I’d read about Rusul when I’d been learning about the ancient fae Queen. They had been married, but had started a war that lasted hundreds of years between the peris. His magic was said to be an antithesis to hers—an opposing force. Hers was about the creation of magic, of power, of life, while his was meant to be about the absence of it. Not death exactly, but the removal of life.
If King Rusul had created a crown forged from his own powers, that explained the Viceroy’s ability to reduce the Court of River’s life magic.
Kiyan said the words simply, without inflection. But something was lurking in the back of his smooth voice, something edged in anger.
“Take it... the Viceroy removes magic from you?”
Kiyan smiled, but it was without humor. “Not me. Not yet. At least not in the same way. He’s managed to limit our magic and amplify his own ability using the King’s crown embedded in his chest.”
He tapped his own chest as a reminder. My eyes flickered there, realizing with alarm he had been in a state of semi-undress when he’d come into the tent and his shirt was half open, revealing the various scars still there. But he was unaware of my distraction and kept speaking.
“What Reza does is a form of punishment—a peri is drained of their magic, their language and their memories taken too. The one that performs the punishment takes their magic.” He screwed up his face. “It isn’t theirs exactly. The magic becomes twisted, different. So, the Viceroy has a significant amount of magic due to the punishments he has performed, but the King’s crown enhances that magic. And in turn, limits ours.”
“I’ve seen them, those he punishes,” I said slowly, thinking of the woman with the backward feet who had helped me at the River. “An old woman near the River who spoke nonsense.”
Kiyan nodded. “Yes, we call them zulmi. For our Court, magic is life. Taking it away doesn’t kill us, but we no longer have our language, our thoughts, our ability to move the same. It ages us, makes us husks of who we are.”
“The Viceroy has done that to others?” I whispered, looking up at Kiyan.
His mouth flattened.
“He has.” Then he leaned in closer to me, his eyes alight.
He’s going to kiss me, I thought. His lips were so close. I saw every crackle of fire in his dark eyes, every glowing strand of his hair.
It was different shades of silver, I realized. Almost white. A shimmering pearlescent steel, catching dark and light.
I turned my head toward his, my mouth parting. The air was charged, and it felt as though at any moment it would ignite between us.
Kiyan stopped just before my mouth, his hot breath on my lips. “But you would know all that if you were from here.”
Chapter 30
They’ll hold your life in the palm of their hands,
Your thralldom is what they want.
They’ll grow your flowers, make fertile your lands,
And your heart, they’ll haunt.
—Songs of Astola,collected and compiled by Mahira Nazir
Yaseema
I wrenched away at his words, but he grabbed my upper arms tight, his fingers digging into the meat of them. I pushed against him until he walked forward, pressing me to the thick wooden pole holding up the tent.
“Stop struggling,” he bit off, his body pressed against mine. “And don’t you dare scream. We are going to have a conversation.”
“Fuck you.” I tried to jerk again but it was impossible, given how tightly he was holding me.
“You don’t want to be fighting me, not yet,” he said ominously. “I am the reason you are alive right now.”
My mouth dropped open, thinking of how he’d rescued me from the flames. A smooth, curved smile that reminded me of the sound of his voice spread across his face.
“Not because of what you did at the festival. I’ve known for a long time you aren’t a servant girl at the palace, Yaseema. And I know you aren’t from Salt either.”
“And what do you imagine I am, then?”
