Page 27 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

Twenty-Six

HE TORE HIS EYES AWAY from her.

Cyrus had not heard from Iblees since the morning after the blood oath, when the devil had been so pleased he’d bestowed upon Cyrus two twisted gifts: the first, a promise to stop torturing him; the second, allowing Alizeh to retrieve her book without retribution.

This respite had granted him a period of relief.

And dread.

Perhaps Iblees had reasoned that the blood oath was torture enough; or perhaps he felt Cyrus would make for a stronger servant with his wits about him.

He couldn’t know what the devil was planning; and he didn’t know what Alizeh had meant when she’d said Iblees was there, inside her head, during their vows.

The two of them had yet to speak of it, for there’d been so much chaos since the wedding—and seldom, if ever, were they alone.

This was by design, of course.

Still, the devil’s visit to her had been plaguing Cyrus in his more lucid hours, for he’d been wondering at the arrangement of her words.

Surely she hadn’t meant that the devil spoke to her?

That he’d formed sentences in her mind?

Indeed she could not have meant such a thing, for the devil was not allowed to speak to a body that had not summoned him.

The only exception to this rule was for inheritors of a crown; heirs alone were approached by Iblees on coronation day, not spouses during wedding ceremonies.

Alizeh, as inheritor of Tulan, would not be tempted by an offer from the devil until the day Cyrus died. But then, what had she meant?

All this confusion revived in Cyrus a forgotten conversation: in the first days of their acquaintance Alizeh had said something he’d noted as strange—

He’s been haunting me since I was born.

Cyrus had not understood her meaning then, nor had he wanted to. He’d assumed the young woman he’d been ordered to marry had struck a bargain with the devil; naturally, she and Iblees would’ve communicated.

The trouble was, Cyrus didn’t always understand every riddle of Iblees.

He’d understood enough, of course, to know that his fated bride was a fallen royal whose circumstances were severely reduced, and whose main occupation involved scrubbing floors and toilets.

It had made a grim sort of sense to him that she’d wish to better her circumstances in life.

People struck deals with the devil for far less.

It had followed a basic logic, then, that it was her idea to marry him. He’d thought the devil’s bride was eagerly manipulating him; he thought she’d known of the plan to leave Ardunia and join his empire.

He’d assumed all else was a formality.

In fact, he’d been so certain of the outcome that he’d already forewarned his household; he’d advised his mother to commission a wedding trousseau; he’d all but announced to his empire that he would be shortly married.

Months and months he’d been preparing for her arrival.

For what penniless, unprotected servant would say no to a crown?

This one , it turned out.

Now, his resolve weakening more by the minute, Cyrus returned his eyes to her. He still held the vision of her in his mind, the way she’d stood before the soldiers and spoken like so much more than a queen. He felt there were too many queens in this world; none of them her equal.

She deserved a title entirely her own.

Cyrus was wretched as he watched her, as she looked gently into the distance, sunlight choosing to know her eyes, her nose, the elegant grace of her neck.

He wondered what she wondered.

It was dangerous, what he was doing.

Her irises shone silver against her inky lashes, and he tracked, with intense fascination, the rebellion of a dark curl that had abandoned its pins to skim her jaw, then the lush curve of her lips.

He waited, holding his breath for the moment she’d push the tendril away, and when she lifted her left hand he went painfully still.

Her gold wedding band winked in the soft light.

How he wanted it to be real.

Cyrus felt his chest heave, the exhalation leaving his body with stunning force. It was a mistake to look at her like this— Never did he punish himself like this—

“All right there, King?”

Cyrus looked up to find Hazan staring at him, his eyes glinting with a dark humor.

“Taken any bad falls lately?” the Jinn said wryly. “You appear to be in pain.”

Alizeh spun around in her chair, scanning Cyrus for damage. “What do you mean?” she said. “Cyrus, are you hurt?”

Hazan smiled.

Fuck off , said Cyrus angrily.

Cyrus had fallen off his dragon in the aftermath of his midnight encounter, for the magic he’d conducted was so powerful it had blasted both he and his enemies into the skies. Kaveh had caught him, of course.

It was just that Cyrus had broken his back on impact.

He’d been able to mend his bones with magic; he was not in any current danger.

The problem was that it had taken him some time to revive, and Hazan had found him in this uncertain state, ashen and struggling, when Kaveh finally touched ground.

Even with the infusion of magic, Cyrus still felt at the moment snapped in half and poorly put back together.

“ Cyrus? ”

Hells, she was going to get out of her chair. Alizeh was looking at him with agitation, as if she might despair to hear he’d been hurt, and Cyrus wanted to throw a dagger at Hazan’s head. It was a strange mercy that Princess Firuzeh chose that moment to blow back into the building.

“All right, everyone,” she called, sashaying toward them with great fanfare.

She’d donned a shabby utility belt, its pockets stuffed with strange oddities, and the accessory was so misaligned with her glittering ensemble it stood out like a stain.

Indeed the rest of her was so dense with precious stones that, as she walked, prismatic light fractured chaotically along the walls.

“Attention, please.” Firuzeh clapped her bejeweled hands together with a soft clatter.

“Your lodgings are all sorted but none of you are leaving until I’ve read your fortunes. ”

“ Fortunes? ” Omid sat up in delight. “I’ve never had my fortune read!”

“How lucky for you,” Kamran said on an exhale, turning his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Your Highness,” Hazan tried. “This is hardly the time for parlor tricks—”

“I won’t hear a word of dissent,” she said briskly.

“I’ve known you since you were a knobby-kneed little boy who could barely walk in a straight line, Hazan.

I don’t care a whit how broad you are now.

I will not be overruled.” She lifted her hands, beckoning.

“Teacups, now . You’ve had plenty of time. ”

Cyrus, stunned, reached for his discarded teacup just as she swooped past and swiped it from his table.

He looked up in alarm.

“Heavens.” Huda was looking around the room as the princess wended her way through, snatching cups, marking them, and setting them on a tray.

His cup, he noted, had been daubed with blue pigment.

“You mean to read our tea leaves, then?” Huda was saying. “You gave us time for tea and pastries only as a trick?”

“As a laugh , darling!” she cooed. “As a laugh! You’re such a sorry lot, and I thought I’d lift your spirits. Trust me, you’ll feel so much better once I’ve told you how you’ll die.”