All This Twisted Glory by Tahereh Mafi

Author:Tahereh Mafi [Mafi, Tahereh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

Part Two

In the Beginning

THE SUMMER SUN HUNG LOW in a blue sky, heat so heavy it seemed to sink beneath flesh, cling to bone. A medley of buzzing sound filled the air, winged insects in frenzy. There was the smell of sod, the occasional flap of wings, and the rustle of fabric as Cyrus subtly shifted his weight in the tall grass. At least a dozen times he’d watched mosquitoes land on various aspects of his body, and at least a dozen times he’d struggled to remind himself not to kill the insects but to brush them away gently. This method was not foolproof.

Absently scratching at a bite on his arm, he peered up at the smudging sun before glancing again toward the horizon. He stood at the center of a meadow, acres of willowy grass interrupted only by a wild scatter of red poppies, their stems occasionally bending in the weak, welcome breeze. Cyrus leaned against the edge of a human-scale honeycomb; it was a massive wooden re-creation of the iconic hexagonal chambers, one of several seated on the sprawling back field of the Diviners’ land. Cyrus didn’t know when, exactly, the others were due to return, and his composure was unraveling. He drummed his fingers impatiently along his covered thigh, then tugged at the collar of his heavy black cloak.

“Too restless,” came a deep, steady voice.

Cyrus stilled, then turned carefully to face his teacher. The older man, Rostam, stood unflinching under the melting heat, his hood pulled back to reveal the shaved head, tanned skin, and unflappable calm of one who might be standing in the shade. Rostam did not sweat. He did not fidget.

Cyrus, meanwhile, didn’t know how much more he could endure. The lesser, second son of Tulanian royalty had only recently acknowledged his fourteenth birthday, and he was neither fully at home in his body, nor was he yet in command of his mind. He’d not mastered the art of silent communication, either, and his voice, as a result, was one of the few that carried across the field.

“We’ve been waiting three hours,” said Cyrus carefully, lest his tone register the statement as a complaint.

Rostam tilted his head. “Three hours,” he echoed. “And all you’ve done is wait?”

Cyrus felt a prickle of unease.

“What have you been waiting for, little one?”

Even as he knew there must be more to the question—knew there was something he’d missed—Cyrus felt compelled to answer honestly. “I’m waiting for the others to arrive.”

When this elicited no response from his teacher, he added: “They’re due to return from the mountains with a fresh yield of crystals. We’re meant to cleanse and sort the harvest before extracting the magic.”

Rostam fixed the young prince with a piercing look, and Cyrus grew increasingly apprehensive. His teacher said again, even more softly: “What have you been waiting for?”

This time, Cyrus didn’t answer right away.

He’d been at the temple long enough to know when he was being challenged, and though he withered under Rostam’s unrelenting stare, he

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