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

by Tahereh Mafi

“You love her, don’t you?” Cyrus was not quick enough to parry this and too stunned to sneer at the insinuation. Worse: he knew not how he appeared then, as if he’d been run through with a scimitar. Hazan, to his credit, was dumbfounded. “It’s true, then?” he breathed. “You really do love her?” Cyrus said nothing. He didn’t need to. The severity of his feeling for her could not be contained, and they both watched, in horror, as the nosta turned red in his hand. Cyrus closed his fist, but too late.

He hauled himself upright, eager to vanish—and as he stood he saw the sprawling grounds, the heaving mass of people, and then, through a part in the clouds, a rising swarm of locusts. It made for a dizzying horror show, like a surreal confetti spattered across the sky. Cyrus drew a sharp breath. “What is it?” asked Hazan. “What’s happening?” He clambered to his feet, peering into the distance as the locusts slowly dispersed. It had been a message, received. “She’s awake,” Cyrus whispered.

“How can you move so quickly in that gown?” said Huda, gathering up her hem as she moved. “The train alone is four feet long!” “Not that you don’t look lovely,” Deen added hastily. “Which you do. Quite lovely.” Alizeh glanced back at him, her anxiety briefly overpowered by gratitude. “Thank you,” she said with feeling. “I’ve never worn a garment so exquisite in my life.”

“This is a bad idea.” The former street child was shaking his head, his long legs helping him keep pace easily. “I don’t think you should do this. There’s a million people out there, miss.” Huda rapped his arm and he flinched. “I mean, Your Majesty.” “Huda assured me it was fewer than a hundred thousand,” said Alizeh. “And you don’t have to call me Your Majesty.” “I don’t care how many people there are,” Omid shot back angrily. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Alizeh stopped in place, she was so surprised. Slowly she turned to face the boy, discovering genuine fear in his eyes. Laughing off his pain, she knew, would only wound him. She, too, had lost both her parents at a tender age; she knew how terror and loneliness propagated alongside grief like invasive weeds. There had never been another warm embrace. Never another loving hand to stroke her hair. Never a day she didn’t struggle with the impermanence of joy. In a matter of months this poor boy had lost his parents, lived on the streets, saw his friends murdered for Zaal’s profit, and then lost the Diviners. He was afraid he’d lose her, too. Alizeh watched Omid swallow back a knot of emotion before she drew forward, opening her arms to him. He towered over her by at least a foot, but she knew he was just a child—a child like so many others in need of comfort. At first he paled at her offer, but then, looking as if he might cry, he stepped into her embrace, turning a shade of red so bright it clashed with his ginger curl...

“You,” she said softly, staring up at him, “will always be dear to me. For your kindness, for your loyalty—for your courage in the face of everyday cruelties. I wish you’d never suffered; I wish you a lifetime of ease. I wish for you to see your own strength—to see every difficult choice you made in order to forge your pain into an armor of resilience and compassion, when you could’ve used it instead to spiral into darkness. Should you ever want a place in my life, you will have it. But right now, in this moment, you must let me go. I will return to you, Omid. I swear it.” The boy looked at her for a long time, his eyes swimming with restrained feeling, then turned his gaze to the floor. “All right, miss,” he whispered. “If you go, I’m going with you.”

It was Deen who said, quietly, “Let us hope for the day when we might all remove our masks, and live in the light without fear.” Alizeh stiffened, turning to face him. Deen had recited aloud something she’d once said to him. She hardly knew what to say. “Those words are emblazoned upon my cold, shriveled heart,” he said, smiling faintly. “I’d quite like to live in a world where you are queen.”

“By the angels,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know you were a Diviner.” “Neither did I,” said Deen, his voice breathless. “Were you meant to keep it a secret?” asked Huda, who looked almost afraid of her now. “Were we not meant to know?” Alizeh fell back a step, she was so astonished. “No—that is—you misunderstand. I’m not a Diviner,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never even touched magic. They were only being polite—” Omid was shaking his head. “When I lived with the Diviners, miss, they didn’t bow their heads at anyone except each other.” “That can’t be true—” “It is true,” said Deen, watching her closely. “Diviners don’t show that kind of deference to anyone outside the priesthood. They don’t even bow their heads before the king.”

ALIZEH DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO process this latest revelation. Omid’s limited experience with the Diviners of Ardunia surely didn’t speak for all Diviners everywhere, but Deen’s corroboration of the fact was giving her pause. Regardless, she wasn’t sure it was the right time to argue the point. Her mind was already struggling to process the deluge of the day’s declarations; it seemed impossible to add to this maelstrom the possibility that the Diviners might recognize someone like her as their peer— She, who’d never so much as touched magic— Alizeh bit her lip, for that wasn’t precisely true.

In fact, Alizeh had always been set apart from the other Jinn she’d known, for she’d been strange even among her own kind. It was only her blood that ran clear; only her body that healed itself; only she who could withstand the blaze of a fire. Her Book of Arya, too, was an enchanted object—one that came alive only in her hands. Alizeh looked up at her friends; everyone was studying her warily. This time, she really needed to sit down.

Alizeh had never seen so many people in one place in all her life, and the idea that they’d come for her—that they were all there to see her— It filled her with feeling so severe she could hardly breathe.

She took a steadying breath, trying to find her voice, and as she drew closer to the balustrade, the silence broke. People began shouting— “My queen!” “Is it really her?” “Your Majesty!” “She’s here!” Only then, as she parted her lips to speak, did she realize the enormity of her error. She was not yet a crowned queen.

Alizeh staggered back around, facing the crowd in a daze, her tired arms trembling, her heart racing. She couldn’t seem to focus her eyes as she listened to their raucous cries; she was busy trying to catch her breath when— There, again— Like déjà vu, another gleam of silver. She blinked, certain she must be imagining it, and the moment she took to steady her mind cost her the only opportunity she might’ve had to react. She heard a bloodcurdling scream as she registered, too late, a need to fall back. Suddenly, she was knocked to the ground.

Alizeh hit the stone floor with a muted cry, the weight of another body landing heavily against her. She heard the uproar of the masses, the chaos exploding. She tried to get up and was immediately pushed down again, though out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the profile of Hazan’s familiar, freckled face, and then, just above her head, buried in the wall behind her: two daggers. The second one had missed her by inches. “Hazan?” she gasped. In response he rendered them both invisible, hauled her up into his arms, and moved her with lightning speed back into the walled courtyard, where he set her down at once. Even then he was careful not to disturb her dress as he steadied her, though her veil and its accompanying crown were falling off her head, and she caught them both before they hit the ground. “Hazan—” “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He cut her off, his fists clenching as he avoided her eyes. “I’m too angry right now to speak to you in the manner you deserve.”

Huda sat beside her, took her hand, and squeezed it. “How are you feeling?” “Foolish.” Alizeh suppressed a sigh as she removed her circlet, then her veil, setting them both on the bench beside her. She dropped her head in her unsteady hands. “Hazan is mad at me. Hazan is never mad at me.” “He was scared. Imagine, he’d gotten word that you were finally awake, rushed over here to see you—only to find that someone was trying to kill you. You nearly died, dear. Again.” Huda clucked her tongue. “His poor nerves. Your poor nerves.”

“—and I need to get my book back from Cyrus. He’s refused to give it to me.” Hazan shook his head. “I’ll kill him.” Alizeh laughed, her heart warming with affection. “You can’t kill him. I need him.” Hazan stood before her, tall and looming. “All due respect, Your Majesty, you don’t need him. You have me.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled. “If only you had an empire.” Hazan sighed heavily, then turned away. “If only.”

ALIZEH WENT RIGID, SURPRISED BY the intensity of her reaction to him. Kamran was as handsome as ever, the vein of gold branching up his face giving him a magical, mysterious air. He’d always been striking, but her memories had done him an injustice. His bearing impressive, his eyes gleaming—Kamran radiated the kind of glory that could only be born from a lifetime of power and privilege. The young man who stood before her now was truly a wonder to look upon, and yet, the idea of speaking with him filled her with dread. The last time she’d seen the prince he’d been enraged and unreasonable. He’d refused to listen to her, refused to be rational, and then he’d shot her with an arrow, nearly killing her in the process. Kamran kept his eyes on Alizeh as he moved slowly forward, as if afraid to spook her. Still, there was something gentler in his countenance today, the fire in his eyes dampened, and she felt herself unclench as he approached, even as she remained wary.

Kamran shook his head, lost his smile. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?” She looked up at him, surprised. “I’ve already forgiven you.” “You have?” His brows lifted. “Yet you don’t seem at all pleased to see me.” Alizeh looked away. She knew his actions that awful morning had been unintentional—knew he hadn’t meant her any harm—but Kamran’s conduct had been indicative of a man unable to think beyond his own desires. She’d tried to reason with him, had begged him to imagine the situation more complexly, to see how killing Cyrus would have far-reaching consequences—and he’d shaken her off without care or consideration. This had bothered her almost more than the injury itself.