Page 2 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

Two

ALIZEH WAS FEELING TERRIBLY FOOLISH .

She was propelled down the hall by an anger that had lately become her constant companion, fed each day by a frustration the flavor of which she’d never savored.

These feelings were new and therefore incomprehensible to her; she was unaccustomed to this breathless tremble—to this genre of ache and anguish that disturbed her always.

It was no one’s fault but her own that the staff didn’t know what to make of her; she hadn’t meant to upset the order of things. It was just that—

Well, she was overwrought.

She was overwrought, and she hadn’t known how to soothe herself. She’d needed a place to retreat; she’d wanted a respite from prying eyes and welters of gossip, and she’d been certain she’d find the kitchen abandoned at this late hour. Clearly, she’d misplaced her good sense.

She’d focused so intensely on the fact that she was supposed to be getting married tomorrow that she’d somehow forgotten the logistics associated with the fact that she was supposed to be getting married tomorrow.

The household was in a frenzy.

She felt there was nowhere she might go to escape the weight of her own mind.

It was bad enough that the very world was in a state of chaos; she’d abandoned all hope of marshaling her many fears about the future.

The crowds swelling beyond the Diviners’ land had grown to unthinkable numbers, for people—Jinn and Clay alike—had been pouring in from all over.

Many were arriving to pledge their allegiance to Alizeh, but more wished only to spectate the royal wedding.

It was frankly embarrassing each time they’d postponed the ceremony.

Yet each delay brought in only greater crowds.

Were it not for the Diviners, who’d taken on the work of managing these unwieldy masses, Alizeh had no idea how they might’ve policed the pandemonium.

It bothered her immensely that she’d neither seen nor spoken to her people since the recent attempt on her life.

But then, without a crown she had no right to speak to them anyway, given that she had nothing to say.

She needed her magic. She needed an empire. She needed—

Heavens, she was supposed to be getting married.

Alizeh could feel her temper spiking, which seemed to be happening all the time now.

This was meant to be the eve of her wedding day, and she’d never imagined such a night could be so bleak.

She felt alone and confused and distracted, and the only person she wanted to speak with was refusing to see her.

In point of fact, he’d barred her from his rooms.

Alizeh startled at a series of sharp gasps; she’d been so buried in thought she hadn’t realized she’d walked directly into the great hall, where a dozen busy servants had gone still at the sight of her, a few falling to their knees with a cry.

Alizeh came to a halt.

“Good evening,” she said, forcing herself to regain her composure and smile. “I beg you do not inconvenience yourselves on my account. Please do carry on.”

There was a moment of silence before the snodas slowly, carefully, reanimated.

It was as if the room released a sigh.

Despite Hazan’s many warnings that she not wander the halls alone, Alizeh found it impractical to always await a chaperone and unhelpful to imagine that everyone was trying to murder her.

In any case, the servants needed more time to familiarize themselves with her, and she with them.

After all, this palace was to be her home—

The thought struck her like lightning.

Alizeh’s heart beat faster, her skin pricking with uncomfortable sensation.

This palace was to be her home.

She would soon become mistress of this castle; this staff would be hers to manage; this land hers to rule; these citizens hers to govern. She’d own it all, though she’d kill her husband before she could claim any of it.

She felt suddenly ill.

Unease lancing through her, Alizeh moved blindly toward a chair by the roaring fire, the unseen eyes of snodas following her every move.

Surreal, to think they were once her peers.

There’d been a time in her life when she’d appealed ardently for such employment.

Far preferable to decaying slowly in the streets, she’d prayed for the opportunity to scrub floors under a solid roof in a secured home.

Her position in life had been defined utterly by the tulle mask she wore over her eyes and nose, reducing her to an unseen nothing.

Oh, her fears had seemed so great then.

Once upon a time Alizeh had felt certain that power and position would bring her protection.

She’d been the feeble tree fearing the tremble of fruitless branches; but now, weighed down with plenty, she feared the rot of all this bounty and the blade that might cut her down for daring to flourish.

Only now was Alizeh learning that fears did not disappear as stations changed in life.

They only complicated.

Alizeh drew a breath before taking her seat, having chosen a soft, high-backed chair close to the crackling fire. She tucked the silk cape and sewing kit neatly into her lap, and nearly closed her eyes in exhaustion.

Candlelight glittered from a mammoth chandelier overhead; pools of lamplight gleamed in arched alcoves buttressing darkened windows; silk threads in lush, intricate rugs glimmered underfoot.

The room was exquisitely appointed, anchored by a behemoth of a stone mantelpiece and dotted with elegant furnishings, the plush seating upholstered with both comfort and beauty in mind.

Often Alizeh had wanted to curl up by the fire in this room and rest, but she enjoyed little to no privacy in open spaces, and hesitated to lose her placid smile for fear of feeding new gossip.

Today, none of this seemed to matter.

She didn’t want to return to the cold guest room she’d lately occupied to be closer to Cyrus.

She felt she might go mad if she had to spend another minute staring at the same blank wall, imagining his agony.

How could she hope to rest when she knew how he suffered?

How could she calm herself when the tether between them pulsed within her as palpably as her own heart?

His blood surged even now through her veins, hot and heady. Even were she to lose her sense of sight and sound she knew she could forge a path to him; indeed she’d been walking a path to him now, she realized.

Alizeh was growing desperate.

She hadn’t seen Cyrus in four days.

In a turn of events she’d never anticipated, the enigmatic Tulanian king, who was enduring what was arguably the most excruciating period of their recently minted blood oath, hadn’t been sighted by anyone but Hazan. If the king communicated at all, it was only through Hazan.

Cyrus had refused admittance to all others.

It was Hazan who’d stood sentinel in the doorway of the guest suite, head bowed in apology as he obstructed Alizeh’s path; it was Hazan who’d kindly but firmly asked her to maintain her distance; it was Hazan who’d turned her away despite her insistence that Cyrus was suffering—that her nearness would offer him relief as the magic ravaged his body.

Hazan would not be moved.

Neither would he elaborate on the king’s condition. He’d only politely asked her forgiveness and forbearance, setting a firm boundary before informing her that Cyrus would require another day to recover—

Then another; then another.

They’d postponed the wedding three times now.

Never had Alizeh foreseen a day such as this one, a day when she’d grown so furious with Hazan she’d dearly wanted to pummel him. Shout at him.

Fight him.

Four days, and no sign of the king.

Alizeh calmed herself with another deep breath, in the process inhaling the intoxicating aroma of luscious blooms. Cyrus’s enchanted pink roses had pushed their way into the castle through cracks in casements, nosing their way across walls and ceilings, weeping petals on every surface.

Soft pink drifts were piling up in sinks and corridors, tumbling down staircases, breezing into parlors and bedrooms.

Managing the constant cleanup had driven Sarra, the Queen Mother, near to fury.

Alizeh looked up as a corolla glanced off her cheek. Her hands, open upon her lap as if in prayer, were filling slowly with petals. She couldn’t decide whether the reminders of him made her feel better or worse.

Somehow, both.

Cyrus, naturally, could not be called upon to put an end to the enchantment he’d cast across the city.

Four days.

Wedding cakes had been frosted and eaten, frosted and eaten; menus had been drawn up and discarded; cleavers had been hung back on their hooks, fatted chickens clucking far longer than expected.

Trays of food for the king were often returned to the kitchens untouched; unopened missives and misshapen packages piling in teetering stacks in the butler’s pantry; while nobles and farmers alike had been dismissed at the entrance doors with hand-wringing apologies.

But it was on the second day of the king’s seclusion that stranger things had begun to happen.

“Might I— Would you mind if I joined you?”

Alizeh drew back and looked up, surprised at the sound of the familiar voice.