ALIZEH WATCHED AS A SMALL bee landed atop a lavender bush, the chosen sprig swaying under its buzzing weight. Birds chirped and tittered all around her, for the most part unseen from their assorted perches upon assorted branches, their cheerful songs never ceasing long enough to allow a moment of silence. The breeze was warm, the sun divine upon her skin, the heat of it filtering through her airy dress.
Though Sarra had selected a wealth of gorgeous articles for Alizeh, she’d not known the girl’s measurements, and as a result, most of the pieces were ill-fitting and would have to be altered. There were, however, a few in her size, alongside a wide array of undergarments of various dimensions available to her, and she’d been happy indeed to don fresh, clean things before finally stepping into the comfort of a soft, tissue-thin gown with long sleeves, hoping to protect the healing wounds along her left arm. She’d chosen an ivory number, the ethereal layers of chiffon offset by a weighty collar forged from a single gold cable that circled her neck and shoulders in cascading orbits, the precious metal halting its revolutions just below her breastbone. The neckband obscured an otherwise scandalously low neckline, where the delicate fabric crisscrossed firmly around the bodice before nipping in at her waist, below which it billowed out into a full skirt that fluttered in the wind.
Her hair she’d tied up in her usual style, a mass of glossy curls pinned haphazardly atop her head. It was Sarra who’d insisted she choose something from the prearranged allotment of jewels, and the options were so stunning it had taken little indeed to convince Alizeh to do so. Still, she’d chosen to wear only a simple circlet in her hair: three whisper-thin gold bands hammered into a fine crown, a rainbow assortment of gems embedded throughout.
Alizeh glittered as she moved, as she pushed through the double doors that led to the lush green path she’d discovered upon arrival. It felt good to be clean, to reset.
With the exception of her magical ball gown, it had been many years since Alizeh had worn anything but the drab, serviceable garb of a servant, and despite the tragic circumstances, she was immensely grateful for the finery. Always she’d appreciated an artfully woven garment, but there was an even greater pleasure to be derived from the textile itself; here, at least, her gowns would be fashioned from cloth so fine they’d never chafe or itch, never leave angry marks where the coarse seams scraped painfully against
her skin during endless hours of labor. In a situation so bereft of mercies, she clung to this small gift, let it feed her starving heart.
Alizeh sighed, taking a sip from the cup of hot tea she’d carried with her into the garden.
Earlier, Sarra had summoned a servant to deliver a tray of comestibles and an assortment of beverages, and Alizeh, who’d gratefully drunk her fill of water, had been surprised to discover that here, too, the servants wore snodas—masks of tulle that wrapped around the eyes and nose, softly blurring the wearer’s features without impeding necessary vision. She’d been unable to look away from the young man who’d appeared, wraith-like, at the door; Alizeh had been too mesmerized by the reminder of who she herself used to be, by how much in her life had changed in so short a time. As a servant Alizeh had always been grateful for her snoda—for the anonymity it provided—but she’d never forget how cruelly her caste had been treated, nor the injustices they were forced to endure. Alizeh had whispered hello to the young snoda when he’d arrived, had offered him an encouraging smile; the boy had made a frightful sound in response, nearly dropping the tray as he hastened to set it down.
After that, Sarra had given Alizeh leave to rest.
The older woman had reasoned that if Alizeh stayed in her rooms, Cyrus would grow anxious to check on her, for he awaited her downstairs with great anticipation. Alizeh should wait for him to come to her, Sarra had said, whereupon she should take advantage of the private moment—away from the wide eyes and perked ears of watching servants—to tell Cyrus she’d had a change of heart and to accept his proposal.
Thinking it over now, Alizeh felt a bit sick.
It had been with a shocking reluctance that she’d agreed to Sarra’s morbid arrangement. Shocking, because, as Cyrus had so boldly accused Alizeh earlier, she’d indeed been threatening to murder him for hours. That Alizeh vacillated at all about killing him now was strange, for it should not have been so difficult a choice to make, certainly not under the current circumstances.
Still, had Alizeh decided to follow through with murdering the loathsome king under her own advisement, she’d never doubt the decision, for she trusted her judgment. But there was something about being asked to do it—something about being all but threatened to do it by decree of the young man’s mother—
It unnerved her.
Something about it didn’t sit right, and yet, by her own admission, Alizeh thought Cyrus a terrible, hateful king. His list of crimes was long and foul; she need not hesitate now, not because his mother had asked her rather aggressively to do what she’d already been planning to do anyway.
No, surely not.
If she killed Cyrus, she’d be free.
She might flee; Kamran might be safe; the world might be spared another needless, bloody war; and she might yet wriggle out of the devil’s grip. Sarra had not lied when she’d made the girl a series of promises— Alizeh had the nosta to prove that—so why had the entire business left her so uneasy?
Alizeh’s mind was muddled.
She needed to assemble herself—to prepare for a tactical maneuver that would make her deeply uncomfortable—for Sarra had assured her that the easiest path to a man’s murder was not forged with a weapon, but with unimpeachable kindness.
“Forgive me, darling, but you’ll never best him in battle,” she’d said sympathetically. “I shouldn’t try it, if I were you.”
Alizeh had protested at that, preparing to defend her many strengths, but Sarra only lifted a hand dismissively.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re quite capable. Noble, too. My son, on the other hand, will not fight fair. He’s been studying sorcery and divination since he was old enough to toddle. He’s exceedingly clever, rather deceptively strong, and lacks a basic standard of virtue. He’s also very, very angry, and suspicious to a fault. He trusts no one. He won’t take even a sip of water without having a servant taste it before him.” She’d looked Alizeh over. “Your unchecked anger makes you a clear threat, my dear, and for as long as you persist in this attitude, Cyrus will remain on guard.
“We must approach this from a position of strength,” Sarra had said firmly, “and I believe your greatest strength might be something unexpectedly quiet. Convince him you genuinely wish to marry him, and once he ceases to suspect you of standing against him, you might then poison him over breakfast.”
Alizeh had raised her eyebrows. She understood well the extenuating circumstances, but it was still hard to believe Sarra could discuss her son’s murder with such nonchalance.
“Or, you know, anything, really,” Sarra had gone on, misunderstanding the look on Alizeh’s face. “You don’t have to use poison. There are a number of ways to do it, all of which we can sort out after you’ve convinced him you mean no harm. This is the most important step, and we must get it right.”
Oh, it was too much.
Alizeh briefly closed her eyes now, rubbing at the tightness growing at the base of her neck. She sat down heavily at the table positioned just under the shade of a bower, her brows pulled together in frustration. Her head and heart felt heavy, her worries mounting.
She was trapped in a foreign land, charged with a strange task by a strange woman. It seemed all who met Alizeh possessed ulterior motives, whether to maim or manipulate or lie. Kamran, too, cherished as he was by her, had been dishonest from the start; and while of course she understood his reasons, it troubled her nonetheless that even the positive relationships in her life—Omid and Miss Huda and even Deen, the apothecarist, among them—had all been born in some manner of unkindness.
Alizeh was grateful for the good in her life, really she was, but sometimes she longed for a joy undiluted; she wanted to know what it was to smile unhampered by darkness, to laugh without knowing the drumbeat of pain, to see friends without the shadow of uncertainty.
What was uncomplicated happiness? She dearly wished to know.
In all the years since her parents had died, there had been only one soul who, from start to finish, had been truly in her corner.
Hazan.
From the moment they’d met, Hazan had been steadfast, and now he was dead.
The sudden heat in her eyes surprised her, even as the need to release this pain seemed somehow inevitable. She made a terrible sound, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob even as tears fell fast down her face. With shaking fingers she swiped at her cheeks, thinking of how Hazan had given up his life in the unmitigated pursuit of her protection, had taken chances for her without even knowing whether she was worthy. Even now she benefited from his generosity, the nosta having proven over and over to be the greatest gift she’d ever received, for without its guidance she’d have been well and truly lost.
She sniffed and sent up a whisper of gratitude, wishing, as she struggled to fight back another wave of tears, that she’d had the chance to thank him while he was still alive.
Hazan had believed in her.
He’d offered up a blind faith in all that she was meant to be, in the queen her blood had crowned her, in the salvation promised her people— and in all that she’d never achieved.
Were there others, Alizeh wondered, who lived with the hope that she might save them? And if so, did she not owe it to them to give up her life in the unmitigated pursuit of their protection?
How she wished her parents were still alive.
If only they were here to help her, to show her the way. More than anything, Alizeh found she wanted two things simultaneously: to go into a deep hibernation from which she might never emerge; and to rise up and become all that her people had ever hoped for. The problem with the latter option was both simple and tragic.
She didn’t know how.
It was a general ignorance of the path she was meant to follow that had forced her into hiding in the first place. Prior to her eighteenth birthday— the event having occurred only several months ago—the power she’d been promised wouldn’t have even opened to her, and now that she’d finally come of age, she couldn’t access that which was hers. Five souls had to be willing to die for her before the magic would even reveal itself, and prior to that she’d have to find the glorious substance, the location of which was a lost secret. All she knew was that the volatile minerals were buried deep in the Arya mountains of Ardunia—and the only object that might’ve helped her pinpoint the precise location was now gone.
When the fire had destroyed her family home and killed her mother, she’d managed to save her parent’s handkerchief, which she’d tucked into the protection of her fireproof fist. Nothing else appeared to have survived; metals and gold had been mutilated, all else had been reduced to ash. And yet, the morning after the horrific event, she’d seen a slim volume glinting in the rays of a rising sun, beckoning her close even as her heart shattered in her chest.
It was no book she’d ever seen before.
This one object had endured the blaze entirely on its own; and, much like Alizeh herself, the object in question had proven impervious to fire.
Alizeh had known, unequivocally, that the book was meant for her. It had seemed to beckon her.
She’d approached the gleaming hardback cautiously, understanding even then that her parents must’ve hidden it from her on purpose. Alizeh had been but thirteen when her world had gone up in flames, and though her mother and father had by then told her who she was meant to be—had prepared her in so many other ways for the role—they hadn’t wanted to burden her in childhood with the weight of every truth. They’d told her their intentions, that they meant to withhold certain information so that she might enjoy her youth awhile longer. They’d promised to tell her everything when she came of age, at eighteen.
They’d never had the chance.
In their absence all these years, that enigmatic book had been her only guide. It was a tattered, unspectacular object that didn’t draw attention to itself, but which was quietly magicked; it offered what appeared to be but the first clue in a cryptic puzzle, one Alizeh had long ago memorized, but as yet had been unable to decipher. Still, she’d clung to this small offering, protecting the enchanted volume as best as a destitute servant was able to protect their few possessions. Not until this moment had Alizeh allowed herself to think about the misplacement of her carpet bag, the important artifacts of her entire life lost, no doubt forever. That she’d lost her mother’s handkerchief was hard enough, but this . . .
It was yet another blow, another devastation.
Alizeh wiped again at her damp face, clutching the cup of tea like a lifeline. She’d left the drink untouched for so long it was likely cold now, but she didn’t mind. Flowering vines released a heavenly fragrance into the air around her and she did her utmost to focus on the delicious scent, closing her eyes as she steadied her breathing, taking a sip of the lukewarm tea and savoring it.
“You changed.”
Alizeh startled so badly she spilled the drink down the front of her clean white dress, gasping as the liquid soaked through the thin fabric, cold tea dripping steadily down her chest.
She shot to her feet in a fury.
Cyrus, on the other hand, was sitting calmly in the chair across from her, his iconic black hat nowhere in sight. His eyes shone a bright, mesmerizing blue against the golden warmth of his skin, the waves of his
coppery hair glinting in errant streaks of sun, the resultant sheen making the locks seem almost metallic. He was infuriatingly beautiful, and she nearly threw her teacup at him.
“You absolute heathen,” she cried. “Why did you not knock—”
“I did,” he said, and spoke his next words slowly, as if she were a child. “But you couldn’t have heard, because you were sitting all the way out here.”
Alizeh’s grip tightened around the empty glass in her hand. “And it didn’t occur to you that perhaps I wished to be alone?”
“No.” He tilted his head, a strange little smile touching his lips. “My mother told me you were waiting for me. She said you wished to speak with me on a matter of great importance.”
Alizeh had to close her eyes then, pressing her lips firmly shut lest she say something brutal about Cyrus’s family and ruin this new, kinder approach she was meant to take. Sarra was proving to be a real trial, and Alizeh thought she might hate them both.
“Forgive me,” said Cyrus quietly, “but do you intend to make it a habit of wearing transparent garments in my presence? Do tell me now, I beg you, so that I might blind myself in anticipation.”
Alizeh opened her eyes, a quiet rage building in her chest even as her battered dignity demanded she blush. “How dare you,” she whispered.
“It’s only that I can see straight through the front of your dress,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her body. “And I’m beginning to see that this is a pattern with you.”
It demanded everything of her self-control not to clobber him over the head with her teacup. Alizeh welcomed the feeling, stowing it away as ammunition for the unsavory task of murdering him at a more opportune time. She summoned all that Sarra had said to her, reminding herself that this madman had killed his own father, murdered a team of Diviners, slaughtered the king of Ardunia, and heavens knew what else; he’d likely committed any number of truly heinous acts.
Alizeh presented all this as evidence to her unshrinking mind, assuring herself quite firmly that she ought to be afraid of Cyrus. She ought to treat him with the utmost caution, not shout at him as if he were some mutton- headed boy, for he was in fact a powerful, forbidding king that might lop off her head with little inducement.
And yet.
Even as she scolded herself, she failed then to feel the terror the situation demanded.
The problem was, she did not feel unequal to him.
It was perhaps a dangerous conviction, but Alizeh felt quite certain she could manage him. Too, Cyrus did not strike her then as truly monstrous, which should’ve been alarming in and of itself, but it was hard to maintain such a position when she failed to feel fear in his presence. None of this made sense, of course—for when she listed his evils in her head, he cut a truly despicable character.
It was possible, she allowed, that the excruciating events of the last twenty-four hours had irreparably addled her mind.
In any case, her task was to kill Cyrus, quite literally, with kindness—a stratagem that, however distasteful, might save her and spare innocent lives by avoiding a bloody war. This tactic would not work if she allowed herself to be so easily riled by him; and if she did not cease these childish, angry reactions to every minor provocation, she would no doubt live to regret it.
So she smiled.
She sat back down in her wet dress, dropped an elbow onto the table, her cheek into her hand, and smiled. She put a great deal into the effort, too, recalling her happiest memories until the smile was no longer forced, but genuine.
“No,” she said politely, all trace of anger gone from her voice. “I do not intend to make it a habit. And I’m glad you’ve come. There’s a great deal we must discuss.”
Cyrus did not hide his surprise.
She thought he might look away from her unbridled smile; instead he studied her with visible fascination, turning fully in his seat to face her. He said nothing even as his eyes fairly glimmered with mirth, watching her for so long she nearly gave up the effort, all the while ignoring the way her heart reacted to the full force of his attentions. It was impossible to deny: there was something physically potent about Cyrus, a powerful presence he carried with him into every moment. He looked at her then with a focus so complete she felt she might buckle under its weight, and tried not to think about why her breaths seemed to come a bit faster, her heart pounding a bit harder when his lashes lowered, his gaze falling to her lips for a moment too long.
She felt trapped.
“Alizeh,” he said softly. “Have you been a wicked girl?”
Abruptly she drew away from the table and hugged herself, her wet gown chilling her anew in the breeze.
“No,” she said too quickly, realizing that, in fact, she might’ve underestimated the southern king.
Never averting his eyes, Cyrus mirrored her earlier movements. He dropped an elbow onto the table, his cheek into his hand, and blinded her with a smile so sincere it unsettled her, inciting an unexpected, detestable flutter of feeling in her chest.
“No?” he said, still smiling.
Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said, his smile vanishing. “Even when you lie to me.”
His admission awoke a flare of heat in her veins, a reaction she didn’t understand and was afraid to analyze. She knew not why he’d say such a thing to her, nor why his words had made any impact, and she didn’t want to think on it. She knew only that Cyrus’s eyes had darkened with an emotion she was afraid to name; and she had no idea what he was going to say next.
She was realizing she never did.
Cyrus stood up suddenly, stepped closer, towered over her. He all but blotted out the light with his height, casting her in shadow, causing her to shiver in the absence of the sun.
He touched her then, shocking her with a tenderness she wasn’t expecting, tracing the line of her jaw so lightly her lips parted on a sudden breath.
She couldn’t seem to move.
Her body had betrayed her. Her body had betrayed her, even as her mind screamed.
“Wicked girl,” he whispered. “You’ve been making deals with my mother.”
