Instead of fighting the feeling, he surrendered.
He closed his eyes and searched for the breeze. Beads of sweat raced down his back and still he exhaled, releasing the tension from his body. Finally he felt the gentle caress of a current, the tall grass swaying against his legs; he listened to the harshzizzof a wasp hovering. The air was muggy, his cloak suffocating, and he opened his hands to catch more wind against his palms, heard the burble of a small spring in the distance. There were birds, the gentle flutter of butterfly wings.
By degrees, the world around him seemed to settle, its thorns retracting, and though he was scorched and parched, Cyrus finally felt present. When, after a time, he opened his eyes, he discovered Rostam staring at him curiously, a skin of water held in his outstretched hand. The prince accepted this offering with deep gratitude before taking a long pull from the vessel.
“You’re not ready to endure the heat without water,” said his teacher. “But you exhibit great fortitude for one so young.”
Cyrus caught his breath, ducking his head slightly as he wiped his mouth. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m very grateful.”
Rostam looked away as Cyrus took another drink, and when he looked back, he said, “Do you know why we master ourselves in order to master the magic?”
“Yes, sir.” Cyrus handed back the empty waterskin and, like an eager student, parroted the ancient Fesht line –
“Bel nekan nostad, nektoon bidad.”
If it does not trust, it will not come.
“The magic will not release,” the prince explained, “to any person of unsound heart and mind.The Diviners act as intermediaries between the extraordinary realm and the ordinary, coaxing magic free from their crystals so that their power might exist safely in our world.”
“What you’ve said is correct,” said Rostam, whose countenance did not change. “But you’ve yet to answer my question. Once again: Why do we master ourselves before we can master the magic?”
Cyrus, who been certain he’d given a sufficient response, now faltered. “I don’t – I’m not sure, sir.”
“You’ve not yet seen how a man can be destroyed by weakness of the flesh,” said Rostam, his timbre low and steady. “Desire, power, riches, immortality. You are still young and pure of heart – the world does not yet appear to you a misshapen place. But know this: magic has left in its wake a galaxy of dead stars. Even Diviners have not been immune to the allure of manifold power.”
As if in response, there came a flurry of commotion in the distance, a storm of dragon feet hitting the ground with a series of small tremors. Cyrus was briefly distracted by the sight of two dozen dirt-streaked Diviners freshly returned from the mines. They dismounted the vivid beasts in perfect silence, the static of unrefined magic snapping all around them as they unloaded their wares. His heart soared at the sight. He wanted nothing more than to run to them.
Rostam settled his heavy hands on Cyrus’s shoulders, startling the boy back to the present moment. His teacher’s eyes were urgent, and when he spoke, the words thundered in the quiet between them.
“Master yourself so that you will never be mastered. Know yourself so that you might live with conviction. Live with conviction so that your steps never falter.” He paused. “The mastery of self means never fearing the consequences of doing what is right.”
Rostam released his shoulders, and Cyrus felt strange as he took a step back, as if the world around him had blurred. He blinked repeatedly, his heart pounding loudly in his chest as a faraway dragon gave a tired roar. It was a mercy that the prince was self-aware enough to understand even then – even as he failed to grasp the magnitude of what his teacher was saying – that he needed to pay attention.
“When you suffer,” Rostam went on, “you can choose to endure, or you can choose to overcome.” He gestured around them, to the vast expanse of the meadow. “Here, even in the midst of your discomfort, there existed elements of relief, if only you had bothered to search.”
SEVENTEEN
AT FIRST, THERE WAS ONLYperfume.
The dizzying fragrance of intoxicating blooms had suffused the air and stormed her mind, and Alizeh, who was too disoriented even to know she was asleep, drew the decadent scent deep into her lungs. She licked her lips to taste this ambrosia upon her skin, as if it were an elixir for her drowsed spirit. Even in slumber her head was leaden, her thoughts clouded. She didn’t know how long her eyes had been closed, nor could she bring herself to wonder about her whereabouts. Indeed Alizeh was conscious of precious little but the perfume that had roused her from her stupor; so much so that she’d forgotten even to be afraid.
It was in fact the first time in too long that she’d stirred, her fingers stretching, searching, as she was slowly returned to consciousness. She felt the give of a mattress as she shifted – and then she paused, for Alizeh had perceived the velvet of petals under her hands, and as she cautiously turned her head, her cheek pressed against more of the same.
Strange.
Everywhere, her body seemed to be touching flowers. Blooms skimmed the nape of her neck, adorned her breasts and torso and lower, all over. With a start, Alizeh became aware of her own nakedness,of the silky slide of petals along her skin, small drifts gathering in the dips and valleys of her body. Indeed her senses seemed to indicate that she was all but submerged in a bed of corollas, a possibility so absurd as to signify a fault of perception. Experimentally, she drew her hand down her body, and Alizeh was relieved to discover that she was not quite as exposed as she’d feared and yet still more vulnerable than she’d like: she wore a simple silk shift and nothing else, the gossamer material loose and billowy, enough that the petals had found a way to gather, like a second garment, against her skin.
It was disbelief that finally forced open her eyes.
A burn of tears followed this simple action, and as she blinked through the blur, a pink haze washed over her vision, each flutter of her eyes bringing into focus a sight so surreal she felt certain now that she must be dreaming.
She tilted her head back to take it all in, and gasped.
Alizeh was in a circular room of tremendous height, its aged, cream-colored walls almost obscured under cascades of thick, glorious pink roses. The distant ceiling, too, was hung with heavy adornment: more blossoms, more vines, more beauty. Ample blooms turned toward the iridescent light shot through a pair of ancient, stained glass windows; these oblong shafts of ethereal color highlighted, in particular, a curve of wall into which were built a series of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The spare, battered shelves boasted but a few tattered volumes, and where once the sight of such a poorly stocked library might’ve inspired some melancholy, it was then only a source of delight, for the shelves were bursting with lush flowers so enchanting the sight of it all set Alizeh’s heart aflutter.
She forced herself to sit up, her head swimming. All the while, loose petals had been raining down slowly, pirouetting as they fell, bringing with them that delicious fragrance. One landed gently on her nose, and she caught the satiny bit, absently rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger as she marveled at her surroundings.
Clouds of pink roses stretched across the floors and tumbled down a rough stone staircase, which descended toward an imposing, battered wooden door, which was, ostensibly, the exit. There were few other clues as to her location; the bed she occupied was the only freestanding article in the room. Old and nicked, its finish was faded in places, worn away in others – and its bedding was, as she’d suspected, covered entirely in rose petals.Shewas covered entirely in rose petals.
