This, of course, was Hazan. The one Alizeh had called herfriend.
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 –”
