This Woven Kingdom (20 page)

ALIZEH STARED, STUNNED, AT THE
figure bowing before her.

“Forgive me,” the stranger said quietly. “I only meant to keep close to you tonight should you need assistance—which, clearly, you did not.” Even in shadow, she saw a flash of his smile. “My firefly, however, is quite taken with you and insists on seeking your attention whenever the opportunity arises.”

“It is your firefly, then?”

The stranger nodded. “Normally she's more obedient, but when she sees you she seems to forget me entirely, and has been accosting you against my wishes these last two days. She first disobeyed me the night you met her at Baz House—she'd darted through the kitchen door even as I expressly forbid it. I apologize for any frustration her impulsiveness has caused.”

Alizeh blinked at him, bewildered. “Who are you? How do you know me? How did you know I might need help tonight?”

The stranger smiled broadly at that, a gleam of white in the dark. He then held out a gloved hand, within which was a small glass orb the size of a marble. “First,” he said. “This is for you.”

Alizeh went suddenly still.

She'd recognized the object at once; it was called a
nosta
, an old Tulanian word for
trust
. To say that they were rare was a gross understatement of the truth. Alizeh had not seen one since she was a child; she thought they'd been all but lost to time.

Carefully, Alizeh took the small object into her hand.

In all of history, only several nostas had ever been made, for their creation required an ancient magic of which only the Diviners were capable. Alizeh's parents had often told her that the magic in Tulan was different—stronger—than it was in Ardunia, for the southern empire, while small, had a more potent concentration of the mineral in its mountains, and a far greater population of Diviners, as a result. Many Jinn had fled to Tulan in the early Clay wars for precisely this reason; there was something about the mountains there that called to them, imbued them with power.

Or so Alizeh had heard.

The few nostas that ever existed in Ardunia were widely believed to have been stolen from Tulan; a few small mementos of many failed wars.

How this stranger had gotten his hands on something so precious, Alizeh could not even begin to imagine.

She looked down at him in astonishment. “This is for me?”

“Please consider it a token of my loyalty, Your Highness. Keep it with you always, so that you never need wonder who your enemies might be.”

Alizeh felt her eyes prick with unexpected emotion.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I hardly know what to say.”

“Then I would be so bold as to ask for your forgiveness. You have suffered all these years alone, never knowing how many of us quietly searched for you. We are so grateful to have found you now.”

“We?”

“Yes. We.” Another flash of a smile, though this one was somber. “Your presence was only recently made known to me, Your Majesty, and I have been waiting every day for the right moment to approach you. In the interim, I've been tracking your movements so that I might offer protection if you should need it.”

As he spoke, the nosta glowed warm in her hand. She knew that if he lied even a little, the orb would turn to ice. Alizeh's mind spun so fast she could scarcely draw breath.

“You may rise,” she whispered.

He did, unfolding slowly to reveal a body much broader than she first suspected.

“Step into the light,” she said.

He moved into the glow of a nearby gaslight, the flames setting fire to his pale hair and eyes. He was well dressed and groomed; his clothes were cut from fine cloth, his camel hair overcoat tailored to perfection. Were it not for the nosta, she did not think she'd believe this young man was fighting for her cause. He looked too well fed.

She struggled now to know what to make of him.

Still, the longer she stared, the more she saw. He was handsome in an unexpected way, his face composed of many small imperfections that added up to something interesting.

Strong.

Strange, but his features reminded her slightly of Omid—the dusky color of his skin, the generous smattering of freckles across his face. It was only his pale hair that kept him from looking like a native of the south.

Alizeh took a deep, steadying breath.

“You likely do not remember my mother,” the young man said quietly, “but she was a courtier. This was after the establishment of the Fire Accords, when Jinn were finally allowed to join the court freely; but she had been by that time so used to hiding who she was that she continued to keep her identity a secret.”

Alizeh's mind began to turn. As the nosta warmed in her hand, she realized there was something about this story that sounded familiar.

“On one of her many evenings at court,” he went on, “my mother overheard the late queen speaking about the prophecy, and she knew then th—”

“A prophecy?” Alizeh frowned, cutting him off. “A prophecy about me, you mean?”

The young man went suddenly still. For a long moment he said nothing.

“Sir?” Alizeh prompted.

“You must accept my many apologies, Your Highness.” He sounded a bit worried now. “I did not realize you were unaware.”

Now Alizeh's heart was pounding. “Unaware of what?”

“I fear I must again beg your forgiveness, for this story is a rather long one, and there is not enough time tonight to tell
it. Once the matters of your safety are settled, I promise to explain everything in greater detail. But tonight I cannot be away for too long, or I will be missed.”

Again, the nosta burned hot.

“I see,” Alizeh breathed.

A prophecy.
Had her parents known? Was this the real reason why she'd been hidden away? Why all who knew her had been murdered?

The young man went on: “Allow me to say now only that my mother was once, long ago, acquainted with your parents. She acted as their eyes from inside the palace walls, and would visit your home often, always with the updates she was able to glean from the court. Occasionally, she took me along. I cannot imagine you remember me, Your Majesty—”

“No,” she whispered, disbelief coloring her voice. “Can it be true? Is it possible you once taught me to play jacks?”

In response, the smiling young man reached into his pocket, and presented her with a single hazelnut.

A sudden, painful emotion seized her body then; a relief so large she could hardly fathom its dimensions.

She thought she might cry.

“I have been waiting close to the crown, as my mother once did, for any news of your discovery. When I learned of your existence I began at once to make arrangements for your safe transfer. I take it you've received your invitation to the ball tomorrow night?”

Alizeh was still stunned, for a moment, into silence. “The ball?” she said finally. “Did you— Was that—?”

The stranger shook his head. “The original thought
belonged to the child. I saw an opportunity and assisted. The context will help us.”

“I fear I've been rendered speechless,” she said softly. “I can only thank you, sir. I struggle now to think of anything else to say.”

And in a gesture of goodwill, she removed her snoda.

The young man started, stepped back. He stared at her with wide eyes, with something like apprehension. She watched him struggle to look at her without appearing to look at all, and the realization almost made her laugh.

She realized, too late, that she'd put him in an awkward position. Doubtless he thought she expected a review.

“I know my eyes make me hard to look at,” said Alizeh gently. “It's the ice that does it, though I don't entirely understand why. I believe my eyes are in fact brown, but I experience with some frequency a sharp pain in my head, a feeling like a sudden frost. It's the onslaught of cold, I think, that kills their natural color. It's the only explanation I have for their flickering state. I hope you will be able to overlook my strangeness.”

He studied her then as if he were trying to sear her image into his memory—and then looked sharply away, at the ground. “You do not look strange, Your Majesty.”

The nosta glowed warm.

Alizeh smiled, restored her snoda. “You say you are making arrangements for my safe transfer—what does that mean? Where do you mean to take me?”

“I'm afraid I cannot say. It is better, for now, that you know as little as possible, in the case that our plans go awry
and you are apprehended.”

Again, the nosta glowed warm.

“Then how will I know to find you?”

“You will not. It is imperative that you arrive at the ball tomorrow night. Will you require assistance in accomplishing this?”

“No. I think not.”

“Very good. My firefly will seek you out when the moment is right. You may count on her to lead the way. Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He bowed. “It grows later by the minute, and I must now be gone. Already I have said too much.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said softly, grabbing his arm. “Will you not at least tell me your name?”

He stared at her bandaged hand on his arm for a beat too long, and when he looked up, he said, “I am Hazan, Your Majesty. You may depend on me with your life.”

KAMRAN SAID NOTHING AT ALL
during the long walk with his grandfather, his mind spinning with all manner of confusion and betrayal. He swore to himself he wouldn't jump to any absolute conclusions until he heard the whole explanation from the king, but it grew harder by the minute to ignore the rage simmering in his blood, for they did not appear to be heading to the king's chambers, as Kamran had first assumed, and he could not envisage now where his grandfather was leading him.

Never in his life could he have imagined the king sending mercenaries to his room in the dead of night.

Why?

What had happened to their relationship in so brief a time as to inspire such cruelty? Such lunacy?

Luckily, the king did not keep him wondering for long.

The path they followed grew darker and colder as they went, the circuitous path growing both familiar and alarming. Kamran had wandered this way precious few times in his life, for he'd seldom had cause to visit the palace dungeons.

A bolt of panic branched up his spine.

His grandfather was still several paces ahead, and the prince heard the groan of a metal cage opening before he saw its primeval design. That a trio of torches had been lit
in anticipation of his arrival was shocking enough, but that the illumination forced the coarse, clawed-out corners of this sinister space into sharp relief rendered this horror only too real. Kamran's fear and confusion further electrified as the steady drip of some unnamed liquid beat the ground between them, the smell of rot and wet filling his nose.

He had stepped into a nightmare.

Finally, King Zaal turned to face his grandson, and the prince, who even now should have bowed before his sovereign, remained standing.

Neither did he sheath his sword.

King Zaal stared at that sword now, studied the insolence of the young man with whom he shared these shadows. Kamran saw the barely restrained anger in his grandfather's eyes, the outrage he did little to hide.

No doubt similar feelings were mirrored upon Kamran's own face.

“As your king,” the older man said coldly, “I charge you presently with the crime of treason—”

“
Treason?
” Kamran exploded. “On what basis?”

“—and sentence you to an indefinite period of imprisonment in the royal dungeons, whence you will be released only to perform your duties, during which you will remain under strict surveillance, and after which you will be retur—”

“You would sentence me to this fate without trial, Your Majesty? Without proof? Have you gone mad?”

King Zaal took a sharp breath, his chin lifting at the insult. It was a moment before he spoke.

“As your king, I decree that your guilt is such that you
forfeit a right to trial. But as your grandfather,” he added, with uncommon calm, “I offer you this single meeting during which you may attempt to exonerate yourself.

“If you fail to argue your own innocence in a timely manner, I will order the guards to shackle you without delay. If you then insist on fighting this modified sentence for so heinous a crime, you will force upon yourself the full punishment for treason and await your execution at sunrise, at which time you will die an honorable death by sword, in a location yet to be determined, your head severed from your body and impaled on a pike for seven days and seven nights for all the empire to bear witness.”

Kamran felt the blow of this declaration with his entire body, felt it shudder through him with breathtaking pain.

It left him hollow.

His grandfather—the man who'd raised him, who taught him most everything he knew, who'd been his role model all his life—was threatening him with execution? That King Zaal was even capable of such cruelty to his own kin was stunning enough, but more shattering was that Kamran could not begin to fathom what had brought them both to this moment.

Treason?

Briefly, Kamran wondered whether the minister of defense had accused him so, but Kamran struggled to believe the oily man had influence enough to move his grandfather to this level of anger. Had the minister complained to the king, Kamran would've more likely heard about it in the light of day; would've been chastised and sent on his way
with a warning to behave himself.

But this—

This was different. The king had enlisted armed men to fetch him from his private rooms in the dead of night. This was bigger than a moment of childishness in a boardroom.

Was it not?

A tense stretch of silence spun out between them, a long minute during which Kamran was forced to make peace with the worst. Kamran was a prince, yes, but he was a soldier first, and this was not the first time he'd been faced with such brutality.

With forced calm, he said, “I confess I know not, Your Majesty, how to defend myself against so baseless an accusation. Even all these moments of silence have not inspired my imagination to conjure a suitable explanation for these charges. I cannot now attempt to justify that which I have no hope of understanding.”

King Zaal released an angry rasp of a laugh, an exclamation of disbelief. “You deny, then—in full—any and all allegations leveled against you? You make no effort to plead your case?”

“I have no case to plead,” Kamran said sharply, “for I know not why I stand here before you, nor why you would send men to my rooms to restrain me in such an inhumane manner. In what way have I committed treason, pray tell? At what point in time might I have managed such a feat?”

“You insist on feigning ignorance?” King Zaal said angrily, his right hand clenched tight around his golden mace. “You would insult me even now, to my face?”

A muscle jumped in Kamran's jaw. “I see now that your
mind is already decided against me. That you refuse even to tell me what crime I have committed is evidence enough. If you wish me imprisoned, so be it. If you desire my head, you may have it. Worry not that I will struggle, Your Majesty. I would not defy the orders of my king.”

The prince finally sheathed his sword and bowed. He kept his gaze on the filthy, pockmarked stone floor of the dungeons for what seemed a century but was more likely minutes. Or seconds.

When King Zaal finally spoke, his voice was subdued. “The girl is not dead,” he said.

Kamran looked up. It was a moment before he could speak, a brief head rush leaving him, for an instant, unsteady. “You've not killed her?”

King Zaal stared, unblinking, at the prince. “You are surprised.”

“Indeed I am, quite.” Kamran hesitated. “Though I admit I don't understand the nature of the non sequitur. Of course, I'm deeply curious to know the reason for your changed mind toward the girl, but I am also anxious, Your Highness, to know whether I must soon make these grotesque quarters my home, and at the moment the latter point has claimed my full and undivided attention.”

The king sighed.

He closed his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers to his temple. “I sent six men after her tonight. And the girl is not dead.”

Slowly, the frozen gears in Kamran's brain began to turn. His rusty mind had its excuses: the hour was late; the prince
was exhausted; his consciousness had been preoccupied with a recent effort to defend himself against a surprise attack ordered by his own grandfather. Even so, he wondered that it had taken him so long to understand.

When he did, the breath seemed to leave his body.

Kamran closed his eyes as renewed anger—outrage—built in his bones. His voice, when he spoke, was so cold he hardly recognized himself.

“You think I forewarned her.”

“More than that,” said the king. “I think you assisted her.”

“What an odious suggestion, Your Majesty. The very idea is absurd.”

“It was quite a while before you answered your door tonight,” said Zaal. “I wonder: Were you still slithering back into your rooms? In the dead of night, dragged from your bedchamber, you now stand before me fully dressed, wearing your swords and scabbards. Do you expect me to believe you were abed?”

Kamran laughed, then. Like a lunatic, he laughed.

“Do you deny it?” King Zaal demanded.

Kamran leveled a violent glare at his grandfather, hatred flashing through his body. “With my very soul. That you even think me capable of such unworthiness is so insulting as to astonish me to the point of madness.”

“You were determined to save her.”

“I asked you merely to consider sparing the life of an innocent!” Kamran cried, no longer bothering to contain his temper. “It was a basic plea for humanity, nothing more. You think me so weak as to go against a formal decree issued by
the king of my own empire? You think me so frail of mind, so weak of spine?”

For the first time in Kamran's life, he watched his grandfather falter. The older man opened then closed his mouth, struggling for the right words.

“I— I did worry,” King Zaal said finally, “that you were overly preoccupied with thoughts of her. I also heard about your foolishness with the defense minister, who, despite your undisguised loathing of the man, is a prominent elder from the House of Ketab, and your speech toward him was nothing short of mutinous—”

“So you sent armed men to my door? You sentenced me to indefinite imprisonment without trial? You would've risked my head over a mere misunderstanding—an
assumption
? Does this seem to you an appropriate reaction to your concerns, Your Majesty?”

King Zaal turned away, pressed two fingers against his closed lips. He appeared lost in thought.

Kamran, on the other hand, was vibrating with fury.

The unfolding of the evening's events struck him suddenly as so unlikely, so impossible, that he wondered distantly whether he'd detached from his own mind.

It was true that he'd privately considered pushing back against his grandfather's command to find a wife. It was true, too, that in a moment of madness he'd thought to warn the girl, had even fantasized about saving her life. But Kamran always knew, deep down, that those silent ravings were bred only of transient emotion; they were shallow feelings that could not compete with the depth of loyalty he felt for his
king, for his home, for his ancestors.

His empire.

Kamran would never have staged a counterattack against the king and his plans—not for a girl he did not know, not against the man who had been more of a father to him than his own had ever been able.

This betrayal— It could not be borne.

“Kamran,” the king said finally. “You must understand. The girl was prepared. She was armed. The puncture wounds inflicted indicate she had access to highly unusual weapons, which one can only assume were supplied to her by a third party with access to a complex arsenal. She was prophesied to have formidable allies—”

“And you thought one of those allies might be me?”

Zaal's expression darkened. “Your ridiculous, childish actions—your fervent desire to spare her life even with the knowledge that she might be the death of mine—left me with no choice but to wonder, yes, for it remains highly unlikely that she was able to dispose of six armed men without assistance. Five of the six she flatly murdered; she only spared the last to send back a warni—”