MELT THE ICE IN SALT
BRAID THE THRONES AT SEA IN THIS WOVEN KINGDOM CLAY AND FIRE SHALL BE
Over and over these words rang through Kamran’s mind. He was thinking of the mysterious book he’d discovered in Alizeh’s carpetbag, its cryptic inscription having since seared into his memory. It was the last two lines that plagued him.
Woven kingdoms, clay and fire –
Despite everything, Hazan had managed to plant the seed of a
dangerous idea in his head: that Alizeh might yet be destined to marry him. Kamran was wracked by indecision as regarded Alizeh, for there was so much he still didn’t understand, his heart and mind hopelessly knotted by
the betrayals she’d left for him to untangle. And yet – his memories of her
remained so ardent he struggled to think rationally where she was concerned. In defiance of his doubts, the thought of having her as his queen was so tempting he couldn’t help but indulge the fantasy. He’d never met another young woman to equal her, not in beauty or composure, in elegance or intelligence. It hadn’t been entirely surprising to Kamran that the enchanting, unassuming snoda had turned out to be the long-lost heir to an ancient kingdom. There had always been something regal about her – a dignity in her bearing –
A snort of laughter interrupted his thoughts, and Kamran turned irritably toward the sound, his mood darkening as he watched Miss Huda fail to get ahold of herself. The young miss clapped a hand to her chest as she chortled, her mouth still half-full as she said, gasping, “Oh my goodness, I’m so tired I could die.”
It was impossible then not to compare the two women in his mind. Miss Huda was the antithesis of Alizeh, unpolished and unrestrained. One had been brought up to be queen, the other to be tolerated; and yet Alizeh had been raised in relative poverty, Miss Huda in an aristocratic home. The
differences between them were vast, and though both young women had suffered negligence, only one had emerged with self-possession and grace. Kamran flinched as the sound of another snort pierced the quiet, his expression growing only more dour.
“Oh, I daresay Tulan is a horrid place,” she was saying. “I doubt anywhere in the world could measure up to the beauty of Ardunia –”
Something about the sound of her voice bothered him, burrowed under his skin. He gave his head a sharp shake, as if to dislodge her from his mind. He didn’t want to think on the many irritations of Miss Huda.
Instead, he sunk his hands into the soft, dense silk of Simorgh’s plumage, taking comfort in her nearness. The legendary bird had come to Kamran’s aid in deference to Zaal, who’d bequeathed his grandson a single, enchanted feather in his will. The plume was meant to summon the magical creature only in a moment of great and devouring need, and Kamran – having been nearly stripped of his crown by Zahhak, the defense minister, then locked in the tower dungeon by the Diviners – had been in dire straits indeed. Still, he didn’t know the parameters of the arrangement. Would Simorgh remain with him for some undetermined length of time? Or would she assist him with this single journey only, flying off again as soon as they touched ground?
Once again, his thoughts lurched back to uncertainty.
Kamran was supposed to use this journey to prove himself a worthy inheritor of his own throne – the Diviners had said as much – yet they’d given him no clear guidelines on how to accomplish the task. He wondered whether Zahhak had worked out where he’d gone; he wondered what the Diviners were doing and saying in his absence. Unless the priests and
priestesses intended to stop the defense minister from crowning himself king, there was little time left before Zahhak took control of Ardunia.
“Actually, I’ve heard Tulan is quite beautiful,” came Deen’s quiet objection. “Several of my vendors are based in the southern empire, and they’ve never had anything but praise for –”
“Well, naturally,” said Miss Huda, cutting him off. “They’re probably terrified to speak a word against their own land, and who could blame them when they’re governed by such a beastly king –”
Kamran stiffened at that, his disparate shards of anger coming together in a single, focused blade of hatred.
In all the disorder of his mind, one thing was absolutely clear: He would kill Cyrus.
Whereas Kamran filled with uncertain dread at the prospect of seeing Alizeh again, he experienced a refreshing flood of adrenaline at the thought of seeing the bastard southern king. High among the many horrors repeating on a loop in Kamran’s mind were the gruesome images of King Zaal’s death, for the scenes had branded forever upon his memories. Over and over he returned to the stomach-churning sound of the sword slicing through his grandfather’s heart. Kamran would never forget the shock, the horror, the ensuing chaos.
The murderer himself.
The Ardunian prince was on a mission now, above all else, to right the scales. He would exact retribution for his grandfather’s death or perish in the effort. The brutal king of Tulan would finally be delivered justice.
Preferably hacked to pieces, his organs fed to vultures. “Kamran.”
At the sound of his name, the prince nearly startled. He fought to calm his bloodthirsty heart as he turned to face his old minister.
“I’ve not meant to interrupt,” said Hazan quietly, “as I see you’re preoccupied. But the sun appears to be struggling against the horizon, and I can hear the distant rush of water growing louder, which can only mean –”
“Yes.”
By air or sea, the approach to Tulan was distinguished by the din of cascades. Kamran, who’d led many water journeys to this part of the world, was more than familiar with the sound, the roar of which was a hateful reminder that Ardunia had perhaps two more years before they’d need to start rationing water and three years before the crisis overwhelmed the
empire entirely. They’d recently had good snowfall and a brief deluge of rain – but Ardunia would require a great deal more than a few days of precipitation if they were to stave off a drought. Tens of millions of people would soon look to him for protection – and one day, under his leadership, they might die of thirst.
It was yet another crushing problem for which Kamran needed to
conjure a solution; yet another blade of fear pressed constantly against his throat. His grandfather, King Zaal, had managed to keep this secret from the people, insisting there was no need to inspire panic when there was time yet to resolve the issue. Only now, as the burden fell upon his shoulders, did Kamran recognize this silence for what it truly was: cowardice.
Devils above, his grandfather’s failings continued to bludgeon him. “By my estimate, we’ll touch ground in roughly thirty minutes,” Hazan
was saying. “I’d been hoping to discuss the results of my earlier expedition with you before we arrived. However, if you’d rather wait –”
“No.” Kamran stiffened, his back straightening. For so many hours they’d been unable to find calm or quiet in the tumult of the flight, and this most essential conversation had been so delayed it was nearly forgotten.
Yesterday, as a hedge against possible expulsion from the castle, Kamran had dispatched Hazan to the north of Ardunia, charging him with the task of securing a safe house, where they might one day take shelter, if necessary. “No, let us discuss your discoveries straightaway. You mentioned you saw my mother? In the countryside?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak with her?”
Hazan shook his head even as he said, “Yes.” “Where was she? Was she well?”
“Yes.”
“And will you force me to pluck each word of explanation from your mouth like so many blasted splinters? What is the matter with you?”
“Your mother is a strange woman,” Hazan responded, fighting a smile. “I traveled north per your request and headed directly to the largest township. I figured the local tavern would be the best place to find an unsuspecting farmer willing to exchange his acres for a small mountain of gold –”
“Yes, very good, Hazan, you went to a tavern and found a farmer. Do you intend to tell me you then went to a butcher and discovered a side of beef?”
Hazan narrowed his eyes. “If you’re in too dark a temper even to have a simple conversation, declare it now and spare me the desire to knock you off your mount so I might watch, at my leisure, as gravity does the noble work of snapping your neck.”
For reasons inexplicable to him, these words cheered Kamran slightly. “Is my mood always so obvious to you?”
“Your mood is obvious to a corpse.”
The prince looked away as he fought a smile, saying, “Go on, then. You went to a tavern and found a farmer.”
“No. I found your mother.” Kamran lifted his head sharply.
“She was, by all accounts, awaiting my arrival. The moment I pushed open the door I saw her – though to be fair, she made no effort to conceal her presence. She was so weighted down by jewels it was a wonder to me she hadn’t been robbed in plain sight.”
“Mother has always been a master of discretion.”
Hazan gave a dry laugh. “In any case, she was looking at me as I entered, and indicated at once that I should join her at her table, where she proceeded to tell me she’d secured us a safe house.”
“What?” Hazan nodded.
“My mother – my mother, the languishing princess of Ardunia – took it upon herself to do a bit of business with a common farmer? In the interest of my protection? Don’t say she took a room at the village inn?”
Again, Hazan nodded.
“No,” Kamran breathed.
“I confirmed this fact with the owner.”
“But how did she know I’d require a safe house?”
Hazan looked suddenly troubled. “I don’t know. As I said, your mother is a strange woman. She didn’t seem at all surprised to discover me alive; did not ask whether you’d survived the dagger she’d generously planted in your shoulder; did not seem disturbed by the death of your grandfather; and asked me only whether we’d made plans to go to Tulan. When I said yes,
she demanded I spare her the details.”
Kamran turned away, dragging a hand down his face as an icy breeze sent a shiver through his body. Dawn had not yet broken, but the dark was lifting like a stubborn stain. Blue and gray smeared at the horizon, the
promise of golden light just beyond, and the prince drew a deep breath, relishing the mist as he tried to make sense of these revelations.
Hazan hesitated before adding: “She also asked me whether the devil had yet paid you a visit.”
Kamran turned back, every muscle in his body tensing. “The devil?” “I told her I had no idea, as we’d not discussed it.”
The prince shook his head. He’d always had the good sense to be repulsed by the devil, but after witnessing the fallout of his grandfather’s terrible bargain with Iblees, the very idea of meeting with such a creature revolted him to his core. “What reason would he have to pay me a visit? I’ve not yet been crowned king.”
“I don’t know,” said Hazan, a furrow forming between his brows. “She did not expound on the matter. She only instructed me to tell you that she’ll be waiting for us upon our return, that she has the situation in the
countryside well in hand, and that I should direct any militia in her direction, to be managed under her care.” Hazan hesitated. “She also sent you this.”
Hazan reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pale pink envelope, which he handed to the prince, who received this strange gift in a bit of a daze. He turned over the delicate paper in his hands, noticing that the flap of the envelope was open. Unsealed.
Kamran glanced up at his friend. “You’ve read it?”
Hazan exhaled, looking grim. “I suppose I should forewarn you,” he said. “It’s not a letter.”
