KAMRAN’S HEELS KNOCKED AGAINST THE marble floors with unusual force, the sounds echoing through the cavernous halls of his home. Upon his father’s death Kamran had discovered that he could be propelled through life by a single emotion; carefully cultivated, it grew hot and vital inside his chest, like an experimental organ.
Anger.
It kept him alive better than his heart ever had.
He felt anger always, but he felt it especially now, and Lord save the man who crossed him when he was at his worst.
After tucking the girl’s handkerchief into his breast pocket, he’d pivoted sharply, single-minded as he strode toward his horse, the animal patiently awaiting his return. Kamran liked horses. They did not ask questions before doing as they were told; at least not with their tongues. The jet stallion had not minded his master’s bloodied cloak nor his distracted temper.
Not the way Hazan did.
The minister trailed him now with impressive speed; his the second set of boots pounding the stone floors. Had they not grown up together, Kamran might’ve reacted to this insolence with an inelegant method of problem-solving: brute force. But then, it was his incapacity for awe that made Hazan perfect for his role as minister. Kamran could not countenance sycophants.
“You are worse than an idiot, did you know?” Hazan said with great serenity. “You should be nailed to the oldest Benzess tree. I should let the scarabs strip the flesh from your bones.”
Kamran said nothing.
“It could take weeks.” Hazan had caught up, and now he kept pace easily. “I would watch, happily, as they devoured your eyes.”
“Surely, you exaggerate.” “I assure you, I do not.”
Without warning, Kamran stopped walking; Hazan, to his credit, did not falter. The two young men turned sharply to face each other. Hazan had once been the kind of boy whose knees resembled arthritic knuckles; as a child, he could hardly stand up straight to save his life. Kamran could not help but marvel at the difference in him now, at the boy who’d grown into the kind of man who felt comfortable threatening to murder the crown prince with a smile.
It was with a begrudging respect that Kamran met his minister’s eyes.
They were nearly the same height, he and Hazan. Similar builds.
Wildly different features.
“No,” Kamran said, sounding tired even to himself. The sharp edge of his anger had begun to fade. “As to your enthusiasm for my brutal death, I have no doubt. I refer only to your assessment of the damage you claim I’ve done.”
Hazan’s hazel eyes flashed at that, the only outward sign of his frustration. Still, he spoke calmly when he said, “That there lingers any uncertainty in your mind that you’ve not committed a grievous error says only to me, sire, that you should have your neck checked by the palace butcher.”
Kamran almost smiled.
“You think this is funny?” Hazan took a measured step closer. “You’ve only alerted the kingdom to your presence, only shouted into a crowd every proof of your identity, only marked yourself as a target while entirely unguarded—”
Kamran unlatched the clasp at his throat, stretched his neck, let the cloak drop. The article was caught by unseen hands, a specter-like servant scraping in, then out of sight with the bloodied garment. In the fraction of a second he saw the blur of the servant’s snoda he was reminded, again, of the girl.
Kamran dragged a hand down his face, with grim results. He’d forgotten about the boy’s dried blood on his hands and hoped he might forget again. In the interim, he only half listened to the minister’s reprimands, with which he did not at all agree.
The prince neither saw his actions as foolish, nor did he think it beyond him to be interested in the affairs of the lower classes. Privately, Kamran might allow an argument defending the futility of such an interest—for he knew if he were to concern himself with every violent attack on the city streets he’d scarcely find time to breathe—but apart from the fact that an interest in the lives of the Ardunian people was entirely within the prince’s purview, the morning’s bloodletting had seemed to him more than a random act of violence. Indeed the more he’d studied the situation the more nefarious it had presented, its actors more complex than first appeared. It had seemed wise, at the time, to insert himself in the situation—
“A situation that concerned two worthless bodies better off extinguished by their own kind,” Hazan said with little emotion. “The girl had seen fit to let the boy go, as you claim—and yet, you found her judgment wanting? You felt it necessary to play God? No, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.”
Kamran only glanced at his minister.
Hazan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I might’ve been motivated to consider the wisdom of your intervention had the boy actually killed the girl. Barring that,” he said flatly, “I can see no excuse for your reckless behavior, sire, no explanation for your thoughtlessness save a grotesque need to be a hero—”
Kamran looked up at the ceiling. He’d loved little in his life, but he’d always appreciated the comfort of symmetry, of sequences that made sense. He stared now at the soaring, domed ceilings, the artistry of the alcoves carved into alcoves. Every expanse and cavity was adorned with star-bursts of rare metals, glazed tiles expertly arranged into geometric patterns that repeated ad infinitum.
He lifted a bloody hand, and Hazan fell silent.
“Enough,” Kamran said quietly. “I’ve indulged your censure long enough.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Hazan took a step back but stared curiously at the prince. “More than usual, I’d say.”
Kamran forced a sardonic smile. “I beg you to spare me your analysis.” “I would dare to remind you, sire, that it is my imperial duty to provide
you the very analysis you detest.” “A regrettable fact.”
“And a loathsome occupation, is it not, when one’s counsel is thusly received?”
“A bit of advice, minister: when offering counsel to a barbarian, you might consider first lowering your expectations.”
Hazan smiled. “You are not at all yourself today, sire.” “Chipper than usual, am I?”
“Your mood is a great deal darker this morning than you would care to admit. Just now I might inquire as to why the death of a street child has you so overwrought.”
“You would be wasting your breath in the effort.”
“Ah.” Hazan still held his smile. “I see the day is not yet ripe enough for honesty.”
“If I am indeed overwrought,” said the prince, losing a modicum of composure, “it is no doubt a symptom of my enthusiasm to remind you that my father would’ve had you hung for your insolence.”
“Just so,” Hazan said softly. “Though it occurs to me now that you are not your father.”
Kamran’s head snapped up. He drew his sword from its scabbard without thinking, and not until he saw the barely contained mirth in his minister’s eyes did he stall, his hand frozen on the hilt.
Kamran was rattled.
He’d been gone from home for over a year; he’d forgotten how to have normal conversations. Long months he’d spent in the service of the empire, securing borders, leading skirmishes, dreaming of death.
Ardunia’s rivalry with the south was as old as time.
Ardunia was a formidable empire—the largest in the known world— and their greatest weakness was both a well-kept secret and a source of immense shame: they were running out of water.
Kamran was proud of Ardunia’s existing qanat systems, intuitive networks that transported water from aquifers to aboveground reservoirs, and upon which people relied for their drinking water and irrigation. The problem was that qanats relied entirely upon the availability of groundwater, which meant large swaths of the Ardunian empire were for centuries rendered uninhabitable—a problem mitigated only by barging freshwater via marine vessel from the Mashti River.
The fastest path to this titanic waterway was located at the nadir of Tulan, a small, neighboring empire affixed to Ardunia’s southernmost
border. Tulan was much like a flea they could not shake free, a parasite that could neither be eliminated nor exhumed. Ardunia’s greatest wish was to build an aqueduct straight through the heart of the southern nation, but decade after decade its kings would not bow. Tulan’s only peaceful offering in exchange for such access was a punishing, ruinous tax, one too great even for Ardunia. Several times they’d tried simply to decimate Tulan, but the Ardunian military had suffered astonishing losses as a result—Kamran’s own father had died in the effort—and none in the north could understand why.
Hatred had grown between the two nations not unlike an impassable mountain range.
For nearly a century the Ardunian navy had been forced instead to take a far more dangerous route to water, traveling many months for access to the tempestuous river. It was lucky, then, that Ardunia had been blessed not only with a reliable rainy season, but with engineers who’d built impressive catchment areas to capture and store rainwater for years at a time. Even so, the clouds never seemed quite as full these days, and the empire’s cisterns were running low.
Every day, Kamran prayed for rain.
The empire of Ardunia was not officially at war—not yet—but peace, too, Kamran had learned, was maintained at a bloody price.
“Your Highness.” Hazan’s tentative voice startled the prince, returning him to the present moment. “Forgive me. I spoke thoughtlessly.”
Kamran looked up.
The details of the hall in which he stood came suddenly into sharp focus: glossy marble floors, towering jade columns, soaring opalescent ceilings. He felt the worn, leather hilt of his sword against his palm, growing all the while incrementally aware of the musculature of his body, the dense weight he carried always and seldom considered: the heaviness in his arms, the heft of his legs. He forced himself to return the sword to its scabbard, briefly closing his eyes. He smelled rosewater and fresh rice; a servant bustled past carrying a copper tray laden with tea things.
How long had he been lost in his own thoughts?
Kamran had grown anxious and distracted of late. The recent swell of Tulanian spies discovered on Ardunian land had done little for his sleep; alone it would’ve been a disturbing enough discovery, but this intelligence was compounded by his own myriad worries, for not only did the prince
fear for their reservoirs, but he’d seen things on his recent tour of duty that continued to unnerve him.
The future seemed dim, and his role in it, bleak.
As was expected, the prince sent his grandfather frequent updates while away. His most recent letter had been rife with news of Tulan, whose small empire became only bolder as the days went on. Rumors of discord and political maneuvering grew louder each day, and despite the tenuous peace between the two empires, Kamran suspected war might soon be inevitable.
His return to the capital the week prior was for two reasons only: first, after completing a perilous water journey, he’d had to replenish the central cisterns that fed the others throughout the empire, and then deliver his troops safely home. Second, and more simply: his grandfather had asked it of him.
In response to Kamran’s many concerns, the prince had been instructed to return to Setar. For a respite, his grandfather had said. An innocuous enough request, one Kamran knew to be quite irregular.
The prince had been restored to the palace for a week now, and every day he grew only more unsettled. Even after seven days home the king had yet to respond directly to his note, and Kamran had grown restless without a mission, without his soldiers. He was just then listening to Hazan articulate these same thoughts, allowing that this very restlessness was—
“—perhaps the only plausible explanation for your actions this morning.”
Yes. Kamran could at least agree that he was eager to return to work. He would need to leave again, he realized.
Soon.
“I grow tired of this conversation,” the prince said curtly. “Do assist me in welcoming its swift conclusion and tell me what it is you require. I must be on my way.”
Hazan hesitated. “Yes, sire, of course, but— Do you not wish to know what has become of the child?”
“What child?”
“The boy, of course. The one whose blood stains your hands even now.” Kamran stiffened, his anger sparking suddenly back to life. It took little,
he realized, to rekindle a fire that only dulled, but never died. “I would not.” “But it might comfort you to know that he is not yet dead.”
“Comfort me?”
“You seem distressed, Your Highness, and I—”
Kamran took a step forward, his eyes flashing. He studied Hazan closely: the broken slope of his nose, his cropped ash-blond hair. Hazan’s skin was so densely freckled one could scarcely see his eyebrows; he’d been bullied mercilessly as a child for what seemed a myriad of reasons, tragic in all ways save one: it was Hazan’s suffering that had conjured their first introduction. The day Kamran defended the illegitimate child of a courtier was the same day that nobby-kneed child pledged fealty to the young prince.
Even then, Kamran had tried to look away. He’d tried valiantly to ignore the affairs deemed beneath him, but he could not manage it.
He could not manage it still.
“You forget yourself, minister,” Kamran said softly. “I would encourage you now to get to your point.”
Hazan bowed his head. “Your grandfather is waiting to see you. You are expected in his rooms at once.”
Kamran briefly froze, his eyes closing. “I see. You were not exaggerating your frustration, then.”
“No, sire.”
Kamran opened his eyes. In the distance, a kaleidoscope of colors bedimmed, then brightened. Soft murmurs of conversation carried over to him, the gentle footfalls of scurrying servants, a blur of snodas. He’d never paid much attention to it; the centuries-old uniform. Now every time he saw one he would think of that accursed servant girl. Spy. He nearly snapped his neck just to clear the thought. “What, pray, does the king want from me?”
Hazan prevaricated. “Now that your people know you are home, I expect he will ask you to do your duty.”
“Which is?” “To host a ball.”
“Indeed.” Kamran’s jaw clenched. “I’m certain I would rather set myself on fire. If that is all?”
“He’s quite serious, Your Highness. I’ve heard rumors that the announcement for a ball has already been—”
“Good. You will take this”—Kamran retrieved the handkerchief from his jacket, pinching it between thumb and forefinger—“and have it examined.”
Hazan quickly pocketed the white handkerchief. “Shall I have it examined for anything in particular, Your Highness?”
“Blood.”
At Hazan’s blank look, the prince went on: “It belonged to the servant girl whose neck was nearly slit by the Fesht boy. I think she might be Jinn.”
Now Hazan frowned. “I see.” “I fear you do not.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but in what way does her blood concern us? As you know, the Fire Accords give Jinn the right to w—”
“I am well acquainted with our laws, Hazan. My concern is not merely with her blood, but with her character.”
Hazan raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t trust her,” Kamran said sharply. “Need you trust her, sire?”
“There’s something false about the girl. She was too refined in her manners.”
“Ah.” Hazan’s eyebrows lifted higher, comprehension dawning. “And in light of all our recent friendliness from Tulan—”
“I want to know who she is.” “You think her a spy.”
It was the way he said it, as if he thought Kamran delusional, that soured the prince’s expression. “You did not see her the way I did, Hazan. She disarmed the boy in a single motion. Dislocated his shoulder. You know as well as I do how the Tulanians covet the Jinn for their strength and fleet- footedness.”
“Indeed,” Hazan said carefully. “Though I should remind you, sire, that the child she disarmed was weak from hunger to the point of death. His bones might’ve been unhinged by a strong gust of wind. An ailing rat might’ve bested him.”
“Just the same. You will have her found out.” “The servant girl.”
“Yes, the servant girl,” Kamran said irritably. “She fled the scene when she saw me. She looked at me as if she knew me.”
“Forgive me, sire—but I thought you could not see her face?”
Kamran took a sharp breath. “Perhaps you will thank me, minister, for employing you with such a task? Unless, of course, you would rather I seek your replacement.”
Hazan’s lips twitched; he bowed. “It is a pleasure, as always, to be at your service.”
“You will tell the king I must bathe before our meeting.” “But, sire—”
Kamran strode away, his retreating footfalls ringing out once more through the cavernous hall. His anger had again begun to percolate, bringing with it a humidity that seemed to fog his vision, dim the sounds around him.
It was a shame, then, that Kamran did not dissect himself. He did not stare out of windows wondering what other emotions might be lurking beneath the veneer of his ever-present anger. It did not occur to him that he might be experiencing a muddied sort of grief, so it did not strike him as unusual that he was fantasizing, just then, about driving a sword through a man’s heart. In fact, he was so consumed by his imaginings that he did not hear his mother calling his name, her bejeweled robes dragging, sapphires scoring the marble floors as she went.
No, Kamran seldom heard his mother’s voice until it was too late.
