ALIZEH WAS TRYING NOT TO breathe. She dared not make a sound. She didn’t even know where she was. In her panic she’d not merely yanked open the closest door, she’d inadvertently broken it, shattering the lock with unplanned, wretched preternatural strength. The hefty trio of engaged bolts had torn through the solid frame, and now the blasted door wouldn’t latch, her panic only escalated, and she feared that, when the real Cyrus awoke, he’d renege on his promises and actually kill her for this appalling invasion of his privacy.
She leaned heavily against the broken door, trying to catch her breath as she held the substantial panel closed. For the moment, at least, she was safe, for Alizeh suspected the maid would know better than to poke her head in a chamber that was usually locked. Still, her mind was racing; she’d hardly had time to register that Cyrus kept a bolted room in his own private quarters before she’d been blindsided by its cozy interior.
She realized only then, as she looked around, that she’d formed no expectations at all of Cyrus’s personal tastes. He never wore anything but black; she’d not assumed he had any interest in color or comfort, and was stunned to discover that he’d hidden away such a beautifully appointed space. She stood then in a well-worn sitting room anchored by a rug of astonishing detail, rendered in vivid shades of blue; the space itself was furnished with cozy, lived-in seating, floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with tattered books, and a titanic fireplace before which stood a colossal, weathered desk stacked with papers, pots of ink, and various bell jars through which gleamed specimens of crystallized rock, each neatly labeled.
There was so much to look at she hardly knew where to rest her eyes. Her nerves calmed incrementally as she looked around, praying all the while that the room might present her with a secret exit, or a closet, or even an accessible window.
Instead, she saw evidence of Cyrus everywhere.
An empty cup of tea, a half-eaten apricot, and a slim leather volume with a visible bookmark sat together on a dusty end table; dozens and dozens of loose pages crammed with lines of steady, even script had been bound in twine and left stacked on one of the faded velvet couches; aged, yellow maps of terrains she didn’t recognize had been annotated and pinned to the wall; a half-toppled tower of patterned rug pillows trembled beside a stack of unopened crates; a gleaming ox-headed mace rested against the slightly singed arm of a reading chair; a dark coat and a top hat hung from
hooks adjacent to the fireplace; a bottle-green, thick-bristled hairbrush sat upon a low table beside a sleeve of long-stemmed matches and a solid bar of perfume; and there was a single, brilliant sword, the gleaming copper blade of which had been planted into the wood floor beside the desk chair.
Alizeh wanted then, possibly more than she’d desired anything material in a long time, to open drawers, lift cushions, leaf through pages, and look around—even as she knew it would be treacherous to snoop. Nevertheless, she managed to restrain herself not because she was virtuous, but because if she stepped away from this door, it would yawn open, and she couldn’t risk
—
She heard a startled scream.
Ah, the poor servant had discovered Cyrus, then. Alizeh heard the pounding of the snoda’s panicked footfalls as the girl bolted from the room with a terrified cry, and then, as the front door eased shut with an audible snick, her own petrified heart began pounding anew.
It really hit her then.
She had broken his door.
She clapped a hand over her mouth, not knowing how she’d explain this. She couldn’t hide the evidence of what she’d done, and she didn’t know whether he’d believe the truth.
From afar, she looked unambiguously guilty.
Even she could see how it looked: any who doubted her would assume she’d taken advantage of Cyrus’s torture—and subsequent torpor—to trick the king into bringing her into his private rooms, whereupon she’d forced him into bed only to then break down a locked door and rifle through his personal belongings.
It made her seem fairly diabolical.
She bit her lip. Such a story was false, of course, but she could not deny an urge to be just a little diabolical, for the desire to rummage through his things was agonizing. This room was a veritable museum of wonders, dotted not merely with fascinating artifacts of Cyrus’s life, but with evidence of his state of mind, his current pursuits and interests. She felt certain there were answers here—clues to a series of mysteries she might otherwise never be able to solve—
And then, with a start, she saw the cabinet.
How she’d overlooked it initially, she did not know, though perhaps because it was fairly unattractive: large, dark, weathered, and looming from
its position against the wall, adjacent to the fireplace. It was a sort of cabinet of curiosities, something more likely to be found in an apothecary than a sitting room, with many little doors and drawers, each with an individual keyhole.
Temptation sunk its teeth in her.
She drew inches deeper into the room, feet moving toward the chest almost without her permission. The broken door groaned quietly open behind her, but she paid it no mind, for the maid was gone, the wing was quiet, and she felt quite certain Cyrus was asleep. She clasped her hands to keep from touching anything, but as she approached the cabinet, she felt her fingers flare with heat, proving a deliciously strange sensation for a girl with ice in her blood. The closer she drew, the more Alizeh felt almost tethered to this odd piece of furniture, as if she were compelled to approach it, as if it contained something that belonged to her—
Slowly, the cabinet began to tremble.
Alizeh felt her pulse pick up and advanced toward the unit now with haste, the old wood rattling with increasing fervor. It was making a terrifying racket, the tremors so intense they disturbed the walls and floors of the entire room. She understood, dimly, that she would pay for causing such a clamor, that the din might wake Cyrus, that this could land her in a catastrophic amount of trouble, but at the moment, it seemed worth the risk.
Alizeh was transfixed.
She drew a fortifying breath as she pressed her heated hands against the old, shuddering exterior of the cabinet, the reverberations beginning to crescendo. She was waiting for something, even as she knew not what, and only when the vibrations had built up to the strength of a small earthquake did one of the small doors finally snap and swing open.
Alizeh hardly dared to breathe as she peeked into the deep, gleaming compartment—and in an instant, her mind came unraveled. The heavy furniture had not ceased its shaking, the tumult growing only more frenzied, but Alizeh found she no longer cared to be quiet.
She wanted to scream.
She felt betrayed and confused, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Carefully she reached inside, her hand glowing so hot it hurt, and attempted to retrieve what was hers, what she’d worried she’d lost—and the door snapped shut so quickly it nearly took off her fingers. The cabinet went eerily still.
And Cyrus, damn him, was fast.
To be fair, Alizeh had been preoccupied and the room had been rattling, but that he’d approached her with this degree of stealth—such that she’d not even sensed his presence—was truly impressive. She could not know how he’d done it; she had no idea what he’d seen or how, exactly, he’d spun her around and cornered her. She knew only that Cyrus was about to show her exactly why so much of the world feared him, for she was pinned against the wall, and there was a sword pointed at her throat.
“What,” he whispered, his eyes glittering with barely restrained fury, “are you doing in here?”
Even then, even when she’d begun to hate him again; when, his promises aside, she truly believed he’d not hesitate to kill her— Even then, she was relieved he’d managed to put on a pair of pants. He was not, however, wearing a shirt.
Alizeh dropped her gaze, stared at the blade. She was so much shorter than him that she could see her reflection in its shine.
“Why,” she said, lifting her eyes to his, “do you have my book?”
He faltered at the murderous look on her face, his anger fracturing as warring instincts inside him fought for dominance. She could see his inner conflict—could see his twinge of remorse even as his resentment percolated. Alizeh was not without an imagination: she saw why he might think she’d betrayed him when faced by ample evidence that she’d broken into his locked room—and she did not blame him for doubting her. How could she, when she understood how he felt? Of course he didn’t know whether he could trust her.
But neither did she know whether she could trust him.
His blade was beginning to dig into her throat, and she worried, for a moment, that he might actually hurt her.
“Cyrus,” she said. “I asked you a question.” “I stole it,” he said quietly.
The nosta warmed against her chest.
“When?” she said, her heart failing. “Why—?”
“Days ago,” he said, his halting whisper betraying his guilt. Still, he did not lower his weapon. “I replaced it with a decoy enchanted to look identical.”
“You went through my room at Baz House,” she said, astonished. “You searched my things—”
“Yes.”
“You lied to me.”
“Technically,” he said, “I did not.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like you’re an idiot,” she said angrily, the blade cutting her just a little as she spoke. “You understand very well what I mean.”
“Stop moving,” he said, furious. “This sword is devastatingly sharp—” “Then lower your weapon, you scoundrel!”
He did, but only enough so it was no longer touching her. “Are we back to this, then?” He swallowed, staring at the cut at her neck. “Insulting each other?”
“You dare mourn the loss of my goodwill,” she whispered, “even as you hold a blade to my throat.”
“And you,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave. “You have the audacity to rebuke me, when I’ve discovered you doing the same detestable deed, breaking into my rooms to search my private belongings—”
“I didn’t mean to break the door!”
“You chose to ransack my things,” he cried. “Meanwhile I was forced to rummage through yours!”
Slowly, as if heavy cataracts were clearing her eyes, Alizeh began to see what Sarra saw.
It’s not that I do not care, the woman had said. It’s that I no longer believe him. For the last several months, my son has blamed all his bad decisions on the devil. Never does he take accountability for his actions. He’s always begging me to understand that he has no choice—
Alizeh felt suddenly, dangerously ill.
She did not ask Cyrus how he’d done the hateful deed, for he’d accomplished things far more complicated than breaking into her unlocked, humble closet of a bedroom; it had likely taken him minutes to accomplish this trifling chore.
She only stared at him then, her heart slowly atrophying in her chest. She ached at the betrayal, at her own stupidity, at her idiotic weaknesses that had led her to be kind to him. She hated herself for ever admiring him, for crying for him as he’d screamed, for mopping up his blood and all but tucking him into bed. He’d bought her a piece of bread and her charity had been so easily purchased, her porous heart so easily moved. She’d really thought perhaps they could be something like reluctant friends.
Oh, she was a fool of astronomical proportions.
He would never be on her side, she was realizing. No matter his occasional moments of humanity, Cyrus was in bed with the devil.
Still, even as her heart hardened against him, she could not condemn him as Sarra did. She’d seen what Iblees had done to him tonight, and she could not deny that Cyrus suffered greatly at the hands of his merciless master. But she reminded herself once more that Cyrus had summoned Iblees into his life; this copper-headed king had been offered something in exchange for his torment, and while she didn’t know what he’d received, or why he’d done it, she could not, by definition, call him a victim.
Steadily, she met his eyes.
She saw an intensity in his stunning irises, something desperate straining against his control, and she swore in that moment she could almost feel his soul pressing against hers.
Even then, he was breathtaking.
Some quiet, foolish part of her wanted to rest her bones against his powerful body, feel the weight of his arms around her. She wanted to stroke his cheek one last time.
“Cyrus,” she said softly. “Give me back my book, and I give you my word I won’t hurt you.”
It seemed like an eternity before he said, thickly, “I can’t.” The nosta flashed hot against her skin.
“Very well.” She lowered her eyes. “I just want you to know, in advance, how sorry I am. You’ve already been through so much tonight. I really don’t want to do this.”
“Alizeh—”
She moved in a flash, striking his sword arm before throwing a kick to his side in a rapid combination that briefly unbalanced him, even as his blade nicked her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. This she paid no mind, for she’d forced him to drop his arms a nanosecond, which was all she needed to knock the sword from his hand, after which she landed a hard kick to his chest, sending him stumbling across the room just long enough for her to lunge for the copper blade she’d earlier seen planted in the floor. She lifted this sword as she spun around and found Cyrus standing there, his own recovered weapon clenched in his right fist. With his free hand he rubbed absently at the angry red mark she’d left on his heaving chest, looking at her with a fiery expression she couldn’t decipher.
“You kicked me,” he said angrily. “You cut me,” she countered.
Something awoke in his eyes at that, a moment of misery there and gone, before he carefully lifted his blade, meeting her challenge. Quietly, he said, “Do you intend to fight me?”
“Are you going to prevent me from retrieving what is rightfully mine?” she asked, lifting her chin. “If so, yes.”
“How did you even know it was here?” he asked, advancing slowly. “How did you know to come searching for it?”
“I had no idea it was here,” she said indignantly. “I already told you, I broke down your door by accident—”
He laughed, darkly. “And you snapped open the lock on my cabinet by accident, too?”
“I didn’t even touch it. It opened on its own.”
“What?” He stopped moving. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe you should first explain to me why you even have a locked cabinet inside of a locked chamber,” she said angrily, “in your own locked wing of the castle!”
“You ask this even after you’ve destroyed my door?” he said, losing control of his temper. “It’s obvious to me now that I should invest in even greater levels of protection, for there are demented Jinn running around breaking into my quarters and rifling through my things!”
She gasped. “I am not a demented Jinn, how dare you—”
“I am going to ask you one more time,” he said, marshaling his patience, “to tell me how you knew it was here, Alizeh—”
“Or what?” she said. “Or you’re going to kill me? I thought you weren’t allowed to kill me.”
For some reason he flinched at that, awareness awakening in his eyes. His looked away and Alizeh wondered whether he was thinking of the devil, perhaps remembering his earlier encounter—except that his reaction was incongruent to the experience. Cyrus seemed weighed down, suddenly, subdued by what looked suspiciously like grief.
“What did you mean,” he said, still staring at the floor, “that the cabinet door opened on its own?”
“I meant exactly what I said.”
“But that’s not possible.” He shook his head at the ground. “The cabinet is heavily enchanted—you would’ve had to break the many tiers of security
—”
“That book,” she said, incensed, “is mine. Mine by birth, by order of the
earth. It knows me. I felt its presence when I approached the cabinet, and it unlocked itself to reach me—I did nothing but—”
“Unlocked itself?” He looked up sharply. “You mean it displayed some kind of power on its own?”
Alizeh laughed then, finally understanding. “Poor, tormented Cyrus,” she said, her voice softening. “All this time, you’ve been trying to make it animate, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You will fail.”
“Why?” he said urgently. “Why can’t I open it?”
“Aren’t you meant to wield great power?” she parroted back at him. “How is it you’re so unschooled in the workings of magic?”
“Alizeh—
“More important, why would you think I’d ever tell you?”
Cyrus was breathing hard now, staring at her with something like desperation. He dropped his sword to the floor with a sudden, terrifying clatter. “Please. Tell me.”
“I will not,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Unlike you, I’m not bound to share my secrets with Iblees. Now give me back my book, or pick up your weapon.”
“I won’t fight you.” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I never should’ve lifted my sword against you.”
“Why not?” She bristled. “You don’t think me a worthy opponent?”
“You,” he said ardently, “have always been too worthy. I will not hurt you.”
The nosta burned against her skin.
Alizeh fought back a shock of feelings then, her heart convoluted, impossible to parse. Struggling to clear her head, she said, “You don’t need to worry about hurting me. I’m quite capable of defending myself.”
“Alizeh,” he whispered. “I would destroy you.”
This made her mad.
She lunged at him with an angry cry, slicing her sword through the air with brute strength and speed and still he dodged this and dove for his mace, which had been resting against a nearby couch, and spun around in an instant to meet her next blow, her sword crashing against his staff with
astonishing violence. Again she advanced, swinging her blade in a diagonal arc, and again their weapons collided, the sound of metal clanging in her ears. Over and over she attacked; he retreated. She lunged; he evaded.
Alizeh had the advantage of fleet-footedness and strength and still Cyrus parried her every move. True, she hadn’t used a sword in several years, and as a result her skills were rusty, if not a bit outdated, but her preternatural gifts should’ve given her an edge; instead, they only seemed to balance the scales. She didn’t understand how Cyrus was so capable or swift, or how he seemed to anticipate her actions. Worse, he did not seem to tire, and he never lifted his weapon except in defense.
It was infuriating.
Finally, angrily, she held her ground and glared at him. She’d funneled so much effort into the exchange that she was now exhausted, her arms shaking a little, and had to resist the urge to stomp her foot like a child.
“Give me back my book,” she cried. “It belongs to me!”
Cyrus shook his head slowly, staring at her in wonder. His chest was heaving slightly, his voice only a little breathless from his recent efforts. “Marry me,” he said.
Alizeh tightened her grip on her weapon, her eyes widening in outrage. “You think this is funny?”
“I’m not joking.”
“Give me my book right now, or I swear I’ll tear this room apart.”
“Alizeh,” he said, shaking his head. There was a warning in his voice. “Please don’t test me.”
“Why not?” She was sincerely asking the question. The longer she stared at his heated eyes, the more she lost confidence in herself. “What are you— What are you going to do?”
“Touch my things,” he said softly, “and I will physically remove you from this room.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, but weakly, for she didn’t know whether he would. “Would you?”
When he only offered her a grim smile in response, Alizeh felt a bolt of fear, which she forced aside with great effort.
Calmly she walked over to his desk, and for a moment she studied the many bell jars he’d neatly organized, tiny labels reading things like Cryptocrystalline silica and Hexagonal scalenohedral mineral. Then she
placed her hand on one of the glass domes. Very politely, she said, “Please give me back my book.”
He made a sound, something like a growl. “I can’t,” he said, frustrated. “You know I can’t.”
Alizeh held his eyes as she knocked the specimen to the floor, where it landed with a crash, glass shattering everywhere. She reached out to knock over another when he said, in a low, lethal voice—
“Stop.”
She knocked over the second one. “Alizeh.”
He said her name like an epithet, the sound lancing through her like a blade. She looked up in time to see that he was advancing toward her now with a fiendish gleam in his eyes, like he was going to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder and—and do something, she didn’t know what, and she quickly spun around, swinging her sword toward him, pointing it in his direction to keep him where he was.
“Don’t take another step,” she said, panicking just a little.
There was something terrifying, yes, but also glorious about Cyrus as he stood there, shirtless and unrepentant, without a weapon, entirely unafraid. She was actually trembling a little.
He did not strike her as the kind of person who bluffed.
“You forgot,” he said softly, touching his hand to the blade she pointed at him, and making it disappear. “That I don’t fight fair.”
Alizeh stumbled back and stared, in astonishment, at her empty hands, and then up at him. Cyrus wasted no time closing the distance between them, moving now with unrelenting determination. She hurried backward desperately.
“Don’t you dare pick me up,” she cried, her heart racing in her chest. “I just want what’s mine! It’s not polite to pick people up against their will!”
Inches away, Cyrus came to a halt.
“It’s not polite?” he said, stunned. “Alizeh, it’s not polite to break into people’s private rooms. It’s not polite to tear down people’s doors and destroy their things—”
“For the hundredth time,” she said, exasperated, “I broke your door by accident! I was only trying to find a place to hide before the maid walked in!”
This gave him pause.
“The maid?” He frowned. “You mean the snoda who entered my room,” he said, pointing in the direction of his room, “and screamed so loudly in my face she woke me up?”
Alizeh nodded. “When she knocked, I didn’t know what to do. I knew I couldn’t be found in your bedroom or it would cause a huge scandal, so I yanked open the first door I found—”
“Yanked it open?” he cried. “You practically tore the door off its hinges!”
“I know that, and I’m sorry! Sometimes—not often—but sometimes, when I’m in a panic, I forget how strong I am, and I break things, and I’m very sorry.” She was wringing her hands now. “I swear, I’d fix it if I could, but I’ve never been any good with carpentry; though I did once, in one of my other positions, have to mend the legs of a chair I’d accidentally snapped off, and which I managed to repair, luckily, with a rather powerful adhesive before the housekeeper found out—”
At that, the fight seemed to leave his body.
“Alizeh,” he said, turning away with a sigh. “You don’t have to fix my blasted door.”
“Nevertheless,” she said, swallowing. “While it should be noted that I’m still furious with you for stealing what’s mine, I swear I didn’t enter this room with malicious intent.”
He looked up at her then, a slight line forming between his brows. “You really mean that.”
“Of course I do.”
“So you didn’t”—his frown deepened—“you didn’t come here tonight with the express purpose of retrieving your book? Or rummaging through my things?”
“No.”
“You have no intention of triple-crossing me?” “What?” She almost laughed. “No.”
He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Then what on earth are you doing here?”
“I already told you, I was running from the maid—”
“Here, Alizeh,” he said patiently. “Not this room. What are you doing here, in my wing of the castle? All this time I’ve been operating under the assumption that you snuck in when the maid opened the door, but now I’m just . . . confused.”
At that, Alizeh went still.
She was quiet for a long, tense moment before she said, finally, “You don’t remember any of it?”
