“YOU GAVE MY JOB TO the child?”
Hazan threw open the door to the war room with an unchecked anger that was beginning to feel familiar. The former minister had bathed and changed; he’d not been imprisoned long enough to have lost his rooms and belongings, so it was with some efficiency that he was able to return to a semblance of normal.
With one great exception.
“Omid saved my life,” Kamran said without looking up. He sat in the war room alone, drinking tea as he paged through a fresh stack of reports from the different reaches of the empire.
“Yes, so you said. Though I’d not realized he’d relieved you of your good sense in the process.”
“Did you know,” Kamran said, lifting a sheaf of paper as he scanned it, “that in recent months there’ve been a dozen reports of unexplained avalanches—in three different mountain ranges across the empire?”
Hazan ignored this as he strode into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “You hired an uneducated twelve-year-old to succeed me, and you expect me not to take offense? As if my job were so simple—and I, so easily replaced?”
Kamran put down the papers. “Do you not think it strange?”
“Strange is too gentle a word—I think it verifiably crackbrained—” “Not the situation with the child, you fool, the unexplained rockslides.”
Again, Kamran glanced at the report. “Four in the last month alone, though our troops have found nary a trace of explosives. By all accounts, the occurrences—in the Istanez, Pouneh, and Sutoon mountains—are random disturbances of nature, which I was happy enough to accept until this
morning, when, just as I was contemplating the astonishing devolution of my life,” he said with a wry smile, “two more were reported. With the recent inrush of Tulanian spies I can’t help but wonder whether there’s more to this than we previously considered. Perhaps they’ve been hiding out in the mountains, making a bit of a mess in the process; perhaps there’ve been other rockfalls in more remote regions with no witnesses— making the real number much higher. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a righteous ass.”
“Throw a fit if you like,” Kamran said, setting the papers aside to take another drink of his tea. “But I’m not firing the boy. In the last several hours he’s already proven quite capable.”
“Capable?” Hazan’s eyes widened. “Capable of what? Snatching purses? Emptying out the treasure houses? Have you even thought to make certain your gold is still there?”
“I will allow,” said Kamran, lightly clearing his throat, “that I was perhaps not entirely in my right mind when I made the decision. Still, I would argue that your judgments of the child are too reductive; in my estimation, Omid has proven a great deal less conniving than the members of our own parliament. The nobles of the Seven Houses will likely never change, but with proper guidance, the boy might yet make something of himself.”
“And I? What am I meant to make of myself?” “I intend to confer knighthood upon you.”
Hazan scoffed in anger, preparing to argue—when he realized, with a visible shock, that Kamran had spoken in earnest.
“You wish to make me a knight?” he said, stunned. “But I’m not even a soldier.”
“I have proof enough of your valor, Hazan.”
The former minister fell back, fell silent. He stared for a moment at the floor as a rare heat burned across his cheekbones, the tips of his ears.
“And I have full confidence,” Kamran said, returning to his papers, “in your ability to storm a battlefield.”
“You are not yet king.” Hazan looked up, his tone still betraying a stubborn skepticism. “Do you even have the power to do such a thing?”
“Are you trying to offend me?” said Kamran, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. “I’ve always possessed such a power. Though as imminent heir to an empty throne, I do have more authority now than I did
yesterday, and I find I’m eager to exercise these rights before they’re taken away.”
“And what does that entail?”
“First, I must tell you that you were right,” Kamran said, rising from his chair. “In your absence I learned that the nobles have already assembled a new royal court of Diviners, who should be arriving steadily throughout the day. The last of them will be here by nightfall. They are to stay here at the palace while their rooms are readied at the Diviners Quarters; they won’t be leaving until after all the funerals take place over the next couple of days.”
“Zahhak told you this?”
Kamran’s eyes narrowed. “Zahhak wouldn’t tell me if a sword were inches from my throat. He still thinks me an ignorant child unworthy of my father’s throne.”
“A shame, isn’t it? That you’ve never given him reason to think otherwise.”
“Shut up, Hazan.” Hazan only smiled.
“The lords of the Seven Houses did all this in relative secrecy,” Kamran went on. “I only found out from Jamsheed, who needed my sign-off on the repairs for the palace, and who wished to express aloud his pleasure that the protections around the empire would be back in place as soon as our quorum of Diviners had fully settled. You will also be fascinated to hear that Jamsheed, our dear palace butler, is better informed than I on more than one salient issue, for when I asked him whether he’d seen my mother, he rather cheerfully told me she’d be home in a matter of days.”
Hazan blinked. “But— Your mother has fled the palace? When? Not after she buried her dagger in your arm?”
“Impeccable timing on her part. I’m afraid she has a fantastically warped idea of what constitutes maternal affection.”
“And you don’t know where she’s gone?”
“I haven’t the faintest. When I asked, Jamsheed claimed she’d gone to fetch me a gift in honor of my impending coronation.” Kamran then raised his eyebrows at Hazan.
Hazan mirrored the expression. “A vial of poison, then?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said the prince, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “It really is a great comfort to me that you are not dead this morning, Hazan.”
“It is a great comfort to me as well, sire,” Hazan said drily.
Kamran began stacking his papers, moving things aside to make room on the table, and though his smile diminished, it did not fade altogether. His life was falling apart at the seams, but he’d managed to prove wrong his mother’s last ominous words. If Zahhak were to have his way, Kamran might never haunt the halls of this palace again—but at least, wherever he landed, he would not walk alone. He’d come to the stunning realization that he’d rather be falling apart with friends, than living a decadent life of isolation.
“Whatever my mother’s gone to do,” he went on, “I cannot begin to imagine, for the turns of her mind are impossible to predict. The only thing I know for certain is that she will be sorry indeed to return, for upon arrival she will discover the palace is no longer her home. I’ve concluded I have at most a day before the Houses cobble together reason enough to strip me of my title, and less than a week before Zahhak usurps my throne. Which means we must work quickly.”
“We?” Hazan balked. “You and I are meant to save the Ardunian empire all alone, then? And where is the child who stole my job?”
“The child is occupied.” “With what?”
“Bringing me witnesses.”
“What for, you exasperating halfwit?” Hazan threw up his hands. “Are you so incapable of anticipating that I might want more than the paltry, monosyllabic responses you serve?”
“Heavens, you sound almost hungry.”
Hazan sighed, searching the room as if for patience. “Do you know,” he said finally, “it’s just occurred to me that I no longer have to pretend to own an appetite at regular intervals. A small but rather delightful gain of all this perfidy, for I find eating meals an exhausting waste of time.”
Kamran raised his eyebrows. “Speaking of Jinn I don’t understand,” he said, reaching underneath the large table and unearthing the forgotten carpet bag. “I take it you know who this belongs to.”
The prince dropped the luggage onto a newly cleared section of the polished wood, still managing to send papers scattering in the process.
Hazan only stared at him.
“In the dungeons earlier,” Kamran explained. “I saw you studying it, as if it looked familiar to you.”
Hesitantly, Hazan said, “I’m not certain of the owner. I have only an unsubstantiated theory.”
“Go on.”
“I think it belongs to Alizeh.”
Kamran gripped the table, anticipating pain, and instead he felt only a gentle heat, a flutter in his chest, a heavenly fragrance filling his head. He hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he forced them open and was met with a look of astonishment on Hazan’s face.
Slowly, Kamran released the table. “How,” he said, clearing his throat, “do you know it belongs to her?”
Hazan only gaped at him. “What just happened to you?”
“Nothing.” He sighed. “I don’t know. Just don’t say her name again.” “Who? Alizeh?”
“Bastard,” Kamran muttered as renewed feeling lanced through him, birdsong filling his head, a warm, not unpleasant sensation sparking along the disfigured lines of his neck, his cheek, his changed eye. “You did that on purpose.”
“I swear I didn’t,” said Hazan quietly, studying Kamran closely now. “I don’t understand. You can’t hear her name without experiencing . . . what? Pain?”
The feeling was slowly abating, and Kamran drew a steadying breath as he shook his head. “It’s not always pain. I feel . . . different things each time, and it only started this morning. You don’t happen to know what’s wrong with me?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Hazan, concern etching his forehead. “But if she has some kind of hold on you from so far away, only a powerful magic can be involved. I know little more than that.”
Kamran fell silent, recalling the way he still felt when he thought of her
—the way some chamber of his heart thrashed against his better judgment, demanding to see her, to speak with her despite everything—and could not help but agree.
He took a sharp breath. There was no use in thinking of their time together. If he thought too long about the tears she’d shed in his presence, the fears she’d exposed, the smiles she’d shared—
No.
Some baser part of his mind wanted desperately to find reasons to exonerate her, and he refused to be so weak. The only way to armor himself
was to forget the brief moments they’d had; he refused to remember the softness of her lips; refused to recall the way she’d surrendered to his touch, the sound she’d made when he’d kissed her. She’d looked into his eyes like he was worth something, had touched him like he might be precious. Her soft curves had fit perfectly in his hands, against his body. He’d wanted to unravel her slowly, strip her down to nothing, press his face to her heated skin and live there, devour her. He’d never admit aloud that he’d done as much in his dreams, losing himself in her over and over, only to wake in a fevered, painful state of frustration. She had gouged a hole in him from which he feared he’d never recover. Not once in his life had he felt such a powerful attraction to anyone. He’d never even known a kiss was capable of such power.
“Kamran?”
“Yes.” The single word was breathless. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere,” he said unsteadily. He took another ragged breath, his body tense. When he looked up, he stared only at the wall. “Let us focus, for the moment, on the questions we can answer. How did you know this bag belonged to her?”
“I saw her carrying it,” said Hazan, “the night she was to be murdered by the king.”
That cleared Kamran’s head in an instant.
He looked sharply at Hazan, his brows pulling together. “So my grandfather was right,” he said. “She did have help. It was you who assisted her in defeating those ruffians.”
“Not at all.” Hazan laughed. “She did that entirely on her own. I only watched her from the shadows, waiting to intervene should she need assistance, which she never did.” He shook his head. “Your grandfather was so convinced she’d had access to a complex arsenal, when in fact she’d murdered those men with little more than her own sewing supplies.”
“These, you mean?” Kamran turned the bag on its side, dumping its contents in a contained scatter across the table. Among them was a small silky pillow and matching quilt; cases of pins and needles; scissors; spools of thread; salves and strips of linen from the apothecary; small bags containing various notions; gilded scrolls inviting her to the royal ball; a number of heavy, faded garments—
“Where did you get this?” Hazan said, dumbstruck. He stared at the table, then at Kamran, then back again. “How did you get your hands on her things?”
“Miss Huda delivered the luggage to me this morning.”
“The daughter of the Lojjan ambassador?” Hazan frowned. “The screaming one from last night? With the candelabra?”
Kamran nodded. “She thought its contents might be helpful to me in my search.” He relayed to Hazan the information Miss Huda had shared with him that morning: all about the magical shoes; the dress; how Cyrus had appeared as if from nowhere in her room at Follad Place; how he’d threatened to kill her before whisking them all away to the ball without notice, where Miss Huda had arrived terrified and without a voice. “Your queen left behind her bag by accident,” Kamran said archly. “She hadn’t time to take it with her.”
Hazan, who’d gone silent during the explanation, was now frowning. “But I thought the two of them were on good terms. Why would Miss Huda wish to assist in the capture of her friend?”
“So you knew, then,” said Kamran, irritated in a flash. “You knew she worked as a seamstress in addition to being a snoda?”
Hazan shot him an imperious look. “Naturally,” he said. “When I learned of her existence, I uncovered all I could about her.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“As you will recall, sire, I was at the time withholding a great deal of information from you.”
“For the love of God, Hazan,” he said with a sigh. “Do cease being useless to me.”
“I promise to consider it.”
“Miss Huda only wants us to find the girl,” Kamran pressed on, “because she thinks the Tulanian king might do something terrible. She claims to be worried about her.”
Hazan raised his eyebrows. “I see I have an unexpected ally in Miss Huda, then.”
Kamran wanted to make a quip, to name them allies only in idiocy, but he found he could not make his mouth form the necessary words. He’d never wanted to hate Alizeh, and he’d be lying if he said the collective opinions of those around him were not beginning to destabilize his
convictions on the matter. Still, the evidence stacked against her was damning.
And confusing.
“Very little of note inside,” he muttered. “I’ve already searched everything thrice, broken open the seams of the pillow and quilt, turned pockets inside out, studied even the most minuscule items for evidence . . . of anything.” He looked up, his apprehension spiking as he spoke, recalling the many discrepancies in her character, her actions, the prophecy itself. “She doesn’t own a single weapon.”
“As I’ve already told you,” Hazan said flatly. “She has no aspirations to topple any empire. What reason would she have to stockpile weapons?”
“The inconsistency is not lost on me, Hazan,” he said quietly. “But then, there is something else, too.”
From within the depths of the overturned bag, Kamran retrieved a slim, clothbound volume the rough size and shape of a novel, which he slid across the table, toward Hazan.
“What do you make of this?” said the prince.
The cloth cover was worn and faded; what was once a bright blue was now washed out, nearly gray. The blank pages were stiff and waterlogged, the book warped by time and moisture.
Hazan studied it without a word, looking grim about the mouth as he did, and when Kamran flipped the book over so his friend might read the inscription on the back, Hazan drew a sharp breath.
In faded gold letters, it read—
MELT THE ICE IN SALT
BRAID THE THRONES AT SEA IN THIS WOVEN KINGDOM CLAY AND FIRE SHALL BE
