ALIZEH RUSHED HEADLONG INTO THE chaos, her heart beating hard in her chest, Omid trailing close behind. Her mind was already spinning with the weight of so many revelations—and now this? What was happening?
She’d hardly a moment to wrap her head around the realization that Hazan was minister to the prince, and even less to analyze a disconcerting suspicion that Hazan had not been speaking to Kamran, but to her when he’d issued those warnings to leave the ball, that things were not safe.
Indeed, Hazan had seemed so worried it scared her.
Perhaps he feared she was running out of time; the stranger had said Alizeh needed to leave the palace before midnight, but he’d abandoned her with so little apprehension that she hadn’t thought he meant it literally. And yet, if what he’d said was true—she glanced up at the towering clock in the hall—there were thirty-five minutes left in the hour. That felt like plenty of time.
Did Hazan mean for her to get to the transport alone, without assistance of the stranger? He said he’d sent messages, but to what message did he refer? Surely he meant the notes that came with the gown and shoes? Or was it the appearance of the copper-headed young man?
No, Alizeh considered, Hazan must’ve been referring to the shoes; for what other message had she received today that might aid in her escape?
Oh, if only she could get Hazan alone—if she could secure even a minute of his time—
Alizeh looked around as she moved, searching for a glimpse of Hazan’s face, but Kamran and his minister had been enveloped by the surging mass more easily than she, as the horde knew to make way for the prince even in the midst of chaos.
Though even the chaos was strange.
The screaming had stopped, but so, too, had the music. Most people were flocking toward the source of the commotion, while others were rendered immobile by confusion; everyone seemed to be waiting to know whether the terrifying scream could be ascribed to an overstimulated attendee—maybe a young woman had fainted, maybe someone had been overly startled. All seemed to wonder whether they might continue enjoying their evening without worry, as no one had yet confirmed a cause for panic.
Alizeh pushed against the swell of the crowd, worried for the fate of Miss Huda, wondering where she’d gone, when the silence was split open by yet another shriek of terror. Alizeh froze in place, struck by the sound of the young woman’s familiar voice.
“No,” Miss Huda was shouting. “No, I will not—You cannot—”
Dread pooled like tar in Alizeh’s gut. The stranger was no doubt accosting Miss Huda now—of this Alizeh felt certain—though she struggled to understand his motivations. Why had he so easily broken his promise? What reason did he have to torture Miss Huda?
Alizeh’s hands clenched, her body seizing with a desperate need to do something, when someone tugged at her arm.
Omid.
“Miss,” he said urgently. “That’s the voice of the lady who was hiding earlier. I think she needs help.”
Alizeh glanced up at the tall twelve-year-old. “Yes,” she said. “Can you take me to her? And quickly?”
“Right away, miss,” he said, already moving. “Just follow me.”
Alizeh trailed the boy without a word, the two of them weaving between bodies, wending around chairs, occasionally crawling under tables. Omid, she realized, was quite good at uncovering the narrow, unexpected path through madness, for no matter his reformed ways, he had been a street child, and knew well how to find his way through a crowd.
He led Alizeh through the throng with astonishing swiftness, delivering them both to a dark cove in a far reach of the ballroom, where Miss Huda was backing away from what appeared to be a tall shadow of a person, her arms held up defensively in front of her body.
Alizeh felt she recognized that shadow.
“Wait,” she said sharply, holding out an arm to halt Omid’s forward march.
She pulled them both behind a perforated wooden screen, where they ducked low, peering at the scene through a series of star-shaped cutouts. Alizeh had a vague idea of what she was expecting to see, but her imaginings were so far from truth that her mouth dropped open in surprise.
Miss Huda did not hold aloft her arms, but a candelabra, and she was approaching the tall shadow as if she might strike him. “Not so powerful now, are you?” she was saying. “Not so scary anymore, no, not when you’re at my mercy.”
“Listen, loud one,” came the acerbic, familiar voice of the stranger. “I’ve tried to be patient with you for her sake, but if you won’t cooperate, I’ve no choice but t—”
“No,” Miss Huda shouted. “You will never again use magic on me, sir, never again, or, or I’ll—I’ll do something terrible— I’ll have you trampled by a team of horses—”
“I never said I would use more magic on you,” he said sharply. “Lest you forget, I was minding my own business when you hit me on the head— in a most unladylike fashion, I might add—exhibiting such violence, and when I’ve been nothing but accommodating—”
“Accommodating?” she cried. “You stole my voice! And then you dumped me unceremoniously into the heart of a royal ball in my muslin day dress! I’m not with my family, I was never formally announced, no one even knows I’m here, and now I’ll never meet the prince.” Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath. “Do you even realize the cruelty of your actions?” she said, swiping at him with the candelabra. He dodged her attacks. “I can’t let anyone see me like this. As if my social standing wasn’t already in tatters, now I’m at the palace—for possibly the biggest event of the season—and I’ve not done my hair, I’ve got food in my teeth, I’ve not changed my slippers, I’ve no idea how I’ll get home from here—”
“Do you know, I’ve changed my mind,” said the young man. “Perhaps I will kill you. Though, alternatively, if you’re so apprehensive about the opinions of others I could always knock back your brain an inch—”
For the third time, Miss Huda screamed.
“Oh no,” Omid whispered. “This isn’t good.”
People came running now, a crowd beginning to gather, among them Hazan and the prince. Alizeh and Omid watched from the shadows as the blue-eyed stranger sighed, muttered an ungentlemanly word, and stepped out of the darkness—revealing himself to all and sundry with a broad smile.
Alizeh felt suddenly sick with trepidation.
“Welcome, one and all,” the stranger said. “I see you’ve come for a show. I’m eager to oblige, though I confess none of this is happening as I’d envisioned it! Then again, I’ve always appreciated a bit of spontaneity.”
Without warning, a ring of fire several feet in diameter erupted around himself and Miss Huda, flames three feet high, the heat so oppressive Alizeh could feel it even from where she stood.
Miss Huda began to sob, this time sounding close to hysteria. Alizeh’s heart was pounding furiously in her chest; she heard Omid’s sharp intake of breath.
This entire night was nothing short of a disaster.
Kamran stepped forward then, and the crowd surged back with a collective gasp, leaving him exposed. The prince drew as close to the flames as he dared, and Alizeh’s lungs constricted. She was terrified and somehow livid—furious as he studied the madman now holding her friend hostage.
Fool, she wanted to scream at the unhinged stranger. You stupid, stupid fool.
The prince, meanwhile, approached the aforementioned fool with sangfroid so assured one might think there was no danger at all.
“Your Excellency,” Kamran said. “This is no way to treat our guests. I will ask you once to douse your fire and release the lady.”
Alizeh froze, then frowned. Your Excellency?
Was Kamran making fun of him? She could think of no other reason why the crown prince of Ardunia would say such a thing, though even in jest it was—
Alizeh closed her eyes; felt the room spin. The memory of Kamran’s voice filled her head.
How, precisely, do you know the Tulanian king?
If the prince had been able to spot her in the crowd, he must’ve also seen her speaking with the blue-eyed stranger—and, devils above, what he must’ve thought of her. She’d been consorting with the Tulanian king just hours after kissing an Ardunian prince.
It struck a traitorous image, even she could see that.
Shame suffused Alizeh’s skin with a sudden heat; shame she need not own or claim, but felt regardless. Her confusion and apprehension tripled; for her mind would not now cease conjuring new questions.
Had Hazan struck a deal with the Tulanian king? If so, how? Why? What grand favor would a minister have been able to provide a king, so much so that he’d risk his reputation as sovereign of a formidable empire to assist her? What on earth had Hazan done?
Alizeh looked up again when she heard the stranger’s voice.
“And you must be the prince,” he was saying. “The beloved Prince Kamran, the melancholy royal of Setar, friend to street child and servant alike. Your reputation precedes you, sire.”
“How dare you speak to the prince in such a manner, you miserable swine,” Miss Huda cried, angrily swiping at her tears before lifting the candelabra above her head. “Guards! Guards!”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” said the young king. “Please do summon the guards. Bring them forth, have them confess aloud their sins. All under the order of King Zaal are complicit in his crimes.”
Kamran drew his sword and approached the flames at a proximity that made Alizeh gasp.
“You would speak ill of the king in his own home—on his own land?” said the prince with thunderous calm. “Release the girl now, or I will have your head.”
“Pray tell me, sire, how will you reach my head? With what magic will you walk through fire to claim it? With what power will you extinguish mine when your Diviners are all dead?”
At that, the room erupted in gasps and shouts, cries of astonishment and fear. Alizeh spun around, taking it all in. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing in her chest.
“Is it true?”
“He’s a madman—” “Where is the king?”
“—but it cannot be—”
“Don’t believe a word of it—” “The king! Where is the king?”
King Zaal appeared then, came forth through the crowd with a silent dignity, his head held high even under the weight of a hulking crown.
The young king extinguished his fire at once, releasing Miss Huda in the process. Several people rushed to her side, helping her to safety, while the blue-eyed fool charged forward to meet King Zaal, erecting another fiery circle that trapped the two sovereigns inside.
Alizeh realized then that she would rather rot in the gutter than go anywhere with this copper-headed scoundrel. So these were the few tasks he’d meant to accomplish? This was the business he’d claimed wouldn’t take long?
Oh, she wanted to slap him.
“Your fight is with me, is it not?” King Zaal said quietly.
“Not at all,” said the fool brightly. “There will be no fight, Your Majesty. When I am done with you, you will be begging me to end your life.”
King Zaal barked a laugh.
Someone in the crowd screamed, “Call for the soldiers! The magistrates!”
“The magistrates?” The southern king laughed aloud. “You mean your weak, corrupt officials? Tell me, fine nobles of Ardunia, did you know that your magistrates are paid extra by the crown to collect street children?”
Alizeh felt Omid tense beside her.
“Ah, I can see by the looks in your eyes that you did not. And why would you, really? Who would even miss a surplus of orphaned children?”
“What do you want here?” King Zaal said sharply. He looked different then—angry, yes—but Alizeh thought he looked, for a moment—
Scared.
“Me?” The madman pointed to himself. “What do I want? I want a great deal too much, Your Highness. I’ve been bled dry for too long in repayment for my father’s sins and I’m tired of it; tired of being in debt to so cruel a master. But then, you know what that’s like, don’t you?”
King Zaal drew his sword.
Again, the southern king laughed. “Are you really going to challenge me?”
“Your Majesty, please—” Kamran moved forward as if to enter the fiery ring, and King Zaal held up a hand to stop him.
“No matter what happens tonight,” King Zaal said to him, “you must remember your duty to this empire.”
“Yes, but—”
“That is all, child,” he said thunderously. “Now you must leave me to fight my own battles.”
“As I’ve already told you, Your Highness.” The madman again. “There will be no battle.”
The Tulanian king raised his arm with a flourish and King Zaal’s robes tore open at the shoulders, revealing large swaths of skin that were both scaly and discolored.
The king’s face went slack, stunned as he studied himself, then his southern enemy. “No,” he whispered. “You cannot.”
“Will you not speculate?” the madman shouted into the crowd. “Will you not hazard a guess as to what the magistrates do with the street children they find?”
Alizeh felt suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe.
The sounds of the room seemed to quiet, the lights seemed to dim; she heard only the sound of her own harsh breaths, saw only the horror unfolding before her.
She closed her eyes.
There once was a man
who bore a snake on each shoulder.
If the snakes were well fed
their master ceased growing older.
What they ate no one knew, even as the children were found
with brains shucked from their skulls, bodies splayed on the ground.
“It’s true,” Omid whispered, his voice trembling. “I—I’ve seen it, miss. I seen it happen. But no one believes the street kids, miss, everyone thinks we’re lying—and they started threatening us if we said anything, said they’d come for us next—”
Alizeh gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Omid,” she cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry—”
Two leathery white snakes reared up from the shoulders of the Ardunian king, snapping and hissing hungrily.
King Zaal’s sword fell, with a clatter, to the ground.
