Girl, Serpent, Thorn (15 page)

Both Tahmineh and Soraya let out loud cries of alarm—though Soraya's was genuine, while Tahmineh's seemed calculated. Her eyes never left the door, not even as she pulled her bleeding arm back in through the window. Soraya wanted to run to her, but Tahmineh held up a hand, and she remembered her mother's order not to hesitate.

Mere seconds later, the door slammed open with such force that
Soraya was nearly crushed by the impact. The beaked div came forward, going across the room to where Tahmineh was holding out her bleeding arm while making garbled pleas for help. And despite her mother's orders, Soraya did hesitate—because how could her mother know if the div would help her or if he would let her bleed to death? How could she be so sure that the Shahmar cared if she lived or died?

But if she didn't go now, then Tahmineh's actions would have been for nothing. Soraya had already wasted one of her mother's gifts—she wouldn't make the same mistake again.

With the div's back to her, Soraya slid out from behind the door—and ran.

 

She began to veer right, but there was another div standing nearby, mercifully facing the other end of the hall, so Soraya skidded to a halt and changed direction. She wasn't familiar with this part of the palace, but after making another turn, she found a narrow stairwell that would almost certainly be too small for most of the divs to fit into.

It was fortunate that the div had blocked her first instinct to turn right. When Soraya stepped out of the stairwell, she realized by the narrowness of the corridors and the unadorned walls that she was in passageways used mainly by servants, at the back of the palace. Soraya went to the end of the hall and turned down the only way open to her—a long hall that would take her from the new wing back to the main structure of the palace, where she could more easily disappear into the walls.

The long hallway led to a round, colonnaded vestibule with large,
arched doorways that opened out to the grounds behind the palace. But the doorways were guarded, of course, by two equally large divs, and Soraya stayed in the shadows of her hallway, trying to remember the closest entrance to the passageways.

Her heart was beating frantically in her chest, and she took a breath to calm herself.
If anyone can find a way to sneak out of the palace, it's you,
she thought, finding comfort in her mother's words. Even though the poison had been drained out of her, she was still an expert at sneaking through the palace unseen and unheard. With one last inhale, she looked out across the vestibule, at the hallway opposite hers. Inside the second door on the right down that hall was an office for scribes, and inside that office was a hidden door that would take her into the passageways—if nobody caught her first.

Soraya stepped out into the vestibule, slowly enough that the soles of her slippers made no sound against the marble floor. With painfully slow steps, she reached the first column without the divs noticing her. She peered out from behind the column, waiting for the divs to look away before she dared move out into the center of the room, directly into their line of vision. She watched them … waiting … and finally, something made them turn their heads to look out onto the grounds.

Soraya ran, no longer bothering to take slow, quiet steps. The slapping sound of her slippers against the floor must have drawn their attention, because she heard a gruff shout, followed by the sound of footsteps running in her direction.

She was in the opposite hall now, and she made it to the second door just as one of the divs squeezed himself into the hallway, barreling after her while she fumbled with the door handle with damp hands.
If I had my gloves, this would be easier
, she thought, but she managed to get the door open and shut it behind her, hoping that would buy her enough time to disappear before the div saw where she had gone.

In the scribes' dark, windowless office, Soraya moved by instinct, finding the opening of the door in the wall behind the writing desk. The door to the office began to open—Soraya stepped into the passageways—

And swung the door shut behind her as the div burst into the room. From the narrow seam in the wall, Soraya watched the div look around the empty office, confusion on his furred and leonine face. He let out an angry snort and then he was gone.

Soraya collapsed against the wall in relief—but her relief didn't last long. She was safe for now, but still had to find a way out of the palace, and it was only a matter of time before the Shahmar discovered she was missing. He would likely guess she was in the passageways, and he already knew one of the entrances.

And then there was her mother's advice, that Soraya find a parik with the wings of an owl. But even if Soraya managed to escape the palace, how would she ever manage to find the parik on her own?

You would be welcome among my sisters. If you freed me now, I could take you to them.

The solution was both obvious and ridiculous. Parvaneh would know how to find the other pariks, of course. She probably even knew the owl-winged parik her mother had mentioned, since she had known so much about Soraya's curse. But why would Parvaneh ever agree to help her?
The feather,
Soraya remembered, putting a hand to her waist, feeling the outline of the feather inside her sash.

She began to walk in the direction of the chamber that would take her to the dungeon, but even though she knew Parvaneh was her best option, she worried she was making yet another terrible mistake. Parvaneh was a div—she would surely be in league with the Shahmar.

As if Parvaneh were in the same room with her, Soraya could clearly see the insulted look on her face and hear the irritation in
her voice.
I'm not any div,
she had once told her.
I'm a parik, and my purposes are my own.

Soraya remembered, too, that Parvaneh had last urged her not to take the feather at all, to live with her curse in peace—and to ask her mother why she had wanted her daughter cursed. If Soraya had followed any of her advice, the Shahmar's plan might have failed.

Even as Soraya argued with herself, every step she took led her closer to the dungeon. When she emerged into the round chamber where she had once stood with Azad, she knew there was never a question of whether she would return to the dungeon, not truly. Even if she didn't need help finding the owl-winged parik, Soraya would still want to look into those amber eyes and see for herself if Parvaneh had been a part of this plot from the beginning.

The familiar and reassuring smell of esfand surrounded her as soon as she stepped out into the dungeon. If the smoke was still this strong, then no other divs had been here—which meant, possibly, that Parvaneh wasn't a part of their plot. Soraya reminded herself that the esfand hadn't had any effect on Azad, but she supposed that was because of his former humanity.

Letting out a slow breath, Soraya crept down the stairs to Parvaneh's cavern. The light was stronger this time, and so she could clearly see Parvaneh restlessly pacing the length of her cell. As soon as she saw Soraya, she froze and walked up to the bars. Her gaze immediately went from Soraya's face and neck to her bare hands. “You did it, didn't you?” she said. Her eyes snapped back to Soraya's face with an urgent gleam. “Do you have the feather?”

Soraya stepped forward, ignoring Parvaneh's question. “Did you know? When you saw him here with me that first day, did you know who he was—and what he was planning?”

Parvaneh didn't need to speak her answer aloud. The glow of her eyes dimmed, her shoulders sagged, and her hands fell away from the bars. Everything about her spoke of defeat.

Soraya shook her head in disappointment. She didn't understand why she was so surprised, so betrayed. Parvaneh was a div, wasn't she? “You knew and you said nothing.”

“I said plenty. You didn't listen.”

“You were a part of this from the beginning, weren't you? When you attacked my brother—that was all part of the plan to get both of you into the palace. What a wonderful spy you've been for your king,” Soraya sneered.

Parvaneh's eyes flashed with anger. “He's not my king,” she said, her voice a snarl. “He's my captor. If I had told you everything, would you have believed me? You barely believed a word I said as it was. If I had told you that your handsome new friend was secretly the leader of the divs, you would have denied it at best. At worst, you would have told him, so he could reassure you that I was a liar, and then he would have punished me and my sisters.”

Soraya heard the echo of her own response to her mother's question of why Soraya hadn't confronted her sooner, and so she couldn't deny that Parvaneh was probably right. Soraya's voice softened a little as she repeated, “Your sisters?”

“He hunts us for sport. Many of my sisters are his prisoners.”

Like the parik my mother freed in the forest,
Soraya remembered. “The other pariks—does one of them have the wings of an owl?”

Parvaneh's head tilted in surprise. “Parisa,” she said, with a glimmer of a smile. “She's the one who made you what you are.”

“I need to find her. Do you know where she is?”

“Captured, or so he told me. But…” Parvaneh's eyes flickered to a spot behind Soraya's shoulder—the source of the fragrant smoke all around them. “If you let me out, I could take you to her and the others, and we could free them. We both have families to save.”

Soraya considered in silence. She didn't know whom to trust anymore—she had trusted Azad completely, and she had been
wrong. Was it possible, then, that she had been wrong to think that Parvaneh was her enemy? Or would she be even more of a fool to trust her now?

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.