This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(84)

“Oh, I—no—” Alizeh felt herself flush, the insubstantial weight of her two coppers suddenly heavy in her pocket. “I’m afraid I’m not in the market for—

“Actually,” she said in a rush, “I wondered whether you might inspect my injuries a bit earlier than we discussed.”

The wiry shopkeeper frowned. “That’s five days earlier than we discussed. I trust there’ve been no complications?”

“No, sir.” Alizeh stepped forward. “The salves have been a tremendous help. It’s only that the bandages are—they’re, well, they are a bit conspicuous, I think. They draw quite a lot of attention, and as I’d rather not be so easily remarked upon, I was hoping to remove them altogether.”

Deen stared at her a moment, studied what little of her face he could see. “You want to remove your bandages five days early?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it your housekeeper giving you trouble?”

“No, sir, it’s n—”

“You are well within your rights to treat injuries, you know. She is not allowed to prevent your recove—”

“No, sir,” Alizeh said again, a bit sharper this time. “It’s not that.”

When she said nothing else, Deen took a deep breath. He made no effort to hide his disbelief, and Alizeh was quietly surprised by his concern.

“Very well, then,” he said, exhaling. “Have a seat. Let’s take a look.”

Alizeh pulled herself up onto the high chair at the counter, the better to be examined. Very slowly, Deen began unraveling the bandage at her neck.

“You’ve wrapped this quite nicely,” he murmured, to which she only nodded her acknowledgment. There was something soothing about his gentle motions, and for a moment, Alizeh dared to close her eyes.

Never could she articulate precisely how exhausted she was. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d slept more than a couple of hours or felt safe enough to stand still for long. Seldom was she allowed to sit, almost never was she allowed to stop.

Oh, if only she could get herself to the ball tonight, anything might be possible. Relief. Safety. Peace. As for the actual shape of such dreams—

She had little in the way of expectations.

Alizeh was a failed queen without a kingdom, without even a small country to rule. Jinn were fractured across Ardunia, their known numbers too few, and the rest, too hard to find. Long ago there had been a plan for her ascent, the details of which Alizeh had not been made privy to at such a young age. Her parents always insisted she focus instead on her studies, on enjoying her youth a while longer.

Alizeh was twelve when her father died, and only afterward did Alizeh’s mother begin to worry that her daughter knew too little of her fate. It was then that she told Alizeh of the Arya mountains, of the magic therein that was essential to unlocking the powers she was rumored to one day possess. When Alizeh had asked why she could not simply go and collect such a magic, her mother had laughed, and sadly.

“It is not so simple a task,” she’d explained. “The magic must be gathered by a quorum of loyal subjects, all of whom must be willing to die for you in the process. The earth has chosen you to rule, my dear, but you must first be found worthy of the role by your own people. Five must be willing to sacrifice their lives to give rise to your reign; only then will the mountains part with their power.”

It had always seemed to Alizeh an unnecessary, brutal requirement; she did not think herself capable of asking half a dozen people to die for her, not even in the interest of the common good. But as she could not now think of even a single person willing to forfeit their life in the pursuit of her interests—she felt it premature to rely upon even Hazan—it seemed a futile point to consider.

What’s more, Alizeh knew that even if, through some miracle, she managed to claim her rightful throne and earn the allegiance of tens of thousands, she’d have already failed them as their queen, for she’d be sentencing her own people to death.

It required little creativity to imagine that the king of Ardunia would crush a rival on his own lands; his recent pursuit of her was proof enough of his concerns. He would never willingly lose his seat nor his people, and Jinn were among his numbers now.

Alizeh opened her eyes just as Deen unfurled the last of the linen at her neck.

“If you would please hold out your hands, miss, I’ll unwrap the linen there, too,” he was saying. “Though the cut at your throat appears to be healing very well . . .”

Alizeh held out her hands but turned her head toward the window, distracted as she was just then by the sight of a small, ancient woman pushing past a heaving wheelbarrow. The woman had aged much like a tree might, her face so gracefully inscribed by the passage of time that Alizeh thought she might count each line to know her age. Her shock of white hair was made a brilliant orange by henna and tied back with a floral scarf that matched her vivid, floral skirt. Alizeh glimpsed the woman’s harvest: green almonds piled high in the cart, their soft fuzzy shells still intact, shimmering with frost.

The old woman nodded at her, and Alizeh smiled.

She had been surprised, upon arrival in Setar, to discover how much she loved the commotion of the royal city; the noise and madness were a comfort to her; a reminder that she was not alone in the world. To witness every day the collective effort of so many people striving and making and working and breathing—