All This Twisted Glory (This Woven Kingdom, #3)

by Tahereh Mafi

“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?”

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 fro...

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.

“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.”

She couldn’t believe he was alive. Hazan, who was peerless in his loyalty to her, who’d gifted her the rare nosta that had saved her in a thousand ways from harm, who’d risked his life over and over for her safety. She thought he’d been killed. And now he was here? He’d come for her once again?

There was no one she felt safer with, and she’d done nothing to deserve his kindness. He’d simply put his faith in her.

“Hazan,” she said softly. “How are you here? I thought he’d killed you.” In response, Hazan only shook his head, his eyes flaring with panic. “Your Majesty,” he whispered. “You are gravely injured.”

Alizeh felt a quickening low in her stomach as she met his eyes, surprised to discover how much she’d forgotten about him in so short a time.

HAHAHA

He could have no business arriving, uninvited, at the Tulanian palace lest he was interested in one thing. Revenge.

No, her eyes had not deceived her: his face was altered.

“Forgive me, but I must ask you quickly: Have you consented to marry the king of Tulan?”

She bristled with uncertain energy; she didn’t know what to make of him, not now that she knew he harbored some wish to hurt her.

“What happened?” he demanded. “What has that bastard done to you?”

It is good of you to be concerned for our welfare, but you need not worry that we will prevail over such a brute.”

“It appears you’ve been physically harmed by the Tulanian king,” said Hazan, who struggled now to moderate his voice. “Is this true?” Alizeh winced. “Technically, yes.”

bruhhhh

“Yes, well, I did tell him, though, didn’t I?” Miss Huda crossed her arms. “I tried to tell you all—” “I believed you, miss,” said Omid urgently. “I never doubted.”

Knowing her own heart as she did, it seemed cruel to Alizeh that her good deeds had gone so quickly uncredited, that at the first chance to recast her in a poor light, Kamran had seized upon the opportunity. It made her realize how little she and Kamran knew each other—how tenuous was the bond between them. Only someone with a shallow understanding of her character could be so easily persuaded to malign her, and it was fortunate, then, that the guileless shock now printed upon her face was clear enough to all.

“Oh, Kamran,” she said. “How could you think that?” Then, more quietly: “How tortured you must’ve been to think that.”

Alizeh shook her head in a sharp motion. “No,” she said, stunned. “Kamran—you can’t kill him—”

She broke off with a gasp. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck had risen in awareness, her skin seeming to tighten over bone. She knew he’d arrived before she’d even laid eyes on him, and in the time it took her to turn her head in his direction, Kamran had already notched an arrow in his bow.

He struck her then as almost unreal; billows of morning fog had gathered around him, his coppery hair gleaming like a wicked halo in the gloom.

As he drew closer, it became obvious that he focused on Alizeh to the exclusion of all else, his body taut with restraint even as he moved resolutely toward her.

He tried to hide a flare of panic as he studied the unnatural curl of her limbs on the ground—but she knew the moment he discerned the bruise on her face, for his eyes widened with undisguised alarm and he all but ran to her, now bolting down the narrow path at a dangerous speed.

It was wrong, all wrong. Cyrus couldn’t die. Not now. Not yet. Heavens, she thought. Not ever.

No matter her many protests and prevarications, Alizeh had begun planning her life around the prospect of marrying the southern king—and of taking over Tulan.

She could acknowledge that her reasons for keeping Cyrus alive were entirely selfish. It made no difference. She didn’t want him to die.

After all these years—and all this recent mayhem—the pieces of her life had finally, painstakingly, begun to fall into place. Now everything felt impossible once again. She had to stop Kamran.

Her head shot up at the sound of Cyrus’s voice. He was still a dozen feet away, still following the path along the edge of the bluff, but he was close enough now that they could see each other properly. She met his wild eyes with panic of her own, absorbing his anguish just in time to witness the first arrow pierce clean through his leg. She screamed.

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

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.

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.

He and Hazan had arrived, naturally, for the simple pleasure of killing him. But Alizeh— Alizeh, he couldn’t understand. She was defending him.

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.

and she’d clasped a fist around the bow, gently turning the weapon downward.

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.

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.

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

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 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.

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—