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

by Tahereh Mafi

“Not everyone takes themselves as seriously as you do, sire. They have neither the energy nor the interest.” “Are you implying that I’m vain?” “I’m not implying it, Kamran. I’m delivering the statement to you directly.” “You’re an ass.” “It’s a mercy I don’t stare too long in the mirror, then, contemplating the contours of my face.” Reluctantly, Kamran cracked a smile.

Cyrus could think of nothing now but her small hand at his brow, the home of her arms as she’d held him, the delicious agony of her skin against his face. His throat worked at the remembered feel of her, how he’d touched her in his delirium, drawn the intoxicating scent of her into his head, where it would live, forever, with the whisper of her voice as she’d cried. Her tears had fallen down his cheeks as she’d repeated his name, over and over, begging him to wake. He clenched his fists.

Hazan narrowed his eyes. “If you’re in too dark a temper even to have a simple conversation, declare it now and spare me the desire to knock you off your mount so I might watch, at my leisure, as gravity does the noble work of snapping your neck.” For reasons inexplicable to him, these words cheered Kamran slightly. “Is my mood always so obvious to you?” “Your mood is obvious to a corpse.”

Fate, he thought bitterly, was only romantic when one was destined to be the hero.

“Oh.” A little line formed between her brows. “You have a dragon?” “I— Yes.” “Just like you did before.” She stifled a yawn, her eyes closing. “Do I get one, too?” Cyrus frowned. “Would that . . . please you?” “Yes, I think so.” “All right.” He blinked slowly. “You can have a dragon.” Kaveh’s head gave a sudden jerk, smoke curling from his nostrils. Are you quite out of your mind, sire? You will not give the girl a dragon. Cyrus bristled. You live under my protection, in service of the crown. I’ll give her a dragon if I like. Well it won’t be me.

“Why shouldn’t I kill him?” said the prince ominously. “The simple answer,” said Hazan, “is that Alizeh begged you not to.”

“Her wishes?” Kamran all but exploded. “And what of mine? What of my dead grandfather, my dead Diviners, my broken empire, my disfigured face—” “Oh, it’s really not that bad, sire,” Deen assured him. “Truly, I’ve seen quite a number of disfigurations, and yours—” “—doesn’t diminish your beauty at all,” finished Miss Huda, nodding eagerly. “In fact, I think it suits you nicely—” “Well I think he looks ugly,” Omid countered. “And I don’t think it’s good to lie to him—”

“Hurry! Hurry!” Kamran and the others hastened toward the scene, and the prince watched, transfixed, as Hazan was mobbed, many hands reaching up to relieve him of the king’s weight. They carefully transferred Cyrus’s body into their own arms before dashing off into the belly of the castle, a woman who was ostensibly the housekeeper trailing after them all, looking as if she might burst into tears. Kamran couldn’t help but compare this moment to one of his own: the night his grandfather had been murdered, when he’d been bested by Cyrus and left broken and dying. When his mother had finally freed him from the binds of magical paralysis, she’d disappeared—and he’d fallen to the floor. Not even a servant had been willing to step out of the shadows to come to his aid. In the end, only Omid had come to him; somehow, miraculously, despite receiving nothing but unkindness from the prince, the former street child had saved his life. It had been an enormous gift—one Kamran still struggled to appreciate—but it was nothing like the reception Cyrus received now. The hated king’s servants appeared to truly care for him, which was so foreign a concept to Kamran it was difficult to accept as fact. It was also entirely at odds with the reaction the young man had received from Sarra, his own mother.

That’s because Cyrus is better than you.

More extraordinary was that her beauty was but a vessel, physical majesty forged for a soul so tender it defied description.

“Yes.” Cyrus swallowed, hating the reminder that he’d been carried inside by one of these imbeciles. “I heard I owe you my gratitude.” Hazan stared at him. Cyrus stared back. The Jinn crossed his arms. “Are you not going to thank me, then?” “No.” Hazan did not laugh, though a shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

“An insightful question,” Cyrus mused. “I hadn’t realized you were capable of intelligent thought.”

“I’ve been waiting,” said Cyrus, “for this to be over.” A spark of approval animated Rostam’s eyes. “And where have you waited, little one?” Quietly, he said, “In the future.” “Three hours of your life, lost.” “Forgive me,” said the young prince, lowering his head. “I’ve been consumed by thoughts of my own desires and comforts, when I came here today to be present for others.”

“What are friends for, if not to kill your enemies?”

“No one thinks you’re fragile, miss,” said Omid, his voice grave. Heavens, she’d never seen him so serious. “Just because we want to protect you doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means you’re important—”

“Come with me,” she said softly, withdrawing only to take him by the hand. This small gesture frightened him, for it was unbanked in his memory. Never in his dreams had she done something so ordinary as hold his hand, and the press of her small, soft fingers was so gentle—so intimate—he was almost convinced she was truly here.

It occurred to him then, with a vague panic, that he’d follow her off a cliff if she were the one to lead him there.

These words detonated inside him, the resulting pang so severe he flinched. “What’s wrong?” she said, brightening with alarm. “Are you hurting again?” “No,” he said. “Yes. I don’t know.”

He wondered if she had any idea what he’d do for her, the worlds he’d destroy for her.

He was safe here. With her.

“Why are you afraid?” He shook his head, his eyes closing against his will. “Because,” he said, and sighed. “You’re never here when I wake up.”

He felt the whisper of her breath against his forehead, then the press of her lips, so gentle against his skin, and he felt certain now, unequivocally, that he was dreaming. “I’ll be here,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then, softer, her lips grazing the curve of his ear: “You can’t lie to me forever, Cyrus. I’m going to find out the truth about you, and when I do, I promise you this: I’ll ruin him. I’ll make the devil regret the day he was born.”