The priest drew forward, then held open his pale hand, upon which glittered a dusting of a blue shimmering powder.
Cyrus visibly stiffened.
Black magic was the only magic that left behind a residue. It was the cost of darkness, of selfishness: the toxic leavings were a by-product of the impure substance, and they filtered into the world as a faint poison. Every assault Cyrus had ever received from the devil had been delivered via this dark magic, but its leavings always evaporated; never before had they stained his clothes.
We found this lining the interior pocket of her cloak.Mozafer pulled back his hood a few inches, revealing shockingly white skin,to better study Cyrus’s eyes.It is a borrowed cloak.
“It’s mine,” he’d confirmed, his heart racing now. “But I don’t understand – there shouldn’t have remained any trace –”
You have inflicted upon her a serious injury.
“I would sooner die than hurt her –”
It matters not whether you meant her harm.Mozafer pulled his hood back entirely now, baring his shaved head. His brown eyes were unflinching but not cruel.The ice in her veins precludes her from absorbing such poison. While in others its effect is mild, in her it triggers an usual reaction. It appears her body would sooner destroy itself than metabolize a contaminated magic.
Another blow of pain, straight through the chest. “What will happen to her?”
We don’t know. We’ve never treated one such as her before.
“But will she live?” Cyrus asked desperately.
Mozafer hesitated.Her body appears to have a natural healing mechanism, one that we feel will hasten her recovery. The exposure was minimal. She has a strong chance of rehabilitation. But it may take some time.
“How much time?”
Mozafer shook his head.Several weeks. Perhaps months.
Cyrus had spiraled.
He’d lost his composure then as he hadn’t since he was a boy. He’d doubled over, struggling to breathe, and made a sound of distress so severe that even the Diviners, who were not allowed to touch him, drew forward in sympathy.
There was so much to break him. His guilt, his shame, his fear.That the evil in his life had bled through and harmed her; that as a result he’d surely fail to fulfill his obligations to the devil, that this failure would destroy everything. His life was unraveling around him, the sinew of his body unbraiding every day, leaving him threadbare, little more than bone.
“What will happen, Mozafer?” He’d fallen to his knees, dropped his head into his hands. “What will happen when I fail?”
We are not allowed to speak of it, came his gentle response.
“Will the Diviners continue to shun me?”
Yes.
“Will I ever be able to return to the temple?”
Not so long as you are tethered to him.
Cyrus lifted his head, fighting back tears. “And will you not spare me a single word of guidance, when I am so desperate for your counsel?”
Mozafer kneeled before him, and Cyrus’s heart constricted at the sight, at the warmth in the older man’s eyes. He said –
Sleep.
– before they vanished.
The smoke cleared. Cyrus had been returned to the receiving room on his knees, the bright light of midday nearly blinding him. He was at once pummeled by the intensity of Hazan’s angry protests, but he turned his gaze toward the floor, ignoring the outburst as his mind reeled, as his heart raced. He needed to pull himself together.
He needed to make plans.
He’d delivered himself without delay to his mother,loudly informing her that his bride-to-be had requested a period of calm and reflection prior to the wedding – during which time she would be staying in the company of the Diviners and was not to be disturbed. This gossip, picked up at once by palace staff, quickly and efficiently disseminated throughout the land, reinforcing the mystery surrounding the arrival of the Jinn queen.
