“THAT’S NOT POSSIBLE,” SAID HAZAN, doing nothing now to conceal his apprehension. They were both staring at the nosta Cyrus held in his outstretched hand. “How could it belong to you? My mother left that to me in her will.”
A flare of heat from the nosta confirmed these words – though Cyrus did not
require the assistance, for he was fairly able to detect a lie. “Who was your mother?” Hazan’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t come here to be interrogated.”
“No,” Cyrus said, and looked him over. “You came here to interrogate me.”
“You can’t be shocked to hear it,” said Hazan, who was flushed with anger. “It’s beyond evident that I don’t trust you.”
Cyrus almost smiled. “And you’re hoping I’ll put your fears to rest?” “I want to know the terms of your deal with the devil.”
“No.”
“I want to know what you stand to gain from this arrangement –” “No.”
“– and I want to know whether she will be safe as your wife.”
Cyrus stiffened at the words your wife. The sheer depth of feeling he experienced at the sound of the possessive your had briefly upended his mind. It was absurd, of course; for even if she consented to marry him, she would never truly be his. He knew that, and yet his heart would not slow its canter.
Slowly, he met Hazan’s eyes.
“Always,” he said. “She will always be safe with me.”
The nosta flared red hot in his hand, and Hazan witnessed this color change with a mix of astonishment and alarm.
“My turn,” said Cyrus, turning the small marble in his fingers. “Did you know that this is a royal heirloom? It’s been passed down in my family for generations. That’s why the Diviners returned it to me. My father thought we’d lost it ages ago.”
Hazan’s eyes hardened. “As I said, I received it from my mother.”
“But you have some knowledge of its history.” To this, Hazan said nothing.
“You are no ordinary Jinn, are you?” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean it must be hard to lie, all the time, about who you really are.” Hazan was quiet for so long that silence gathered between them like smoke,
choking. It was with unveiled anger that he finally said, “You know nothing about me.” The nosta flashed white, cold.
“Your mother was a courtier,” said Cyrus, turning his eyes to the clouds. “According to my sources, she spent a great deal of time in the Ardunian court and was a beloved attendant to the late queen. She did an admirable job concealing her identity as both a Jinn and a spy, and consequently received a number of precious gifts while in service. Some of which” – he tilted his head at Hazan – “had been stolen.” He paused. “But who, pray tell, was your father?”
Hazan was fairly vibrating with rage. “I won’t answer your questions,” he said, “until you first answer mine.”
“You’re welcome to list them,” said Cyrus. “First of all, who the hell are you?”
“You might need to be more precise.”
“You are yourself no ordinary man,” Hazan said heatedly. “No ordinary king. I’ve been watching you closely these past weeks, and nothing about you makes sense –”
“Nothing?” He raised his eyebrows. “Really?” “You never wear jewelry.”
Cyrus glanced at Hazan when he said, “Is that a crime?” “For a king? Are you mad?”
“I take it you have other complaints about how I dress.”
“You never wear color. You often wear a hat. You possess only simple, plain clothes. No gold, no adornment, no crown in your hair. In fact, most days you walk with your head down –”
“This conversation bores me.” Cyrus looked at his hands, then the tips of his boots, which had darkened with damp. “And I don’t know what more you want from me. I’ve already given up my secrets.”
“Liar.”
Cyrus lifted his head. “You would know what a liar looks like, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve lived at the palace in Ardunia my whole life – I’ve worked in service of the crown since I was a child – and you – You don’t act like a king. You have no entourage, no valet, no menus prepared for your meals. You speak directly to your servants –”
“Enough,” Cyrus said curtly. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish with these accusations.”
But Hazan had found his mark, and his eyes sharpened.
“Your people are loyal to you despite the brutal manner in which you took the throne. Your staff refuses to speak a bad word against you. You give your mother far
too much control over your household, you pay your servants ten times the standard wage –”
“I said enough –”
“You love her, don’t you?”
Cyrus was not quick enough to parry this and too stunned to sneer at the insinuation. Worse: he knew not how he appeared then, as if he’d been run through with a scimitar.
Hazan, to his credit, was dumbfounded. “It’s true, then?” he breathed. “You really do love her?”
Cyrus said nothing. He didn’t need to. The severity of his feeling for her could not be contained, and they both watched, in horror, as the nosta turned red in his hand.
Cyrus closed his fist, but too late.
The silence between them grew thick and gnarled, but soon – somehow – lost its teeth. For the first time in weeks Hazan seemed to relax, as if this wretched confession had somehow offered him comfort.
“Is it possible?” he said, his anger abating. “Can you love her when you don’t even know her?” Hazan turned to face him, looked him directly in the eye. “Do you know
her?”
Cyrus could endure no more of this. He hauled himself upright, eager to vanish – and as he stood he saw the sprawling grounds, the heaving mass of people, and then, through a part in the clouds, a rising swarm of locusts. It made for a dizzying horror show, like a surreal confetti spattered across the sky.
Cyrus drew a sharp breath.
“What is it?” asked Hazan. “What’s happening?” He clambered to his feet, peering into the distance as the locusts slowly dispersed.
It had been a message, received. “She’s awake,” Cyrus whispered.
