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

by Tahereh Mafi

Cyrus of Nara could feel his heart clamoring in his chest, panic breeding panic as he fought the impulse to run. He felt much like rain in search of a river, trying in vain to orient home. Occasionally he stiffened—head turning in sharp, birdlike movements, breath catching as if he’d been startled by a ghost. No. Not a ghost. Far worse.

It was unproductive to panic, he reminded himself. There was no benefit to losing one’s mind. If there were, Cyrus would’ve happily mislaid his mind at the palace, where it might’ve lived forever with his father, the king, and the surfeit of oppressions the older man had earlier laid at his feet. Instead, the young prince had done the more reasonable thing in a crisis and promptly retched into a nearby planter.

Cyrus pulled his cape more tightly about his body as he moved, something akin to grief webbing between his ribs.

“Are you implying that I’m vain?” “I’m not implying it, Kamran. I’m delivering the statement to you directly.”

Omid and Miss Huda promptly dissolved into gales of laughter, delighted to have nearly killed themselves with stupidity. Even Deen, the grouchiest of the four companions, had managed a smile. It made Kamran irrationally furious.

No longer shirtless, the king of Tulan wore a plain sweater and overcoat, his only indulgence a thick fur cap pulled low over his brow, the article all but hiding his copper hair. Everything, everything, black.

found herself alone in the hall, quickly donned invisibility and trailed Cyrus at superhuman speed, taking care to evade all eyes, for fear of being spotted by Jinn servants. It wasn’t long before she’d followed him off the palace grounds, foreign scenes melting into blackness as they traversed the chilling night.

It was perhaps the hours she’d spent holding Cyrus’s body, breathing him in even as she cried. She could still feel the silk of his hair sliding between her fingers, the down of his cheek under her hand. For her efforts she’d been rewarded this unrelenting burn beneath her breastbone, a ripple of feeling so powerful it spasmed without reprieve, refusing to settle even when her thoughts turned to anything and anyone else. Her body had never felt so alive, so electrified. When had she allowed Cyrus to take up so many rooms inside her? Nothing had even happened between them.

OF COURSE CYRUS KNEW HE was being followed. She possessed all the subtlety of a dragon in slumber. As if she could draw near him without his knowledge—as if he couldn’t hear the dragging hem of his borrowed cloak on her body. It was torture enough to imagine her wearing his clothes, but it was an altogether different torment to envision her determined stride, her furrowed brow, the slight pout to her lips that appeared only when she was thinking too much. The resolve with which she pursued him now—as if she had any idea what she was doing—was so endearing it angered him. For as long as he lived he feared he’d know the scent of her, the sound of her walking toward him. She was a fool to think otherwise. He was a fool to think of her at all.

Several times already he’d heard her soft oof as she tripped over the hem of her cloak, and he’d gritted his teeth to keep from turning to help.

She could not know his dilemma: that her inexpert shadow infuriated him even as it soothed him, that he wanted to vanish even as he couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning her here, in the frigid dark. He wanted her closer than he could express in words, wanted her bare and trembling in his arms, wanted to excoriate these sensations from his skin. He wanted to lop off his own head and hurl it into the river. He wanted to shout at her.

She’d more likely call him a scoundrel, a charlatan, a common miscreant. The thought almost made him smile before it broke him. The dam shattered. Pain came for him in a brutal siege, radiating from his core until his mind was forced to submit to an invasion of memory. He was bombarded by scenes of the last few hours, scenes he wished he might banish forever from his history, to no avail: 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. He couldn’t believe he’d told her the truth.

This was still inconceivable to him, that he’d confessed to dreaming of her night after night; that for eight agonizing months he’d known the taste, the heat, the silk of her in his sleep. Nothing more than an attack of madness could’ve driven him to such a state. He’d been painfully fatigued, still under the fading influence of dark magic, his mind and body not fully recovered from the devil’s most recent assaults. It was the only excuse he had, that he’d been broken—his locks unbolted by shock, his weak body pushed over the edge by her tenderness. At any other hour in his life he’d have been stronger. He’d have walked away, sealed his mouth—he’d have died before disgracing himself with a pitiful exhibition of his own desire. Hells, he’d known better.

All this time he’d been able to endure the agony of her presence only because he’d braced himself with hatred; knowing now the depth of his error, how could he bear to be close to her again? How would he even bear to look upon her face when he no longer possessed the defenses necessary to shield his pathetic heart? He dragged frozen hands down his face, reminding himself to remain composed—that she could still see him. He felt he might combust if he did not decompress, and yet: How was he meant to deal with his roiling mind while she watched him?

God, he’d wanted her. He’d wanted her with an all-consuming thirst, with the desperation of a man waiting to die.

MELT THE ICE IN SALT BRAID THE THRONES AT SEA IN THIS WOVEN KINGDOM CLAY AND FIRE SHALL BE

And yet—his memories of her remained so ardent he struggled to think rationally where she was concerned. In defiance of his doubts, the thought of having her as his queen was so tempting he couldn’t help but indulge the fantasy. He’d never met another young woman to equal her, not in beauty or composure, in elegance or intelligence.

It was impossible then not to compare the two women in his mind. Miss Huda was the antithesis of Alizeh, unpolished and unrestrained. One had been brought up to be queen, the other to be tolerated; and yet Alizeh had been raised in relative poverty, Miss Huda in an aristocratic home. The differences between them were vast, and though both young women had suffered negligence, only one had emerged with self-possession and grace. Kamran flinched as the sound of another snort pierced the quiet, his expression growing only more dour.

In all the disorder of his mind, one thing was absolutely clear: He would kill Cyrus.

The prince shook his head. He’d always had the good sense to be repulsed by the devil, but after witnessing the fallout of his grandfather’s terrible bargain with Iblees, the very idea of meeting with such a creature revolted him to his core.

The young king shook off a lingering unease as he waited for the path before him to clear of arachnids. It was always an unsettling business, being psychoanalyzed by spiders. He did not want to ponder that the creature was able to dismiss him with three words of shrewd observation; neither did he did want to wonder how else he might’ve survived these trials had he not trained for so many years as a Diviner. If he’d been unable to communicate with living creatures, if he’d been unable to wield magic to fight for his life. It bothered him to think of it as anything but coincidence; he didn’t like to imagine he’d been born for this role, brought into the world only to endure this misery.

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

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

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

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.

“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.

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.

“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.”

“Hazan?” A beat. Then, softly, “Yes, Your Majesty.” Alizeh thought she felt her heart stop. “Is it possible?” she breathed. “Are you really here?” She did not imagine the tenderness, the faint surprise in his voice when he said, “I am really here.” The nosta flared to life against her sternum.

All this time, her fear and guilt over Hazan’s fate had been trapped in a bauble of sentiment inside her, and the sudden compression of her chest shattered the delicately held emotion, wresting a terrible sob from her throat. She forced herself to turn over, lying flat on her back as she clapped a shaking hand over her mouth, hot tears curving toward her temples. Desperate for visual proof, she forced her eyes open again, her hands fumbling against the ground. When she turned an inch and saw him kneeling in the grass beside her, she was overcome. She fell back against the earth and shook her head, over and over. 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?

In all these years since her parents’ death—years of screaming loneliness—she’d lost hope of ever finding another trustworthy soul. Yet Hazan had come to her without demands or expectations, parting veils of night to fall on one knee before her, setting into motion what might’ve been the great escape of her life. There was no one she felt saf...

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. He looked regal in the glow of a newborn sun, his expression inscrutable as he studied her, his mouth set in a grim line. She couldn’t be sure whether it was the fatigue of her mind, but Kamran’s face appeared different, one of his eyes glinting gold in the burgeoning light, the other as dark as it ever was. Heavens, but he was devastatingly handsome.

Her mind spinning once more, she returned her eyes to Hazan, who was looking at her with something like compassion. “Fear not, Your Highness. I’ll not allow you to come to harm.” Alizeh drew back. “Come to harm? You mean the prince has come to harm me?” “In truth,” Hazan said after a moment, “I don’t believe him capable.” This was not reassurance.

“Your Majesty,” came Hazan’s low, urgent voice. Alizeh turned back to him, her pulse refusing to calm. “Forgive me, but I must ask you quickly: Have you consented to marry the king of Tulan?”

ALIZEH NEARLY ROCKED BACKWARD IN astonishment. She couldn’t fathom how news of Cyrus’s proposal had traveled so quickly to Ardunia, though she could imagine no other reason Hazan might’ve encountered such gossip. “No,” she said softly, eyes still round with wonder. “I’ve not consented to marry him.” “Hells,” Hazan said on an exhale, the harsh word a contrast to his obvious relief. “I can’t tell you how gratified I am to hear it.” “But—Hazan, I must tell you”—she placed a hand on his arm and he stiffened—“I’ve been giving his proposal serious consideration . . . . Cyrus has offered me his kingdom in exchange—” “No,” he said, brightening with alarm. He tossed a furtive glance at Kamran’s approaching figure. “I beg you, do not consider it— It would be a mistake, Your Majesty—”

“Your throat,” he said. “Your cheek— You are injured—” “I’m quite well,” she countered, not understanding her own impulse to lie. It was just that her head was so muddled and his mood so changeable that she felt at a great disadvantage. Alizeh disliked the way he towered over her, and she wanted space from his heated eyes, wanted a moment alone with her thoughts in the wake of these upsetting revelations. She attempted to lever herself into a standing position but lost steam in the effort, the unfinished action causing the unfastened flaps of her cloak to gape open. Hazan swore loudly at the reveal of her bloodied dress, the epithet so off-color it shocked her—but it was Kamran who spoke, whose voice shook her with its fury. “What happened?” he demanded. “What has that bastard done to you?” Hazan, unfortunately, was no calmer. “Is this why you were on the ground? Were you in fact unconscious?” “I don’t—” she tried to say. “Why is it you bear every indication of abuse?” Alizeh shook her head, and a sharp pain pierced the back of her skull. She was dizzy and dehydrated, and her limbs were trembling, she realized, with much more than unease. “Pray do not upset yourselves,” she said breathlessly. She looked around, assessing the situation through new eyes. “Heavens, I wonder why we haven’t yet been swarmed by palace staff. Or intercepted by the Queen Mother herself.”

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.

She finally caught sight of Cyrus in the distance, the lithe lines of him appearing like an apparition through a veil of mist. 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. He was following a narrow flagstone path along the edge of the cliff, having abandoned in his wake an unopened steel chest—one that recalled another from her arrival in Tulan, when Cyrus had taken time to feed and water his dragon. Now, she wondered what he’d been doing, where he’d been all night, whether he’d slept at all—but her questions were silenced when their gazes locked in place. He was too far to perceive clearly; she could not have seen the hell and turmoil trapped in his eyes, his features strained with exhaustion; but she saw the change in his body as he registered, in real time, that something was wrong. He fairly electrified. Cyrus moved quickly, appearing altogether indifferent to the presence of his uninvited aggressors, and if he had an opinion on the matter of the arrow aimed in his direction, he gave no indication. 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 ...

It was wrong, all wrong. Cyrus couldn’t die. Not now. Not yet. Heavens, she thought. Not ever. She felt suddenly like she might scream at the prospect, her feelings on the matter so tangled they’d built a nest in her chest. Her own emotional chaos notwithstanding, Alizeh had every practical reason to keep Cyrus alive, too. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d come to rely on him until just that moment.

She had to stop Kamran. Much as she understood his pain, she couldn’t stand aside and let him kill Cyrus and implicate the others in his murder. But something was the matter with her—with her head, her lungs, her bones. She couldn’t understand why she was so tired or clumsy, and when she tried to move too fast, she swayed, as if the ground had surged beneath her. She felt the brace of Hazan’s arms come around her even as she wheeled away blindly. She had no plan; she only knew she had to go to him, get between them somehow— “Alizeh!” 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.

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 something brutal, like smile at him.

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.

Even so, the torment was acute enough to render him unconscious; he felt a wave of nausea rise up inside him, and he forced it down just as he heard the distant, insistent shouts of a familiar voice. 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.

Alizeh, he couldn’t understand. She was defending him. Even then, trembling where she stood, speaking urgently with the prince, she fairly glimmered in the diffuse light of morning. 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.

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 This great oaf was meant to be the clod, then? Excellent. And Cyrus had clearly infuriated him by refusing to fall.

Cyrus bit through a fresh wave of torment, lifting his good arm to divert a bit of magic in his own defense, dissolving the incoming arrows while still healing his wounds. He was preoccupied with this—this and the effort to keep steady in the face of the many small deaths aimed in his direction—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 watched the whirl of her draw closer and went light-headed with rage; he could hardly breathe around the feeling, so extraordinary was his anger. Alizeh had clearly spent the last of her strength, using what little energy she had left to rush at him with great speed—but whatever she’d thought she might achieve, she’d miscalculated, for she was not fully in control of her movements. He wanted nothing more than to shout at her for doing something so foolish. 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. Indeed this anger might’ve been the only thing he and the stupid prince agreed upon, for Kamran’s earsplitting cry of terror came just as Hazan and the others erupted in frenzied sound. 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— With a sharp thwack the last arrow found ...

CYRUS ALLOWED HIMSELF ONLY A second to touch grief before his spine straightened as if wrenched taut, like the laces of a drawstring. The wind formed almost a cocoon around them, thick as it lashed their bodies, the calls of morning birds clashing with the thunderous crash of the falls. A heavy mist ensnared them as they plummeted, and though Alizeh shivered, Cyrus couldn’t feel the chill; fear and fury seemed to be burning him alive. He’d just made a decision, and now he would see it through. Alizeh would not die.

“Look at me,” he said wretchedly, pulling her close even as his torn hand shook in agony. It seemed some strange twist of fate that he should continue to bleed all over her, and if he’d more time to reflect on this fact he might’ve screamed for how much he hated it. “Alizeh. Please. Lift your head. Look at me.” With great effort, she did. Her eyes were glazed, flickering silver and brown in the rising light. She studied him like he might’ve been a dream. “Why? Because you’re terribly handsome?” “Don’t be funny,” he said, breathing hard. “This isn’t funny.”

His heart heaved in his chest. That she’d lost sensation in her lower body meant the arrowhead had impaled her spine. Briefly, the southern king turned his gaze to the churning sea. They were falling at a dizzying clip, but the drop was so steep it was almost a mercy: they’d have nearly a minute before hitting water. If Cyrus had any hope of saving her he’d have to perform complicated magic before they made impact—but he was going slightly blind, his vision occasionally flaring with light. Worse, he was losing sensation in his left hand.

“Cyrus,” said Alizeh suddenly, half gasping the word. “Where are you?” His body was shaking as he held her, and he found he was grateful she’d turned away again, that she couldn’t see his face. “I’m here,” he said roughly. “I’m right here.” “I just—I just remembered,” she said. “I can’t swim.”