ALIZEH TOUCHED A FINGER TO the ground, drawing shapes upon the coarse terrain, the texture softly abrading her skin. She sat alone and exposed in
the icy dark, planted in the eye of an expansive salt flat that seemed to whirl toward infinity in all directions. The white crystals were packed upon the earth in a hard crust, minerals glinting in the moonlight with the glitz of crushed diamonds.
Absently she licked a bit of salt from her thumb, grimacing at the taste
as a dull heat flared along her tongue. Her thoughts churned as she gazed up into the pitch, where the thick of night was freckled all over by stars. Alizeh knew that fireflies, too, lived in Tulan’s atmosphere, and the shimmer was so dense this evening it blurred in places. It was as if a child had pressed a hand to the heavens and smeared its glitter across the sky.
Still, these marvels would not distract her mind.
Scenes of the last several hours continued to haunt her, sounds drumming incessantly against her bones, memories of remembered sensation quickening across her skin. Even now, surrounded by quiet, she could not find silence.
Just hours ago, she’d done the unthinkable.
After eighteen years in hiding, Alizeh had finally stepped out of the shadows. Exposing herself as the lost queen of Arya had been a dangerous move for several reasons, chief among them that she was ill-equipped for
the role. She possessed no throne, no army, no plan, and not an ounce of the powerful magic she’d been promised for the part. At this juncture she was more likely to be murdered than venerated for popping her head above the parapet, yet she felt she’d no choice but to emerge, unfinished, into the spotlight. After rumors of her arrival in Tulan had choked the royal city,
thousands of Jinn had stormed the castle in search of her, demanding proof of life. The mob had been wild and frenzied, clamoring for a glimpse of the fabled queen, threatening violence if she’d come to harm. It was a good thing, then, that the cut at her throat was too faint to be registered by a distant crowd.
Unfortunately, it had drawn Sarra’s attention at once.
The Queen Mother had phased through shock and horror upon sighting Alizeh, who, prior to facing the masses, had emerged from Cyrus’s bedroom in a short, bloodied dress and a bleeding throat with as much dignity as she could summon.
Sarra had taken in Alizeh’s flushed and battered state, then her son’s wild eyes and naked torso, and her expression had darkened to something like murderous disgust. Alizeh had nervously unknotted her soiled gown, shaking out the hem to its full length before hastening to explain the
situation – but Cyrus had flashed her a look so severe it lit the nosta tucked inside her corset, the soft burn startling her into silence. Sarra gave a
derisive laugh at this small exchange, though ultimately the matter went undiscussed, for the woman seemed too agitated by the urgency of the waiting crowd – thousands of Jinn still rioting outside the palace walls – to delay the moment with talk. Her only indulgence had been to aim a pointed look at the far end of the hall, where four gaping young snodas had toppled into one another in an almost comical state of shock, before turning her grim smile on Alizeh.
“Sharpen your mind, girl,” she’d said with menacing softness. “If the mob doesn’t kill you tonight, the gossip might.”
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut at the memory, her skin heating with the residue of mortification. The greater part of the truth was far from scandalous, of course; in fact it would’ve delighted Sarra to know that she and Cyrus had only been trying to kill each other.
Theirs had been a dizzying evening.
After hours of tending to Cyrus in the aftermath of a brutal assault from the devil, the half-delirious king had magicked them back to his
bedchamber where, shortly thereafter, they’d had an explosive fight. She and Cyrus had crossed swords, exchanging blows and heated words until, in the end, he’d vanquished her not with a weapon but with a sequence of
passionate confessions that had left her all but decimated.
Absently she touched her neck, wincing as the dusting of salt on her fingers seared the open wound. Alizeh pulled her knees to her chest and held herself tight, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her teeth from rattling in the cold.
How would she ever keep her thoughts in order with so much sensation to file and sort? So many desires to manage and extinguish?
She’d not known what to expect when she finally asserted her right to
the ancient Jinn throne, though she’d once thought it reasonable to imagine any claim would be met with suspicion and anger. She’d prepared to defend herself against accusations of fraud; she thought she’d be forced to prove,
somehow, that she was the rightful heir.
Instead, the moment she’d stepped onto the balustrade the crowd had appeared to flinch, as if struck in tandem by an unseen force. Their deafening roars dimmed to a silence so complete Alizeh had been able to hear her own shallow breaths. The first moments had been more than terrifying; seconds ticked past as if in slow motion, her heart hammering against her ribs as panic swelled within her.
She’d not thought it through – she hadn’t enough time to prepare – and she worried then that she must say something grand, or else inspiring. Her first public words would doubtless be remembered in their history, repeated in the streets. She’d thought, at first, to rally them.
Then she’d looked more closely.
What she’d seen was a sea of Jinn worn out from long hours of standing and shouting. Only the muted cries of infants were still detectable, exhausted parents with their children in arm, older kids asleep at their feet. The elderly leaned on canes or otherwise sat painfully on the ground, while the young and hale stared up at her with strained, feverish eyes. Every face she looked upon was taut with fatigue, trembling hope – and a hunger born of simple dehydration.
Gently, she’d said, “My dear people, let me bring you water.” The result was a breathtaking chaos.
How they’d been so certain of her identity, she couldn’t know; it wasn’t a question she might ask without injuring her credibility. But at her words,
they’d seemed to glean the necessary proof and grew hysterical once more, some sobbing uncontrollably, others fainting into the arms of strangers and loved ones.
Alizeh had made to go to them, resolved that she would find a way to provide nourishment to these thousands of people, when Cyrus stepped at
once out of the shadows, staying her movement with a familiar, thunderous look.
“You will not endanger yourself,” he’d said.
She’d hardly registered her irritation, had hardly opened her mouth to protest before he’d turned to a nearby servant and issued orders she couldn’t hear. No longer shirtless, the king of Tulan wore a plain sweater and overcoat, his only indulgence a thick fur cap pulled low over his brow, the
article all but hiding his copper hair.
Everything, everything, black.
She’d been unable to look away as he performed this small task, fascinated by his unshakable bearing. Just hours ago he’d been battered nearly to death by the devil only to be dealt further blows by Alizeh herself, his mother, and the threat of violence against his home. These strikes had rained down on him one after another without pause and still, he remained composed. He wore a slight smile as he spoke quietly to a footman, his
mannerisms easy but firm. He had not collapsed.
His business conducted, Cyrus had looked up, arrested by the force of her gaze upon him. She, too, had changed before addressing the crowd, wearing now one of Cyrus’s cloaks, which he’d insisted would be both a protection from the cold and a cover for her stained dress. Soon she felt the heat of his inspection elsewhere, lingering first at her neck, then drawing down the hidden lines of her body. He took in the billows of her borrowed garment, the too-long sleeves, the several inches of hem pooling around her feet.
His eyes held all the inconstancy of an eclipse: his anger nearly overwhelming his need.
Alizeh had grown light-headed under this careful gaze, her skin prickling with awareness where his eyes had touched her. She didn’t know how to describe this feeling, this breathless languor. No one had ever looked at her the way he did, as if the sight of her might be fatal. Her lips had parted under the weight of his silent want, her mouth growing heavy
with the sound of his name and a desperate, foolish impulse to whisper the word against his skin.
Mercifully, sharp gasps and cries of astonishment punctuated the melee, and the trance was broken; Alizeh turned, startled, to witness palace
servants winding through the mass of Jinn with gilded trays, each piled high with cups and pitchers of water.
Presently, Alizeh sniffed against the chill numbing her nose, squeezing her eyes shut against the dizzying night sky. The scene that ensconced her was beautiful, no doubt – but neither her head nor her heart were equipped to appreciate the present.
Besides, she knew not where she was.
She’d found this site only after haunting Cyrus through midnight turns of the royal city. After the mob had been settled – after the people accepted that she was well, that she’d only just arrived in Tulan, that she’d made no firm decisions about marriage, and that she’d address them officially just as soon as she rested a while – the crowds had very slowly dispersed. It was when their small party withdrew into the castle – Sarra’s face contorting as if she might scream and Alizeh thinking of nothing but sleep – that the young king had spoken an efficient five words to the wall:
“I’m afraid I must go.”
Without further explanation, Cyrus had left her in the custody of his horrified mother.
Sarra had made a choking sound before staring at Alizeh with wide, blinking eyes, and for a moment, Alizeh felt sorry for the woman. In a shocking reversal of character, Sarra, once a shrewd and complex adversary, had lost her nerve. After witnessing Alizeh’s quiet power before the unruly crowd, the woman now appeared terrified even to share oxygen with the girl. It seemed the Queen Mother was worried she’d made a dangerous
mistake asking Alizeh to murder her son.
If only she were able, Alizeh might’ve laughed at the absurdity.
Instead, she’d bid good night to the trembling Sarra and, once she’d found herself alone in the hall, quickly donned invisibility and trailed Cyrus at superhuman speed, taking care to evade all eyes, for fear of being spotted by Jinn servants. It wasn’t long before she’d followed him off the palace grounds, foreign scenes melting into blackness as they traversed the chilling night.
Now Alizeh sighed.
There were peculiar woodlands here, bone-white trees with bone-white branches that shone from within, a small stand of which glowed softly at
the edge of the salt flat. This was as far as her search had taken her, for
Cyrus had soon evaporated into a literal puff of smoke upon approaching the illuminated forest, and here – alone and off course – was where she’d landed, cursing herself for her stupidity.
She pulled the borrowed cloak more tightly about her shoulders, struggling against the urge to inhale the familiar scent of its owner. She’d come to know this cologne of him, the floral notes of rose infused with the masculine spice of his skin – though she wasn’t entirely sure how. It was
perhaps the hours she’d spent holding Cyrus’s body, breathing him in even as she cried. She could still feel the silk of his hair sliding between her fingers, the down of his cheek under her hand. For her efforts she’d been rewarded this unrelenting burn beneath her breastbone, a ripple of feeling so powerful it spasmed without reprieve, refusing to settle even when her
thoughts turned to anything and anyone else. Her body had never felt so alive, so electrified.
When had she allowed Cyrus to take up so many rooms inside her? Nothing had even happened between them.
The paroxysm of feeling she endured now, the emotional wreckage she was forced to sift through in the aftermath of what was, by most metrics, a nonevent –
It made no sense.
Worse: Cyrus was under the command of the devil.
This statement alone should’ve been conclusive enough to condemn him, but heaven help her, she had other reasons, too. Among other horrifying crimes, he’d stolen her precious Book of Arya and refused to return the item, holding it hostage under lock and magic. He’d slaughtered Ardunia’s Diviners, murdered King Zaal, killed his own father, and crowned himself her enemy whether she liked it or not. So when he’d fled the palace on a mysterious – and likely nefarious – quest, she’d felt compelled to follow.
Too bad, then, that she’d been a fool.
