THE SMELL OF WET STONE filled Kamran’s head, the dark path before him illuminated by a series of torches affixed to the dank walls, their collective glow casting flickering shadows across the filthy stone floors underfoot, occasionally throwing into stark relief the scuttle of spiders fleeing the light. His footfalls echoed in the tall, narrowing passage, the sharp sounds and smells of his surroundings inspiring in him a deep dread and a desire to escape. Earlier he’d been in a hurry to get here, to finish this ugly business with Hazan and move forward with his life, but now he found he’d rather be anywhere else, anywhere but following the same circuitous path to the dungeons he’d walked just two nights prior—the dingy, dripping walls closing in on him as he went.
His grip tightened around the handle of the carpet bag.
Memories haunted him as he moved, his emotions clouded, complicated. Two days ago his grandfather was still alive; two days ago they’d walked this track together, and yet—it was one of his worst memories of the late king, who’d accused him that night of treason, and who’d been ready to lock him in the dungeon, threatening to behead him if he resisted the sentence.
A single day his grandfather had been dead, and of all the better memories they’d shared, this was the recollection that besieged him.
It was a tragedy of the current chaos that Kamran hadn’t been afforded more than minutes to mourn the loss of King Zaal. He’d been unable, as a result, to sort out his feelings about the man. He wished someone might simply tell him how to feel, or at least teach him to make sense of the unspeakable horrors his grandfather had committed.
How was Kamran meant to condemn someone who’d debased himself in the interest of his own protection? How, when he’d known eighteen years of love and devotion from his grandfather, was he supposed to compartmentalize his feelings now, when his mind was battered by grief, when he lacked the tools necessary to hack apart the chambers of his heart? Was it possible, he wondered, to love and detest a parent simultaneously?
As a child his convictions had been stronger; the world had seemed simpler, his opinions more absolute. He’d thought with age and experience his ideas of the world would grow only more certain; instead, the opposite had proven true.
The more he lived—the more he endured—the more convinced Kamran became that he knew nothing at all.
It was impossible to unbraid the many pains and horrors tangled in his head just then; impossible when his trek was nearly at an end, when the dungeons and the lone young man trapped within them were now nearly in sight. It was humbling, indeed, to realize that the last time he’d walked this path he’d lacked the perspective to understand that his problems had been minuscule—even as they’d loomed so large.
What he wouldn’t give to turn back time now.
Kamran strode past the guards stationed at the mouth of the main chamber, all of whom shouted something he didn’t bother hearing. In one hand Kamran clutched Alizeh’s modest carpet bag; in the other, a small, sealed jam jar, the thin lid of which he’d speared several times with his mother’s dagger, poking holes so the insect inside might be able to breathe in its confinement.
Finally, he came upon the man in question.
The dim outline of Hazan’s body was legible through the wrought iron bars of his cage: his back rested against a filthy wall, his long legs outstretched in front of him, his face obscured. Hazan’s head hung low over his chest, a mop of dirty-blond hair occasionally glinting in the tremble of firelight. His former minister moved not an inch, not even when a fleet of guards followed Kamran into the chamber, falling to their knees at his feet as they encouraged him, breathlessly, to leave the inmate alone.
“We didn’t know he was a Jinn, sire—he’s already destroyed two of the other cells—
“Took twelve of us to restrain him—”
“He’s been violent, Your Highness, you shouldn’t be alone with him—”
“We had to knock him senseless—
“Put him in shackles, made specially for his kind, but he’s like a beast, out of his mind—”
“Unbelievably strong one, sire—best if you let us deal with him—” “Get out,” Kamran said, his voice like thunder. “All of you. I can handle
him just fine.”
The cluster of guards froze, stood upright in unison, bowed en masse, and rushed out the door, which closed with a violent clang behind them. Only when he was sure they were alone did Kamran draw closer to the rusted bars of the cell.
“Hazan,” Kamran said into the silence. “Look at me.” He did not.
“Hazan,” Kamran said again, this time angrily. “I bid you rise.”
Without lifting his head, Hazan said, “With all due offense, sire, please fuck off.”
Shock provoked Kamran to make a sound, something like a laugh. He’d never heard Hazan use foul language, and somehow it only fed his curiosity.
It seemed Hazan had been hiding a great many things about himself; and Kamran, who suddenly had numerous questions for his old friend, made no preamble.
“Why did you never tell me you were a Jinn?” he asked. “I thought it none of your concern.”
“None of my concern? We’ve known each other since childhood, and you didn’t think I had a right to know that your loyalty, all this time, was to another empire? To another sovereign? You didn’t think it was my concern that my home minister was only biding his time, using me, no doubt, to feed information to his people, hoping to one day lead an insurrection?”
“No.”
Kamran almost smiled. There was nothing to celebrate here, and yet he felt strangely invigorated. All pretenses between he and Hazan had evaporated; stripped of the deference his rank once demanded of their interactions, Hazan had betrayed more about his true self in the last minutes
—and in his time in the dungeon overnight—than he had in a decade.
There was something fascinating about the discovery: this irate, belligerent, devil-may-care iteration of his former minister was somehow refreshing. Hazan was neither afraid of him, nor was he invested any longer
in the maintenance of his good temper. They met now as equals—if not in status, then in emotional aptitude and physical prowess. Though why this revelation offered Kamran any measure of comfort, he could not articulate into words.
He only felt the rise of an inexplicable relief.
Kamran had realized the truth about Hazan’s heritage only when Miss Huda had earlier identified the insect as a firefly; Kamran was not entirely ignorant of Jinn history—he knew what their fireflies meant to them—and he was grateful for that education now. Had he not been able to piece together Hazan’s motivations for dissembling, he might never have been inspired to imagine a more complex explanation for the young man’s crimes. The possibility that Hazan had been loyal only to Alizeh, and not Cyrus—well, that changed everything.
“I have your pet,” he said.
Hazan straightened at that, studying Kamran with a wariness that said he didn’t believe him. “My pet?”
Kamran held up the jam jar for inspection, elevating the container to Hazan’s eye line. Upon sighting him, the dispirited insect took flight with a terrible frenzy, flinging itself desperately against its prison, its abdomen illuminating at intervals, the small body striking the glass with a series of dull, steady pings.
“Will you attempt to deny that this belongs to you?” It was a while before Hazan said, reluctantly, “No.” “I assume you want to keep it.”
By way of response, Hazan only sighed. He tilted his head back against the wall, crossed his arms against his chest. The tense line of his mouth all but screamed an unspoken irritation.
“It’s not an it,” he said darkly. “It’s a her.”
“And I will give her back to you after you’ve answered my questions.”
Hazan shot him a bleak look. “You think too highly of my relationship with an insect if you think I’d divulge sensitive information for so small a reward.”
“I see. So you wouldn’t mind if I were to crush her under my boot.” “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
Hazan shook his head, turned away. “You really would, wouldn’t you?
You faithless rotter.”
Kamran’s expression was grave. “Hazan,” he said. “I need to know what you did for her.”
“Why?” Hazan laughed bitterly. “Lost her again, have you?” “Yes.”
Hazan looked up at that, a ghost of a real smile grazing his lips. “Then you’ve delivered me joyous news indeed. I’m quite ready to hang now, for I may die peacefully knowing she’s escaped.”
“I need to know what you did for her,” the prince said again, this time angrily. “Did you intend for her to overtake my throne?”
“Overtake your throne?” Hazan said, his eyes incredulous. “Overtake the throne of the largest empire in the world, you mean? She and what army?”
“So you did not intend for her to attain power?”
“To what end do you interrogate me now?” Hazan scowled. “You thought I’d attempt to resurrect an old empire? To sentence my own people to death by inciting a war they lack the numbers to win? An innocent young woman was being actively hunted by your grandfather for the terrible crime of existing, lest you forget. I wanted only to situate her somewhere safe, somewhere far from the reach of mercenaries. She has no interest in overthrowing you, in any case. She is a tenderhearted young woman who wishes only to be left alone.”
Kamran clenched his jaw. “There, you are mistaken.”
Hazan went silent, taking a moment to study the prince with renewed curiosity. “You flaming idiot,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve had a change of heart in the wake of your grandfather’s death? After I had to endure the hours of you moaning on and on about saving her, you’ve now decided to fulfill the man’s final wishes and lop off her head?”
Kamran flinched.
That Hazan had been able to read him so easily was a disconcerting revelation, one he didn’t know how to digest.
“If you think I will tell you anything about her,” Hazan said darkly, “you are quite deluded. Now either kill me or fuck off.”
“Hazan.”
“What?”
“She is betrothed to him.”
“Who?” Hazan appeared distracted, staring intently at the carpet bag still clutched in Kamran’s hand. “Betrothed to whom?”
“The girl. She is betrothed to Cyrus.”
Hazan’s head lifted sharply at that, his eyes fathomless, dark as pitch. “Cyrus? You refer to the sentient piece of human excrement responsible for murdering our Diviners? The man she accused of being a monster just before striking across the face?”
“The very one.”
Now Hazan looked murderous. “What is your game? Do you slander her hoping I might be inspired to kill you, spare you the mess you’ve made of your own life?”
“Upon my honor, I swear it to be true,” Kamran said sharply. “Cyrus told me himself that they would soon marry. She escaped the ball last night on the back of a Tulanian dragon. No doubt they are together now.”
Hazan unfolded his body slowly, rising to his full height before stepping forward, the orange glow of torchlight gilding the lines of his face, emphasizing the broken slope of his nose. Hazan studied Kamran with a familiarity the latter had always taken for granted. Fifteen years they’d known each other and never had Kamran realized the value of his old friend, who’d been the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother.
“Your face,” Hazan whispered. “The magic has changed.” “Yes.”
Hazan closed his eyes a moment, drew a deep breath. “And has no one spoken of it? Have they not come for you yet?”
“What do you mean? Who would come for me?”
“The Diviners,” he said quietly, before meeting the prince’s eyes. “You are in danger, Kamran.”
“You know what it means, then?” Kamran felt his pulse pick up. “You know why the magic has changed?”
“Yes.”
“Will you not tell me?”
“First, make one thing clear to me right now.” Hazan drew away from the bars and began to pace. “Have you come here to kill me, or to make me a deal? Because if I’m going to die anyway, I fail to see the point in assisting you.”
“I need you to live.” Hazan stopped moving.
“I sentenced you to death,” Kamran explained, “because I thought your alliance with the girl meant you were conspiring with the Tulanian empire. I
thought you assisted in my grandfather’s murder, in the assassination of the Diviners. I assumed you were trying to overthrow the crown, and that you were working in tandem with the Tulanian king.”
“I suppose I should be flattered you thought me so enterprising,” Hazan said coldly.
“I see now,” Kamran went on, “that your entirely independent acts of stupidity managed to become entangled in this chaotic web, and I was only this morning able to discern the disparate role you played. I don’t have to condone your actions to understand them—and I still think you’re an unalloyed bastard for lying to me—but I can appreciate the instinct you felt to spare her; for I, too, felt the same instinct, as you well recall.”
“Then you are offering me a deal.”
“I need your mind, Hazan. I need whatever knowledge you have about the girl. I know you feel immense loyalty to her—I realize you find yourself in this dungeon precisely because you pledged your life to her—but she’s deceived us both, and I fear we will only understand why when it is far too late.”
“You want to wage war against Tulan.” “I do.”
“And you are asking me to assist you in murdering the young woman who is meant to be the salvation of my people.”
“I am.”
Hazan stepped closer to the door of his cage, wrapping his hands around the iron bars. His eyes flashed with fury. “I would sooner die.”
Kamran leveled Hazan with a glare of his own, rage simmering too close to the surface. With impressive control he managed to say, quietly: “She is working with the devil.”
Hazan froze. He fell back a step, his hands releasing the iron bars, his face going slack.
“What?” he breathed.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t hear them speak. She has a formidable ally in the Tulanian king, yes—but her biggest supporter is Iblees.”
“That’s impossible,” said Hazan. “Iblees is responsible for the ruin of our entire civilization— She would never—”
“Think of all that has happened since she entered our lives, Hazan. It is just as the prophecy foretold—the Diviners are dead; my grandfather is dead; Ardunia is unprotected—”
“And your face,” Hazan said, seeming to surprise himself as he spoke. “The magic has changed.”
“How is that connected to this?”
The former minister was silent too long. He was staring into the distance, his eyes vacant.
Lost.
“The distortion of the magic,” Hazan said finally. “It means your right to the crown is no longer absolute. It means there might live a worthier inheritor of the throne.”
Kamran felt his heart rate spike. It was with great equanimity that he managed to say: “So she intends to take my empire.”
“She will not need to,” Hazan said, dragging a hand down his face. “As if the nobles didn’t have enough reason to deem you unfit to rule—they are no doubt assembling a halo of Diviners from across the empire as we speak. They’ll want a validation of the magic, which you will not receive, and once you’re declared an uncertain heir, they will oust you from the palace. If you do not take swift action now—”
“Then you agree I have no choice—I must kill her—”
“No,” Hazan said, cutting him off. “There are other ways. But if you’re going to accept my help, you will also accept my judgment on this matter. I will be the one to decide whether she has betrayed her people—which means you will not disturb a hair on her head unless I give you leave to do so.”
Hazan lifted his shackled hands, and in one swift movement, tore the iron manacles apart. He used his teeth to pry the cuffs off his wrists, after which he tossed the metal to the floor, where it landed with a heavy clatter.
And then he ripped the prison door off its hinges.
He set the iron gate against the wall before crossing the threshold, where he met the prince eye-to-eye.
Kamran, to his credit, showed no surprise.
“All this time you could’ve walked free,” he said, staring steadily at his friend. “Why let the guards think they’d subdued you? You couldn’t have known I would come.”
“I didn’t,” Hazan said quietly. “I fought the guards because they treated me like an animal, and when they realized I was Jinn, their behavior toward me grew only more reprehensible. I remained here because I thought I
deserved to die, for I thought I’d failed her. Now I’ve learned I must live, if only long enough to understand what’s happening.”
Kamran was quiet for some time, absorbing this. “It’s astonishing,” he said finally, “how long you managed to hide your true self from me. I always suspected you were holding back; I never realized how much.”
“And are you horrified,” he said, “to discover the truth?” “No. I think I prefer the real Hazan.”
“I fear you might regret saying that,” he said, even as he almost smiled. “Be warned, Kamran. The terms of our agreement are nonnegotiable. Lift a finger against her prematurely and I won’t hesitate to kill you myself.”
