KAMRAN STRODE DOWN THE HALL much like a stallion finally allowed to bolt. He moved with a swiftness that almost betrayed his nerves, his steps ringing out in the silence, his presence met only by occasional scurrying snodas, all of whom stopped in place at the sight of him and promptly fell to their knees, nearly dropping copper trays in the process, the sounds of crystal clattering between them.
The prince strode past these strange displays without betraying his surprise, but he was made uncomfortable nonetheless, for he was unaccustomed to this level of servility. It would be another week before he was crowned king; in the interim, he didn’t know whether this behavior was normal.
Once again, his mind drifted to Hazan.
Hazan, upon whom he’d always relied to keep him abreast of precisely such things; who’d always been there to correct and inform and guide him. Surely it had not all been a lie?
No, Kamran was too perceptive.
He trusted his own instincts too much to believe such a feat was even possible. Hazan’s betrayal had to have been a recent development. What Kamran couldn’t understand was why.
Why, after years of loyalty, would Hazan turn on him—turn his back on an empire his own family had been serving for decades? Had he somehow known of King Zaal’s crimes? Had Hazan been exacting revenge upon his grandfather by assisting the monster foretold to destroy him?
“Hejjan?”
Kamran bristled at the sound of the familiar voice. “Hejjan, septa—” Sire, wait—
He did not wait.
The prince felt his cape billowing about his shoulders as he moved, the steady knock of his boots against the green marble acting as a metronome against which he kept pace. Hazan was shackled in the dungeons waiting to die, and Kamran wanted to get the hateful business over with as soon as possible, for he was plagued by an uneasiness that made him feel ill. In an honest moment he might even admit that he did not, in fact, desire to kill the only person he’d ever called a friend, and if he failed to execute the traitor straightaway, he feared he’d lose the will to do it at all.
Omid jogged to keep up with him, slightly out of breath when he said, in Feshtoon, “Lotfi, hejjan, septa.” Please, sire, wait. “There’s something I
need to tell you.”
Kamran did not slow his pace. “Is he ready?” “Han, hejjan. Bek—” Yes, sire. But—
“Then I must get on.” “Bek—”
“Surely you have other things to do,” said Kamran, cutting him off for the second time. “As I recall, I gave you the list myself.”
More lunacy from the uncrowned king: Kamran had made Omid— former street rat, aged twelve—his new home minister. Kamran had made the pronouncement upon Zahhak’s return to the palace, citing the child as the reason for his recovery. The defense minister could hardly shut his gaping mouth long enough to stammer out a single word of astonishment, and when he finally did, he all but accused the prince of losing his mind— which seemed, to Kamran, entirely plausible.
He felt a bit mad, in any case.
In Kamran’s opinion, the former street child had proven himself fully capable of the role Hazan had failed to perform, and it did not matter to him that the boy was only twelve. When Kamran was twelve he might’ve been crowned king of Ardunia, if only his elderly grandfather—aged well over a century at the time—hadn’t made a bargain with the devil to live longer. He felt certain that Omid, too, could rise to this lesser occasion.
“Well— Yes, sire, and I’ve been doing other things, honest I have,” the boy said in breathless Feshtoon. “But if you’re going to see him, sire, you should know that he’s real angry.”
Kamran glanced at the child. “Hazan is often angry.”
“I don’t think so, sire. I never seen him angry. Certainly never seen him like this.”
“You never knew him.”
Omid boggled. “But I did. He was the one who gave me the tickets to the—”
“Enough.”
The unpalatable truth was that this irritating child was the only person Kamran could think of who’d never lied to him. What’s more: the child had possessed one of the most powerful pieces of magic known to man—he could’ve sold the Sif for a small fortune on the black market, earning enough money to live comfortably for years into the future. Instead, he’d chosen to give the precious ration to someone who’d treated him with
nothing but disdain, anger, and unkindness. Kamran could not imagine a finer litmus test of character.
Still, it did not follow that he had to like the boy.
“But does he really have to hang right away?” Omid pressed on, undaunted. “Without even a trial? You haven’t asked him a single question
—you’re just going to kill him because of something King Cyrus said, and we hate King Cyrus, sire, so it doesn’t really seem fair to take such a man at his word—”
Kamran came to a sudden stop, his cape whipping around his chest as he turned, looking Omid in the eye. “It is precisely because I am fair,” he said sharply, “that I intend to put Hazan out of his misery this morning.”
Omid frowned. “Is that meant to be a joke, sire?”
“Far from it. I am teaching you something vital.” He studied Omid a moment, noting for the first time that the boy looked ridiculous in the serviceable, oversized clothes he’d been given by the Diviners. Omid would need a new wardrobe if he were to represent the crown in such a capacity. “Confine a guilty man to a dungeon with only the company of his own conscience,” he said quietly, “and you prolong his torture. It is because I care that I intend to be merciful now.”
“But, sire,” Omid said, his frown deepening. “Can you be merciful later? I came to tell you that Miss Huda is here, and she’s hoping to speak with you without delay. You remember Miss Huda, don’t you, sire?”
Kamran bristled at the mere mention of the young woman’s name, revulsion raising bile in his gut.
The eagerness with which Miss Huda had disgorged the contents of her mind to a bloodthirsty journalist struck him as the action of a person desperate for attention, which in Kamran’s estimation was both an incurable condition and a terrible crime. The illegitimacy of her birth having already been known to him, he could not help but wonder whether the affections withheld from her in childhood had led to her becoming the kind of young woman who’d do anything for a pat on the head. He felt, as a result, that she might loan out her loyalty to anyone in exchange for favor, which meant he could not trust her—and the words of a liar, no matter how entertaining, were useless to him.
“Send her away.”
“But— Sire, Miss Huda says she has important information to share with you about King Cyrus,” Omid pressed. “She says she has to speak with
you on a matter of great importance to the crown. Do you— Do you remember her, sire? How the southern king had trapped her in a fiery ring? And how she screamed?”
Kamran shot the boy a scornful look.
“Do I remember?” he asked. “Do I remember the events of a few hours ago? Do I remember witnessing my grandfather’s murder, my minister’s deflection, the destruction of my home, the disfiguration of my body?” He almost laughed. “Goodness, but I pray for your sake that you are not yourself as stupid as the questions you ask, otherwise this arrangement will see its end before sundown.”
Omid flushed scarlet.
“I have no interest in talking to anyone who might divulge sensitive intelligence to a newspaper before offering to share such knowledge with the crown. Tell her to go home.”
“But, sire,” Omid insisted, still flushing past his hairline, “she says she has a bag. A carpet bag that belonged to Miss Alizeh. She says that Alizeh accidentally left her belongings at Follad Place, and that you might want to go through them, see, on account of there might be something of interest—”
Kamran had frozen in place.
He’d felt like someone had shot an arrow through his head at the mention of her name, pinned him to a tree. His heart had begun pounding in his chest. His mind felt suddenly full of fog, something like mist clouding his eyes.
He felt cold.
“Sire? Should I allow her to bring the bag?”
“Yes.” The prince blinked, shaking himself free. “Yes. Have her escorted to the morning room at once.”
Omid grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and bolted down the hall. Kamran remained where he stood, his mind reeling.
He hated the way his body reacted to the mere mention of her; to the sound of her name, spoken aloud.
Alizeh still had this hold over him, and he couldn’t fathom why. He’d known the girl but a matter of days—and then she’d proven herself to be the worst kind of monster. Why, then, did some pathetic part of him protest the assassination of her character? Why did he feel as if he were missing something—lacking some essential piece of information?
Without a doubt she’d bewitched him.
Why else would his heart beat this hard at the prospect of discussing her? Why else did he feel a strange flutter in his chest, a terrible joy at the thought of looking through her things?
Kamran remembered her carpet bag.
He remembered watching her stuff the small luggage to its limits, jamming every article she owned into its depths. Her entire life had fit inside that bag; these were the most essential items she owned; the possessions she cherished the most. He felt almost light-headed at the prospect of unraveling her secrets.
He expected he would only ever be rid of these feelings once she was dead.
