THE ROYAL PALACE HAD BEEN built into the base of Narenj Canyon, the imposing entrance positioned between treacherously steep cliffs the color of coral, against which the glittering white marble domes and minarets of the palace stood in stark contrast. The magnificent structure that was the prince’s home was cradled in a colossal fissure between land formations, at the base of which thrived lush vegetation even in winter. Acres of wild grass and burgeoning juniper touched the perpendicular rise of orange rock, the trees’ blue-green foliage twisted upon irregular branches, reaching sideways into the sky toward a vast, rushing river that ran parallel to the palace entrance. Over this tremulous, snaking body of water was built an enormous drawbridge, a fearsome masterwork that connected, eventually, to the main road—and into the heart of Setar.
Kamran was stood on that drawbridge now, staring at the river that had once seemed to him so formidable.
The rains had come only briefly this season, and as a result, the water underfoot was still fairly shallow, unmoving in the windless hour. Everyday Kamran waited, with coiled tension, for the rains to return; for a sweep of thunderstorms to spare their empire. If they did not—
“You are thinking of the cisterns,” his grandfather said quietly. “Are you not?”
Kamran looked at the king. “Yes,” he said. “Good.”
The two of them stood side by side on the bridge, a common stopping place for cleared visitors to the palace. All were expected to halt their horses while the guards pulled open the towering, foreboding doors that led to the royal courtyard. The prince had been surprised to discover, upon his
return from Baz House, that his grandfather had been waiting at the bridge to intercept him.
The carriage that delivered Kamran back to the palace was now long gone—and Hazan with it—but still, his grandfather had said little. He’d neither asked about the results of Kamran’s search, nor said a word about the Tulanian missive—the summary of which Hazan had provided on their ride home.
The news had been disconcerting, indeed.
Even so, the king and his heir did not discuss it. Instead, they watched in silence as a servant girl paddled a canoe on the still waters below, the lithe boat heaving with a vivid starburst of fresh flowers.
Seldom did Kamran spend time here, at the outer edge of the palace grounds, though his hesitation arose not from a fear of feeling exposed. The palace was all but impenetrable to attack, guarded as it was on all sides by natural defenses. The vast grounds, too, were secured by an outer wall, the top of which grazed the clouds, and that was manned at all times by no fewer than a thousand soldiers, all of whom stood by, arrows notched in waiting.
No, it was not that the prince felt unprotected.
Despite the breathtaking views from this vantage point, Kamran avoided lingering too long on this bridge because it reminded him of his childhood, of one day in particular. He found it hard to believe that so much time had passed since that fateful day, for it still felt to him, in certain moments, as if the event had occurred but minutes ago.
In fact, it had been seven years.
Kamran’s father had been away from Ardunia then, gone from home for months to lead a senseless war in Tulan. A young Kamran had been stuck at home with tutors, a distant mother, and a preoccupied king; the long stretches of worry and boredom had been interrupted only by visits to his aunt’s house.
The day his father was due to arrive back at the palace Kamran had been watching from the high windows. He searched restlessly for the sight of his father’s familiar carriage, and when it finally arrived he’d run desperately out the doors, breathless with anticipation, coming to a stop at this very bridge, overtop this very river. He waited outside the parked carriage, lungs burning with exertion, for his father to greet him.
The rainy season had been ferocious that year, rendering the river turbulent, heaving with a terrifying force. Kamran remembered this because he stood there, listening to the heft of it as he waited; waited for his father to open the door, to show himself.
When, after a long moment, the doors had not opened, Kamran had wrenched them open himself.
He later found out that they’d sent word—of course, they’d sent word— but none had thought to include the eleven-year-old child in the dissemination of the news, to tell him that his father was no longer coming home.
That his father was, in fact, dead.
There, on a lush seat in a carriage as familiar to him as his own name, Kamran saw not his father, but his father’s bloody head, sitting on a silver plate.
It was not an exaggeration to say that the scene had inspired in the young prince so violent and paralyzing a reaction that he’d desired, suddenly, the arrival of his own swift death. Kamran could not imagine living in a world without his father; he could not imagine living in a world that would do such a thing to his father. He had walked calmly to the edge of the bridge, climbed its high wall, and pitched himself into the icy, churning river below.
It was his grandfather who’d found him, who dove into the frozen depths to save him, who’d pulled Kamran’s limp blue body from the loving arms of Death. Even with the Diviners working to restart his heart, it was days before Kamran opened his eyes, and when he did, he saw only his grandfather’s familiar brown gaze; his grandfather’s familiar white hair. His familiar, gentle smile.
Not yet, the king had said, stroking the young boy’s cheek.
Not just yet.
“You think I don’t understand.”
The sound of his grandfather’s voice startled Kamran back to the present, prompting him to take a sharp breath. He glanced at the king.
“Your Majesty?”
“You think I do not understand,” said his grandfather again, turning a degree to face him. “You think I don’t know why you did it, and I wonder
how you can think me so indifferent.” Kamran said nothing.
“I know why the actions of the street child shocked you so,” the king said quietly. “I know why you made a spectacle of the moment, why you felt compelled to save him. It has required of us a great deal to manage the situation, but I was not angered by your actions, for I knew you meant no harm. Indeed, I know you’d not been thinking at all.”
Kamran looked into the distance. Again, he said nothing.
King Zaal sighed. “I have seen the shape of your heart since the moment you first opened your eyes. All your life, I’ve been able to understand your actions—I’ve been able to find meaning even in your mistakes.” He paused. “But never before have I struggled as I do now. I cannot begin to fathom your abiding interest in this girl, and your actions have begun to frighten me more than I care to admit.”
“This girl?” Kamran turned back; his chest felt suddenly tight. “There is nothing to discuss as pertains to her. I thought we’d finished with that conversation. This very morning, in fact.”
“I thought so, too,” the king said, sounding suddenly tired. “And yet, already I have received reports of your unusual behavior at Baz House. Already there is discussion of your—your melancholy—as I have heard it put.”
Kamran’s jaw clenched.
“You defended a young woman in a snoda, did you not? Defended her loudly, disrespecting your aunt and terrifying the housekeeper in the process.”
Quietly, the prince muttered an oath.
“Tell me,” said the king, “was this not the very same girl we meant to extinguish? The very same snoda tethered to my demise? The one who nearly led to the ghastly transplantation of your life to our dungeons?”
Kamran’s eyes flashed in anger. He could no longer dull the anger he still felt at his grandfather’s recent betrayal, nor could he bear any longer these condescending displays of superiority. He was tired of them; tired of these pointless conversations.
What had he done wrong, truly?
Just today he’d gone to Baz House only to fulfill the duty charged him by his king; he’d not planned for the rest of it. It was not as if he meant to run away with the girl, or worse, marry her; make her queen of Ardunia.
Kamran was not yet ready to admit to himself the entire truth: that in a fit of folly he might certainly have tried to make her his queen, if only she had let him.
He did not see the point in dwelling upon it.
Kamran would never see Alizeh again—of this he was certain—and he did not think he deserved to be treated thus by his grandfather. He would attend the ball tonight; he would, in the end, marry the young woman deemed best for him, and he would, with great bitterness, stand aside while his grandfather continued to make plans to kill the girl. His mistakes were none of them irreversible; none of them so foul they deserved such unrelenting condemnation.
“She had dropped a bucket of water on the ground,” the prince said irritably. “The housekeeper was going to oust her for it. I interceded only to keep the girl in her position long enough for her to remain belowstairs. Searching her room, as you recall, was my sole mission, and her dismissal would’ve thwarted our plans. Still, my efforts came to nothing. She was promptly pitched out onto the street; her room was empty when I found it.”
The king clasped his hands behind his back, pivoting fully to face his grandson. He stared at Kamran a long time.
“And did not the perfect convenience of her dismissal strike you as unusual? Has it not occurred to you, then, that she likely orchestrated the scene herself? That she’d seen your face, suspected your aim, and designed the hour of her own exit, escaping all scrutiny in the process?”
Kamran hesitated.
A shot of uncertainty disordered him a moment; he needed the single second necessary to review his memories, to consider and dismiss absolutely the premise of Alizeh’s duplicity, which, had Kamran been granted but an instant more, he would have gathered enough evidence to deny. Instead, his pause for reflection cost him his credibility.
“You disappoint me,” said the king. “How malleable of mind you have been made by such an obvious enemy. I can no longer pretend I’m not wholly disturbed. Tell me, is she very beautiful? And you—are you so easily brought to your knees?”
The prince’s hand tightened around the throat of his mace. “How quickly you slander my character, Your Highness. Did you imagine I’d quietly accept such defamation of my person—that I would not challenge
accusations so steeped in the ridiculous, so deviated from truth that they could not possibly signify—”
“No, Kamran, no, I expected from the first that you would affect outrage, as you do now.”
“I cannot st—”
“Enough, child. Enough.” The king closed his eyes, gripped the brass railing of the drawbridge. “This world seeks in every moment to relinquish me, and I find I lack the time and resources necessary to punish you for your foolishness. It is good, at least, that you have such ready excuses. Your explanations are sturdy, the details are well considered.”
King Zaal opened his eyes, studied his grandson.
“I take comfort,” said the king quietly, “in knowing that you make the effort now to conceal your unworthy actions, for your lies indicate, at the very least, that you possess a necessary awareness of your failings. I can only pray that your better judgment rules victorious, in the end.”
“Your Majesty—”
“The Tulanian king will be attending the ball tonight, as you no doubt have heard.”
With great effort, Kamran swallowed back the epithets in his throat, bade himself be calm. “Yes,” he bit out.
King Zaal nodded. “Their young king, Cyrus, is not to be trifled with. He murdered his own father, as you well know, for his seat at the throne, and his attendance at the ball tonight, while not an outright portent of war, is no doubt an unfriendliness we should approach with caution.”
“I fully agree.”
“Good. Very g—” His grandfather took a sharp breath, losing his balance for an alarming moment. Kamran caught King Zaal’s arms, steadying him even as the prince’s own heart raced now with fear. It did not matter how much he raged against his grandfather or how much he pretended to detest the older man; the truth was always here, in the terror that quietly gripped him at the prospect of his loss.
“Are you quite all right, Your Majesty?”
“My dear child,” said the king, his eyes briefly closing. He reached out, clasped the prince’s shoulder. “You must prepare yourself. I will soon be unable to spare you the sight of a blood-soaked countryside, though Lord knows I’ve tried, these last seven years.”
Kamran stilled at that; his mind grasping at a frightening supposition.
All his life he’d wondered why, after the brutal murder of his father, the king had not avenged the death of his son, had not unleashed the fury of seven hells upon the southern empire. It had never made sense to the young prince, and yet, he’d never questioned it, for Kamran had feared, for so long after his father’s death, that revenge would mean he’d lose his grandfather, too.
“I don’t understand,” Kamran said, his voice charged now with emotion. “Do you mean to say that you made peace with Tulan—for my sake?”
The king smiled a mournful smile. His weathered hand fell away from the prince’s shoulder.
“Does it shock you,” he said, “to discover that I, too, possess a fragile heart? A weak mind? That I, too, have been unwise? Indeed, I’ve been selfish. I’ve made decisions—decisions that would affect the lives of millions—that were motivated not by the wisdom of my mind, but by the desires of my heart. Yes, child,” he said softly. “I did it for you. I could not bear to see you suffer, even as I knew that suffering was inevitable.
“I tried, in the early hours of the morning,” the king went on, “to take control of my own failings, to punish you the way a king should punish any man who proves disloyal. It was an overcorrection, you see. Compensation for a lifetime of restraint.”
“Your Majesty.” Kamran’s heart was pounding. “I still don’t understand.”
Now King Zaal smiled wider, his eyes shining with feeling. “My greatest weakness, Kamran, has always been you. I wanted always to shelter you. To protect you. After your father”—he hesitated, took an unsteady breath—“afterward, I could not bear to part from you. For seven years I managed to delay the inevitable, to convince our leaders to set down their swords and make peace. Instead, as I stand now at the finish of my life, I see I’ve only added to your burden. I ignored my own instincts in exchange for an illusion of relief.
“War is coming,” he whispered. “It has been a long time coming. I only hope I’ve not left you unprepared to face it.”
