These Infinite Threads (This Woven Kingdom, #2)

by Tahereh Mafi

He stared down at the remains of his own disintegrated garments, then at the blood dripping between his knuckles. Slowly, he looked back up at Alizeh, possessing clarity of mind enough to register that she’d emerged from the inferno unscathed, even as her gown suffered. He blinked at the impossibility of it; he was either dreaming or deluded. He could not make sense of her. No, he could not make sense of anything.

A sudden clatter. Kamran looked up in time to see Alizeh toss Cyrus’s sword to the floor, the young man flinching as glinting steel struck marble. The foreign king stared at Alizeh with an astonishment to rival Kamran’s, fear torpefying his features as she rounded on him.

“How dare you,” she said. “You horrible cretin. You useless monster. How could you—” “How—how did you—” Cyrus fumbled back an inch. “How did you walk through the fire like that? Why are you not—burning?” “You despicable, wretched man,” she cried. “You know who I am, but you don’t know what I am?” “No.”

Alizeh struck Cyrus across the face with the force of a bludgeon, the impact so violent the young king staggered, audibly striking his head against a column. Kamran felt the shock of it in his bones. He knew he should rejoice in this moment—knew he should celebrate Alizeh’s actions against the depraved royal—but his mind would not submit to relief, for the scene unraveling before him did not align with reason. Cyrus appeared entirely too unnerved. The trepidation in his eyes, his astonishment at her approach, the blind steps he took backward as she advanced—it made no sense. Alizeh had insisted to Kamran but moments ago that she did not know the southern king; yet Cyrus, who’d more than proven his ruthlessness, displayed every sign of alarm in her presence. If they were truly strangers, why would he cower now at the unarmed advance of a girl he did not know? She’d tossed his sword to the floor, insulted him repeatedly, and slapped h...

Kamran looked up; the southern king appeared pale and disordered. From where he knelt, Kamran could not see Alizeh’s face; he saw only the horror in Cyrus’s eyes as he looked her over. The young man had killed his own father for the throne of Tulan; he’d newly murdered King Zaal, the ruler of the greatest empire on earth; he would’ve killed Kamran, too, had he been granted but a moment more to accomplish the task. Now the copper-headed tyrant steadied himself slowly, blood seeping from his lips, smeared across his chin. Of all the adversaries they might’ve encountered, it seemed they’d both been cowed by the poor, gentle servant of Baz House. “Damn the devil to hell,” the Tulanian king said quietly. “He didn’t tell me you were a Jinn.” “Who?” Alizeh demanded. “Our mutual friend.” “Hazan?”

Kamran recoiled. He’d not been prepared for the blow of yet another betrayal, and the impact of that single word lanced through his body with a ruthlessness against which he had no defense. That she was somehow allied with Cyrus was torture enough—but that she’d gone behind his back with Hazan? This was more than he could bear. She’d playacted at fear and innocence, had outmaneuvered him at every turn, and worst of all—worst of all—he had fallen, madly, for her manipulations. In all the time he’d known her, Alizeh had clung to her snoda, fighting to hide her identity even in the midst of a rainstorm; now she stood unmasked before a sea of nobles, glowering at the formidable sovereign of a neighboring nation, declaring herself to the world. All this time, Alizeh had been making plans.

“Hazan?” Cyrus laughed again, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly as he wiped blood from his mouth. “Hazan? Of course not Hazan.” Cyrus locked eyes with Kamran and said, “Pay attention, King, for it seems even your friends have betrayed you.” Alizeh turned suddenly to face him—eyes wide with panic—and her obvious flush of guilt was all the evidence Kamran required. Just hours ago he would’ve sworn an oath that her desire for him was as palpable as the press of satin against his skin; he’d tasted the salt of her, had felt the exquisite shape of her body under his hands. Now he knew it had all been a lie. Hell. This was hell. But to say that this revelation had broken his heart would be to misrepresent the truth; Kamran was not heartbroken, then, no—he was incandescent with rage. He would kill her.

Never again. Never again would he allow a woman to own his emotions; never again would he be made weak by such base temptations. He swore it then: this monster from the prophecy would die by his hand—he would drive a blade through her heart or die trying.

“Iblees.” His eyes flew open at the sound of her soft, traitorous voice. Kamran’s heart began pounding anew, startling him with its intensity. He couldn’t decide then what disturbed him more: to realize that she and Cyrus shared a mutual friend in the devil, or to discover that his body still wanted her, still heated at the mere sound of her voice—

The Tulanian king spoke, his words lucid: “Is it not obvious? He wants you to rule.”

He heard Cyrus laugh again, heard him say clearly: “A Jinn queen to rule the world. Oh, it’s so horribly seditious. The perfect revenge.”

Kamran cursed the wretched organ in his chest, then pounded a clenched fist against his sternum as if to kill it. In response, a terrible anguish ripped through his body, so brutal the sensation it took his breath away; it was as if a tree had planted in a single shot at his feet, the trunk suturing to his spine, tremendous branches pushing violently through his veins. He doubled over, gasping, almost missing the moment when Alizeh glanced up in his direction and then bolted without warning, exiting the inferno once again unscathed. Had she seen him reaching for his sword? Had she gleaned his intentions?

“Wait— Where are you going?” Cyrus shouted. “We had a deal— Under no circumstances were you allowed to run away—” We had a deal. The words rang in his head, over and over, each syllable striking his mind like a scythe, drawing blood. By the angels, how many more blows need his body survive tonight? “I must,” she cried, the agitated crowd leaping apart to let her pass. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I have to leave— I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he won’t—” At once Alizeh doubled over, as if struck by an invisible force, and was promptly jerked upward, into the air. She screamed.

Sudden understanding forced Kamran to look Cyrus in the eye. “You,” he said, hardly recognizing the rasp of his own voice. “You’re doing this to her.” Cyrus’s expression darkened. “She’s done it to herself.”

“You can see her.” The statement startled him. Kamran turned back to Cyrus, assessing in an instant his enemy’s copper hair, his cold blue eyes. Of all the things Cyrus might’ve said, this was particularly strange, and Kamran was too discerning to dismiss it as meaningless. That Cyrus appeared surprised Kamran could see her seemed to point to a simple inverse— Perhaps others could not. It was a theory that explained nothing yet seemed somehow vitally important. Kamran wondered then about the source of his temporary blindness, and renewed fear branched up his back. “What,” Kamran said carefully, “did you do to her?” Cyrus did not answer.

“You know her name,” Cyrus said softly. Kamran felt a pulse of trepidation but said nothing. “How,” Cyrus demanded, “did you come to know her name?” When Kamran finally spoke, his voice was heavy, cold. “I might ask you the same question.” “Indeed you might,” said Cyrus, who was lifting his sword by inches. “But then, it’s my prerogative to know the name of my bride.”

Zaal had been false. Hazan had been false. Alizeh— Alizeh had ruined him.

From where he drew the strength, Kamran did not know, but he heaved himself up off the floor with the kind of fortitude borne only of a broken man, a reckless one. Kamran had been hollowed out. In the space of an hour the threads of his entire life had come apart. He felt mad and feverish in the aftermath; a bit like he was moving through a nightmare. Somehow, the horrors had fortified him. He felt he had nothing left. Nothing to lose.

He heard a storm of footfalls then, a chorus of concerned voices as a brigade of guards surged closer to the fiery ring—but Kamran stayed them with a single hand. This was his fight to finish. Cyrus glanced at these armed onlookers, then considered the prince for what felt like a long time. “Very well,” the southern king said finally. “Never say I’m not merciful. I’ll make this quick. You will not suffer.” “And I,” Kamran said, the rasp of his voice like gravel, “will make certain that your torment is never-ending.”

“I feel you should know,” Cyrus said heavily, the fatigue of exertion apparent on his face. “That something is happening to you. To your skin.” This, Kamran ignored.

Kamran wasted no time, approaching his fallen rival with a ferocious determination. One final time he raised his sword— And froze. A breathtaking paralysis took hold of his body where he stood, so severe the sensation that Kamran could hardly breathe. He watched, as if pressed between panes of glass, as Cyrus clambered to his feet, sheathed his sword, retrieved his staff, and searched for his hat. Once the strange article was settled firmly on the tyrant’s head, he walked up to Kamran’s statue and smiled. “There is very little honor left in me, Melancholy King. Certainly not enough to die when I deserve it.” In the distance, someone screamed. Kamran thrashed against the prison of his own body, but he felt his lungs weakening by the second, his organs being compressed from the outside in. Cyrus’s smile did not waver. “Unfortunate as it is,” he went on, “a flicker of humanity persists in animating my flesh. So I will leave you tonight with a beating heart. Anyway, it’s better if you live, isn’t it? Better for you to suffer consciously, to grieve your vile grandfather, to live every day with the knowledge that you have been betrayed not only by those you loathe, but by those you love—and to fail, tremendously, while trying to lead a pathetic empire.”

A sudden thud shifted the weight of the rug, startling her upright. Alizeh spun around, her heart racing once again in her chest; and when she saw the face of her unwelcome companion, she thought she might fling herself into the sky with the boots. “No,” she whispered. “This is my dragon,” said the Tulanian king. “You are not allowed to steal my dragon.” “I didn’t steal it, the creature took— Wait, how did you get here? Can you fly?” He laughed at that. “Is the mighty empire of Ardunia really so poor in magic that these small tricks impress you?” “Yes,” she said, blinking. Then, “What is your name?” “Of all the non sequiturs. Why do you need to know my name?” “So that I may hate you more informally.” “Ah. Well, in that case, you may call me Cyrus.” “Cyrus,” she said. “You insufferable monster. Where on earth are we going?”

“Oh, the very worst of fates, I’m sorry to say. We are currently en route to Tulan.” The nosta burned hot against her skin, and Alizeh felt herself go rigid with fear. She was stunned, yes, and horrified, too, but to hear the king of an empire denigrate his own land thus— “Is Tulan really so terrible a place?” “Tulan?” His eyes widened with surprise. “Not at all. A single square inch of Tulan is more breathtaking than all of Ardunia, and I say that as a discernable fact, not as a subjective opinion.” “But then”—she frowned—“why did you say that it would be the very worst of fates?” “Ah. That.” Cyrus looked away, searched the night sky. “Well. You remember how I said I owed our mutual friend a very large debt?” “Yes.” “And that helping you was the only repayment he would accept?” She swallowed. “Yes.” “And do you remember how I told you that he wanted you to rule? To be a Jinn queen?” Alizeh nodded. “Well. You have no kingdom,” he said. “No land to lord over. No empire to lead.” “No,” she said softly. “I don’t.” “Well, then. You are coming to Tulan,” Cyrus said, taking a quick breath. “To marry me.”

She heard Cyrus unleash a torrent of foul language as she fell—the wind rushing up against her feet—and found, to her surprise, that though she actively pitched toward what could only be certain death, she could not summon the appropriate response. Alizeh did not scream; neither did she experience fear.

Then again, her uncommon calm was perhaps a result of a far simpler reasoning: Alizeh knew she would be saved.

True, Alizeh was always cold; the ice that marked her as heir to an ancient kingdom ensured that she rarely, if ever, enjoyed a bout of warmth. Couple this with the brutality of the winter night, the unrelenting winds that walloped her now, and the fact that she wore mere scraps in place of a gown— It was a surprise to Alizeh that she was not yet a corpse.

Still, she made no response at all when the dragon came up underneath her, registering only a muted shout before Cyrus’s warm hands circled her waist, plucking her from the air as if she were an itinerant flower. He drew her firmly onto the carpet beside him, where she landed with a teeth-chattering thud, and after which he drew away from her with unflattering haste. She took note of it all as if watching through fog, for Alizeh seemed suddenly incapable of emotion. She felt not unlike a rag doll, unable to animate. All seemed irretrievably lost.

“Will you not say something?” said Cyrus, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. Alizeh felt as if her lips were numb. “I will not.” “You will not speak?” “I will not marry you.” Cyrus sighed.

“Abandon the idea,” Cyrus said sharply, wrenching open the silence. “Your efforts will be futile.” Alizeh did not look up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Fling yourself into the sky as many times as you like. There will be no escape. I will not allow you to die.” “Do you speak to all young women with such ardent affection?” Alizeh asked steadily, even as her bones shook with cold. “If I swoon and fall off the dragon again, you will have only yourself to blame.”

Cyrus made a sound, something that was almost a laugh, and which quickly evaporated. “Your first attempt has already cost us precious minutes. Should you insist upon throwing yourself over and over you will only put us behind schedule and irritate my dragon, which she doesn’t deserve. It’s well past her bedtime; you need not torture her.” “Careful now,” Alizeh said to him. “You’re in grave danger of suggesting you might care about this dragon.”

Cyrus sighed, looked away. “And you appear to be in grave danger of freezing to death.” “I am not,” she lied. Without a word he removed his heavy, unadorned black coat—but as he leaned forward to drape it over her shoulders, Alizeh stayed the gesture with a single hand. “If you think,” she said carefully, “that I will ever accept an article of clothing from you again—then you, sir, are deluded.” She saw the uncertain movement in his chest, the sudden tension in his jaw. “There is no danger to be derived from this garment. It was only the gesture of a gentleman.” She felt a spark of heat near her sternum just as surprise widened her eyes. “A gentleman? Do you often confuse yourself for such a man?” “With what ease you insult me,” he said, his eyes mocking. “Were you anyone else, I’d have you executed.” “Goodness, more poetry. Are these tender declarations meant to endear you to me?” He fought a smile at that, r...

“Let me be plain: I detest you. I would sooner ingest poison than marry you, and I am astonished to discover that you think I’d even consider submitting to such a horror when it is clear your every action is predicated upon the demands of the devil himself. You are an incorrigible reprobate; how you could ever hope to be a gentleman I will never understand.” Cyrus was quiet for a beat too long. He did not meet her eyes when he spoke, not even when he forc...

Alizeh experienced a pang of heartache at that realization, for it was Hazan who’d gifted her the nosta, and it seemed a categorical fact that she would never see him again. He would no doubt hang at dawn. It was Hazan who’d brought hope back into her life, whose existence inspired her to imagine an end to the wretchedness of her days. Hazan was proof that there remained any Jinn who still searched for her, believed in her. Alizeh had not known his true identity—that he was in fact a minister to the crown, that he worked alongside the prince every day. He’d risked his life in the attempt to transport Alizeh to safety, and he would pay the price for it now. It was a sacrifice she would never forget.

“I beg your pardon?” Alizeh looked up at him in horror. “My undergarments?” “Surely you possess a pair of eyes,” he said, staring intently at her face. “You are practically naked.” “How dare you.” In a fluid motion Cyrus draped his coat over her shoulders, surprising her so completely she’d no chance to protest before she was rendered powerless by relief. The lingering warmth of the wool garment was crossed with the heady, masculine scent of its owner, but Alizeh could ignore this; the heavy coat enveloped every inch of her folded, huddled body, its silk-lining caressing, then soothing, her wind-chapped skin. Alizeh tried to resist this luxury, but no matter her silent castigations toward herself, she could not animate her arms enough to shrug off the article. The satisfaction was in fact so painful that treacherous tears sprang to her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound of pleasure.

When she finally looked up, she found Cyrus watching her, bewildered. “You’ve been truly suffering,” he said. “Why did you say nothing?” She was unable to meet his eyes when she confessed quietly: “I am always suffering. The frost lives with me much like an unwanted limb; it does not diminish. I seldom dwell on it.” “Then the frost is a real, lived experience?” Cyrus seemed to frown as he spoke. “I’ve heard mention of it, of course, but I’d assumed it was meant to be a poetic turn of phrase.”

“The ice marks me as heir to the lost Jinn empire. The brutal cold is meant to prove my mettle,” she explained. “Those who cannot survive the ravages of the frost in the body are not expected to survive the ravages of the throne.” Softly Cyrus said, “You really do exist, then. You’re not merely a fairy tale.” Alizeh’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean?” “I’m not ignorant of Jinn folklore,” he said, turning away. “This world has many failed royals. I assumed you’d be some coddled, uncrowned queen from a collapsed empire too small to be remembered. But you’re the one they’ve been waiting for, aren’t you? The one, it seems, even the devil has been waiting for. It would patch the holes in the many riddles he’s fed me. And it would explain why he covets you so desperately.” “Yes,” Alizeh whispered, feeling more like a fraud in every moment. She was meant to be the savior of her people? She, who’d spent the last few years of her life scrubbing floors and toilets? “I suppose I am.” In response, Cyrus only sighed.

She clutched desperately at her borrowed garment, pulling the lapels more tightly around her body—and her fingers met with something wet. Alizeh drew her hand away sharply, inspecting the moisture under the moonlight before pinning Cyrus with a look of abject fear. “There’s blood on your coat,” she breathed. Cyrus’s cool stare gave no indication of his feelings on the matter. He said only, “I’m certain you boast intellect enough to imagine how difficult it is to kill a man without soiling one’s clothes.” Alizeh looked away and swallowed.

“Tell me,” he said viciously. “Is it terribly thrilling to imagine yourself the sole object of my thoughts and desires? Do you purposely deny me ownership of basic dignities, excluding from your memories the essential fact that I was forced into this situation just as you were—all in the pursuit of feeling sorry for yourself?” He shook his head. “My, but it must be exhausting to be a narcissist.”

Alizeh was dumbfounded. “How? How can you feel no remorse for what you’ve done?” He turned to face her. “Why do you continue to act as if I had a choice?” Alizeh drew back, but Cyrus was undaunted. He closed the inches between them, his glittering eyes assessing her face now with a renewed fervor. “Do I appear to you a free man boasting of free will? Or perhaps you thought that, after lowering myself to execute the obscene demands of the devil himself, I might take one look at your wide, doe-like eyes and experience a change of heart?” “No,” she whispered. “That is not what I—” “Yes,” he said softly, his gaze dropping, briefly, to her mouth. “You are well aware of your beauty, I think. Much as I am well aware of the maneuvers of the devil, and the weakness of human flesh. You think me so ignorant of his schemes? From the very moment I saw you I suspected his game—I knew he’d sent you to me, specifically, to torture me—as if I might be so tempted by the sight of you that I would bend in but a moment to your wishes, abandoning in the process an oath I signed with my soul, ensuring I am bound to him forevermore. No. I will not be moved by you—and you have underestimated me if you think I will succumb to your charms.” “Sir, I fear you have lost your mind,” Alizeh said, her heart racing wildly in her chest. “You misjudge me terribly—” “And you take me for a fool,” he said angrily, the movement in his throat briefly distracting her. “This story is both odious and familiar, and I...

“What on earth can you mean?” she breathed, panic intensifying. “You sentence me for crimes I wouldn’t even know how to commit—” He leaned in, so close she could feel his whisper against her lips as he spoke. “Try to weaponize those eyes against me again and I will have them permanently sewn shut.” The nosta flashed hot against her skin, and Alizeh gasped, horror briefly paralyzing her in place. Cyrus drew back.

“I truly hate you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “With my whole heart, I hate you.” Cyrus held her gaze for what seemed a brutally long time before he finally tore away. He said nothing.

Then—in the distance— Alizeh gasped. “Do prepare yourself,” said Cyrus, his tone softer than she expected. “It can be a little startling when you see it for the first time.” She sat up straighter, wiping her eyes. “See what?” she asked. “What am I looking at?” “Tulan.”

No doubt he would land a ruinous blow now. “I’m afraid,” Zahhak said calmly, his voice ringing out in the silence, “that we’ve no choice but to declare the prince dead.” The crowd gasped, then drew back in unison. So shocking was this pronouncement that Kamran felt it as a physical electrification inside his heart—and then, just as swiftly, this feeling was displaced by shame, for the magnitude of his astonishment struck him only as a reflection of his own stupidity. His grandfather had tried to warn him of such machinations—and Kamran had given the words no weight.

Were Kamran a different sort of man, he might’ve acquiesced then to a terrifying compulsion. He felt in that moment nothing greater than an ancient impulse to cry, valiantly resisting the instinct even as a flare of grief tore through him. He had never felt more desperately alone in the world than he did then, trapped in the set piece of a nightmare, in the failing flesh of his own body. His mother had done him a mercy, but she’d promptly vanished. There was no one left he might trust, no one upon whom he might rely. The thought threatened to break him, and he vehemently refused it residence in his mind. He would not die.

Just one Sif was enough to undo even the worst injuries. “Bengez,” the child whispered. Take it. “No— I—I cannot—” “They gave it to me after I began to recover,” the boy said quietly. “Told me to keep it with me always, that I’d know when to use it.” He swallowed. “I thought they gave it to me to save myself in the future, see. I didn’t realize until just now that maybe I wasn’t supposed to use it on myself.” “No,” Kamran said again, this time sharply. He was seeing stars, bright lights sparking and fading behind his eyes. “If the Diviners blessed you with such a gift”—he wheezed—“you should not— You cannot give it away—” “I’ll do as I please,” said Omid, anger edging into his voice. “You saved my life, sire. Now it’s my turn to save yours.”

IN THE DISTANCE, ALIZEH SAW stars. Tens of thousands—or perhaps hundreds of thousands—or thousands of thousands— It was impossible to tell, and she seemed incapable of conjuring an estimate large enough to account for them all. She knew only what she saw, and what she saw was a seemingly infinite expanse of densely assembled celestial bodies, all of which appeared to tremble upon approach. They had been sitting in a bleak silence for hours now, and with each flap of the dragon’s enormous, leathery wings, their small party drew steadily closer to the spectral sight, the distant lights rearranging themselves repeatedly, shifting in erratic patterns. Finally, Alizeh frowned. It was very unlike a star to act in such a manner.

She turned to her companion for an explanation but was brought up short by the sight of him. Cyrus sat beside her with a palpable discomfort made apparent in the unnatural stiffness of his body: head up, shoulders back, spine straight. His eyes were fixed firmly ahead, his hair rippling in the wind, longer strands occasionally obscuring his vision—and still he did not move.

It was impossible to know what tormented him the most, and Alizeh could not bring herself to care. Her eyes still itched with the remnants of tears; she despised this blackguard, and yet, until she could figure out a plan of action, she would need a great deal from him: his answers about the devil’s plans for her, his guidance in navigating Tulan, the offer of a safe place to stay while she gathered her wits and decided her next move. It was a hateful situation, one she would have to manage with...

studying me.” Something bitter prompted her to say, “You are not my master.” Cyrus turned at once to look at her, staring into her eyes with an intensity that bordered on alarming. “Do you aspire to be mine?” This question was so shocking, Alizeh drew back in response. Cyrus leaned in. “Relinquish the dream,” he said softly. “You have no hope of mastering me.” Alizeh tensed. “I could kill you right now.” He only looked at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Go on, then,” he said. “Kill me. I will not intervene.” Her eyes narrowed. “I do not dispose of that which is still useful to me.” “Useful? Is that what you’ve decided I am?” He almost laughed. “And do you lie to yourself often?”

Alizeh did her utmost to remain still under Cyrus’s now ruthless inspection, but the full weight of his scrutiny—at such close proximity—was indeed too much to bear. He seemed to devour her with a single look, his blue gaze holding hers without mercy before cataloging every inch of her face, the angle of her jaw, the column of her neck. His eyes were charged with something both electric and devastating, the unbound energy of his entire body diverted to this single avenue of connection. Alizeh felt the heat of his slow appraisal in her bones, in the tips of her fingers; her heart sped up in response, understanding even as he frightened her—that he was trying to frighten her. Too soon, Alizeh averted her gaze. “As I thought,” he whispered. “You’re too soft even to bear the weight of my attentions.” Alizeh laughed quietly as she pressed a finger to the wind, felt the current curl under her touch. “The sky, too, is soft,” she said. “Yet all who fall into its arms will perish.” She felt him stiffen beside her. “You,” he said finally, “are not who I expected.”