No, slight correction: she’d not use such vulgar language.

  She’d more likely call him a scoundrel, a charlatan, a common miscreant. The thought almost made him smile before it broke him.

  The dam shattered.

  Pain came for him in a brutal siege, radiating from his core until his mind was forced to submit to an invasion of memory. He was bombarded by scenes of the last few hours, scenes he wished he might banish forever from his history, to no avail: Cyrus could think of nothing now but her small hand at his brow, the home of her arms as she’d held him, the delicious agony of her skin against his face. His throat worked at the remembered feel of her, how he’d touched her in his delirium, drawn the intoxicating scent of her into his head, where it would live, forever, with the whisper of her voice as she’d cried. Her tears had fallen down his cheeks as she’d repeated his name, over and over, begging him to wake. He clenched his fists.

  He couldn’t believe he’d told her the truth.

  This was still inconceivable to him, that he’d confessed to dreaming of her night after night; that for eight agonizing months he’d known the taste, the heat, the silk of her in his sleep. Nothing more than an attack of madness could’ve driven him to such a state. He’d been painfully fatigued, still under the fading influence of dark magic, his mind and body not fully recovered from the devil’s most recent assaults. It was the only excuse he had, that he’d been broken—his locks unbolted by shock, his weak body pushed over the edge by her tenderness. At any other hour in his life he’d have been stronger. He’d have walked away, sealed his mouth—he’d have died before disgracing himself with a pitiful exhibition of his own desire.

  Hells, he’d known better.

  Eight months ago, Iblees had planted Alizeh in his head on purpose, had built in Cyrus’s mind a narrative that left him nearly powerless before her. No doubt the devil had hoped to use her to break him—and Cyrus had fallen into this obvious, avoidable trap.

  He struggled then to breathe.

  Something had irrevocably changed inside him tonight, and he feared for who he’d become in the aftermath. Gone was his mask, his veneer of indifference, his wilting ability to withstand her proximity with an acerbic wit and a wealth of contempt. From the moment of their first encounter Cyrus had patched the myriad holes in his chest with the imagined evidence of her evil; she was, after all, the chosen bride of the devil—certainly this was reason to believe she was corrupt and dishonorable. He assumed she’d claimed the devil as a friend, that she was complicit in the scheme to force herself upon his empire. He’d held this conviction to his heart even as his doubts about her had been swiftly disproven, each reveal of her innocence casting devastating cracks in his armor. That her character was faultless—that she’d made no bargain with the devil—that she was just as haunted by Iblees as he was—

  This was worse, infinitely worse.

  Her ultimate show of compassion toward him had been his undoing, for this, layered upon all else, had proven she was every inch the angelic figure he’d cherished in his dreams. Not only had he been horribly wrong about her, he’d treated her cruelly. He knew now that she was so far above him he wasn’t even worthy of standing in her shadow. Certainly he had no right to desire anything from her.

  He came to a sudden halt then, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  All this time he’d been able to endure the agony of her presence only because he’d braced himself with hatred; knowing now the depth of his error, how could he bear to be close to her again? How would he even bear to look upon her face when he no longer possessed the defenses necessary to shield his pathetic heart?

  He dragged frozen hands down his face, reminding himself to remain composed—that she could still see him. He felt he might combust if he did not decompress, and yet: How was he meant to deal with his roiling mind while she watched him?

  He’d hardly paid attention to his surroundings these last many minutes and realized only now, upon looking up, that he stood before an illuminated copse of trees at the edge of Tulan’s largest salt flat. It was haunting in this vast expanse, and he was more aware than ever that he and Alizeh stood alone under this dome of darkness, their movements followed by the stars. A feverish part of him dared to imagine her there in the dark, watching him.

  God, he’d wanted her.

  He’d wanted her with an all-consuming thirst, with the desperation of a man waiting to die. No doubt the devil had been delighted to see him so debased. This sobering thought drove the heat from his head at once, and in its absence Cyrus felt cold and stupid.

  Numb.

  If only he could go back to hating her, mistrusting her—everything would be safer. If, instead, he allowed himself to carry on in this desperate manner, the Book of Arya would be the least of his troubles. He might be driven to kill a man just to improve her view out a window. He might renege on the entire deal, just as the devil desired.

  Oh, he would be sorry then.

  Cyrus was in danger of losing control. Alizeh had done him a mercy by walking away, by putting an end to the dawn of what might’ve destroyed him. He could never again allow himself to get so close to her. It was ludicrous even to entertain the idea that she felt something for him. Even now she followed him only because she didn’t trust him; she had no idea she was attempting to accompany him tonight on a trek into hell, where a dark master impatiently awaited his arrival.

  No. His was a blighted soul.

  Watching her address a desperate, devoted crowd of thousands—all ready and willing to die for her—had driven home this final blow.

  He would always be the villain in her story.

  Many months ago he’d made peace with the sacrifice his life was meant to be, for it was the only way he’d been able to fulfill the tasks set before him. For Cyrus, hoping for anything more than death was a treacherous game, one that would end only in tragedy. He had no choice but to relegate his impossible dreams to the dusty bins of childhood.

  Besides, the devil was waiting.

  With that final, bitter thought—he vanished.

  Four

  MELT THE ICE IN SALT

  BRAID THE THRONES AT SEA

  IN THIS WOVEN KINGDOM

  CLAY AND FIRE SHALL BE

  Over and over these words rang through Kamran’s mind. He was thinking of the mysterious book he’d discovered in Alizeh’s carpetbag, its cryptic inscription having since seared into his memory. It was the last two lines that plagued him.

  Woven kingdoms, clay and fire—

  Despite everything, Hazan had managed to plant the seed of a dangerous idea in his head: that Alizeh might yet be destined to marry him. Kamran was wracked by indecision as regarded Alizeh, for there was so much he still didn’t understand, his heart and mind hopelessly knotted by the betrayals she’d left for him to untangle. And yet—his memories of her remained so ardent he struggled to think rationally where she was concerned. In defiance of his doubts, the thought of having her as his queen was so tempting he couldn’t help but indulge the fantasy. He’d never met another young woman to equal her, not in beauty or composure, in elegance or intelligence. It hadn’t been entirely surprising to Kamran that the enchanting, unassuming snoda had turned out to be the long-lost heir to an ancient kingdom. There had always been something regal about her—a dignity in her bearing—

  A snort of laughter interrupted his thoughts, and Kamran turned irritably toward the sound, his mood darkening as he watched Miss Huda fail to get ahold of herself. The young miss clapped a hand to her chest as she chortled, her mouth still half-full as she said, gasping, “Oh my goodness, I’m so tired I could die.”

  It was impossible then not to compare the two women in his mind. Miss Huda was the antithesis of Alizeh, unpolished and unrestrained. One had been brought up to be queen, the other to be tolerated; and yet Alizeh had been raised in relative poverty, Miss Huda in an aristocratic home. The differences between them were vast, and though both young women had suffered negligence, only one had emerged with self-possession and grace. Kamran flinched as the sound of another snort pierced the quiet, his expression growing only more dour.

  “Oh, I daresay Tulan is a horrid place,” she was saying. “I doubt anywhere in the world could measure up to the beauty of Ardunia—”

  Something about the sound of her voice bothered him, burrowed under his skin. He gave his head a sharp shake, as if to dislodge her from his mind. He didn’t want to think on the many irritations of Miss Huda.

  Instead, he sunk his hands into the soft, dense silk of Simorgh’s plumage, taking comfort in her nearness. The legendary bird had come to Kamran’s aid in deference to Zaal, who’d bequeathed his grandson a single, enchanted feather in his will. The plume was meant to summon the magical creature only in a moment of great and devouring need, and Kamran—having been nearly stripped of his crown by Zahhak, the defense minister, then locked in the tower dungeon by the Diviners—had been in dire straits indeed. Still, he didn’t know the parameters of the arrangement. Would Simorgh remain with him for some undetermined length of time? Or would she assist him with this single journey only, flying off again as soon as they touched ground?

  Once again, his thoughts lurched back to uncertainty.

  Kamran was supposed to use this journey to prove himself a worthy inheritor of his own throne—the Diviners had said as much—yet they’d given him no clear guidelines on how to accomplish the task. He wondered whether Zahhak had worked out where he’d gone; he wondered what the Diviners were doing and saying in his absence. Unless the priests and priestesses intended to stop the defense minister from crowning himself king, there was little time left before Zahhak took control of Ardunia.

  “Actually, I’ve heard Tulan is quite beautiful,” came Deen’s quiet objection. “Several of my vendors are based in the southern empire, and they’ve never had anything but praise for—”

  “Well, naturally,” said Miss Huda, cutting him off. “They’re probably terrified to speak a word against their own land, and who could blame them when they’re governed by such a beastly king—”

  Kamran stiffened at that, his disparate shards of anger coming together in a single, focused blade of hatred.

  In all the disorder of his mind, one thing was absolutely clear:

  He would kill Cyrus.

  Whereas Kamran filled with uncertain dread at the prospect of seeing Alizeh again, he experienced a refreshing flood of adrenaline at the thought of seeing the bastard southern king. High among the many horrors repeating on a loop in Kamran’s mind were the gruesome images of King Zaal’s death, for the scenes had branded forever upon his memories. Over and over he returned to the stomach-churning sound of the sword slicing through his grandfather’s heart. Kamran would never forget the shock, the horror, the ensuing chaos.

  The murderer himself.

  The Ardunian prince was on a mission now, above all else, to right the scales. He would exact retribution for his grandfather’s death or perish in the effort. The brutal king of Tulan would finally be delivered justice. Preferably hacked to pieces, his organs fed to vultures.

  “Kamran.”

  At the sound of his name, the prince nearly startled. He fought to calm his bloodthirsty heart as he turned to face his old minister.

  “I’ve not meant to interrupt,” said Hazan quietly, “as I see you’re preoccupied. But the sun appears to be struggling against the horizon, and I can hear the distant rush of water growing louder, which can only mean—”

  “Yes.”

  By air or sea, the approach to Tulan was distinguished by the din of cascades. Kamran, who’d led many water journeys to this part of the world, was more than familiar with the sound, the roar of which was a hateful reminder that Ardunia had perhaps two more years before they’d need to start rationing water and three years before the crisis overwhelmed the empire entirely. They’d recently had good snowfall and a brief deluge of rain—but Ardunia would require a great deal more than a few days of precipitation if they were to stave off a drought. Tens of millions of people would soon look to him for protection—and one day, under his leadership, they might die of thirst.

  It was yet another crushing problem for which Kamran needed to conjure a solution; yet another blade of fear pressed constantly against his throat. His grandfather, King Zaal, had managed to keep this secret from the people, insisting there was no need to inspire panic when there was time yet to resolve the issue. Only now, as the burden fell upon his shoulders, did Kamran recognize this silence for what it truly was: cowardice.

  Devils above, his grandfather’s failings continued to bludgeon him.

  “By my estimate, we’ll touch ground in roughly thirty minutes,” Hazan was saying. “I’d been hoping to discuss the results of my earlier expedition with you before we arrived. However, if you’d rather wait—”

  “No.” Kamran stiffened, his back straightening. For so many hours they’d been unable to find calm or quiet in the tumult of the flight, and this most essential conversation had been so delayed it was nearly forgotten. Yesterday, as a hedge against possible expulsion from the castle, Kamran had dispatched Hazan to the north of Ardunia, charging him with the task of securing a safe house, where they might one day take shelter, if necessary. “No, let us discuss your discoveries straightaway. You mentioned you saw my mother? In the countryside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  Hazan shook his head even as he said, “Yes.”

  “Where was she? Was she well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you force me to pluck each word of explanation from your mouth like so many blasted splinters? What is the matter with you?”

  “Your mother is a strange woman,” Hazan responded, fighting a smile. “I traveled north per your request and headed directly to the largest township. I figured the local tavern would be the best place to find an unsuspecting farmer willing to exchange his acres for a small mountain of gold—”

  “Yes, very good, Hazan, you went to a tavern and found a farmer. Do you intend to tell me you then went to a butcher and discovered a side of beef?”

  Hazan narrowed his eyes. “If you’re in too dark a temper even to have a simple conversation, declare it now and spare me the desire to knock you off your mount so I might watch, at my leisure, as gravity does the noble work of snapping your neck.”

  For reasons inexplicable to him, these words cheered Kamran slightly. “Is my mood always so obvious to you?”

  “Your mood is obvious to a corpse.”

  The prince looked away as he fought a smile, saying, “Go on, then. You went to a tavern and found a farmer.”

  “No. I found your mother.”

  Kamran lifted his head sharply.

  “She was, by all accounts, awaiting my arrival. The moment I pushed open the door I saw her—though to be fair, she made no effort to conceal her presence. She was so weighted down by jewels it was a wonder to me she hadn’t been robbed in plain sight.”

  “Mother has always been a master of discretion.”

  Hazan gave a dry laugh. “In any case, she was looking at me as I entered, and indicated at once that I should join her at her table, where she proceeded to tell me she’d secured us a safe house.”

  “What?”

  Hazan nodded.

  “My mother—my mother, the languishing princess of Ardunia—took it upon herself to do a bit of business with a common farmer? In the interest of my protection? Don’t say she took a room at the village inn?”

  Again, Hazan nodded.

  “No,” Kamran breathed.

  “I confirmed this fact with the owner.”

  “But how did she know I’d require a safe house?”

  Hazan looked suddenly troubled. “I don’t know. As I said, your mother is a strange woman. She didn’t seem at all surprised to discover me alive; did not ask whether you’d survived the dagger she’d generously planted in your shoulder; did not seem disturbed by the death of your grandfather; and asked me only whether we’d made plans to go to Tulan. When I said yes, she demanded I spare her the details.”

  Kamran turned away, dragging a hand down his face as an icy breeze sent a shiver through his body. Dawn had not yet broken, but the dark was lifting like a stubborn stain. Blue and gray smeared at the horizon, the promise of golden light just beyond, and the prince drew a deep breath, relishing the mist as he tried to make sense of these revelations.

  Hazan hesitated before adding: “She also asked me whether the devil had yet paid you a visit.”

  Kamran turned back, every muscle in his body tensing. “The devil?”

  “I told her I had no idea, as we’d not discussed it.”

  The prince shook his head. He’d always had the good sense to be repulsed by the devil, but after witnessing the fallout of his grandfather’s terrible bargain with Iblees, the very idea of meeting with such a creature revolted him to his core. “What reason would he have to pay me a visit? I’ve not yet been crowned king.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hazan, a furrow forming between his brows. “She did not expound on the matter. She only instructed me to tell you that she’ll be waiting for us upon our return, that she has the situation in the countryside well in hand, and that I should direct any militia in her direction, to be managed under her care.” Hazan hesitated. “She also sent you this.”

  Hazan reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pale pink envelope, which he handed to the prince, who received this strange gift in a bit of a daze. He turned over the delicate paper in his hands, noticing that the flap of the envelope was open. Unsealed.

  Kamran glanced up at his friend. “You’ve read it?”