Parvaneh nodded in understanding. “You still don’t trust me. But maybe if I show you what he’s done to me, you’ll believe that I’m no friend of the Shahmar.” Parvaneh turned, her back facing Soraya, and lifted her worn shift over her head. Startled, Soraya began to look away, but then she understood what Parvaneh was showing her.
Her mother had thought she was freeing a girl until the parik unfurled her wings—the wings of an owl. Parvaneh’s wings were, of course, the wings of a moth, bearing the same patterns as the ones on her skin. Or at least Soraya thought they were the same patterns—it was difficult to tell because Parvaneh’s wings were slashed and torn, hanging like ribbons down her back.
Without thinking, Soraya came closer, all the way up to the bars. From here, she saw the tears in the wings more clearly, long, clean lines as if from a dagger—or claws.
“He did this to you?” Soraya asked in a small voice.
Parvaneh put her shift back on and turned around to face her again. “Bit by bit over time, yes. I had hoped the simorgh’s feather could restore them.”
Soraya listened to her, but it wasn’t the words that spoke to her loudest. In the hollow sound of Parvaneh’s voice, the dimmed glow of her eyes, the tired lines on her face, Soraya recognized someone who had lost not just her family, but a piece of herself.
Soraya pulled out the feather from her sash, careful not to hold it out of Parvaneh’s reach. Parvaneh’s eyes locked on the feather with a hungry, desperate look. “You have it,” she breathed.
Soraya turned away from Parvaneh and went to the lit brazier hanging from the wall. Perhaps she was a fool to trust Parvaneh, but images kept swimming in her mind—images of destruction and despair, of sharp claws and leathery wings, of a terrified girl in the forest and a young shah on his knees. Soraya couldn’t undo any of the Shahmar’s actions—except that she could free Parvaneh.
For the second time that day, she put out a fire, upending the brazier and sending the coals to scatter over the ground.
Parvaneh didn’t need an explanation. As soon as the esfand smoke began to disperse, she wrenched two of the bars apart with unearthly strength and walked through them—free.
Soraya wondered if she had made another mistake, if Parvaneh would snap her neck and go join her master, where they would both laugh at the naive girl they had fooled. But Parvaneh made no move toward her. She closed her eyes, lifted her head, and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said.
“You said you would help me,” Soraya reminded her.
“And I will,” Parvaneh said. Impossibly, her eyes were even brighter than they had been before. “But I won’t be much help until my wings are restored.” She turned and lifted her shift again, her movements more fluid now that the smoke had cleared. Soraya took an involuntary step back. The idea of someone baring their skin for her was still unthinkable, and she looked from Parvaneh’s back to the feather in her hand as if she didn’t quite know how to bring them together.
After a lengthy pause, Parvaneh shot a pointed look over her shoulder at Soraya and said, “You’ll have to come closer.”
Her sardonic tone broke Soraya out of her trance, and she moved toward Parvaneh, observing the damage of her wings without touching her. She brushed the tip of the feather along the largest tear, and instantly, the wing stitched itself back together. But there were many tears—not just the long, clean ones, but also smaller, jagged ones that probably happened on their own. It was delicate work, and so neither of them spoke as Soraya continued to tend to Parvaneh’s wings, one tear at a time.
It was calming—the soft brush of feather against wings, the hushed sounds of their breathing, the feeling of putting something together. It reminded Soraya of working in her garden, pulling away vines and plucking away dead petals so that her roses could bloom and thrive. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing when she first touched Parvaneh’s wing with her other hand, meaning to smooth out the surface so she could better attend to it. As soon as she realized what she had done, she drew back, but then her instinctive fear drained away, and she brushed her fingers against the wing again, thinking of that first butterfly from so long ago.
She continued her work, but her eyes kept drifting to the strip of bare skin between wings—to the matching patterns swirling like shadows on Parvaneh’s back, the soft down near the base of her neck, the curved ridge of her spine. It was almost like wanderlust; her fingertips yearned to explore new landscapes, new textures that they had never known before.
Only when she had finished repairing the last tear did Soraya allow herself to reach out with one faintly trembling hand and brush the pads of her fingers against Parvaneh’s skin, tracing one of the whorls on the inside of her shoulder blade where the wing was knitted into her back. Soraya was amazed at how soft Parvaneh’s skin was—softer than the petals of Soraya’s roses or the wool of her gloves. She let her fingers glide to the top of Parvaneh’s spine, and felt the strength of bone and muscle underneath the fragile layer of skin. She pressed down lightly, exploring the rise and dip of the ridges there, and she heard Parvaneh inhale sharply, her back arching.
Soraya pulled her hand away at once as if she’d been burned. She had forgotten herself—forgotten everything except her hunger for touch.
Parvaneh glanced over her shoulder at her, and Soraya tensed, expecting mockery. But Parvaneh’s expression was serious, and her voice soft—almost apologetic—as she asked, “Are you finished?”
“Yes,” Soraya said. “I think I repaired all of them.”
Parvaneh slowly opened her wings out to their full length, then closed and opened them again, and Soraya heard the barely restrained joy in her voice as she said, “Yes, you did.” Her wings collapsed, lying flat along her spine, and she put her shift back on. “Thank you,” she said, turning to Soraya. A hint of a smile played on her lips. “You have a gentle touch.” She headed for the stairway, leaving Soraya speechless behind her.
Once they ascended from the cavern, Parvaneh let Soraya lead the way through the dungeon. Soraya brought her to the secret entrance to the passageways, then paused to consider. She didn’t know if the Shahmar had noticed yet that she was missing, but if he had, he would likely be waiting for her to emerge from the passages—and he already knew about one of the doors. She wondered if it would be safer to use the regular entrance to the dungeon, but that, too, seemed too exposed, too risky. Better to take Parvaneh in through the passages and surface somewhere behind the palace—near the stables, if possible.
Soraya pulled open the door to the passageways, and told Parvaneh to follow.
She took them back to the circular cavern, though she ventured cautiously in case any divs were lying in wait. From there, they continued on down the central tunnel, Soraya heading toward the far western corner of the palace. There was a door there that would open onto a terrace that overlooked the training grounds. From there, they could run for the stables. Parvaneh’s presence behind her was an unexpected comfort—Soraya wasn’t alone now. She had someone powerful on her side, and soon the other pariks would join them. Her promise to her mother wasn’t bluster or desperation. It was possible. She could still undo what she had done.
As they neared the terrace, the passage became narrower, and Soraya had to duck her head. She was relieved when her hands met the low, square door at last. She pushed it open, letting in the crisp night air and the light from the stars, and began to crawl out through the opening in the palace wall onto the white stone of the terrace.
And then something sharp clamped around her arm and dragged her out the rest of the way.
The beaked div stood alone on the empty terrace, as if he had been expecting her. “The Shahmar said I would find you here,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
Soraya didn’t have time to wonder how the Shahmar had known where to find her. She needed to be ready to make her escape—because she noticed at once that the beaked div was alone, and she had Parvaneh with her.
Except th
at when she turned to look down the tunnel, Parvaneh was gone, and Soraya cursed herself for trusting yet another div.
The div led her into the palace, down halls that were now lined with other divs. She had expected him to take her back to the new wing, but instead, he went all the way down the hall to the entrance of the throne room.
The throne room was exactly as she had last seen it on Nog Roz—except that a different occupant lounged on the throne, his posture relaxed and arrogant. The beaked div brought her to the center of the room, where Sorush was standing rigidly on the image of the simorgh.
A ring of divs circled the room, and Soraya cursed silently as her eyes went to the door hidden in the right wall. One of the divs was positioned directly against it, blocking any escape. The Shahmar knows about the door, Soraya thought at once, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? She had never shown it to him, or even told him about it.
Following her gaze, the Shahmar said, “You’re looking for the door, aren’t you?” His voice rumbled with amusement. “I should have known better than to try to keep you prisoner here. You know these walls even better than I do. And I know them quite well myself—I built those passages that have hidden you away from me for so long, and so I knew which one you would likely take to escape. Don’t you find that poetic?”
A paranoid shah, Soraya remembered. Paranoid but clever, Azad had insisted. She was beginning to think there was no way to detangle her life from his, or his fate from hers.
The Shahmar continued: “I would have retrieved you soon anyway. I want you to be here when I kill your brother.”
Her stomach lurched, and she tried to find Sorush’s eye, but he kept his gaze straight ahead. Instead, she faced the Shahmar and said, “Why kill him? Isn’t it enough that he’s your prisoner?”
It was a weak argument, and they both knew it. The Shahmar shook his head. “I won’t make the same mistake I did last time, Soraya. As long as he lives, people will have hope that he can rise against me, and I won’t be overthrown by your family again.” He rose from the throne and descended from the dais. At once, Soraya stepped in front of her oddly passive brother.
“I won’t stand and watch,” she said to the Shahmar as he stepped closer and closer. “I won’t let you—”
“Soraya, stop.” Sorush’s voice rang clear, his hand firm on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”
She spun to face him in astonishment. His face was blank and unfeeling, but somehow his calm demeanor only made her feel more frantic, more desperate. “How can you say that?” she said to him. “That is your throne. Those are your people!”
He gave a slight shake of the head. “Not anymore. You saw to that.”
The chill in his voice made Soraya shiver. “Sorush, I’m sorry,” she said to him, her throat dry. “I never thought this would happen. When I put out the fire, I didn’t know—”
“And I didn’t know you hated me this much. I didn’t know you were capable of this.”
Soraya’s hands clenched at her sides, and before she could stop herself, she snapped, “Of course you didn’t know. How would you know anything I feel, or what I’m capable of, when you’ve barely spoken to me since childhood? After you became shah, you left me behind.”
This was wrong—she wasn’t supposed to be angry with him, not now, not after what she had done. But her old wounds hadn’t disappeared just because she had struck him a new one, and Sorush’s coldness toward her only reminded her of what had driven her to the fire temple in the first place.
Sorush’s eyes flickered, but only briefly. “You’re right,” he said. “I left you behind, and I worried about you often—but I had to worry about everyone else in this country as well. And now you’ve had your revenge on all of us—a very thorough one.”
The Shahmar’s scaled hand came down on her shoulder before she could respond. “As much as I enjoy seeing you like this, I think we’re finished here.”
He gestured to one of the divs, who came forward to lead Sorush away.
Soraya started to follow, but the Shahmar kept her in place. “Where are you taking him?” she asked hoarsely.
“I’ve changed my mind about the execution,” the Shahmar said, circling around to stand in front of her and block her view of Sorush’s retreating back.
“Why?”
“Perhaps your tender plea has moved me.” His hand encircled her wrist, and he pulled her alongside him as he strode out of the room.
Soraya fought to keep up with his determined stride, which only halted when they were both outside the main doors of the palace. The wreckage of the garden was masked by the darkness of night, but still, Soraya couldn’t bear to look at it.
“Where’s Sorush?” she demanded. “What are you going to do with him?” Her voice was growing ragged with the start of tears.
“You needn’t worry about him for now.”
“And my mother?” she said, Tahmineh’s pained cry still fresh in her mind. “Is she…?”
“Is she alive, or did I let her bleed to death after creating a distraction that allowed you to escape?” the Shahmar finished for her with a sneer. Soraya waited, hardly breathing, until he said, “She’s alive and safely bandaged.”
“Let me see her.”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
“Fine,” she said, weariness draining her remaining resistance. “Return me to my room.”
“No,” he repeated with a note of amusement. His lips twitched as he tried not to smile.
It was that hint of a smile, so maddeningly familiar, that shattered her last remnants of composure. “What more do you want from me, then?” she shouted at him as she ripped out of his grip. “You’re like a cat with prey, the way you’ve toyed with me all this time.”
The Shahmar’s smile was gone, but his eyes gleamed in the dark. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I thought I would surely kill you once you handed over the feather.” He reached for her, hooking one claw into her sash and using it to drag her toward him. When he withdrew his hand, he pulled the feather out from its hiding place, too, enclosing it in his scaled fist. “And yet, as I told you, I’ve grown quite fond of you, Soraya. You impressed me greatly during our time together. I find that I don’t want to kill you—I want to keep you.” He took hold of her again, his long fingers encircling her upper arm in a firm grip. “But I clearly can’t keep you here. You would escape me eventually. I’ll have to take you elsewhere.”
Before Soraya could respond, he swept her up in his arms and beat his massive wings until they were both high up above the palace.
In fear, Soraya clung to him, her eyes squeezing shut. She had read a story like this once, about a girl who was carried away by a monstrous bird to Mount Arzur. But the bird was enchanted, and when the girl kissed him, he turned into a handsome young man. It was fitting, Soraya supposed, that she would kiss a handsome young man and turn him into a monster.
She risked opening her eyes again, looking down as her conquered home and the charred outline of the city became smaller and smaller. Her breathing grew thin, and she gasped for air before her terror and exhaustion were finally strong enough to make the world go dark.
16
Soraya woke with a gasp. The last thing she remembered was moving up toward the stars and seeing Golvahar disappear below her. She remembered the beating of wings and the sharp points of claws digging into her skin. But these were all just memories. She was lying on something solid now—a bed?—and she was alone. Or at least she hoped she was alone. The light was dim, wherever she was.
Soraya sat up cautiously and squinted in the low light. When she touched the wall beside her for leverage, her hand met cool, uneven stone. What had the Shahmar said? That he couldn’t keep her in Golvahar, and so needed to take her elsewhere. She tried to keep her breathing even as she considered the possibilities—was she in a cave somewhere in the forest? Did he intend to keep her locked up here until he tired of her? She still wasn’t entirely convinced he didn’t plan to kill h
er.
She rose from the bed, and went toward the source of light. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that she was in a windowless room hewn out of rock. The light came from an iron candelabra set on a table, alongside a jug of water and a bowl of fruit. Everything in the room seemed cobbled together and slightly worn, from the rickety wooden bed frame to the chipped marble of the table to the moth-eaten rug beneath it. It seemed more like a mismatched collection than anything else, and it did nothing to alleviate the feeling that she had been buried alive.
But she let out a breath of relief when she saw a door set into the wall. The door, too, seemed misplaced—a rectangular wooden panel jammed into an arched opening—but more important, there was no keyhole beneath the handle. She wasn’t trapped, then … unless it was a different kind of trap. What would happen to her if she opened that door? What would be waiting for her on the other side?
Soraya went toward the door, and as she neared it, she noticed deep grooves made in the wood around the handle—the kind of grooves claws might make.
She was still staring at the door when the handle started to move and the door started to open. She braced herself for the sight of the Shahmar, that face from her nightmares.
But it wasn’t the Shahmar who stepped through the door. It was Azad. Soraya glanced at his hands, at his eyes, at his hair, but there was no sign of the monster she knew him to be. He was as beautiful as the day she’d first seen him.
He smiled when he saw her. “Good, you’re awake. Now we can—”
“No.” Her voice echoed slightly.
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t pretend. Not anymore.” Her throat clenched painfully as she tried to hold back angry tears.
“I’m not pretending, Soraya.” He stepped forward and reached for her hands, thumbs tracing the line of her knuckles. Soraya wanted to pull away, but it was still so new, so strange to feel bare skin on hers, and she couldn’t make herself deny something she’d wanted for so long. It was harder to remember to hate him when he looked like the boy who had comforted her at the dakhmeh. That boy never existed, she reminded herself, but when he slid his hands up her arms, when he cupped her face and began to lean in, she wanted so much to let herself forget.
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