TWO
ALIZEH TOUCHED A FINGER TOthe ground, drawing shapes upon the coarse terrain, the texture softly abrading her skin. She sat alone and exposed in the icy dark, planted in the eye of an expansive salt flat that seemed to whirl toward infinity in all directions. The white crystals were packed upon the earth in a hard crust, minerals glinting in the moonlight with the glitz of crushed diamonds.
Absently she licked a bit of salt from her thumb, grimacing at the taste as a dull heat flared along her tongue. Her thoughts churned as she gazed up into the pitch, where the thick of night was freckled all over by stars. Alizeh knew that fireflies, too, lived in Tulan’s atmosphere, and the shimmer was so dense this evening it blurred in places. It was as if a child had pressed a hand to the heavens and smeared its glitter across the sky.
Still, these marvels would not distract her mind.
Scenes of the last several hours continued to haunt her, sounds drumming incessantly against her bones, memories of remembered sensation quickening across her skin. Even now, surrounded by quiet, she could not find silence.
Just hours ago, she’d done the unthinkable.
After eighteen years in hiding, Alizeh had finally stepped out of the shadows. Exposing herself as the lost queen of Arya had been a dangerous move for several reasons,chief among them that she was ill-equipped for the role. She possessed no throne, no army, no plan, and not an ounce of the powerful magic she’d been promised for the part. At this juncture she was more likely to be murdered than venerated for popping her head above the parapet, yet she felt she’d no choice but to emerge, unfinished, into the spotlight. After rumors of her arrival in Tulan had choked the royal city, thousands of Jinn had stormed the castle in search of her, demanding proof of life. The mob had been wild and frenzied, clamoring for a glimpse of the fabled queen, threatening violence if she’d come to harm. It was a good thing, then, that the cut at her throat was too faint to be registered by a distant crowd.
Unfortunately, it had drawn Sarra’s attention at once.
The Queen Mother had phased through shock and horror upon sighting Alizeh, who, prior to facing the masses, had emerged from Cyrus’s bedroom in a short, bloodied dress and a bleeding throat with as much dignity as she could summon.
Sarra had taken in Alizeh’s flushed and battered state, then her son’s wild eyes and naked torso, and her expression had darkened to something like murderous disgust. Alizeh had nervously unknotted her soiled gown, shaking out the hem to its full length before hastening to explain the situation – but Cyrus had flashed her a look so severe it lit the nosta tucked inside her corset, the soft burn startling her into silence. Sarra gave a derisive laugh at this small exchange, though ultimately the matter went undiscussed, for the woman seemed too agitated by the urgency of the waiting crowd – thousands of Jinn still rioting outside the palace walls – to delay the moment with talk.Her only indulgence had been to aim a pointed look at the far end of the hall, where four gaping young snodas had toppled into one another in an almost comical state of shock, before turning her grim smile on Alizeh.
“Sharpen your mind, girl,” she’d said with menacing softness. “If the mob doesn’t kill you tonight, the gossip might.”
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut at the memory, her skin heating with the residue of mortification. The greater part of the truth was far from scandalous, of course; in fact it would’ve delighted Sarra to know that she and Cyrus had only been trying to kill each other.
Theirs had been a dizzying evening.
After hours of tending to Cyrus in the aftermath of a brutal assault from the devil, the half-delirious king had magicked them back to his bedchamber where, shortly thereafter, they’d had an explosive fight. She and Cyrus had crossed swords, exchanging blows and heated words until, in the end, he’d vanquished her not with a weapon but with a sequence of passionate confessions that had left her all but decimated.
Absently she touched her neck, wincing as the dusting of salt on her fingers seared the open wound. Alizeh pulled her knees to her chest and held herself tight, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her teeth from rattling in the cold.
How would she ever keep her thoughts in order with so much sensation to file and sort? So many desires to manage and extinguish?
She’d not known what to expect when she finally asserted her right to the ancient Jinn throne, though she’d once thought it reasonable to imagine any claim would be met with suspicion and anger. She’d prepared to defend herself against accusations of fraud; she thought she’d be forced to prove, somehow, that she was the rightful heir.
Instead, the moment she’d stepped onto the balustrade the crowd had appeared to flinch, as if struck in tandem by an unseen force. Their deafening roars dimmed to a silence so complete Alizeh had been able to hear her own shallow breaths. The first moments had been more than terrifying; seconds ticked past as if in slow motion, her heart hammering against her ribs as panic swelled within her.
She’d not thought it through – she hadn’t enough time to prepare – and she worried then that she must say something grand, or else inspiring. Her first public words would doubtless be remembered in their history, repeated in the streets. She’d thought, at first, to rally them.
Then she’d looked more closely.
What she’d seen was a sea of Jinn worn out from long hours of standing and shouting. Only the muted cries of infants were still detectable, exhausted parents with their children in arm, older kids asleep at their feet. The elderly leaned on canes or otherwise sat painfully on the ground, while the young and hale stared up at her with strained, feverish eyes. Every face she looked upon was taut with fatigue, trembling hope – and a hunger born of simple dehydration.
Gently, she’d said, “My dear people, let me bring you water.”
The result was a breathtaking chaos.
How they’d been so certain of her identity, she couldn’t know; it wasn’t a question she might ask without injuring her credibility. But at her words, they’d seemed to glean the necessary proof and grew hysterical once more, some sobbing uncontrollably, others fainting into the arms of strangers and loved ones.
Alizeh had made to go to them, resolved that she would find a way to provide nourishment to these thousands of people, when Cyrus stepped at once out of the shadows, staying her movement with a familiar, thunderous look.
“You will not endanger yourself,” he’d said.
She’d hardly registered her irritation, had hardly opened her mouth to protest before he’d turned to a nearby servant and issued orders she couldn’t hear. No longer shirtless, the king of Tulan wore a plain sweater and overcoat, his only indulgence a thick fur cap pulled low over his brow, the article all but hiding his copper hair.
Everything, everything, black.
She’d been unable to look away as he performed this small task, fascinated by his unshakable bearing. Just hours ago he’d been battered nearly to death by the devil only to be dealt further blows by Alizeh herself, his mother, and the threat of violence against his home. These strikes had rained down on him one after another without pause and still, he remained composed. He wore a slight smile as he spoke quietly to a footman, his mannerisms easy but firm.
He had not collapsed.
