Page 28 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

Twenty-Seven

CYRUS, WHO ALREADY KNEW HOW he was going to die, decided it best to take a break or else meet the limit of his self-control.

He stood from his seat, then departed the room.

“The toilets are in the other direction,” the princess called after him. “No—you must turn around, sire, you must turn around—” Then, to the others, “Tragically dim-witted, is he?”

Cyrus threw open the exit door with an impatience he’d not meant to expose, catching the lowered tenor of Omid’s voice when the boy said, “Do you think he’s angry with me for eating his biscuit?

” and Hazan, responding gravely, “Yes, I think that must be it,” before the door crashed closed behind him.

Outside, in the bracing country air, Cyrus shut his eyes against the cold sun and drew the frigid wind into his lungs.

He stalked off into the wild grass, his fevered skin slowly cooling.

He heard the distant neigh of horses, the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

There were at least a dozen buildings arrayed about the immediate expanse, each of them different in size and architecture, with no cohesive design or common interest to marry them save their shared orbit around the central cabin.

The largest of them all was set off in the distance, its weathered wooden boards indicating its age.

It was the building most animated by movement.

The door swung open and shut as soldiers entered and exited the establishment with canteens in hand, and Cyrus realized it was likely some kind of mess hall.

Perhaps a gathering place for the soldiers.

Jinn didn’t need to eat, of course—requiring only water to survive—but they were known to enjoy the pleasure of a good meal.

He wondered what purpose the central, circular room had once served.

He lifted his head and counted three watchtowers positioned across great distances—but one was unlike the others, reimagined as something more resembling a tree house.

Plumes of smoke lifted from its stone chimney, which looked newer than the exterior wood.

It was almost as if the structure had been uprooted from elsewhere, replanted, then retrofitted as necessary.

Cyrus found this notable.

As he pushed farther afield, farther from Alizeh, he felt the tremble of the blood oath threatening greater punishment—and he didn’t care.

His experiments had proven at least partly fruitful, for while each day the torture abated a touch more, he, too, was learning to manage the shape of this new affliction.

It was not for nothing, then, that he had learned to bear the brutality of the devil.

Cyrus had in fact grown so accustomed to torture that he’d begun to fear the quiet.

During uncertain stretches of stillness tension coiled within him without end, dread twining him tighter and tighter in binds of his own making, such that the suffering itself arrived almost as a relief.

Pain, he had learned to endure. It was losing his peace that was perhaps the greatest punishment of all.

“Cyrus?”

He went motionless at the sound of her voice, even as he kept his eyes on the gathering clouds, on the softly drifting snow.

The Arya cascades rose to dizzying heights before him, stark-white and breathtakingly steep.

It was strange to think that he was staring at her history, when she stood presently beside him.

He’d known, of course, that Alizeh would follow him.

Cyrus had felt the heat of her rising within him like a bellwether, for the tether between them was unconquerable. He might fly himself to the moon and still she’d know where to find him, and he was beginning to learn that escape was futile.

Cyrus took a bracing breath.

He stood now near the narrow river, a silver ribbon snaking down the middle of what seemed an endless valley.

He could see why the Jinn might’ve sited this location for an outpost, anchored as it was by fresh, running water.

Not only was it difficult to access on foot or horseback, but it was also protected on two sides by hulking mountains—and sheltered, as a result, from the worst snowfalls and dangerous winds.

“Cyrus,” she said again. “I was hoping—”

“Everyone is watching,” he said.

It was an almost disorienting déjà vu. This brief exchange recalled the early moments of their wedding ceremony. They kept circling the same points, he was realizing, hoping each time for different outcomes.

Was this not the very definition of madness?

He could feel the weight of so many eyes aimed in their direction.

Not only was everyone watching them now from the central cabin, which was ringed entirely by windows, but the land itself was studded with soldiers.

As it was, groupings of men and women stalked past them in loose formations, the light clang of steel announcing their presence.

Alizeh fought a sigh, but she sounded frustrated. “I’d been dearly hoping to speak with you,” she said, lowering her voice. We almost never have a chance—”

“Your Majesty,” came a sudden chorus.

A clutch of soldiers stopped to salute their queen, touching two fingers to their foreheads. They nodded warm acknowledgment at Cyrus as well, though he knew that any respect he received was due entirely to Alizeh.

They didn’t seem to consider him at all.

In fact, he’d begun to wonder, with some amazement, whether they knew who he was—whether they realized he was the man who’d slaughtered Ardunia’s king—or if they did, whether they even cared.

Never before now had Cyrus wished for notoriety.

Never had he wanted to be known or feared until arriving at this outpost. For it was not his pride that suffered from their ignorance, but his privacy.

Not five minutes after the crowds had dispersed in the wake of Alizeh’s speech, a young soldier had approached him with the deference he might show a street peddler, searching him with the intensity of a child trying to understand death.

He’d nodded in Alizeh’s direction and said, “How does it feel, then? To know that she chose you?”

Cyrus had been struck silent by the gall of it, so unexpected was the question.

“I don’t mean any harm,” the stranger had clarified. “It’s just we’ve all been wondering.”

Cyrus had glanced at the group of soldiers hovering in the near distance, then at the young man himself: his eager eyes, his easy smile. The dreamy way he kept glancing at the queen from across the meadow.

“Have you ever killed a moth?” Cyrus said faintly.

“ Killed a moth? ” The young man had frowned. “I beg your finest pardon?”

“A moth, yes,” said Cyrus. “Have you ever killed one?”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“They have actual bodies,” Cyrus went on. “Wings and legs and eyes and antennae. Yet you need hardly touch them to kill them. The lightest pressure and they turn to dust.”

The man regarded him then as if he were a lunatic. “Right. I’ll just be getting on, then—”

“That,” said Cyrus quietly, “is what it feels like. In her presence I am easily killed, returned over and over to dust.”

The soldier had gone stock-still in astonishment, his face wiped of expression. He then dissolved into laughter.

“A moth!” he howled. “A fucking moth!”

He was practically wheezing when he’d taken Cyrus’s hand and shaken it aggressively, as if he were not a king but a kindly idiot who’d struck gold by chance. “You’re a shite poet, are you? Turned to fucking dust?” He called over his shoulder: “Oy, the man’s a legend!”

And his friends cheered, as if he’d said something sensible.

Cyrus had only sighed.

“Ah, you’re all right,” the young man had said, clapping Cyrus on the back. “My name’s Akbar. And all that matters, really, is you love her as much as we do.”

Now, Cyrus briefly closed his eyes.

He stood quietly by as Alizeh spoke to the soldiers, silently praying no one would call him a fucking moth in her presence.

“Will we be seeing you every day?” she was asking. “Do you shelter here, in these buildings?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said one of the women in a breathless rush. “That is, no, Your Majesty. We live up in the mountains, as we always have.”

Another volunteered eagerly: “But we patrol through the night, switching shifts to guard the borders and ensure your security—and anything else you might require, of course—”

They were so eager to speak with her, talking over each other for an opportunity to say something she might find interesting.

Alizeh did not appear bothered by this, nor was she in any way visibly impatient.

She gave each soldier her undivided attention as they spoke, though the impact of direct eye contact with the queen only seemed to damage them more.

“We—we— We’re so—” tried a young woman, who was gazing at Alizeh with a desperate, terrified look. Eventually the poor girl gave up and squeezed her eyes shut. “We’re so happy you’re here, Your Majesty.”

Cyrus, whose gaze had returned to the stream, allowed himself an ironic smile. It was occasionally nice to know he wasn’t the only one who struggled in her presence. He studied the currents as they splashed against river stones, wending their way toward infinity.

“I’m so happy to be here,” returned Alizeh gently. “I’m so happy to be meeting all of you—”

“The general has asked us to work with Princess Firuzeh for the last few months,” offered an older man, apropos of nothing. “We’ve been instructed to help her establish central quarters and additional lodgings here—”

“The general?” Alizeh said, frowning.

“—for there’s still a chance the prince should require a refuge, given the recent political upheaval—”

“The princess is an eccentric lady,” said another, “but she seems well-meaning. Sometimes she reads our fortunes—”

“And we know he hasn’t been crowned king yet, but having the support of Prince Kamran and his mother has given us all great hope—”

“Oh yes, and he’s very close with the general—”

“Forgive me,” said Alizeh. “You’ve mentioned your general twice now. Are you certain you don’t mean your group commander, Soraya?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the older man. “We refer to the general himself.”

Cyrus’s smile grew suddenly more sardonic. He lifted his head to look at the man. “You’re referring to Hazan, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” said the man. To Alizeh, he added, “General Hazan, Your Majesty.”

“Hazan,” Alizeh repeated. She could not hide her astonishment. “Hazan is your general.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said another voice, this time with confusion. “He oversees the northern militia operations.”

“Of course,” said Alizeh, recovering herself. “Who better than Hazan? Forgive me. I didn’t mean to keep you—thank you for answering my questions. I look forward to seeing you all in the days ahead.”

There was another succession of deferential bows;

a series of goodbyes exchanged;

the sounds of retreating boots;

the shuffle of bodies;

the clangor of weaponry;

then, finally, nothing.

Quiet fell upon them like a song.