovereign; he had every expectation of a murderous visit from his neighbor and no reason to tread cautiously.
Yet his stomach had turned at the thought of Alizeh being forcefully repelled from his home. The devil, he’d reasoned, wouldn’t have liked it if she were abandoned in the cold, vulnerable and exposed. Cyrus had done a bit of bad math as a result, convincing himself that an assault upon his empire—during the few remaining hours of night—was fairly low.
This optimism, of course, had been born of denial.
He’d lied to himself only so he wouldn’t have to turn around, take her by the arm, and walk her back to the palace. It was too much temptation: the two of them alone in the dark, her body glazed in moonlight. He’d been afraid to go near her; he hadn’t been ready to hear her voice, to look into her eyes. He was terrified she’d go and do something brutal, like smile at him.
Now, clenching against another contraction of pain, the heat of fresh blood pulsing from his wound, he knew this to be a fitting punishment. Indeed if the situation weren’t so unpleasant it would be horribly amusing. Cyrus had been so sure he’d conquered cowardice; he’d been so sure facing the devil would be the greatest confrontation of his life. Never did he imagine he’d fear the subtle power of a young woman even more.
His land was now littered with fools, his hands slick with his own blood—all because he’d been too afraid to touch a girl.
He wanted to stab the arrow back through his leg.
All the same, Cyrus had anticipated such unpleasantries from the north; his only miscalculation was thinking he had more time. That the prince would barge onto his land without any apparent plan or imperial support, accompanied not by the might of his army but this bizarre assortment of allies, was baffling. More perplexing: there was no sign of their transport. And while he could imagine how these fools stood freely upon his land, he couldn’t understand how they’d landed—for the enchantments around the palace were reinforced by numerous other protections. His team of dragons allowed no large-winged or otherwise aerial creatures to pass through the falls, and there was no chance the Ardunians had survived the battalion guarding the face of the castle.
How, then, had they come this far?
Cyrus was hounded by doubt, and yet, what preoccupied him most was a desire to go to Alizeh, to ask about her injuries, to discover what had happened in his absence.
His many questions would have to wait.
Currently, it was a wonder to Cyrus that he could think at all. He took another breath, morning mist filling his head, and attempted to focus his thoughts.
Dregs of magic pulsed in Cyrus’s veins—magic he’d allotted, for the most part, to keep himself awake, and which he would be forced now to expend keeping himself alive. His leg was so badly injured he’d begun to shake, and with great effort he cast a healing enchantment throughout his body, the sudden burn a comforting signal that flesh was painstakingly knitting back together. Even so, the torment was acute enough to render him unconscious; he felt a wave of nausea rise up inside him, and he forced it down just as he heard the distant, insistent shouts of a familiar voice.
He didn’t need to turn to see her, for Alizeh lived always in luxury behind his eyes; he turned because the act of aligning his body toward hers was chased every time by a strange relief. Cyrus had spared little thought as to why the apothecarist, the street child, and the loathsome miss had invaded his territory; they were, to him, inconsequential players. The motives of the other two were of course obvious. As if the hole in his leg weren’t indication enough, Cyrus watched through a haze of controlled suffering as the Ardunian prince notched another bolt in his direction. He and Hazan had arrived, naturally, for the simple pleasure of killing him. But Alizeh—
Alizeh, he couldn’t understand. She was defending him.
Even then, trembling where she stood, speaking urgently with the prince, she fairly glimmered in the diffuse light of morning. As much as it tortured him to look at her, it tortured him more to look away. She was like no one he’d ever encountered. The fact of her beauty was unimpeachable, yes—but one had only to behold her in motion to truly understand her power. She was like an avenging angel come to life, tender and magnanimous, serene even as she slit your throat.
And he’d done nothing to deserve her mercy.
The Ardunian prince had yet to release another shot only because she’d stayed his hand. Remnants of her words carried on the wind; she was visibly agitated, her movements unsteady, and she’d clasped a fist around the bow, gently turning the weapon downward.
Cyrus grimaced.
He estimated he had precious few seconds before Alizeh’s peacemaking efforts failed and the prince released another shot. If only he could move his leg he might’ve gone to her, might’ve advised her not to expend her energy arguing with a wall. The thickheaded Ardunian had every right to try to murder him; Cyrus would never be so unsporting as to deny the young royal a chance at revenge. In fact, it was best if she stepped aside and allowed Kamran to exorcise a bit of this anger; the prince’s mood would likely improve only after drawing a few pints of Cyrus’s blood. Perhaps then they might actually have a conversation, after which he’d happily stab the incumbent king straight through the eye.
In any case, Cyrus had suffered far worse than this and survived. He needed only a moment to—
Another cry of warning, another arrow hurtling in his direction.
With wicked quickness, Cyrus surprised even himself by catching this one in his hand; he grit his teeth through a rush of breathtaking pain, an agonized gasp escaping him as the triple-bladed point tore open his palm like the pages of a book. The bloodshed was considerable, and as he watched the small crimson flood spill over the edges of his fist he almost laughed, though the sentiment was cold.
At least now he understood why the devil had been so delighted.
That bastard.
Clay girls and boys
my favorite toys!
Soon they’ll come together
And she will choose
and you will lose
to a clod tied to a feather
This great oaf was meant to be the clod, then? Excellent. And Cyrus had clearly infuriated him by refusing to fall.
With an angry shout, Kamran released a volley of arrows in Cyrus’s direction, one after another, the succession so smooth they seemed to come at him all at once. Even then Cyrus was able to appreciate his enemy’s skill; the Ardunian was an accomplished archer. Cyrus bit through a fresh wave of torment, lifting his good arm to divert a bit of magic in his own defense, dissolving the incoming arrows while still healing his wounds. He was preoccupied with this—this and the effort to keep steady in the face of the many small deaths aimed in his direction—which was why he didn’t notice, not right away, that she was running toward him.
When he did, he nearly lost his mind.
He watched the whirl of her draw closer and went light-headed with rage; he could hardly breathe around the feeling, so extraordinary was his anger. Alizeh had clearly spent the last of her strength, using what little energy she had left to rush at him with great speed—but whatever she’d thought she might achieve, she’d miscalculated, for she was not fully in control of her movements. He wanted nothing more than to shout at her for doing something so foolish. He couldn’t fathom that she’d thought him worth such an effort, that she’d risk her own safety to spare his life. It made him want to do unforgivable things.
Indeed this anger might’ve been the only thing he and the stupid prince agreed upon, for Kamran’s earsplitting cry of terror came just as Hazan and the others erupted in frenzied sound. Cyrus managed a choked cry before her soft body crashed into him, momentum rocking them both toward the very edge of the cliff, and if only there’d been time he would’ve pushed her out of harm’s way, would’ve turned her in his arms—
With a sharp thwack the last arrow found its mark between her shoulder blades. Alizeh flinched under the force of impact, and her small, startled gasp rendered Cyrus absolutely, inhumanly still.
Panic inhaled him.
He felt blind with it, blind with madness. Alizeh whispered something incomprehensible against his neck, and he closed his eyes against a destructive swell of emotion, wishing desperately that he’d never been born. He didn’t realize at any point that he’d stumbled, that he’d lost his footing, or that they were falling—not until he felt the wind, like a heavy hand, rise up beneath them.
And then let them drop.
Eleven
CYRUS ALLOWED HIMSELF ONLY A second to touch grief before his spine straightened as if wrenched taut, like the laces of a drawstring. The wind formed almost a cocoon around them, thick as it lashed their bodies, the calls of morning birds clashing with the thunderous crash of the falls. A heavy mist ensnared them as they plummeted, and though Alizeh shivered, Cyrus couldn’t feel the chill; fear and fury seemed to be burning him alive. He’d just made a decision, and now he would see it through.
Alizeh would not die.
“Look at me,” he said wretchedly, pulling her close even as his torn hand shook in agony. It seemed some strange twist of fate that he should continue to bleed all over her, and if he’d more time to reflect on this fact he might’ve screamed for how much he hated it. “Alizeh. Please. Lift your head. Look at me.”
With great effort, she did.
Her eyes were glazed, flickering silver and brown in the rising light. She studied him like he might’ve been a dream. “Why? Because you’re terribly handsome?”
“Don’t be funny,” he said, breathing hard. “This isn’t funny.”
She blinked, her head lolling softly to one side. “I can’t feel my legs.”
His heart heaved in his chest. That she’d lost sensation in her lower body meant the arrowhead had impaled her spine. Briefly, the southern king turned his gaze to the churning sea. They were falling at a dizzying clip, but the drop was so steep it was almost a mercy: they’d have nearly a minute before hitting water. If Cyrus had any hope of saving her he’d have to perform complicated magic before they made impact—but he was going slightly blind, his vision occasionally flaring with light. Worse, he was losing sensation in his left hand.
“Kaveh!” he called out.
The response was almost immediate. Cyrus heard the clamor of surging, crashing waves before they broke open to reveal the bulk of a shimmering dragon, its fiery hide emerging from the depths like a flame in flight. Every one of Cyrus’s dragons was precious to him, but there were three in particular he loved as if they were his own family.
Kaveh was one of them.
By far the most sardonic of the fleet, Kaveh was also one of his oldest dragons, and Cyrus knew he would require the animal’s careful expertise now, perhaps more than ever.
“Cyrus,” said Alizeh suddenly, half gasping the word. “Where are you?”
His body was shaking as he held her, and he found he was grateful she’d turned away again, that she couldn’t see his face. “I’m here,” he said roughly. “I’m right here.”
“I just—I just remembered,” she said. “I can’t swim.”
There was no fear in her voice, only mild surprise—as if this were all a stroke of bad luck, a disappointing inconvenience. Cyrus didn’t point out that she wouldn’t have been able to swim anyway, given that she’d lost feeling in her legs. He only closed his eyes against her hair and fought the desperate crush of his chest, the violence of his affection for her. How she managed to disarm him even now, on the brink of death, he could not understand. She’d wept for his pain, wiped the blood from his eyes, taken an arrow in the back for him. She’d shown him more loyalty and tenderness in two days than he’d ever felt in his life, and he knew then, with a force that drove the air from his lungs, that he would never survive her.
“Don’t worry, angel,” he said quietly. “You won’t have to.”
Kaveh gave a small roar, exhaling sparks as he approached. Cyrus felt the dragon’s confusion, then concern, and communicated without speaking, as he often did with animals—
I’ll explain later.
Kaveh made another sound in response, a snort that nearly singed the king’s hair. The flap of the beast’s enormous wings was enough to whip Alizeh’s curls across Cyrus’s face, and as he struggled to push the tendrils out of his eyes, the animal swooped neatly beneath them, breaking their fall with a complete lack of finesse. Cyrus fumbled desperately for purchase with his injured hand, grasping at the dragon’s hide to stabilize their bodies while he pulled Alizeh across his lap, hoping to absorb the brunt of the impact; given their tremendous downward speed, this proved nearly impossible. Alizeh gave a sharp cry as they were seated, while Cyrus, who’d made no sound at all, nearly fainted from the pain.
Of all things, he sensed Kaveh laughing at him. You all right, sire?
Cyrus did not dignify this with a response.
His every muscle taut with restraint, it was slow moments before the southern king could breathe again, before the haze cleared from his eyes. As they gently ascended through mist and cascades, Cyrus was able to discern screams from above, and when he craned his neck he could almost make out the shapes of the shouting idiots, their foggy forms tilting precariously over the crag, shrieks all but incomprehensible save a single: “Dragon!”
Kaveh was moving slowly for the sake of their injuries, and the higher they flew, the more Cyrus relented to an overpowering relief. The feeling hollowed out, however, when he realized Alizeh had grown lifeless, even as she trembled violently in his arms.
“Alizeh,” he whispered. “Please. Wake up.”
She didn’t respond.
He knew he should inspect her wound in order to assess the damage, but Cyrus himself was in a horrible state of disrepair. His injured hand was now all but matted in blood, the affected arm convulsing as his fingers sparked and faded with sensation. His leg, at least, had received some magical care, but though the wound had stopped bleeding, it gaped open, a neat hole blown straight through muscle, radiating pain. Still, he couldn’t do more for his own damage; he feared he might need to save what magic he had left for Alizeh.
His breathing was strained as he turned her slightly in his arms, the movement jostling her injury despite his best efforts to be careful. He expected her to gasp or at least flinch in response, but she remained motionless; her eyes were closed; her face drawn and pale. Even her trembling had begun to slow.
Cyrus struggled to hide his panic.
Urgently he whispered her name, willing her to speak, to open her eyes. He wanted her to yell at him, to threaten him, to pester him with her endless questions. There were no demands from her to know what was happening; no smart quips about the dragon; no threats to fling herself into the water just to be away from him. All this struck Cyrus like a blow to the sternum, and when he finally sighted her injury, he was dealt another: the arrowhead was lost in the folds of her borrowed cloak, at least three inches embedded in her flesh. Given the complexities of the barbed broadhead, it would not be a simple matter to remove the bolt—and he was in no state to offer her proper surgical and magical care.
There was only one other alternative—and Cyrus hoped she would forgive him for it, later.
“Kaveh,” he said. “She needs to be delivered to the Diviners.”
He felt at once the dragon’s disapproval. All due respect, sire, but you’re not allowed there anymore. You know that.
“Of course I know that,” said Cyrus, his mood darkening. As if he needed such a reminder. “You will leave me at the cliff, then take her alone.”
Cold quiet from the animal. They were hovering in midair now, stalled.
Please, Cyrus added silently.
But why, sire? Yaasi said you and the girl nearly killed each other on the flight back from Ardunia. Wouldn’t it be better if she died? You said she was the devil’s bride.
“A great deal has changed since we last spoke,” said the king, wincing as his leg spasmed. “I was wrong about her. She’s not allied with Iblees—and she was injured just now trying to save my life.”
