Every Spiral of Fate, page 8
“Forgive me,” Alizeh said, her voice breaking. “I must go— I cannot—I cannot bear to be here any longer—”
Alizeh gathered up her skirts and all but ran from the room, and though she fought to catch her crown as it slipped from her head, she did not look back when it fell, with an astonishing clatter, to the floor.
Thirteen
CYRUS HAD MADE IT BACK to his rooms, but barely.
He drew greater strength every day; he was able to survive on less for longer; but the brutality of the blood oath was unceasing.
He’d only just magicked himself behind closed doors when he was delivered a particularly vicious lash of pain, and he caught himself with a cry against the adjacent wall, the shuddering impact upsetting a nearby table. A vase of fresh roses crashed to the floor.
Sounds echoed, over and over.
Breathing hard, Cyrus braced himself. The heavy crystal vessel had hit the rug, sustaining most of the blow even as long-stemmed roses scattered like arrows. He watched with feverish eyes as orphaned water searched his room for a home, rivulets grasping in vain for a body that might hold them. By horrible inches Cyrus slumped to the ground. There was no rug beneath him to dull the blow, no beauty in his surrender. His knees knocked painfully against the cold marble floors and, there, he stayed.
Belts of steel continued to thrash him.
He’d finally explained to Hazan that half the reason he’d exposed himself so ruthlessly to this torture was in the pursuit of building up a tolerance. He wanted to hold on to his independence; he wanted to be able to master the pain. He felt he’d been making strides recently—managing greater distances from Alizeh for greater periods of time—but a full day in her company had weakened him.
In so many ways, it had weakened him.
He ran his trembling hands along the embroidery of the wall coverings, turned his hazy gaze to the golden lamplight, drew the scent of fallen flowers into his head, counted windows and tassels and colors—trying to ground himself in anything but his own mind.
This effort failed him.
Cyrus gave an anguished sound and collapsed sideways. He was beginning to lose his battle with anger; he was dangerously close to inviting despair. He was tired of fighting, tired of withstanding. He was in fact so exhausted he wanted to gouge out his own eyes. He lay curled on his side like a child, pressing his heated, feverish cheek to the cool floor as another savage lash gutted him, demanding he be returned to his possessor.
His fever rocketed, an electric storm building inside him. His eyes fluttered. His stomach heaved. In a merciful moment of clarity he was able to appreciate that he’d eaten little on this abominable day. As if he could possibly hold an appetite while being forced to watch, on his own wedding day, as another man touched his wife, danced with his wife, made plans to wed and bed his wife.
How much more would he be expected to survive?
He loved her.
He would kill for her, would soon die for her, and yet he knew he had no right to want her. Cyrus hardly knew how to process the dichotomy between what was real and delusion, so destabilized was his mind. No—no, it was better that he stayed far away from her, that he never risk drawing near a flame that might, with little encouragement, reduce him to nothing.
He was grateful, at least, that it was over.
The deed was done.
Finally, finally, Iblees might begin to release him from these terrible binds. Finally, he might know that some small part of this suffering had been worth it. Except—
He couldn’t understand why the devil had paid Alizeh a visit. Why her and not him, when—
Cyrus felt a spike of alarm.
His pain was slowly abating, tongues of fire slackening from around him, and he had nearly enough strength to lift his head when his door was suddenly flung open, the heavy wood knocking against the wall with a racket that seemed to vibrate.
Cyrus stiffened.
He could not see her, even as he knew it was her.
Pain was deserting him in waves, leaving him boneless. His fever broke; his energy with it. He demanded his arms to move. He compelled his legs to stand.
They would not obey.
He was dense with fatigue. His ribs felt crushed. His lungs would require excavation. He’d never known such lassitude.
There was the snick of the door, settling solidly into its frame. A moment of quiet. The whisper of tentative steps drawing closer. He heard the hush of her slippers come to a halt, then the shudder of her breath as she made a broken, tortured sound.
Cyrus braced himself. His heart began its familiar hammer.
It was his pride that finally moved him.
It was his pride that lifted his head, animated his arms, torqued his limbs. His pride demanded he be on his feet when he faced her, and it was this—this ignoble motivation alone—that managed to reassemble him, steadying him before she might come close enough to touch him.
When he was finally upright, he turned his body away from her, keeping his gaze on the wall. Torturous silence descended and she did nothing to disturb it.
He could not say wherefrom he summoned the fortitude, but Cyrus was unfailingly polite when he said, finally, “I see you’ve developed a taste for breaking down my doors.”
“I didn’t break the door,” she said, her voice strained. “It was unlocked.”
“I suppose I should be grateful, then.”
When she said nothing to this, he said, “Forgive me, was there something you needed?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer unbalanced him.
Softly, she said, “Please turn around.”
Now he felt deranged.
He’d traded one fever for another; one agony for another. Pain lanced straight through his heart; torment seemed now to strip away at him from inside. He didn’t know what to do with her. He didn’t know how to make her understand.
“Do you think it reasonable,” he said, struggling, “to barge into my closed rooms whenever you like, making demands of me as you see fit?”
“No.”
Again, the simple answer unbalanced him.
“I am unreasonable,” she said. “I am selfish and unkind. I am more sorry than I can ever hope to say.” Here, her voice nearly broke. “And I would like you to turn around.”
“Please,” he said, fighting to hold his composure now. “Spare me. I should like to be left alone.”
“Cyrus—”
“It’s late. We have an early morning. I’ve fulfilled my obligations for the day—”
“Why send me away? How can you expect me to leave you when I know how you will suffer in my absence?”
Cyrus felt his chest heave.
He was only a man, after all. He could only withstand so much torture. He could only mitigate the blaze of his fury by so many degrees before it found the necessary fuel to devour him. And he could not fight the heat in his voice when he said, roughly, “If you have mercy enough to think of how I might suffer in your absence, I wonder that you do not have mercy enough to imagine how I might suffer in your presence.”
“What can you mean?” she said desperately. “How could it possibly be worse to be in my company than alone in the abyss of your own agony—”
“If you cannot already understand, I am certainly unwilling to offer you an education—”
“Can you not imagine why I’m here?” she said, her voice rising in anguish. “Can you not imagine why I’d be willing to incur your wrath and breach your solitude—why I stand here still, even as you coldly dismiss me? I want nothing more than to offer you a moment of peace—”
“Peace?” A cold, bitter laugh left his body. “Is this the peace you speak of? Is it peace you think you’ve delivered me?”
“Will you please look at me when I speak to you? I only want to help you—”
“Then leave me.”
“How can you say that?” she cried. “How can you truly wish it? How can you speak to me so harshly on our wedding day—”
“You ask too much of me, Alizeh. You don’t know your own power. I truly believe you act out of ignorance, for you are too tenderhearted to be so cruel—”
“Cruel? When you refuse even to meet my eyes—”
“What do you want from me?” he shouted. “What more can I give you? What more will you demand of me? Was my kingdom not enough? Was my blood not enough?”
“Cyrus, please—”
“Do you need to take from me my dignity, my privacy, the very thoughts still forming in my head? Take my eyes. Take my hands. Take the breath from my body. Strip the skin from my bones. Were I able to offer you my soul I would; I’d tear it from my flesh this moment and give it to you—”
“Will you not look at me,” she screamed.
Silence fell suddenly, like the blade of a guillotine.
Cyrus heard the soft collapse of silk, the shuddering hush of lace, the delicate ping of diamonds—
Then a stifled, gasping sob.
Cyrus turned then as if turning through sand, parting a haze of fear and suffering to bear witness to a scene that would haunt him forever.
Alizeh had fallen to her knees before him.
She was all but consumed by the shimmering cloud of her wedding gown, submerged in a nimbus of gossamer. Loose diamonds had scattered around the closed blossom of her body like stars, the glittering gems detaching from her delicate sleeves and skirts as she wept.
Her face was buried in her hands.
Tremors rocked her small frame, and light seemed to flare where it touched her, disorienting him utterly. Cyrus felt he’d been struck by lightning, or else eviscerated. Either way, he could not feel his legs. He could not seem to move.
“Alizeh,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry. For what I’ve done to you, for the tragedies I’ve delivered you. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. I’m sorry I’ve brought you nothing but pain. I’m sorry for all that is ahead of us. I’m sorry I misjudged you. I’m sorry I ever agreed to this horrible—h-horrible—”
She gasped, her breath shuddering.
“Please,” she said. “I beg you.” She looked up at him then, tears tracking down her cheeks, her eyes glazed with suffering. “Please, forgive me.”
He felt he’d been impaled.
He waited to sight the damage upon his body, waited for the warmth of fresh blood, for the pain that would inevitably chase pain. Cyrus could not fathom that he’d done this to her; he could not comprehend that he was capable of inspiring her sorrow.
He could not understand.
“What are you doing?” he breathed, rooted in place by panic. “Why do you cry for me? Why do you apologize? I’d sooner die than bear the weight of your tears—”
“Forgive me,” she said again, shaking her head. “I’m so desperately sorry for all of it—”
“Please stop,” he said, backing away in terror. “I beg you, don’t do this—I’m not worthy of your tears— You owe me no apologies. I am but the devil’s parasite, I am a blighted soul—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” she said, wiping furiously at her cheeks. “Not now. Never again. I know you are bound by unseen tethers, that you are incapable of speaking the truth without incurring unspeakable tortures, so I will not endeavor to force your confession. But I am not so simple and you are not so accomplished an actor. I know you are more than what you admit, even if you will die before you ever disclose the truth.”
“Alizeh—”
“I will not forsake you,” she cried, her eyes glittering with fresh tears. “I am not indifferent to your suffering. I am your wife, and I do not wish to leave you—”
“Miss?”
Cyrus stiffened at the sound of the familiar voice. His eyes were still fixed on Alizeh, his heart grappling with a torment that was entirely unfamiliar to him. This pain was new; unparalleled in might; and so extraordinary it seemed to rearrange him into someone altogether different. He watched, as if from afar, as she registered the unwelcome interruption, her parted lips closing in confusion.
“Please, miss, are you in there?”
Not an apparition, then.
Cyrus felt himself extinguish, the heat in his veins turning at once to ice.
Alizeh, her cheeks still high with color, twisted slowly in the frosting of her gown.
“Omid?” she said, wiping residual tears from her cheeks. “Omid, is that you?”
The relief in the boy’s voice was substantial. “Miss, will you please open the door? Deen is heavier than he looks, and there’s something wrong with him—”
Alizeh sprang upright without unwinding from the spiral of her diaphanous skirts, and Cyrus, who was watching this hazardous future unfold, had already crossed the room to catch her. He righted her in his arms and she gave a gasp of surprise, lifting her head to deliver him another blow as their gazes locked, her eyes bright with feeling.
Cyrus stared at her with the fever of an addict.
Time slowed down for him then, this second of connection protracting into a thousand smaller moments. He was still reeling from her words, her tears, from an ache in his chest so severe he could hardly breathe around it. He couldn’t believe he’d dared to touch her. His legs had carried him toward her without explicit instruction, yielding to her like the sun to the horizon. Now, he couldn’t seem to let go of her.
How many times in his delusions had he kissed every hollow and curve of her body? How many nights in his life had he spent on his knees before her?
He’d lost count.
He didn’t know how he’d lived so long without holding her, or how he’d survived without looking into her eyes. He’d soon be forced to return to that cold existence, and yet he couldn’t remember why. Why would he ever wish for something other than this? How was he meant to give her up now that she was here, in his arms, where she ought to be, where he might protect her—
“Miss?” Another knock at the door.
Time crashed into him, shattering.
Cyrus was returned from his own insanity by the miracle of the child’s voice, shoved back into the prison of his mind, shackles closing once more around his throat.
He released her with excruciating grief. Alizeh, in turn, bestowed upon him a look so tender he thought he might perish.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
And then, for the second time that night, the door flew open.
Fourteen
ALIZEH FOUGHT TO COLLECT HERSELF as Omid crossed the threshold, discreetly applying a length of her veil to her heated eyes and tear-stained cheeks. The boy practically toppled over in the process of entering, the effort to turn the handle while holding onto a rather lopsided-looking Deen proving to be nearly too much to manage. The apothecarist appeared tired as Omid dragged him into the room, but it was not otherwise obvious to Alizeh that anything was amiss.
She ran forward to help.
“Begging your pardon,” said Omid in breathless Feshtoon, and he kicked the door shut behind him with a cruelty the wood did not deserve. “I didn’t know where else to take him. I went to your rooms first, but when I got there the sheets were stripped and all your clothes were gone—”
“What?” Alizeh was alarmed. “What do you mean?”
“They said you don’t live there anymore, miss. I ran into a snoda in the hall, and she said they’d moved all your things into his room”—he nodded at Cyrus—“since you’re, you know, married now—”
She stiffened.
“—and I know you’re busy and I didn’t mean to interrupt your wedding night, but I heard you two shouting at each other, and I thought it might be okay to barge in because it didn’t sound like that other kind of shouting, and I see now that I was right, miss, because you’re still wearing all your clothes—”
“Omid.” Alizeh felt herself heat.
“—and Hazan said to get Deen out of the ballroom straightaway, and I couldn’t think who else I should take him to, and I would’ve been here sooner except it took me ages to find this place.” He paused to take a breath, adjust his shirt, and frown at Cyrus. “Why don’t you live in the king’s quarters, sir? It was terrible confusing to get here, I got all turned around, and Deen has only been getting worse—”
“These are the king’s quarters,” said Alizeh patiently.
“No, they’re not,” said Omid.
Alizeh’s head swiveled to Cyrus, then back to Omid, then back to Cyrus, who’d retreated a few feet away, where he braced himself against a reading chair. She wished he would say something. “Of course they are.”
“No they’re not,” said Omid again. “We’re in the family’s section of the castle, miss, but not the king’s rooms—”
“But that’s absurd,” she insisted, expecting Cyrus to refute the statement. “You do live in the king’s quarters,” she said to him. “Don’t you?”
When Cyrus finally spoke, it was only to step forward and nod at Deen. “What’s wrong with the man?” he said. “He appears to be inebriated.”
This was perhaps more unfathomable than the situation with Cyrus’s rooms. Alizeh had never seen Deen imbibe; he did not seem the sort to enjoy relinquishing control.
Alizeh looked closer.
Upon further inspection, Deen did appear a little glassy and giddy, and he grew suddenly aware of everyone staring in his direction. The attention seemed to enliven him. The apothecarist pressed a finger to his closed lips to contain a small burp, then lapsed into giggles.
“He’s had too much punch, I think,” Omid explained. “Or else he drank a bad draught. I’m not sure, miss, but Hazan was piping mad about it. Either way, I think he needs to lie down—”
“A bad draught?” said Alizeh. “Deen? But he can smell henbane from ten paces away—”
For the third time that night, Cyrus’s door swung open with a bang.
“Oh good, you’ve got him,” came Kamran’s booming voice. He entered the room without preamble—with an authority no doubt imbued in him from birth—and Huda was close behind, her friend’s eyes tight with concern.
