Omid started crying.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he choked out. “Honest, I never would’ve killed her— I was just— I was so hungry I couldn’t think clear—”

  Huda shifted her chair closer to the boy and pulled him against her, smoothing his hair and making shushing sounds as he wept. “It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “She forgave you already, didn’t she?”

  “She showed me mercy, miss”—he lifted his head, eyes bloodshot as he sniffled—“when I didn’t deserve—”

  “Pull yourself together,” Deen hissed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “That’s a bit harsh—”

  Kamran watched this strange scene from a cold distance; he felt frozen in his seat, astonished by his own fear, his pulse racing as he was struck by another blow of memory.

  His grandfather had tried to warn him.

  If the girl were to claim her place as the queen of her people, it is possible, even with the brace of the Fire Accords, that an entire race would pledge their allegiance to her on the basis of an ancient loyalty alone . . . The Jinn of Ardunia would form an army; the remaining civilians would riot. An uprising would wreak havoc across the land. Peace and security would be demolished for months—years, even—in the pursuit of an impossible dream—

  Hells, he’d been so naive.

  When he first met Alizeh she’d been but a humble snoda, scrubbing floors in his aunt’s grand house, taking beatings from a vile housekeeper. She’d been so vulnerable and small; Kamran had been unable to imagine her beyond the powerless servant girl she first appeared to be. He’d discovered, later—when she’d dispatched the assailants his own grandfather had sent to kill her—that she was perfectly able to defend herself. Still, she possessed no connections, no wealth, no obvious interest in recognition. She lived in the shadows.

  That someone in her position had said no to his power, his wealth, his crown—that she’d continued to refuse him even after they’d made a clear physical connection, the embers of which still burned within him—

  It had made no sense.

  There exists no bridge between our lives, she’d said. No path that connects our worlds.

  He’d been a fool.

  In a matter of days she’d found a kingdom to crown her, the people to support her. Already her ascent had inspired the demise of his grandfather, had devastated his life. She’d strengthened as he’d been shattered, and now she would shake the foundations of his empire, too.

  What would happen to his kingdom—to his armies—if the Ardunian Jinn swore their allegiance to a foreign sovereign?

  He dragged a hand down his mouth. They’d be torn apart.

  All this ran through his mind in moments, and he was returned to the present by the sound of a terrible whimper. Sarra had begun to pace.

  “Heaven help us,” she cried. “If they find out she’s been injured—”

  “Yes.” Hazan had sobered a great deal. “This is grim, indeed.”

  “And you say you don’t even know where she is? She’s injured and gone? If she dies—”

  “She won’t die,” Hazan said harshly.

  “Cyrus sent her off on the back of a dragon,” said Kamran. “The king is the only one who knows where she went, and as he is currently indisposed, we have no way of knowing what he did with her.”

  At that, Sarra regained a flicker of her edge, her anger. “So she did not fall off a cliff and disappear. My son sent the injured girl away.”

  Kamran narrowed his eyes at her tone. “Indeed.”

  “And yet you say you have no way of knowing what he did with her? Is your imagination truly so colorless?”

  “I am not a mind reader, ma’am.”

  “And you,” she said to Hazan. “What of you? Can you envisage no other explanation for his actions?”

  Hazan stared at her with renewed concern. “You think he used dark magic on her? Or perhaps poisoned her?”

  Sarra looked almost disappointed in Hazan then, shaking her head as she said, “Your every theory assumes as fact that he intends her harm. You’ve done a poor character study of my son.”

  “I disagree,” Hazan replied, his concern displaced by anger. “King Cyrus has proven nothing but violent, aggressive, murderous, and manipulative. In a single night he slaughtered the king of Ardunia and an entire halo of Diviners, and this isn’t even mentioning the destruction he left in his wake, having half destroyed one of the oldest palaces in history by allowing a dragon to—”

  “Yes, all right,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose you’re not wrong to draw such conclusions. I confess, at first, I thought he meant to hurt the girl as well. But I no longer believe he’d cause her suffering. Not on purpose, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” Kamran sharpened. “How can you be sure?”

  Sarra opened her mouth to respond, then appeared to think better of it, saying only: “Have you never seen the way he looks at her?”

  “No,” he said, his mood darkening. “In fact I have not.”

  She offered a brittle smile. “Well. I suppose you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sarra looked at Kamran then as if he were not the impending heir to the largest empire on earth but an idiot child. “I’d bet my life,” she said, turning her eyes to Hazan, “that he’s entrusted one of his blasted dragons to help her. If the girl were badly injured, there’s only one place he’d—”

  “The Diviners,” Hazan said. “Of course.”

  “Really?” Huda frowned. “You really think he was trying to help her?”

  Omid rubbed at his tearstained cheeks. “I was wondering, miss, why he was hugging her so much. Seemed like an awful lot of hugging for people who don’t like each other.”

  “He was hugging her?” Huda’s eyes went wide.

  “He was holding her,” Deen corrected. “Probably to keep her from falling off the dragon. Though”—he hesitated—“I suppose if he did mean for her to die, he could’ve simply let her tumble into the ocean?”

  Kamran felt himself growing angry, and he couldn’t articulate why. He didn’t realize that what he felt was a warped jealousy, his mind recoiling from the idea that he’d been the one to hurt her, that Cyrus might’ve been the one to save her. And it was with undiluted venom that he said, “If his intention was to help her, why send her off alone? Why not deliver her to the Diviners himself?”

  Omid made a face. “And why did he ask her to marry him if all he wanted was to kill her?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Huda, “but my parents have been married nearly thirty years and Mother is all the time going on about how much she’d like to kill Father, and in fact I worry, sometimes, that he doesn’t seem to take her seriously—”

  Kamran leaned forward, insisting: “It does not stand to reason. The king, too, was injured—had they gone to the Diviners, he might’ve received care for his own wounds. It makes more sense that he might’ve cursed her, binding her to the dragon before sending her off into the unknown, all so that we might never find her—”

  “He’s not allowed to set foot in the temple,” said Sarra, her words dripping with condescension. “Cyrus is forbidden even from walking the grounds. Ever since he murdered my husband, the Diviners have refused him entrance.”

  Kamran stiffened.

  It was the casual way she stated the horrifying fact that cast a brief pall over the room, and it was the reminder they all needed: the truth of who King Cyrus really was, how blackened was his soul. Kamran couldn’t believe Alizeh would consider marrying such a criminal. If she was so desperate for a crown, why hadn’t she appealed to him instead? He’d all but offered for her—and she’d chosen to align herself with this animal?

  Even now, even with his head and heart muddled beyond reason, Kamran experienced a painful thrill at the thought of appealing to her, convincing her to join forces with him. In fact, the more he learned of her influence, the more he realized that an understanding between them would forestall his fears of upheaval in the Ardunian empire; if a Jinn queen and Clay king could join peacefully, perhaps the people, too, could live in harmony.

  The idea took root inside him.

  His interest in her would no longer be labeled impractical or emotional; marrying her would instead prove the perfect hedge against rebellion. He felt certain even his grandfather would’ve been convinced, for it wouldn’t be a match born of base desire but a considered alliance made for the good of the people.

  Something like relief began to expand in his chest.

  Perhaps this was what the Diviners had meant for him to accomplish; perhaps proving his worth as king was bound up in the search for his queen. Perhaps the magic in his body had altered because he was not meant to be the sole ruler of Ardunia.

  He felt a purifying clarity then, a feeling of ease cleansing weeks of tension. Kamran had been lost and confused, confounded by grief, by the machinations of Zahhak, the demands of the Diviners.

  Now he understood.

  His presence here, in this godforsaken empire, became suddenly tolerable. He would find a way to stay. He needed to speak with Alizeh at the first opportunity and make his intentions clear. After all, he’d never made her any formal offer. Surely such a proposal would appeal to her now; surely she would see the advantages of such a union—and would be sensible enough to leave this hellscape by his side, toward a future where they could both have exactly what they wanted.

  “But—he’s the king,” said Huda, breaking the silence and his reverie. “The Diviners are obligated to serve the rightful sovereign.” She looked around. “Aren’t they?”

  “They do as they please.”

  Kamran felt a chill pierce the room, his instincts awakening in a blaze of scorn for that voice. That face.

  Softly, Omid screamed.

  King Cyrus stood in front of the closed door, his wretched, haggard, and bloodied appearance doing nothing to diminish the blue blaze of his eyes. How he’d reanimated so quickly, Kamran couldn’t imagine; though he supposed it had something to do with the devil. Black magic likely ran through the beast’s veins. Perhaps he couldn’t be killed so long as he was allied with Iblees. Perhaps that was the bargain he’d made.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” said Cyrus quietly, “you’re wrong. Now leave my home before I rip you apart with my bare hands.”

  Sixteen

  “THAT’S NO WAY TO SPEAK to our guests,” said his mother, her composure unraveling. Her eyes darted back and forth between him and the foul prince, and she moved briskly to the side of the room, just out of reach.

  As if he would hurt her.

  No matter her many steely performances, it had always been clear to Cyrus that his mother was afraid of him. Afraid of her own son. When this knowledge wasn’t driving a stake through his heart, it made him want to put his head through a wall. He understood her reasons, of course, but understanding did little to diminish the pain. It was no easy feat for him to compartmentalize as he did, living every day with the knowledge that his mother wanted him dead.

  “They’ve come for the wedding,” she was saying. “You must invite them to stay at least through the Wintrose Festival.”

  “You celebrate Wintrose here, as well?” Deen perked up. “When I was a boy it was always my favorite time of the year.”

  “They will not be staying,” Cyrus said thunderously. “There will be no festival—”

  “When my parents were alive, we’d sleep outside in the rose drifts,” Omid added dreamily. “The petals piled three feet high. Smelled like heaven.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Huda. “My sisters and I would often travel to the rose fields in the third week of the festival—when the blooms are most fragrant—we’d pack a basket and steal away from Mother, and they’d actually be nice to me—”

  “What is wrong with you people?” Cyrus said angrily. His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. “Get. Out.”

  “Forgive me,” came a solemn voice. “But I will be leaving these premises under two conditions only: with my queen or with your head, and not a moment sooner.”

  This brazen pronouncement came from the young man adjacent to the prince, who’d risen to his feet only to pin Cyrus with a threatening glare. In response, the king narrowed his eyes.

  This, of course, was Hazan. The one Alizeh had called her friend.

  Cyrus spared a moment to look carefully at the unwelcome visitor, realizing now that this was a character more important than he once considered. The densely freckled face; the trio of crystal daggers slung from a belt at his waist. His posture, too, was of interest: he affected a casual stance, but Cyrus was not fooled. He was like a panther in wait; if provoked, the young man would certainly attempt to kill him.

  “More to the point: how are you awake so soon?” Hazan pressed on. “You were practically dead when I delivered you inside, and that was just over an hour ago.”

  “And we were promised breakfast,” added the child.

  “Yes.” Cyrus swallowed, hating the reminder that he’d been carried inside by one of these imbeciles. “I heard I owe you my gratitude.”

  Hazan stared at him.

  Cyrus stared back.

  The Jinn crossed his arms. “Are you not going to thank me, then?”

  “No.”

  Hazan did not laugh, though a shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

  Softly, Cyrus said, “Now get out of my sight.”

  “Not without my queen.”

  “She is not beholden to you,” Cyrus replied. “And you are not welcome here.”

  “You vile creature.” The prince stood slowly from the table. “You would hold her here against her will?”

  A flicker of amusement briefly animated Cyrus’s eyes, and he turned, with pleasure, to face the idiot. “She is not here against her will. She has chosen to stay.”

  “That’s a lie!” Kamran cried.

  “Believe what you like,” said Cyrus, his chest spasming suddenly as he spoke. He felt for the wall behind him and, finding purchase, leaned his back against its support. He was fighting to stay awake, hating the weakness in his limbs, the tortured emotion roiling in his gut. Like intermittent electrocutions, he was experiencing flashes of sensation from his nightmare: the sound of her crying out; the sight of her washing his body; the taste of her, God, the taste of her—

  It was astonishing to him that he stood now on his own feet, alive and awake. He’d never before been able to stir himself from his nightmares; had he known such a thing was possible, he might’ve tried harder, sooner. That he’d awoken in his bed with a violent start—the sight of so many faces swarming around him like amorphous ghouls—was nothing short of a miracle.

  It had been both touching and perplexing to see members of his staff gathered around him in concern, and though the king was mystified by their attentions, he’d thanked them for their care before swinging unsteadily upright. There was a brief outcry as they insisted he return to bed, but when he refused—falsely claiming his health was in perfect order—they took that as permission to pelt him with questions. They’d wanted to know what, precisely, had happened to him, what was going on, who the guests were, and—

  “Was it really all for show, sire? Such a strange morning—”

  “—tried to catch an arrow in your hand, sire? Might I be so bold as to ask why?”

  “I once heard of a king who tried to catch a dagger between his teeth! He never said a word after that—”

  “Shame you were injured, sire, terrible luck—”

  “—my whole life, never dreamed I’d see Simorgh—”

  “Heavens, their prince is frightful handsome, isn’t he? It’ll be work just to keep the maids from swooning at the sight of him—”

  “Should we start preparing rooms, sire?”

  “Cook will want to know—”

  “What a spectacle it was! We’re ever so grateful!”

  “—be fighting each other for the chance to serve him, that’s for certain!”

  “Simorgh’s children, too! I’ve still got gooseflesh, sire, look—”

  “If I may—where has your bride gone, sire? She was out even earlier than the servants this morning—”

  “Is it true they’ve come for peace talks? Do you imagine things will be different—”

  “—then they just flew away! Five of them—in a shot of light!”

  “Sire?”

  “Sire?”

  “Where are you going, sire?”

  “Oh, sire, you really shouldn’t—”

  It had been an effort, politely evading their questions while synthesizing the pertinent revelations. How Kamran’s unworthy team had managed to acquire, as transportation, the legendary Simorgh and her family was truly a wonder, but the knowledge was a gift, too, for it was comforting to know that only a literal miracle had allowed the Ardunians to breach their borders.

  Cyrus had thanked his staff once more, promising answers before the end of the day. His injured hand and leg, he’d noticed, had been washed and bound; the cool salve under his bandages offering him considerable relief. He’d meant to tend to these wounds straightaway with magic, but when the butler informed him that his mother was breakfasting with the foreigners in the dining room, he knew his injuries would have to wait.

  Now Cyrus felt himself sag a little more against the priceless wall paneling, its fabric woven with gold and lotus silk, a gift received nearly a hundred years ago from the Shon empire. He felt as if his brain was lurching in his skull, as if he were surviving a succession of small heart attacks.

  “If you do not leave here of your own volition,” he said with difficulty, “I will have you all forcibly removed. Should any of you refuse removal, you’ll be thrown in the dungeons, to be executed shortly thereafter. You will, however, be allowed to choose your preferred method of execution—”

  “Are you such a coward,” interrupted the prince, “that you would leave my death to another? Are you so afraid to fight me yourself?”