All This Twisted Glory, page 8
Kaveh gave no response to that, though his surprise was loud.
“I know,” Cyrus said quietly. “I don’t understand, either. I’ve given her nothing but cause to murder me.”
More surprise. And she doesn’t know? About your father?
Alizeh’s eyelids fluttered briefly, and Cyrus hesitated. The bruise along her cheekbone appeared swollen and tender, the sight both devastating and confounding to him. He didn’t know why she’d been lying on the ground this morning nor how she’d been injured; and given their collective response to the drama, it seemed unlikely her friends had been the ones to harm her, leaving no obvious suspect. It was yet another mystery he’d have to wait to unravel, and Cyrus, feeling both weak and helpless, finally allowed himself to stare at her. He studied the exquisite planes of her face, the fullness of her lips, lashes soft and inky against her pallid skin. It was dangerous to allow himself to linger, memorizing details—for the more he grew to care for her, the more unbearable it became to look at her.
Cyrus tore his eyes away, fresh bitterness fouling his mood further. “No,” he said finally. “She doesn’t know.”
She would never know.
Iblees had forbidden Cyrus from speaking the truth to another person, but the southern king had not been precluded from confiding in nonhuman creatures. Such an exception was only possible, of course, because the young man possessed the rare ability to communicate using just the mind. Whereas nearly all others endowed with this skill were committed to the priesthood, Cyrus—whose deal with the devil had earned him an expulsion from the temple—had been unable to complete his journey as a Diviner, leaving him the unusual layman with this skill.
Still, few animals were interested in conversing with humans, and fewer still were capable of communicating more than basic information; which meant that his dragons, whose emotional intelligence encompassed an astonishing range of feeling, were his only confidants in the known world.
Sire, said Kaveh, his tone inscrutable. I fear you’re losing focus.
“As if I don’t know that,” Cyrus muttered.
Days ago you would’ve considered this situation an opportunity. She put herself in harm’s way through no fault of yours. Either let her die and be done with her, or make saving her life conditional upon accepting your hand. You need to marry the girl—this is your chance—
“You think this hasn’t occurred to me?” he said. “I simply can’t do it, Kaveh. I already had to drag her here, and that was when I thought she was conspiring with the devil to usurp my throne. Now that I know otherwise, how could I level such cruelty against her? Can you not see the difficulty—”
You murdered the northern Diviners without a second thought.
“You know that was different,” said Cyrus sharply. “When Zaal was born the Diviners knew how the prophecy would end—they agreed it had to be done, and they set the terms—”
They may have been willing, but you were the one who cast the curse that killed them, just as you were the one who slayed Zaal. Was it for nothing? Everything you’ve endured? You would risk it all, sire, simply to please one girl’s sensibilities?
Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly hating himself. No matter what choice he made, he would lose. The devil had made certain of that.
No, came Kaveh’s voice. The answer is no. She’s not worth such a price.
Cyrus fell silent and was soon spared responding; Kaveh had started flying again, and they were now approaching the top of the precipice, where Hazan’s angry cries rang out sharp and clear. They’d flown into the heart of an argument.
“—had a deal!” he was shouting. “I warned you—if any harm came to her—”
“Can you not imagine my agony?” came the prince’s heated reply. “How can you bring yourself to accuse me when you know it was an accident—that I could never have meant—”
“You could never?” Hazan laughed darkly. “Are you quite certain? When you confessed to me just yesterday that you intended to kill her?”
Cyrus stiffened. As if he didn’t have ammunition enough to murder the idiot.
“What?” The loud girl, Huda, spoke. “Is that true?”
“Oh, no,” said the gangly boy too quickly. “No, miss, it can’t be true.”
“I had every right to be uncertain,” Kamran shot back. “I had every right to doubt. It was never clear whether she could be trusted. The circumstances were disastrous—even you could acknowledge—”
“All right, I suppose it’s true,” Omid mumbled. “But I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“I’m sure he did mean it,” added the older, wiry one.
“Be certain of one thing,” Hazan said with quiet menace. “If she doesn’t survive this, you will know the full breadth of my rage. I’ll rip out every bone in your body before I take off your fucking head.” This last part he all but bellowed, the words echoing across the grounds.
Fascinated by this absurd exchange—between a crown prince and his lesser—Cyrus almost smiled.
“You are overreacting—” Kamran tried again.
“And you are not reacting enough!”
Prepare to descend, sire. Though how you hope to keep her seated on my back in your absence, I cannot imagine.
They were about level with the offending cliff now, Kaveh carefully hovering, and the entire unsavory scene came into focus. Hazan and Kamran were at each other’s throats, so preoccupied with their anger they thawed a beat later than the others, the three of whom gaped in horror at Cyrus, then Alizeh, who remained unmoving in his arms.
The loud girl screamed.
“She’s dead!” Miss Huda screamed again, shriller this time. “Heaven help us, she’s dead—we killed her—she’s dead—”
Cyrus turned away from this chaos.
He heard it all, of course—their collective shock, their shouted questions, their in-fighting—but he turned his back on it, feeling certain now that Hazan would keep the prince from any further attempts at murder. Cyrus needed to magic Alizeh upright so she’d survive the journey to the Diviners, and, as his mind was splintering with pain gathered from any number of grievances, he needed a moment to focus.
There were great risks involved.
Draining his store of magic would leave him deeply vulnerable to attack—and worse, would send him into a spiral of fatigue. He hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours; between sleep deprivation and blood loss, he wondered how he’d manage basic motor skills. He’d need to get to his rooms as quickly as possible after performing this last bit of divination for Alizeh, but how he’d accomplish that with this troupe of clowns to contend with, he didn’t know.
Cyrus took a deep breath, a tremor rocking his body as he exhaled. He gathered Alizeh gently against his chest, pressed his good hand as close as he could to her wound, and, with great effort, transferred the remaining magic in his body directly into hers.
He felt the change in her, the pulse of energy returning to her limbs, and she cried out in response, this breathless sound sending his small audience into renewed chaos—“She’s not dead! She’s not dead!”—even as her cry soon dissolved into a whimper. He couldn’t heal her, not with the arrow in her back; but he’d lent her some pain relief, at least, and he was certain she’d now remain seated until reaching her destination. It was enough for now—it had to be—because just as her eyes fluttered open, Cyrus nearly swayed. Without magic to keep him awake, he was suddenly so tired he felt he’d lost control of his limbs. Cyrus, who’d never touched spirits, imagined the feeling was akin to being drunk.
Miraculously, he lifted her off his lap and sat her on the dragon, satisfied when she didn’t pitch sideways. Still, his thoughts seemed to slur. “Go,” he breathed, digging deep for the last of his adrenaline. “Promise me—promise you’ll take care of her.”
“What?” Alizeh was squinting at him.
Cyrus startled. He hadn’t expected her to speak, and he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Still, she appeared only half-awake, her head canting to one side even as her body remained upright.
Blearily, she said, “Who are you talking to?”
His heart was beating faster now. “My dragon,” he said.
“Oh.” A little line formed between her brows. “You have a dragon?”
“I— Yes.”
“Just like you did before.” She stifled a yawn, her eyes closing. “Do I get one, too?”
Cyrus frowned. “Would that . . . please you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“All right.” He blinked slowly. “You can have a dragon.”
Kaveh’s head gave a sudden jerk, smoke curling from his nostrils. Are you quite out of your mind, sire? You will not give the girl a dragon.
Cyrus bristled. You live under my protection, in service of the crown. I’ll give her a dragon if I like.
Well it won’t be me.
“Cyrus?”
“Yes?”
“Why are people shouting?”
With effort, Cyrus glanced at the others. Kamran was threatening from afar to disembowel him; the three goons were in various states of hysteria; and Hazan looked as if he was contemplating a running leap off the cliff and onto the dragon. Terrible idea, that.
“I suppose people shout sometimes,” he said as he turned to her.
“Cyrus?”
He felt delirious. He was staring at her with the awe of an idiot perceiving the sun for the first time. He nearly drew his hand down her cheek. Nearly kissed the side of her neck. Nearly slumped against her and fell asleep. “Yes, angel?”
“We died, didn’t we?”
The question was such a surprise he briefly jolted awake, and was about to deny it when she spoke again.
“We died and we’re together—and we’re not in hell,” she murmured. She nearly tipped over, but the magic yanked her upright. “And you got a dragon. Maybe I’ll get a dragon.”
He swallowed.
She patted his arm blindly. “That must mean you’re not so bad.”
Cyrus took this like a shot of poison; he couldn’t bear to respond.
The idiot Jinn is going to jump, said Kaveh. You must go, sire. You’ll receive word as soon as she’s safe.
It was true; Hazan had a determined gleam in his eye. He was shaking off the child, whose futile efforts to pull the young man away from the ledge were almost endearing.
I’m entrusting her to your care, said Cyrus. Please. Protect her at all costs.
As you wish. I’d only like my disapproval noted.
He sighed.
With a last look at Alizeh, the king dismounted carefully; Kaveh had extended a wing toward the cliff, a veritable bridge to uncertainty. Cyrus cleared this distance as quickly as his dense head and injured leg allowed, and once across was rewarded for his agony with the dramatic excoriations of his unwanted guests.
“You sick fiend, what have you done with her?”
“—bad was the injury? How deep did it—”
“Carry her off the dragon, you demented ass!”
“Is she dead? Please tell me if she’s dead? It wasn’t clear—”
Cyrus glanced back just as Kaveh roared, he and his rider setting off into the morning light against a backdrop too beautiful to suit. He knew she’d be all right. He knew the Diviners would easily mend her. It wasn’t fear for her life that gripped him now; it was fear for his own. He shouldn’t care for her so. He could not. It would kill him before he was ready to die, and then— And then all this torture would have been for nothing.
With a heavy head, he faced his visitors.
Of the five who stood before him, it was Kamran whose gaze was impossible to ignore. Anger and hatred were so alive in the prince’s eyes they nearly forged a separate soul.
It was the last thing he saw before he collapsed.
Twelve
“GOOD GOD,” DEEN BREATHED.
“Is he dead?” asked Miss Huda, peering at the king out of the corner of her eye, as if she were afraid to look at him.
Omid ventured a bit closer, leaning down to inspect the cretin’s face. “I don’t know,” he said softly.
“And what of Alizeh?” Miss Huda said with a cry. At the sound of her name, Kamran experienced a familiar shock of pain.
“What’s happened to her?” the girl went on. “Where do you think she’s gone? That madman probably shipped her off to a dungeon somewhere—”
“That seems unlikely.” Hazan was stone-faced. “The dragon was heading west.”
“A-And?” Miss Huda faltered. “Are there no dungeons in the west?”
“Don’t worry, miss,” said Omid reassuringly. “It’ll be all right. I’m sure we’ll find her. I’m not sure how, exactly”—he dimmed—“if the king is dead. He’s probably the only one who knows where she went.”
Deen dragged both hands down his face. “Do you really think he’s dead? I feel terrible for the poor girl, but perhaps we should we run for our lives? Surely we’ll be executed for this?”
“Executed?” Omid turned to the prince, his eyes wide with fear. “Sire?”
They all turned to face him, and finally, Kamran spoke.
“It won’t come to that,” he said irritably.
“Can you be sure, sire?” Deen again. “Because historically—”
“Oh!” the boy exclaimed. “Oh, I think he’s breathing!”
Deen went slack. “Thank heavens.”
“It does seem curious,” Miss Huda mused, “that, despite the many faces pressed to the window, not a soul has stepped outside. I think if we were going to be tossed in the dungeons it might’ve happened already.”
Hazan was studying the palace windows, the many wide eyes peering down at them. “Yes, very curious,” he said quietly. “Where on earth is the royal guard to defend their king?”
He walked over to Cyrus’s fallen body, crouching to get a better look. After a moment, he said gravely: “He’s certainly not dead, though his health has deteriorated with astonishing speed—which is strange, as his wounds aren’t terribly severe. His leg has stopped bleeding and the damage to his hand, while grotesque, is not enough to kill him. I can’t imagine why he’s lost consciousness.”
“Maybe he fainted,” offered Omid.
“I doubt that,” Kamran said darkly. “He doesn’t seem the type to lose his head over a little mutilation.”
“Blood loss, perhaps?” suggested Deen.
Hazan, who was still inspecting Cyrus, said, “Not quite enough blood lost, I would say. Though it’s certainly possible.”
“Did you see the way he used magic?” asked Miss Huda, who was stepping cautiously closer to the king. “The way he made some of those arrows just . . . disappear?” A pause, while her brow furrowed. “Speaking of which: Has anyone else noticed that he seems to be rather frighteningly magical? How do you think he’s able to cast spells so easily?”
“The devil,” said Kamran. “No doubt he and Iblees are fast friends. I’m sure his power is a consequence of selling his soul to darkness.”
“If that’s true”—her frown deepened—“I wonder why he didn’t use magic to spare himself of this moment now. He’s in a horribly vulnerable position. Just think: anyone at all might come along and”—she made a dramatic slicing motion with one hand—“chop off his head.”
Omid giggled at that, and she giggled back, as if it were entirely the etiquette to be making jokes at such a moment. Kamran turned away from the infantile pair, grimacing against the sharp blade of a fresh headache.
“It’s possible he was dealt a blow to the head in the descent,” Hazan said quietly. “If he’s suffering from an internal injury he’ll need assistance at once. His situation is growing more uncertain by the moment.”
“Shall we let him die naturally, then?” More from the excruciating Miss Huda. “Or do you still intend to kill him?” This she asked as she whipped around to look at Kamran. Three other sets of eyes turned in his direction.
“Don’t you dare,” came Hazan’s low warning.
Kamran shot his old friend a hateful look.
The insipid king had fallen to the ground at his feet almost as if he were offering himself up to be killed. How easy it would’ve been to drive a dagger through his throat; indeed Kamran should’ve been thrilled—and yet he was nothing less than furious. He wanted the blackguard to get up and fight; what satisfaction could there be in impaling a corpse? Then again, the entire morning had been a tragic disappointment. First, Simorgh had abandoned them almost immediately after alighting; then, Alizeh had been discovered unconscious. Kamran had only just digested the revelation that she hadn’t betrayed him when Cyrus came into view, and it had been the perfect opportunity. He’d been inches from victory. Inches from exacting revenge upon the person responsible for the nightmare his life had recently become.
That Alizeh had tried to save the blighted king was hard enough to understand—but that Kamran had shot her instead—
For a terrible moment he thought he’d killed her. It would’ve been a tragedy—he knew that, knew it in his soul—but he was nursing a quiet anger toward her, too. Anger that she’d intruded upon a private matter, anger that she’d taken the side of his oppressor, anger that she’d foiled his plans. To make matters worse, she’d now complicated things horribly: she was injured and missing, and would require a second rescue. Lord knew what Cyrus had done to her, sending her off on the back of yet another blasted dragon to some godforsaken place.
“Why shouldn’t I kill him?” said the prince ominously.
“The simple answer,” said Hazan, “is that Alizeh begged you not to.”
Kamran’s expression grew only stormier. “Is that all? You think I should’ve let him live simply because she wanted me to?”
“Is that not enough? You did as you pleased and nearly killed her in the process—”
“A terrible accident!”
“And where is your remorse?” Hazan demanded. “Why do you express no concern for her well-being—why do you remain preoccupied only with your own disappointments, when we came here with the express purpose of saving her—”
