Page 9 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

Nine

“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU wearing?”

This was how Hazan greeted him on the morning of his wedding day. Cyrus had opened the door at the Jinn’s resonant knock and stepped aside now so that he might enter Alizeh’s rooms.

Alizeh.

Heaven help him. It was an exercise of strength simply to hold her name in his mind.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Hazan boomed, shutting the door loudly behind him. The Jinn himself was dressed magnificently, fairly illuminated in his gilded attire. His embellished cape whipped around his ankles as he began to search the space. “And where’s the queen?”

“She’s putting on her gown,” said Cyrus, the uneven sound of his own voice embarrassing him. “Huda is with her in the other room. Assisting.”

“Ah,” said Hazan, falling back. He stood in place awkwardly a moment, then turned his irritation upon Cyrus. “Well, go on then. I’ll wait.”

“For what?”

Hazan went still, stupefied. “ For what? You’re due to meet the Diviners in twenty minutes, you fool. Put on your blasted clothes—”

“I am wearing my clothes,” he said.

“Your wedding clothes,” Hazan clarified, as if he were speaking to an idiot. “Surely the queen has gifted you the garments she made for you by hand? It’s an extraordinary ensemble. You should be so lucky—”

“Yes,” said Cyrus, struggling to hold the facade of his indifference. He was remembering the catch of her voice, the liquid emotion in her eyes. “She did gift them to me.”

Hazan’s expression went cold. His voice was colder when he repeated, flatly: “She did.”

“Yes.”

“Cyrus, upon my honor, if you continue on in this infuriating manner I might kill you before the queen ever has a chance—”

“Enough,” said Cyrus, losing patience. The mere touch of fabric against his skin was causing him pain.

He’d hardly recovered from the days of abuse before he was expected to survive all these new agonies, and even now he struggled to hold steady despite the short distance separating him from Alizeh.

He ached to be near her. His body vibrated with the demand to draw closer to her.

He’d lost track of the ways this world had sought to torture him. “I’m tired, Hazan. Leave me be.”

“You’re tired ?” Hazan boggled. “You’re tired ?”

“Yes.”

“And do you expect me to sympathize?” Hazan nearly shouted, then, glancing down the hall, lowered his voice to a hiss.

“I’ve already gone against my better judgment and defended too many of your ridiculous choices—incurring the ire and disappointment of my queen in the process.

This is a bridge too far. You can’t be serious attending your own wedding in these clothes.

Have you lost your mind? You’re the fucking king—and you look like a common mourner! ”

Cyrus didn’t have to look down to know what he was wearing, for it was a variation on what he was always wearing: a black sweater, black trousers, black boots.

He would don a black cloak before leaving for the ceremony.

His clothes were precisely tailored, heavy with quality.

He was immaculately groomed; shaved and scented.

He did not feel his appearance was any kind of blatant disrespect.

Certainly, he did not think he presented as a commoner.

It was only that everything he wore was plain; unadorned.

He was perhaps the only king on earth who refused to wear jewelry; who didn’t present himself with an imperious show of luxury.

There was no crown in his hair, no kohl emphasizing his eyes, no ropes of glittering jewels wrapped around his throat.

He wore no chain mail or dragon scales. There were no rings on his fingers—

And there never would be.

His only indulgence was the scabbard at his waist, and the sword sheathed therein, which he wore always.

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” he said to Hazan.

“You’re giving me apoplexy,” said the Jinn. “That you have the nerve even to think you might—”

“All right, we’re coming out!” came Huda’s cheery voice. She popped her coiffed head out the door. “Brace yourself for— Oh , Hazan, you’re here! Look at you! Heavens, but you’re so dashing!”

Hazan appeared to force down a litany of epithets and turned a strained smile upon the miss. He acknowledged her greeting and her compliment with a respectful nod. “You’re looking very well yourself.”

Huda grinned at Hazan, stepping out to join them with a self-conscious twirl of her opulent scarlet dress. “Isn’t it lovely? Alizeh remade one of my gowns—she broke off the rubies from one of her own skirts to embellish it—” Huda paused abruptly, noticing Cyrus then as an afterthought.

“And you,” she said, studying him in dismay. “You look dreadful.”

Cyrus fought a sigh.

“Huda, can I come out now?” Alizeh called.

At the sound of her voice, Cyrus’s heartbeat became erratic.

“Oh! Yes, dear! Let me help with your train—”

Huda rushed back into the room, fabric rustling as she went, and nerves snaked through Cyrus with a force that surprised him.

He clenched his hands, then unclenched them; his pulse was fluttering in his throat.

He couldn’t believe he was nervous. Nervous, when he knew it was all a charade, when he knew it meant nothing—

Alizeh entered the hall and Cyrus nearly made a sound, something rough and desperate.

He did his best to don a neutral aspect, but as she drew forward he lost control of his defenses; he was losing the strength even to stand.

Indeed, the more he saw of her the more paralyzed he became, or else he might’ve backed away in self-defense.

He could not describe her beauty.

He drank her in with all the refinement of an idiot, rendered so thick with awe he almost regretted his black uniform.

Her gown was an extraordinary accomplishment of tulle and diamonds done in an uncommon shade of ice blue; the pigment was so pale it tricked the mind, presenting as nearly white.

He’d seen the garment hanging in her window earlier and had given it little consideration; but seeing it now, fitted to her body—

The subtle hue brilliantly complemented her eyes, which shone almost silver through the sheer, cascading, floor-length veil artfully draped over her head and face.

She was ethereal, glittering softly as she drew nearer the light canting in through the windows.

Cyrus felt as if he’d sighted the stars for the first time, irrevocably changed in the aftermath of perceiving the infinite universe.

He was hardly aware of the others, of their ebullient exclamations.

Hazan had said something, certainly. Huda was clapping her hands together in delight.

But Cyrus couldn’t hear anything beyond the pounding of his own heart, and only then did he realize she was looking at him.

At him.

Waiting for him to speak.

Now he panicked. His mind had blanked; he could think of nothing to say that made an ounce of sense.

The blood oath had left him ruined .

In the aftermath of their bond, his volcanic feelings for Alizeh had heightened to a dangerous pitch; his nightmares had ceased only for daylight to deliver him fresh degradations.

Now, joined to her like a tributary, he could all but feel the essence of her shifting in his veins.

When she moved, he fought to remain still; when she breathed, he wanted to draw breath.

Every aspect of him was now tuned precisely to her; and like a compass searching for true north, he felt frenzied when she was out of sight.

In her absence he felt pushed to the very edge of lunacy; in her presence he felt unhinged.

The mere sight of her sent his pulse pounding with a speed that scared him.

He nearly took her in his arms then; nearly drowned in the delusion; very nearly allowed himself, for the space of a breath, to believe she was his.

His bride.

His wife.

It would be simpler for him to lay down and die for her than to try to convey the enormity of all that he felt in her presence.

So, instead, he said nothing.

A sharp knock startled him from this reverie, and he was grateful for the interruption, for the reprieve needed to form a coherent thought, just until the door opened to reveal the remaining cadre of her companions: Deen and Omid and Kamran stormed into the room in joyous exultation, each buffed and polished to their limits.

No one spared Cyrus a glance.

It was Alizeh who rightly demanded every ounce of attention, who’d looked upon them all as if she’d been delivered to this world from a realm beyond their reach.

Omid audibly cried. Deen, inaudibly, averted his eyes.

It was the prince who pushed imperiously through the knot of their gathered bodies, taking Alizeh by the hands so he might better admire her. “You are magnificent,” he said, bowing to kiss her knuckles. “Your beauty is unequaled. Unparalleled—”

“Indeed,” said Hazan curtly, his eyes cutting to Cyrus. “You are exquisite, Your Majesty.”

Cyrus retreated without thinking, his heart beating like a fist in his chest. He felt his heels knock against the baseboard when he reached the wall, his hands searching for purchase. He sensed Hazan’s eyes burning holes into his head and yet, somehow, he’d also gone numb.

How easily the prince had touched her.

How easily he’d taken her hands, touched his lips to her skin. How easily they fit together in their finery.

Cyrus would look like a demon standing beside her.

“It’s true,” said Huda, her eyes swimming. “It’s all true. You look like an angel.”

Angel.

“We shall consider this a practice run, shall we not?” said Kamran, rapturous.

“I realize it’s a morbid affair, but you need not look so grim when I am at your disposal.

” His smile widened, dispensing charm. “I promise to rescue you from every indignity. One day you and I shall look back on this ugly day as a necessary evil—”

“Shall we get on, then?” Hazan cleared his throat. “The Diviners are waiting to escort you to the temple, Your Majesty. They say the crowd has grown impatient.”

“Yes, of course,” said Alizeh. Then, gently extracting herself from the prince, she moved a step toward Cyrus, who’d somehow schooled his expression into disinterest, as if he didn’t need the wall behind him for support.

“Are you ready?” she said to him.

Cyrus merely nodded.

It was a miracle that he managed to remain calm, that he hadn’t succumbed to a need to grab the prince by the throat, sever his spine, and toss him, bodily, from a turret.

No, these exchanges made for a bracing reminder: Alizeh was marrying Cyrus for his empire and nothing else.

Her acts of kindness toward him were no doubt misguided side effects of her compassionate spirit.

She, the prophesied savior of an entire civilization—and he, servant to the devil and sentenced to death.

He was not her equal; she would never belong to him.

Only upon his death would Alizeh give herself, body and soul, to another, and that man—her true betrothed—was standing before them.

The prince of Ardunia felt free to put his hands on her with a familiarity that spoke to a history.

Cyrus was no fool. It was clear from the possessive way Kamran touched her: he had touched her before, and she had welcomed it.

“Let me offer you my arm,” said the prince, tucking her hand into his elbow. “I’d be honored to escort you out.”

“ No ,” said Alizeh sharply, drawing away from him. Then, composing herself, “That is, thank you for the offer, but I think I should stay with the king—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Cyrus softly, retreating farther from her reach, distancing himself into dust. “Pray don’t think of me at all.”

“Wait— Cyrus—”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Your Majesty,” said Hazan, moving to stand beside the southern king.

“It’s not customary, after all, for the bride to enter with the groom.

You’ll be elevated before the crowd in turns, in any case; I’ll ensure we remain close behind.

The king will cast himself into the sky to join you. ”

Cyrus felt Alizeh send him a last, anguished look before she relented, but it was only as the prince escorted her out the door that he finally lifted his head to watch her leave.

The others soon trailed after her, each casting curious looks in his direction, but Cyrus kept his eyes on Alizeh alone.

He called upon reserves of forbearance as she moved out of sight, but the pain of her departure was explosive and immediate, and he reached for the wall as he bore the first lash of agony.

Hazan gathered the dark cloak draped upon the arm of nearby chair and shoved the king forward with a hearty slap on the back. Cyrus’s legs began to work all on their own in an act of defiance, or perhaps self-preservation.

“Hazan,” said Cyrus, the word a ragged breath. He moved forward blindly, as if he were walking toward his own execution. “You don’t understand—”

“Lord knows I wish I didn’t,” he said darkly, releasing a long-suffering sigh. His preternatural strength allowed him to easily drag the king along by the arm. “It’s rather unfortunate for all of us that I do.”