This Woven Kingdom (38 page)

Oh, she wanted to slap him.

“Your fight is with me, is it not?” King Zaal said quietly.

“Not at all,” said the fool brightly. “There will be no fight, Your Majesty. When I am done with you, you will be begging me to end your life.”

King Zaal barked a laugh.

Someone in the crowd screamed, “Call for the soldiers! The magistrates!”

“The magistrates?” The southern king laughed aloud. “You mean your weak, corrupt officials? Tell me, fine nobles
of Ardunia, did you know that your magistrates are paid extra by the crown to collect street children?”

Alizeh felt Omid tense beside her.

“Ah, I can see by the looks in your eyes that you did not. And why would you, really? Who would even miss a surplus of orphaned children?”

“What do you want here?” King Zaal said sharply. He looked different then—angry, yes—but Alizeh thought he looked, for a moment—

Scared.

“Me?” The madman pointed to himself. “What do I want? I want a great deal too much, Your Highness. I've been bled dry for too long in repayment for my father's sins and I'm tired of it; tired of being in debt to so cruel a master. But then, you know what that's like, don't you?”

King Zaal drew his sword.

Again, the southern king laughed. “Are you really going to challenge me?”

“Your Majesty, please—” Kamran moved forward as if to enter the fiery ring, and King Zaal held up a hand to stop him.

“No matter what happens tonight,” King Zaal said to him, “you must remember your duty to this empire.”

“Yes, but—”

“That is all, child,” he said thunderously. “Now you must leave me to fight my own battles.”

“As I've already told you, Your Highness.” The madman again. “There will be no battle.”

The Tulanian king raised his arm with a flourish and King
Zaal's robes tore open at the shoulders, revealing large swaths of skin that were both scaly and discolored.

The king's face went slack, stunned as he studied himself, then his southern enemy. “No,” he whispered. “You cannot.”

“Will you not speculate?” the madman shouted into the crowd. “Will you not hazard a guess as to what the magistrates do with the street children they find?”

Alizeh felt suddenly as if she couldn't breathe.

The sounds of the room seemed to quiet, the lights seemed to dim; she heard only the sound of her own harsh breaths, saw only the horror unfolding before her.

She closed her eyes.

There once was a man

who bore a snake on each shoulder.

If the snakes were well fed

their master ceased growing older.

What they ate no one knew,

even as the children were found

with brains shucked from their skulls,

bodies splayed on the ground.

“It's true,” Omid whispered, his voice trembling. “I—I've seen it, miss. I seen it happen. But no one believes the street kids, miss, everyone thinks we're lying—and they started threatening us if we said anything, said they'd come for us next—”

Alizeh gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh,
Omid,” she cried. “Oh, I'm so sorry—”

Two leathery white snakes reared up from the shoulders of the Ardunian king, snapping and hissing hungrily.

King Zaal's sword fell, with a clatter, to the ground.

KAMRAN FELT HIS HEART SHATTER
in his chest even as he refused to believe what his eyes swore to be true.

This was a horror too great.

The prince knew—had heard, of course—that all around the world there had been kings who made deals with the devil; they sold a bit of their souls in exchange for power, or love, or land. The stories said that Iblees presented himself to every sovereign on earth on the day of their coronation.

Never did these stories end well.

For the entirety of Kamran's life King Zaal had warned him of Iblees, warned him never to accept an offer from the devil. How, then—

“No,” Kamran whispered. “No, it's not possible—”

“Your dear king should have died years ago,” Cyrus was saying. “But your melancholy prince was too young to lead, was he not? He was still too sad, too scared, too heartbroken over the death of his dear father. So the great, righteous King Zaal made a bargain with the devil to extend his life.” A pause. “Didn't you, Your Majesty?”

“Enough,” King Zaal said, lowering his eyes. “You need not say more. It would be better for everyone if you simply killed me now.”

Cyrus ignored this. “What he didn't realize, of course, was
that a bargain with the devil was a bloody one. The snakes lengthen his life, yes, but even a serpent needs to eat, does it not?”

Kamran could hardly breathe.

He knew not what to do, knew not what to say. He felt paralyzed by the revelations, confused by the chaos of his own emotions. How could he defend a man so debased? How could he not defend the grandfather he loved? The king had bartered with his soul to spare the young prince, to give Kamran time to live a bit longer as a child—

“Yes, that's right,” said Cyrus. “They eat the fresh brains of young children.” From nothing he conjured a soggy mass of flesh, which he tossed at the snakes. “Street children, to be more specific. For the wretched and the poor are the most easily expendable, are they not?”

The snakes hissed and snapped at each other, swinging their necks around to catch the morsel, which one triumphant serpent caught in his open, distended maw.

Shrieks of horror pierced the silence; one woman fainted into the arms of another.

The prince saw a flash of steel.

A sword materialized in Cyrus's hand and Kamran reacted without thinking, launching himself forward—but too late. The Tulanian king had already impaled his willing grandfather straight through the chest.

Kamran nearly fell to his knees.

He caught his breath and charged, brandishing his sword as he leaped through the searing flames to reach Cyrus, not feeling his flesh as it burned, not hearing the screams of the
crowd. Cyrus feinted, then lunged, swinging his sword in a diagonal arc; Kamran met his opponent's blade with an impact so violent it shuddered through him. With a cry he pushed forward, launching Cyrus back several feet.

Quickly, the Tulanian king steadied, then attacked, his blade glinting under the glittering lights. Kamran dodged the blow and spun, slashing his sword through the air and meeting steel; their blades crashing, slicing the air as they slid away.

“My fight is not with you, melancholy prince,” Cyrus said, breathing heavily as he took a step back. “You need not die tonight. You need not leave your empire without a sovereign.”

Kamran stilled at that, at the realization that his grandfather was truly dead. That Ardunia was his now.

To rule as king.

He cried out as he advanced, lunging at Cyrus who parried, then brought his blade down with crushing force. Kamran dropped to one knee to meet this blow, but his sword arm, which had been badly burned by the flames, could not withstand the force for long.

His sword clattered to the floor.

Cyrus withdrew, his chest heaving, and lifted his blade above his head to deliver what was no doubt the finishing blow.

Kamran closed his eyes. He made peace with his fate in that moment, accepting that he would die, and that he would die defending his king. His grandfather.

“
No!
” he heard someone scream.

Kamran heard the mad dash of boots pounding the marble floors and looked up, startled, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Alizeh was rushing wildly toward him, shoving people aside.

“Don't!” Kamran shouted. “The fire—”

ALIZEH RAN STRAIGHT THROUGH THE
inferno without care, her diaphanous gown going up in flames, and which she beat down quickly with her bare hands. She looked at Kamran, her heart seizing in her chest, sparing what moments she had to see that he was alive, to make certain he wasn't too badly injured.

He was only staring at her in wonder.

A broad strip of his right arm was bleeding profusely—had been burned straight through his clothes. The rest of the outfit was damaged beyond repair, singed more in some places than others, but he appeared otherwise okay, save a few nasty scrapes he'd collected in the match. Still, he seemed oblivious to his injuries, even to the gash across his forehead, the blood dripping slowly down his temple.

The crowd, which had previously gone silent with shock, suddenly began whispering, gasping aloud their heartache and disbelief.

Alizeh turned on the Tulanian king.

She charged up to him in a singed gown and sooty skin and yanked the sword from his frozen hand, tossing it to the floor, where it landed with a clatter. The young king was staring at her now like she was some unfathomable sea monster, come to swallow him whole.

“How dare you,” she cried. “You horrible cretin. You useless monster. How
could
you—”

“How—how did you—” He was still staring at her, gaping. “How did you walk through the fire like that? Why are you not—burning?”

“You despicable, wretched man,” she said angrily. “You know
who
I am, but you don't know
what
I am?”

“No.”

She slapped him, hard, across the face, the potent force of her strength sending him reeling. The southern king reared back, colliding with a column against which he both knocked his head and braced himself. It was a moment before he looked up again, and when he did, Alizeh saw that his mouth was full of blood, which he spit out onto the floor.

Then he laughed.

“Damn the devil to hell,” he said softly. “He didn't tell me you were a Jinn.”

Alizeh startled. “Who?”

“Our mutual friend.”

“Hazan?”

“Hazan?” The copper-headed king laughed at that, wiped a bit of blood from his mouth. “
Hazan?
Of course not
Hazan
.” To Kamran, he said, “Pay attention, King, for it seems even your friends have betrayed you.”

Alizeh swung around to meet Kamran's eyes just in time to see the way he looked at her—the flash of shock, the pain of betrayal—before he shuttered closed, withdrew inward.

His eyes went almost inhumanly dark.

She wanted to go to him, to explain—

Kamran exchanged a look with a guard, scores of which now swarmed the ballroom, and Hazan, soon revealed to be the sole person trying to flee the crush, was seized not moments later, his arms bound painfully behind his back. The silence of the room was momentarily deafening; Hazan's protests piercing the quiet as he was dragged away.

Alizeh was gripped then by a violent terror.

With agonizing slowness, she felt a tapestry of truth form around her; disparate threads of understanding braiding together to illustrate an answer to a question she'd long misunderstood.

Of course not Hazan.

Hazan had never planned this fate for her. Hazan had been kind and trustworthy; he'd truly cared for her well-being. But this—this was all a cruel trick, was it not?

She'd been deceived by the devil himself.

Why?

“Iblees,” she said, her voice fraught with disbelief. “All this time, you have been speaking of the devil. Why? Why did he send you to fetch me? What interest does he have in my life?”

The Tulanian king frowned. “Is it not obvious? He wants you to rule.”

Alizeh heard Kamran's sharp intake of breath, heard the rumblings of the crowd around them. This conversation was madness. She'd nearly forgotten they had an audience—that all of Ardunia would hear—

Again, the southern king laughed, but louder this time, looking suddenly disturbed. “
A Jinn queen
to rule the world
.
Oh, it's so horribly seditious. The perfect revenge.”

Alizeh felt herself pale then, watched her hands begin to tremble. A fragile hypothesis began to take shape in her mind; something that shook her to her core:

Iblees wanted to use her.

He wanted to bring her to power and control her; no doubt to ensure the mass chaos and destruction of the Clay who wronged him; the beings he blamed for his downfall.

Alizeh began slowly backing away from the blue-eyed king. A strange madness had overtaken her, a fear beyond which she could not see. Without thinking, she glanced up at the clock.

Five minutes to midnight.

Alizeh bolted for the exit, fleeing the fiery circle for the second time unscathed; the remains of her gown going up in flames once more. She beat the fire from her dress even as she ran, even as she knew not where she was headed.

The Tulanian king called after her.

“Wait— Where are you going? We had a deal— Under no circumstances were you allowed to run away—”

“I must,” she said desperately. She knew it sounded crazed even as she said it, for there had never been escape from the devil, never a reprieve from his whispers. Still, she could not help the anguish that overcame her then. It made her irrational.

“I'm sorry,” she cried. “I'm sorry, but I have to leave— I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he won't—”

Alizeh felt something catch her in the gut then. Something like a gust of wind; a wing. Her feet began kicking without warning, launching her body upward, into the air.

She screamed.

“Alizeh!” Kamran bellowed, rushing up to the edges of his fiery cage. “Alizeh—”

Panic filled her lungs as her body soared. “Make it stop,” she cried, her arms pinwheeling. “Put me down!”

She felt at once paralyzed and weightless; the movements of her body utterly beyond her control.

Would this dark magic float her up to the moon? Would it drown her in a lake? Impale her on a sword?

All she could do was scream.

She was nearing the rafters now, rising up to the ceiling. The people below were hard to distinguish, their voices inaudible—

And then, a crash.

A massive beast broke through the palace wall, its leathery body bright with iridescent scales, its wingspan as wide as the room. The crowd shrieked and hollered, dove for cover. Alizeh, meanwhile, could not look away.

She'd never seen a dragon before.

It swooped low and roared; its long, studded tail whipping along the wall, leaving gashes in the marble.

And then, like a shot, Alizeh was released.

She plummeted to the ground with terrifying speed, the sounds of her own screams filling her ears, drowning out all else. She hardly had time to process that she was about to die, that she would snap in half when she hit the floor—

The dragon dove and caught her, hard, on its back.

She fell forward with superlative force, nearly losing her seat before she caught the studded nape of the beast that
took flight without delay. Alizeh was knocked back as it launched upward, her head spinning, heart hammering in her chest. It was all she could do to hold on and keep her wits about her. The dragon gave another roar before flapping its massive wings, propelling them out the destroyed palace wall and into the night sky.

For a long time, Alizeh did not move.

She felt paralyzed by fear and disbelief; her mind assaulted by a tumult of uncertainty. Slowly, sensation returned to her limbs, to the tips of her fingers. She soon felt the wind against her face, saw the night sky drape itself around her, a midnight sheet studded with stars.

By degrees, she began to relax.

The beast was heavy and solid, and seemed to know where it was going. She took deep lungfuls of air, trying to clear the dregs of her panic, to convince herself that she would be safe for at least as long as she clung to this wild creature. She shifted, suddenly, at the feel of soft fibers grazing her skin through what was left of her thin gown, and looked down to examine it. She hadn't realized she was in fact sitting on a small carpet, which—

Alizeh nearly screamed again.

The dragon had disappeared. It was still
there
—she felt the beast beneath her, could feel the leathery texture of its skin—but the creature had gone invisible in the sky, leaving her floating on a patterned rug.

It was deeply disorienting.

Still, she understood then why the creature had disappeared; without its bulk to blind her, she could see the world
below, could see the world beyond.

Alizeh didn't know where she was going, but for the moment, she forced herself not to panic. There was, after all, a strange peace in this, in the quiet that surrounded her.

As her nerves relaxed, her mind sharpened. Quickly, she yanked off her boots and chucked them into the night. It gave her great satisfaction to watch them disappear into the dark.

Relief.

A sudden thud shifted the weight of the rug, startling her upright. Alizeh spun around, her heart racing once again in her chest; and when she saw the face of her unwelcome companion, she thought she might fling herself into the sky with the boots.

“No,” she whispered.

“This is
my
dragon,” said the Tulanian king. “You are not allowed to steal my dragon.”

“I didn't steal it, the creature took— Wait, how did you get here? Can you fly?”

He laughed at that. “Is the mighty empire of Ardunia really so poor in magic that these small tricks impress you?”

“Yes,” she said, blinking. Then, “What is your name?”

“Of all the non sequiturs. Why do you need to know my name?”

“So that I may hate you more informally.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, you may call me Cyrus.”

“Cyrus,” she said. “You insufferable monster. Where on earth are we going?”

Her insults seemed to have no effect on him, for he was
still smiling when he said, “Have you really not figured it out?”

“I'm entirely too agitated for these games. Please just tell me what horrible fate awaits me now.”

“Oh, the very worst of fates, I'm sorry to say. We are currently enroute to Tulan.”

The nosta burned hot against her skin, and Alizeh felt herself go rigid with fear. She was stunned, yes, and horrified, too, but to hear the king of an empire denigrate his own land thus—

“Is Tulan really so terrible a place?”

“Tulan?” His eyes widened in surprise. “Not at all. A single square inch of Tulan is more breathtaking than all of Ardunia, and I say that as a discernable fact, not as a subjective opinion.”

“But then”—she frowned—“why did you say that it would be the very worst of fates?”

“Ah. That.” Cyrus looked away then, searched the night sky. “Well. You remember how I said I owed our mutual friend a very large debt?”

“Yes.”

“And that helping you was the only repayment he would accept?”