“I want to know what you stand to gain from this arrangement –”
“No.”
“– and I want to know whether she will be safe as your wife.”
Cyrus stiffened at the wordsyour wife. The sheer depth of feeling he experienced at the sound of the possessiveyourhad briefly upended his mind. It was absurd, of course; for even if she consented to marry him, she would never truly be his. He knew that, and yet his heart would not slow its canter.
Slowly, he met Hazan’s eyes.
“Always,” he said. “She will always be safe with me.”
The nosta flared red hot in his hand, and Hazan witnessed this color change with a mix of astonishment and alarm.
“My turn,” said Cyrus, turning the small marble in his fingers. “Did you know that this is a royal heirloom? It’s been passed down in my family for generations. That’s why the Diviners returned it to me. My father thought we’d lost it ages ago.”
Hazan’s eyes hardened. “As I said, I received it from my mother.”
“But you have some knowledge of its history.”
To this, Hazan said nothing.
“You are no ordinary Jinn, are you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean it must be hard to lie, all the time, about who you really are.”
Hazan was quiet for so long that silence gathered between them like smoke, choking. It was with unveiled anger that he finally said, “You know nothing about me.”
The nosta flashed white, cold.
“Your mother was a courtier,” said Cyrus, turning his eyes to the clouds.“According to my sources, she spent a great deal of time in the Ardunian court and was a beloved attendant to the late queen. She did an admirable job concealing her identity as both a Jinn and a spy, and consequently received a number of precious gifts while in service. Some of which” – he tilted his head at Hazan – “had been stolen.” He paused. “But who, pray tell, was your father?”
Hazan was fairly vibrating with rage. “I won’t answer your questions,” he said, “until you first answer mine.”
“You’re welcome to list them,” said Cyrus.
“First of all, who the hell are you?”
“You might need to be more precise.”
“You are yourself no ordinary man,” Hazan said heatedly. “No ordinary king. I’ve been watching you closely these past weeks, and nothing about you makes sense –”
“Nothing?” He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“You never wear jewelry.”
Cyrus glanced at Hazan when he said, “Is that a crime?”
“For aking? Are you mad?”
“I take it you have other complaints about how I dress.”
“You never wear color. You often wear a hat. You possess only simple, plain clothes. No gold, no adornment, no crown in your hair. In fact, most days you walk with your head down –”
“This conversation bores me.” Cyrus looked at his hands, then the tips of his boots, which had darkened with damp. “And I don’t know what more you want from me. I’ve already given up my secrets.”
“Liar.”
