CYRUS HISSED AS THE BOLTÂ 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.
