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

Four

“ARE YOU QUITE READY, THEN? For tomorrow?”

Alizeh was returned to the present by the pinched sound of Deen’s voice, the audible effort he was making to sound neutral.

She studied her friend with burgeoning awareness, blinking softly as she read the worry in his gaze.

It occurred to her—as she noted the flex of his hands, grasped tightly in his lap, then the heaviness in his expression as he studied her eyes—that he’d come to sit with her for no reason but to offer her comfort.

It was a gesture both small and great, and the kindness was so unexpected that a carefully held parapet inside her gave way. Fear and anguish stormed her heart.

Half the royal gossip these days was speculation over what Alizeh might’ve done to make the king disappear.

Many inches in the local papers had been dedicated to claims he was suffering from a terminal case of regret.

After all, the arrival of the Jinn queen in Tulan had caused an enormous disturbance not merely for the nation but for the world at large.

With so many public revisions to the wedding date, numerous wagers had been made that the king might simply jilt her at the altar, and few seemed to think less of him for it.

The truth was, Alizeh had begun to share their doubts.

“No,” she breathed in response, hardly daring to enunciate the word. Then, even more quietly: “I’m afraid Cyrus won’t show.”

The apothecarist sighed, unsurprised, though his brow furrowed more deeply. “You still haven’t seen him?”

Alizeh looked both ways before shaking her head. “He won’t let me near him.”

Despite the unbreakable bind of the blood oath, she couldn’t help but wonder whether Cyrus had changed his mind about her altogether.

She knew it made no logical sense to feel uncertain, for Cyrus was physically incapable of going back on his word, but she couldn’t account for his absence nor his many delays, and Hazan had offered little clarity on the matter.

He’d only assured her that Cyrus would make it to the altar tomorrow.

He’d sworn it.

But then, he’d sworn this every other day as well.

Alizeh had turned recent events over and over in her mind, desperate to draw a line from cause to consequence.

The first night of the blood oath Alizeh had refused to leave Cyrus’s side.

She’d been sleeping in a chair in the guest room, watching over him so he might suffer less in the wake of their fresh bond.

At dawn she’d been startled awake by the sound of him screaming and she’d rushed to help.

They’d shared what she’d felt was a supremely tender moment before he’d finally succumbed, once more, to sleep—so she was taken entirely by surprise when his eyes alighted upon her in the glare of day and he’d all but lost his head.

Cyrus had erupted with feeling, backing away from her as if she’d brandished a sword. He’d promptly banished her from his room. Alizeh had been stricken.

“But I don’t want to leave you,” she’d said. “Please, let me stay—”

“I want nothing from you,” he’d cried desperately. “Get out! Get out—”

“I only want to help you,” she said, moving toward him in anguish.

“ No ,” he said, his eyes glazed with fever. “Get away from me—Leave me alone—”

She’d shaken her head, fighting back tears. “I won’t abandon you. I won’t neglect you in this state—”

“I want nothing from you but what I’m owed!” he shouted at her. “Get away from me—”

“What’s happening?” she said, her heart hammering. Everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong. She couldn’t fathom what he’d meant by what I’m owed .

Did he mean her vow to marry him?

Or her promise to kill him?

How had so much changed in so short a time? It was clear enough that he despised the very sight of her, and she could only imagine he was angry with her because of what she’d done to him—what she’d forced him to become—

But her instincts screamed something was amiss.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she’d said, reaching for him without thinking.

He tore away from her, tangling in the sheets, nearly falling off the bed. “Stop,” he said. “ Stop —”

“Cyrus—”

“You offer me nothing,” he said furiously. “I want nothing from you except what I’m owed—”

She felt suddenly panicked. “Please—”

“ GET OUT ,” he’d cried.

Alizeh, a sob caught in her throat, had practically flown from the room.

There’d been a great deal to occupy her time, of course.

There was the small matter of a wedding to plan and travel arrangements to be made.

She’d let herself into Cyrus’s rooms and easily retrieved her Book of Arya from his locked cabinets, which she’d been poring over as she tried to imagine the post-wedding trek to the legendary mountains.

The wedding itself was already so delayed that she couldn’t bear the thought of putting off the greater journey any longer.

She’d told Hazan she wanted to leave for Ardunia the very morning after the wedding, and she could only hope the plan wouldn’t change once again.

She’d grown rather desperate to get her magic.

To be useful. To do something more than languish in this misery.

She’d grown desperate, full stop.

Day after day she tried to reach Cyrus, overcoming her honor to beg at his door, beseeching Hazan to let her help him—

All to no avail.

Instead, Alizeh had been kept busy and had kept herself busy—but never enough to silence her fears.

Cyrus, she knew, was suffering terribly in her absence.

The fact that he’d chosen literal agony in lieu of her company was perhaps the greatest injury her pride had ever sustained, and in the end, Alizeh had tired of everything.

She hadn’t the stomach even to see her friends.

She was angry with Hazan. She’d grown tired of Kamran’s derision; she’d tired even of Huda, who disagreed with Kamran on nearly everything save the subject of Cyrus. Omid, whose company she might’ve welcomed, was asleep. And Deen—

She stiffened at the sound of rustling paper. Alizeh emerged slowly from her reverie.

Deen had unfolded the square of parchment clipped to his sweater, then unclasped the glasses from his collar and hooked them around his ears. “I think I may have a prescription for your problems,” he said abstractedly. “If I may be so bold as to present it for your consideration.”

Alizeh sat at attention. “A prescription?” she echoed.

“Yes,” he said.

“You mean like poison?”

“What? No—”

“Some kind of potion?” She frowned, lowering her voice. “Deen, you should know that the pain of a blood oath cannot be remedied with tonics—”

“What?” he said again. “No, I know that—”

She craned her neck to peer at his paper. “What is it, then?”

“ This? ” He leaned away from her, then looked at the page he was holding. “This is an order for a supply of new beakers I forgot to place this morning.” He shook his head, refolding the paper. “I’d pinned it to my sweater and still I forgot to send it in.”

Alizeh sank back in her seat. “Oh.”

“No,” he said briskly. “The solution to your problem sits squarely in my mind. I’ve no need of writing it down.”

“ Oh. ”

He carefully affixed the folded parchment once more to its paper clip and said, “You must go to him.”

Alizeh, who’d been holding taut in anticipation, felt herself deflate in disappointment.

She cast a weary glance at her friend.

“I’ve already tried that,” she said, turning her gaze to her hands, which were still catching petals. Then, as quiet as she could make her voice: “Over and over I’ve tried. It’s made not a bit of difference. He’s been painfully clear he doesn’t wish to see me.”

“My dear,” said Deen, pushing the slim pair of spectacles down his nose to peer at her. “When a man is on fire you don’t ask permission to extinguish him. I gather you will find your peace only once you’ve broken down his door.”