Will you check? Let me know if there’s any change?
One more twitch of its head, and the locust took flight, disappearing into the clouds.
Cyrus watched him go, then tucked away the crumpled newspaper he still held in his hand. Every night for nearly four weeks he’d dreamed of Alizeh. Strong in body but fractured in spirit, Cyrus was so drunk on his dizzying, sensorial experiences of her that he could hardly see through the thick of his own mind to what was real. He’d gone against his own instincts and done as Mozafer had instructed, and he slept. It had been sound advice, for no magic could replace the curative properties of sleep,and Cyrus had felt the difference immediately: his body was steadier as a result. Still, the agony and the bliss of these strange nightmares had been a steep price to pay for a boost of physical endurance. He awoke every day aching and breathless, his body strained with need, his heart pounding so hard it scared him. Cyrus felt like an opium addict, desperate for these tastes of ecstasy even as he knew they were poison. He’d stopped fighting it. He willingly drowned in the feel of her, intoxicated by the taste of her. It was a torture he struggled to define. Every night he slept with his face pressed to her skin. Every night a new facet of his soul died for her.
He felt ill, all the time.
He was electric with impatience, with anxiety. Sometimes it felt as if he’d swallowed the sun, as if he was struggling to contain a fire that would kill him before it ever went out.
Finally, Cyrus stretched his neck, then shook his head.
“It’s been days and days of this,” he said. “I’ve grown tired of it. Surelyyou’vegrown tired of it.”
There was silence at first; then, eventually, the slow crunch of vegetation under boot. It was several seconds before the young man finally showed himself, though Cyrus did not turn to face him. A gust of wind had pushed a bloat of clouds in his direction, and he gently pressed his fingers to the mass.
“You knew,” said Hazan carefully.
“That you were following me?” Cyrus almost laughed. “Of course I knew.”
“Then why not say something sooner?”
Cyrus did not answer right away. He was raking his fingers through the vapor when he said,finally, “I suppose I was curious.”
Hazan loomed over him a moment more, then settled himself atop the roof a small distance away, studying the southern king all the while.
“Curious about what?” he asked.
“You.”
The young man bristled. “Why?”
Cyrus reached into his pocket, then uncurled his fist, within which sat the nosta the Diviners had found hidden on Alizeh’s body. Weeks ago they’d delivered this magical object to Cyrus, and though the discovery had been a shock, it had also comforted him to know that so long as she’d possessed it, she might’ve known he was trustworthy.
He finally looked at Hazan. “She got this from you, didn’t she?”
Hazan held very still, though panic flit in and out of his eyes. “Where did you get that?”
“I might ask you the same question,” said Cyrus. “Considering this ismine.”
TWENTY
ALIZEH WAS STILL STUDYING THEsurreal sight of the pink blooms all around her, astonishment driving the thunder of her heart.
“Cyrus did this,” she said again, this time without inflection.
Just saying his name aloud left her with a strange, disembodied sensation. Alizeh felt suddenly desperate to see him, felt this need inside her like a physical ache.
Of course it was him.
How had she not realized right away?
“As I said, I find it egregious,” Huda was saying. “He’s acting like some wounded child – painting the city in flowers as if he’s planning a funeral –”
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Huda startled. “Cyrus? Oh, I haven’t the faintest. No one does, usually, and he certainly never tellsmewhat he’s up to. All I know is that he cannot be trusted.”
“Why?” Alizeh asked, her eyes widening. “What has he done?”
