WIND BATTERED HIS FACE, SOUNDS screamed in his ears. Cyrus spun until his flesh was wrung out, his face chapped by the currents, cheeks ablaze with color. He landed on his feet with a heavy thud that rattled his teeth before
he straightened slowly, regaining his balance by careful degrees. The stench of rotting matter struck him swiftly, and he fought the impulse to gag, nearly doubling over as his eyes burned.
Before him loomed a curtain of charred flesh.
Iblees had never presented himself to the young king as anything but a whisper – a force transmittable from anywhere – and yet, too often Cyrus
was summoned here. Here, the scene of every great missive and every great castigation, this decomposing suite of rooms separated only by patchwork veils of scorched human skin, was the devil’s preferred place of communication.
It was, in Cyrus’s approximation, a parallel to purgatory.
He closed his eyes now and braced himself, fighting not to inhale the putrid air as the familiar whisper blew through him, a voice like smoke pooling in the hollows of his body, curling around his joints, and tugging him downward – a suggestion that he fall to his knees. Cyrus fought this
compulsion, snapping the connection with a violent jolt and straightening to his full height. He felt the haunting impression of a laugh, and then –
Clay King was once a little boy, and he would often cry
for milk and sleep and wooden rattles and a soothing lullaby
Now he is a strong young man and still we see him cry!
Poor heart is broken Weak mind is weary
He simply wants to DIE
Cyrus’s eyes flew open. His fists had clenched, unbidden, but there was no one to fight; nothing to see.
“Did you bring me here to mock me?” he said quietly, turning about the room. “What is it you want tonight?”
Oh, the jester is a lonely sort who seldom gets to play
despite the jokes he loves to make of witless, greedy Clay
Cyrus stiffened. He bade himself be calm despite a creeping instinct to panic.
With forced composure he said, “What does that mean?”
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
A muscle jumped in Cyrus’s jaw. “I don’t understand your infuriating riddles. But I have reason to hope Alizeh is going to accept my proposal. She said as much to me earlier –”
Poor Clay brain is made of dirt! It cannot solve a puzzle
Poor Clay heart it falls apart
A frail, decaying muscle
“Enough,” the young king said angrily, fruitlessly searching the room for a face. “I let you spout your senseless rhymes at me for hours without complaint, but you’ve already forced me to endure your loathsome presence once this interminable night, and unless you intend to torture me again, I’ll take my leave. Besides – I’ve lost nothing yet. I still have plenty of time to uphold my end of the bargain.”
Time and ice are much the same they slowly disappear
You may not see your failure, King, but we can smell your fear
Cyrus felt a flash of rage. “Is that why you summoned me, then? To celebrate early?” He shook his head. “You’re a vile bastard.”
Afraid to close his eyes at night! Afraid to see her face!
He hasn’t slept a single wink beyond a drugged embrace
At that, Cyrus gave a mocking, unhinged laugh. He felt like a caged animal. “You dare taunt me for my efforts, when it was you who planted her image in my dreams? You play dishonorably, resorting to manipulations beyond the terms of our agreement. What choice do I have but to protect
myself?”
Poor Clay brain is made of dirt! It cannot solve a puzzle!
Poor Clay heart it falls apart
A frail, decaying muscle
“Why do you repeat yourself?” he demanded. “Cease hounding me with your nonsense if you won’t explain your meaning!”
Never have we lost a match We swear it by the stars
Never shall you have the girl Her fate is twined with ours
You think to best the jester
in a game we have designed?
You mean to take away our toys – and expect us to be kind?
Cyrus could hardly bring himself to speak through his fury, his fear, his wretchedness. Of all the ways the devil had thought to undermine him, this was by far the worst – and Cyrus could see now how easily he’d cleared the path for his own destruction. Iblees had endeavored over and over to break him with violence, yet these bleak efforts had only strengthened the young king.
But appealing to his parched heart?
Delivering him not merely the vision of an angel but the temptation of the real thing? He, who’d been discarded by all – shunned by the Diviners, hunted by his mother, betrayed by his father, abandoned by his brother, plunged into isolation and hated throughout the world? He, whose desiccated heart turned to dust before her tenderness?
Alizeh was the fulfillment of his most desperate, undisclosed desire. The constant, gnawing ache inside him – this pitiful need that grew only more fraught in the wake of every darkness that devoured him –
He longed for her warmth, for her radiance. She’d been, from the first moment she’d wandered into his dreams, an enduring flame in the endless night, his only haven in the madness that inhaled him.
This was his real weakness, and the devil had marked him easily.
The jester is quite delighted to see you so distressed
For this pleasure you’re invited to make one small request
“I want nothing except what I’m owed!” Cyrus shouted, turning sharply as he spoke. He’d fully lost his temper now, glowering even as he addressed an empty room. “If you think I’d ask you for anything, you’re a great deal stupider than you seem.”
Oh, the jester is delighted! To see you so distressed!
In exchange you are entitled to this splendid bequest –
“No –” Cyrus tried to cut him off, fear branching up his spine. “I want nothing from you – I asked for nothing –”
The curtain of flesh evaporated without warning, and Cyrus went slack with disbelief. His anger changed, tenuous emotions braiding together in his chest. He saw the familiar orange light in the distance, its flickering glow
acting as a beacon as he drew steadily forward, his heart pounding madly against his ribs.
He heard a muted rattle of chains, a ragged drag of breath. Cyrus pushed toward the sounds, following a long wall lit by an endless procession of blazing torches. A muggy heat clung to his skin and lingered, drawing beads of sweat down his throat as he turned a corner, and the scene came suddenly into view.
Chains as thick as fists were fastened to a cratered wall, shackles clasped around the hinges of an older man who hung unnaturally in the air, his emaciated body starved and tortured beyond recognition.
“Who’s there?” came a hoarse, trembling voice. “Who’s come?”
Seldom did Iblees allow Cyrus such a moment, and the sound of this haggard speech provoked a sting inside the young man’s nose, his eyes heating foolishly. No matter how many times he’d come, this scene had never grown easier to endure.
Another desperate rattle of chains. Another terrified rasp of voice. “Who’s there? I demand you declare yourself!”
Were he capable of humor, Cyrus might’ve smiled at the high-handed command, for it gave him reason to hope. The king had not yet lost his
sense of superiority. He was not yet broken beyond recognition.
Cyrus approached his father then with a composure he could not explain. The young man did not feel as calm as he appeared, yet he knew no other way to face these horrors.
“Father,” he said softly. “It’s me.”
“NO!” The true king of Tulan fought uselessly against his chains, his face contorting in terror, his eyes squeezing shut. “Leave here at once! I begged you – I asked you never to come back –”
“He took your other eye, didn’t he?” Cyrus said thickly, pain lancing through his chest. “Tonight.”
His father stiffened, then sagged, grief painted across his face. He did not open his eyes. He did not answer the question. “Never think of me
again,” the man said raggedly, the last dregs of energy leaving his body. “Imagine me dead and gone, child. This debt is not yours to bear.”
“How can you say that,” came Cyrus’s quiet reply, “when it was you who asked me to bear it?”
A tense silence settled in the filthy chamber.
Cyrus cursed himself. He hadn’t meant to say the accusing thought aloud – hadn’t meant to waste this precious moment delivering emotional blows his tortured parent could not withstand. The young man had not paused to consider his words because his mind was splintering. The devil had not exaggerated: Cyrus had not slept since first laying eyes on Alizeh.
He hadn’t dared.
He’d never forget the first time he saw her on that calamitous night, the way she’d stepped out from behind the dressing screen. She’d appeared in the golden lamplight of Miss Huda’s bedroom like some impossible vision. Only when she’d lifted her eyes to his face and the sight of her had nearly killed him did Cyrus realize just how artfully he’d been outmaneuvered.
He’d absorbed the blow with immaculate outward calm, letting the bomb explode inside him, liquefying his core. This inner destruction birthed a
staggering, terrifying anger he’d been almost unable to conceal. He felt he’d gone mad, swinging wildly between desire and fury and disgust and fear, hardly able to manage himself or his reactions to her. He knew at once he’d been tricked; he knew at once she was an instrument of the devil, sent to ruin him. And yet, he weakened each time she looked in his direction. His need grew only more explosive as she solidified into someone real; always he desired another glance, another accidental graze of her skin –
He was terrified to ever dream of her again.
Cyrus had been using magic to keep himself awake for two days now. The drugged drowse of the devil had weakened his mind even as it revived his shattered body, and he’d awoken from that dangerous slumber only to betray himself shamefully. Exhaustion was even now pushing through the bonds of magic that held him upright, and the young king was not himself. Still, this was not the first time his father, Reza, had made such a ludicrous statement, and Cyrus should’ve bit his tongue. A wave of self-loathing washed over him as quiet sobs soon wracked his father’s limp body. Tears fell from the man’s closed eyes, streaking down his sunken cheeks.
Yes, Cyrus hated himself.
“Forgive me,” came the older man’s broken response. “I was a fool – I didn’t know – Our weak, sheltered imaginations cannot fathom such
corruptions of darkness – I never thought it would be like this – I never –”
Cyrus set his jaw. “I will see that this matter is resolved, and when it is done, you will return to Mother. The Diviners will fashion you a new set of eyes –”
“This matter will never be resolved!” Reza cried, hysterical now. “Don’t you see? It’s a trap – it’s always a trap –”
“That’s not true,” Cyrus said, determined. “I’ve already completed most of the tasks. I have four more months –”
Reza would not stop shaking his head, his torment undisguised, his moods as sudden and changeable as the wind. “My son – you don’t understand –”
“Tell me, then,” said Cyrus, his chest heaving with barely restrained emotion. He’d all but destroyed himself in the pursuit of righting these wrongs, and always his father doubted him. “Why is it you won’t put your faith in me? What is it I don’t understand?”
Finally Reza opened his eyes, the rosy flesh of the empty sockets still wet with tears. “It’s never been done,” he whispered. “No man has ever wagered against the devil and won.”
