CYRUS SAT ATOP THE OLD, mossy roof of an outbuilding at the very edge of
the Diviners Quarters, the damp of the sponge beneath him slowly seeping into his cloak. He pulled his knees up to his chest, stifling a shiver as the sun made a weak effort far above. Droves of clouds hovered before him, circling the grounds so completely that Cyrus could hardly see the temple below for all the white that obscured it – though this mattered little. He
knew this property better than he knew his own home. He needed only to close his eyes to imagine the room she was in, to picture in detail its
dimensions and contours. How many years had he all but lived here in his
youth? How many times – countless – had he run freely into the arms of his teachers? Once, his life had been nothing but prayer and divination, quiet and contemplation.
Now –
Now he was but a tormented shade of his former self. His soul disfigured beyond recognition, his hands singed with dark.
He glanced at the newspaper in his hand, the headline screaming at him.
ALARM AROUND THE WORLD AS JINN UPRISING IMMINENT
It was a copy of The Daftar, Ardunia’s preeminent publication. Cyrus had been receiving copies of this, and other journals, for several months, for it was his custom to remain abreast of international news. He took a particular interest in the headlines from the north, for Ardunia had long been his greatest threat, but Cyrus himself had not been the focus of foreign interest since his first horrible month as king, a time in his life so dark it nearly eclipsed the era he was in now.
Nearly.
In four weeks, an estimated seventy thousand Jinn had gathered in Mesti, the royal city, and in the provinces just beyond. Every day this number grew. Despite his mother’s well-warranted fears, the Jinn had arrived peacefully – for they’d arrived oblivious to their queen’s injury.
Cyrus had managed to conceal this fact through nothing short of a miracle, for the Diviners had consented to remain silent on the subject of Alizeh – only in the interest of protecting the greater peace. Even so, it was a risk, for the priests and priestesses were incapable of speaking falsehoods and would not lie if asked a direct question. In fact, the magic that bound
Diviners to truth was of the same strain that enabled them to detect a falsehood. The latter was a talent that Cyrus, too, possessed to some degree, though his education in the priesthood was incomplete, and as a result his skills, too, were imperfect.
Still, he knew better than to try to deceive a Diviner.
They’d questioned him that terrible morning. Hazan on his heels, he’d met the trio of Diviners in a receiving room, the sight of their legendary, liquid-black cloaks sending twin pangs of dread and longing through him. In another life he would’ve been one of them, would’ve forsaken rank and prestige to occupy instead the liminal spaces of existence, where ego was eclipsed by the spheres of alchemy and prophecy. It was what he’d always wanted: to devote his life to the distillation of being.
He’d stared at them, at their hooded faces, their perfect stillness. They’d emanated a calm, tightly coiled energy, that steady pulse of magic beating within them like a second heart. Powerful and nameless, Diviners were an
enigma to most; in fact, many found them terrifying. Yet Cyrus knew that those who were drawn to divination were often reserved and passionate, satisfied to spend their lives asking questions of the earth. Even so, it’d
been so long since he’d stood in the presence of a Diviner that he’d been unnerved.
The southern king had greeted them as he once did – bowing his head as he pressed his hands to his chest – and though they’d returned the gesture, their disapproval was palpable.
He was not one of them.
Even then Cyrus had desired nothing more than to shave his head and shirk the world; he longed for their freedom. Longed for the hours he’d
once spent in companionable quiet, for the backbreaking mornings excavating magic from the mountains, for the sun-soaked summer evenings cleansing and sorting the fresh crop of crystals.
Cyrus had learned years ago how to refine the precious material, how to gently conjure the magic free from the stone, whispering incantations under his breath when he was still too inexperienced to do so soundlessly.
Thousands of times he’d injured himself in the process, nearly severing his right arm when he’d once summoned the power too quickly. Indeed, convincing magic to leave its crystal and enter the chaotic world was a great deal like taming a wild dragon. It was brutal and terrifying, and demanded not only immeasurable self-restraint, but tremendous heart – for the power was wise and would not release peacefully into the hands of any it deemed unworthy.
Bel nekan nostad, nektoon bidad.
Once released, magic proved a gentle presence. It had the energy of a cat in repose, weight like a lick of wind that curled around its keeper’s neck, humming with pleasure.
Cyrus was the rare king on earth who knew this sensation.
Most royals had spent their lives as soldiers, or else engaged in merriment and frivolity; traditionally they received doses of magic from the Diviners as gifts, often in the form of comestibles, reinforced weaponry, or enchanted garments. Cyrus’s years in the priesthood had earned him a rare authority and independence as a sovereign. He had access to great stores of magic while requiring no intercession from a Diviner; as a result there was no one to interrogate the ways in which he used his power. He was in fact so skilled at bonding with this precious matter that he lived much as the
Diviners did: always ready to cast a spell.
And there remained bedrocks of magic yet untouched.
The most powerful crystals were so volatile they were nearly impossible to handle; the more potent the core, the more difficult the stone was to quarry. Some varieties were so temperamental they’d explode if so much as touched by the wrong person, causing an entire mine to collapse. Over the years, thousands had died in the effort to excavate these venerated strains from the earth – and Cyrus had long suspected that Alizeh’s magic was of
this untouchable stock. Even the greatest Diviners of Ardunia had been
unable to access the crystals of the Arya mountains, and if the stories were true – if Alizeh were indeed able to unearth such power – she would be recognized by every holy order on earth as the greatest Diviner of their time. Her supremacy would be unmatched.
The world would bow to her.
Every day, this improbable theory grew stronger. Jinn everywhere had initiated a mass exodus. Those who could were fleeing their homes, traversing great distances to reach their queen. Already Cyrus had received thinly veiled warnings from neighboring allies and bald threats of attack from distant nations – simply for harboring her.
The existence of a Jinn queen was all but a promise of revolution. Alizeh was a threat to the incumbent systems of oppression, to the cheap labor these empires received from those incarcerated, to the social order established on earth for a millennia. Few other kingdoms allowed
their Jinn any measure of freedom; most were horribly persecuted, plainly hunted in the streets, subject to caste systems that denied them basic humanities, or else forced into prison camps where their powers were controlled by magicked shackles and systematic dehydration; thus, they
were exploited for profit; there, they lived and died and bore their children. The empires of the world couldn’t allow someone like Alizeh to rise. And though the southern king knew his truce with Ardunia to be little more than a sham, the rest of the world saw it as a political maneuver. Cyrus’s pending marriage to an insurgent leader, coupled with his recent alliance with a
force as mighty as Ardunia, had made him and his humble kingdom a target for malice.
He didn’t know how long he might stave off an attack from an enraged empire, but the pact between Tulan and Ardunia had proven both a problem and a protection, for while this alliance had sent tremors of unease throughout the world, it was also the silent might of Ardunia’s fabled army that currently kept Alizeh safe within Tulan.
It had become clearer to him, in these agonizing weeks, why her parents had kept her in hiding, and why the devil had been so adamant about this marriage. From birth, she had been marked. Without an ally, without an army, without an empire and resources and magic and water, Alizeh could not have withstood these external forces on her own. Great and necessary
change had always been born in the blood of calamity. Her life would be in danger for as long as she lived.
He’d been ruminating on this fact that wretched morning, imagining the real and figurative target on her back even as he’d stood before the Diviners, his body humming with apprehension.
Why is he here?
Cyrus had heard the voice in his head with a start, for it was one he recognized. The priesthood demanded a dissolution of the material life and its mortal titles – over time, even given names were lost – but a man once known to him as Mozafer had stepped forward to speak.
“He insisted on coming,” Cyrus explained. He’d glanced at Hazan, whose glower was almost violent. “He’s concerned for his queen.”
There’s no time for this was the response.
At once, the receiving room disappeared; they were submerged in a smoky darkness where naught but four forms lit by an unseen light source. Hazan had not been allowed to join them.
Mozafer did not tarry.
The situation is grave, he’d said silently. The girl will not heal.
Cyrus, who’d expected terrible news, still sustained a savage pain at these words. “What do you mean?”
The priest drew forward, then held open his pale hand, upon which glittered a dusting of a blue shimmering powder.
Cyrus visibly stiffened.
Black magic was the only magic that left behind a residue. It was the cost of darkness, of selfishness: the toxic leavings were a by-product of the impure substance, and they filtered into the world as a faint poison. Every assault Cyrus had ever received from the devil had been delivered via this dark magic, but its leavings always evaporated; never before had they stained his clothes.
We found this lining the interior pocket of her cloak. Mozafer pulled back his hood a few inches, revealing shockingly white skin, to better study Cyrus’s eyes. It is a borrowed cloak.
“It’s mine,” he’d confirmed, his heart racing now. “But I don’t understand – there shouldn’t have remained any trace –”
You have inflicted upon her a serious injury.
“I would sooner die than hurt her –”
It matters not whether you meant her harm. Mozafer pulled his hood back entirely now, baring his shaved head. His brown eyes were unflinching but not cruel. The ice in her veins precludes her from absorbing such
poison. While in others its effect is mild, in her it triggers an usual reaction. It appears her body would sooner destroy itself than metabolize a contaminated magic.
Another blow of pain, straight through the chest. “What will happen to her?”
We don’t know. We’ve never treated one such as her before.
“But will she live?” Cyrus asked desperately.
Mozafer hesitated. Her body appears to have a natural healing mechanism, one that we feel will hasten her recovery. The exposure was minimal. She has a strong chance of rehabilitation. But it may take some time.
“How much time?”
Mozafer shook his head. Several weeks. Perhaps months.
Cyrus had spiraled.
He’d lost his composure then as he hadn’t since he was a boy. He’d doubled over, struggling to breathe, and made a sound of distress so severe that even the Diviners, who were not allowed to touch him, drew forward in sympathy.
There was so much to break him. His guilt, his shame, his fear. That the evil in his life had bled through and harmed her; that as a result he’d surely fail to fulfill his obligations to the devil, that this failure would destroy everything. His life was unraveling around him, the sinew of his body unbraiding every day, leaving him threadbare, little more than bone.
“What will happen, Mozafer?” He’d fallen to his knees, dropped his head into his hands. “What will happen when I fail?”
We are not allowed to speak of it, came his gentle response. “Will the Diviners continue to shun me?”
Yes.
“Will I ever be able to return to the temple?”
Not so long as you are tethered to him.
Cyrus lifted his head, fighting back tears. “And will you not spare me a single word of guidance, when I am so desperate for your counsel?”
Mozafer kneeled before him, and Cyrus’s heart constricted at the sight, at the warmth in the older man’s eyes. He said –
Sleep.
– before they vanished.
The smoke cleared. Cyrus had been returned to the receiving room on his knees, the bright light of midday nearly blinding him. He was at once
pummeled by the intensity of Hazan’s angry protests, but he turned his gaze toward the floor, ignoring the outburst as his mind reeled, as his heart raced. He needed to pull himself together.
He needed to make plans.
He’d delivered himself without delay to his mother, loudly informing her that his bride-to-be had requested a period of calm and reflection prior to the wedding – during which time she would be staying in the company of the Diviners and was not to be disturbed. This gossip, picked up at once by palace staff, quickly and efficiently disseminated throughout the land, reinforcing the mystery surrounding the arrival of the Jinn queen.
As for the pilgrims, they’d begun arriving that same day.
Slowly at first, then in droves, they asked for neither water nor shelter.
They wanted nothing but space – and the Diviners had opened their vast grounds to them, where they’d gathered together in tightly arranged bouquets, the overflow spilling into the streets, the parks, the hills and mountains. They slept where they sat, no matter the weather.
In response to the many requests to see her, the Diviners had issued a single word, in an exceptionally rare statement:
Patience.
And so, the Jinn waited.
Cyrus studied them every day. He watched their numbers grow, watched them become restless and angry and ultimately subdued, only to repeat the cycle. In a short time they’d appointed a leader: a small, elderly woman who, after days of taking it upon herself to break up fights and settle arguments, became their intermediary. Her name was Dija, of Sorral.
Cyrus watched her now.
Her wizened face curtained by thinning sheets of milk-white hair, Dija stood on a high bough of a towering magnolia tree, her frame so slight she nearly blew away in the wind. Her body feeble, her spirit ferocious, she’d
grasped a nearby branch for support, and from her post, she conducted the chorus of voices. With her eyes shut, Dija placed her free hand atop her head as she cried out –
For the land that once was ours For the millions who were slain For the rivers red with blood
For the centuries of pain
Justice!
Justice!
For our parents in the ground For the coffins that we built
For the tiny hands and quiet hearts of the children who were killed
Justice!
Justice!
The mass followed her lead, hands placed atop their heads, eyes closed as they sang. Their voices had begun to haunt him throughout the day.
Where once the heaving crush of the crowd had been a source of concern, now he felt nothing but astonishment. For her.
It was all for her.
And yet, she would not open her eyes.
In the general course of things, Cyrus was not one to steep in his sorrows. But he’d been allowed to occupy this space at the edge of the Diviners’ property precisely because his bouts of mawkish emotion were so pitiable. So long as his feet never touched the hallowed ground, he’d been granted permission to sit here and watch her from afar. During this time – precisely one hour – he brined in his own gloom.
It was a behavior so unlike him he’d come to resent it.
He shifted slightly then, lifting his head to look once more upon the masses, when a locust materialized as if from nowhere, a bright spark of green landing lightly on his hand. The insect settled its wings and stared up at him with its uncanny eyes.
Hello, friend, Cyrus said silently.
The locust jumped up in response, landing on his shoulder. They were fascinating creatures, known for listening deeply and saying little in response.
Have you seen her? Cyrus prompted.
The locust only adjusted its legs, twitched its head.
Will you check? Let me know if there’s any change?
One more twitch of its head, and the locust took flight, disappearing into the clouds.
Cyrus watched him go, then tucked away the crumpled newspaper he still held in his hand. Every night for nearly four weeks he’d dreamed of Alizeh. Strong in body but fractured in spirit, Cyrus was so drunk on his dizzying, sensorial experiences of her that he could hardly see through the thick of his own mind to what was real. He’d gone against his own instincts and done as Mozafer had instructed, and he slept. It had been sound advice, for no magic could replace the curative properties of sleep, and Cyrus had felt the difference immediately: his body was steadier as a result. Still, the agony and the bliss of these strange nightmares had been a steep price to pay for a boost of physical endurance. He awoke every day aching and breathless, his body strained with need, his heart pounding so hard it scared him. Cyrus felt like an opium addict, desperate for these tastes of ecstasy even as he knew they were poison. He’d stopped fighting it. He willingly drowned in the feel of her, intoxicated by the taste of her. It was a torture he struggled to define. Every night he slept with his face pressed to her skin.
Every night a new facet of his soul died for her.
He felt ill, all the time.
He was electric with impatience, with anxiety. Sometimes it felt as if he’d swallowed the sun, as if he was struggling to contain a fire that would kill him before it ever went out.
Finally, Cyrus stretched his neck, then shook his head.
“It’s been days and days of this,” he said. “I’ve grown tired of it. Surely
you’ve grown tired of it.”
There was silence at first; then, eventually, the slow crunch of vegetation under boot. It was several seconds before the young man finally showed himself, though Cyrus did not turn to face him. A gust of wind had pushed a bloat of clouds in his direction, and he gently pressed his fingers to the mass.
“You knew,” said Hazan carefully.
“That you were following me?” Cyrus almost laughed. “Of course I knew.”
“Then why not say something sooner?”
Cyrus did not answer right away. He was raking his fingers through the vapor when he said, finally, “I suppose I was curious.”
Hazan loomed over him a moment more, then settled himself atop the roof a small distance away, studying the southern king all the while.
“Curious about what?” he asked. “You.”
The young man bristled. “Why?”
Cyrus reached into his pocket, then uncurled his fist, within which sat the nosta the Diviners had found hidden on Alizeh’s body. Weeks ago
they’d delivered this magical object to Cyrus, and though the discovery had been a shock, it had also comforted him to know that so long as she’d possessed it, she might’ve known he was trustworthy.
He finally looked at Hazan. “She got this from you, didn’t she?”
Hazan held very still, though panic flit in and out of his eyes. “Where did you get that?”
“I might ask you the same question,” said Cyrus. “Considering this is
mine.”
