This Woven Kingdom (26 page)

Once more, the nosta flashed warm against Alizeh's skin, proof that only terrified her heart into a gallop, sent a flood of feeling through her body. She felt disoriented, hyperaware, and still confused; only dimly cognizant of another world waiting for her; of danger and urgency waiting, waiting for her to surface.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

Slowly, very slowly, Alizeh touched her fingers to his waist, anchored herself to his body. She heard his soft intake of breath.

“Why?” she asked.

He hesitated, briefly, before he said, “I begin to fear you've done me irreparable damage. I should like to know who to blame.”

“Irreparable damage? Surely now you are exaggerating.”

“I only wish I were.”

“If that is true, sire, then it is best we part as anonymous friends, so as to spare each other further harm.”

“Friends?” he said, dismayed. “If your intention was to wound me, know you have succeeded.”

“You're right.” She grinned. “We have no hope even of friendship. Best to simply say our goodbyes. Shall we shake hands?”

“Oh, now you really do wound me.”

“Never fear, Your Highness. This brief interlude will be relegated to a graveyard populated by all manner of half- forgotten memories.”

He laughed, briefly, at that, but there was little mirth in it. “Do you take pleasure in torturing me with this drivel?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, I'm pleased to know I've rendered a service, at least.”

She was still smiling. “Farewell,” she whispered. “Our time together has come to an end. We will never again meet. Our worlds will never again collide.”

“Don't say that,” he said, suddenly serious. His hand moved to her waist, traveled up the curve of her rib cage. “Say anything but that.”

Alizeh was no longer smiling. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might bruise. “What shall I say, then?”

“Your name. I want to hear it from your lips.”

She took a breath. Released it slowly.

“My name,” she said, “is Alizeh. I am Alizeh of Saam, the
daughter of Siavosh and Kiana. Though you may know me better as the lost queen of Arya.”

He stiffened at that, went silent.

Finally he moved, one hand capturing her face, his thumb grazing her cheek in a fleeting moment, there and gone again. His voice was a whisper when he said, “Do you wish to know my name, too, Your Majesty?”

“Kamran,” she said softly. “I already know who you are.”

She was unprepared when he kissed her, for the darkness had denied her a warning before their lips met, before he claimed her mouth with a need that stole from her an anguished sound, a faint cry that shocked her.

She felt his desperation as he touched her, as he kissed her in every passing second with a need greater than the one before, inspiring in her a response she could not fathom into words. She only breathed him in, drew the fragrance of his skin into her blood, the darkly floral scent striking her mind like an opiate. He drew his hands down her body with an unconcealed longing she returned in equal measure; one she'd not even known herself to possess. She didn't even think before she reached for him, twining her arms around his neck; she pushed her hands through the silk of his hair and he went briefly solid, then kissed her so deeply she tasted him, heat and sugar, over and over. Every inch of her skin was suddenly so fraught with sensation she could hardly move.

No, she did not want to move.

She dared to touch him, too, to feel the expanse of his chest, the sculpted lines of his body; she felt him change as
she discovered him, breathe harder when she touched her lips to the sharp line of his jaw, the column of his neck. He made a sound, a low moan in his throat, igniting a flare of awareness in her chest that flashed across her skin before his back was suddenly against the wall, his arms braced around her waist. Still, she could not seem to get close enough. She despaired when he broke away, feeling the loss of him even as he kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, and suddenly his hands were in her hair, pulling pins, reaching for the buttons of her dress—

Oh.

Alizeh tore away, stumbled back on unsteady legs.

Her bones would not cease shaking. They both struggled to catch their breath, but Alizeh hardly knew herself in that moment, hardly recognized the violent pounding of her heart, the unfathomable desire that had risen up inside her. She now wanted things she could not even name, things she knew she could never have.

What on earth had she done?

“Alizeh.”

A frisson of feeling moved through her at that, at the tortured sound of his voice, her name on his lips. Her chest was heaving; her corset too tight. She felt suddenly dizzy, desperate for air.

Heavens, she had lost her mind.

The prince of Ardunia was not to be trifled with. She knew that. She knew it and yet somehow, for a brief window, it had not seemed to matter; she'd taken leave of her
senses and now she'd suffer for it, for her lapse in judgment. She'd already suffered for it if the ache in her heart was any indication.

Alizeh wanted nothing more than to throw herself back into his arms, even as she knew it to be a flight of madness.

“Forgive me,” Kamran whispered, his voice raw, nearly unrecognizable. “I didn't mean— I wasn't thinking—”

“I'm not upset,” she said, trying to steady herself. “You need not worry on that account. We were both of us out of our heads.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said with feeling. “I did nothing I didn't want to do. I want nothing more than to do it again.”

Oh, no, she couldn't breathe.

What she realized then, even as her body trembled, was a single, unassailable fact: what had transpired between her and the prince was much more than a kiss. Even inexperienced as she was, Alizeh possessed awareness enough to understand that something extraordinary had sparked between them.

Something uncommon.

It was critical that she first acknowledge this in order to next acknowledge something else: there was no future for them.

Somehow she knew—somehow she saw, with shocking clarity—that a planted kernel between them had bloomed. Quavering green shoots had sprung forth from the ground beneath her feet; shoots that, if nurtured, might one day flourish into something majestic, a towering tree that not
only bore fruit and offered shade, but supplied a sturdy trunk against which she might rest her weary body.

This was impossible.

Not only impossible, it was dangerous. Ruinous. Not merely for themselves—but for the realms they occupied. Their lives were pitted against each other. He had a kingdom to one day rule, and she had her own life to pursue. Any other avenue would lead only to chaos.

His grandfather was trying to
kill
her.

No, Alizeh understood then, even as it pierced her heart, that if she did not destroy this fragile bloom between them now, it would one day grow great enough to crush them both.

She had to leave.

She took a step back, felt the doorknob dig into her spine.

“Wait,” the prince said. “Please—”

She reached backward, wrapped her hand around the handle, and pushed it open.

A single, faint beam of light penetrated the room. She spotted her carpet bag in a corner, and quickly collected it.

“Alizeh,” he said, moving toward her. She saw the anguish in his eyes, a flash of panic. “Please, don't just disappear. Not now, not when I've only just found you.”

She stared at him, her heart beating in her throat. “Surely you must see,” she said. “There exists no bridge between our lives; no path that connects our worlds.”

“How can that matter? Is this not one day to be my empire, to rule as I see fit? I will build a bridge. I can clear a path. Or do you not think me capable?”

“Don't say things now that you cannot mean. We are
neither of us in our right minds—”

“I grow tired,” he said, trying to breathe, “of being in my right mind. I much prefer this kind of madness.”

Alizeh gripped with both hands the handle of her carpet bag and took a nervous step back. “You should not— You should not say such things to me—”

He drew closer. “Do you know I am meant to choose a bride tonight?”

Alizeh was surprised by her own shock at that, by the vague nausea that struck her. She felt suddenly ill.

Confused.

“I am meant to marry a complete stranger,” he was saying. “A candidate chosen by others to be my wife—to one day be my queen—”

“Then—then I offer my congratulations—”

“I beg you do not.” He was in front of her now, one hand reaching out, as if he might touch her. She couldn't breathe for not knowing whether he might, then couldn't breathe when he finally did, when the tips of his fingers grazed her hip, then up, up the curve of her bodice, trembling slightly as they drew away.

“Will you not give me hope?” he whispered. “Tell me I will see you again. Ask me to wait for you.”

“How can you even say such things when you know the consequences would be dire— Your people will think you've gone mad—your own king will forsake you—”

Incredibly, Kamran laughed, but it sounded angry. “Yes,” he said softly. “My own king will forsake me.”

“Kamran—”

He stepped forward and she gasped, took another step backward.

“You must—you must know,” Alizeh said, her voice unsteady. “I must tell you now how grateful I am for what you did today—for trying to protect me. I am in your debt, sire, and I will not soon forget it.”

She saw the change in his expression then, the dawning realization there that she would really leave, that this was how they'd part.

“Alizeh,” he said, his eyes bright with pain. “Please— Don't—”

Then, she was gone.

KAMRAN CHASED AFTER HER, RACING
down the stairs like a fool, as if he could ever catch up to a ghost, as if even finding her would be enough. How the prince managed in his mind to reconcile his desire for the girl and his loyalty to his king he did not know, but even as his better sense condemned him for his dissidence, he could not deny the terrifying feelings taking root inside him. His actions were both treacherous and futile, and still he could not stop himself; could not calm the pounding of his heart nor the madness that gripped him.

He had to see her—to speak with her just once more—

“Where on earth have you been, child?”

Kamran came to a sharp, disorienting halt on the landing, his mind returning to his body with the force of a thunderclap.

His aunt was staring up at him from just steps below, one hand clutching her skirts, the other gripping the banister. They were standing but two flights above the main floor, but he saw—in the light sheen at her brow, in the sharp creasing of her forehead—just how much it had cost the older woman to seek him out.

Kamran slowed.

Fatigue hit him as suddenly as if he'd been struck by a
physical blow, and he grabbed the banister, steadying himself against the assault.

He closed his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said, quietly catching his breath. “I lost track of time.”

He heard his aunt make a
tsk
of disapproval, and opened his eyes to see that she was looking him over, scrutinizing his hair, his eyes—even the sleeves of his sweater, which he'd at some point pulled up his forearms. Quietly, Kamran put himself to rights, running an absent hand over his hair, pushing the black waves out of his eyes.

It scared him to realize how easily his heart and mind had parted.

Duchess Jamilah pursed her lips and held out her hand, and Kamran quickly closed the distance between them, tucking her delicate fingers into the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he helped the older woman walk back down the stairs.

“So,” she said. “You say you lost track of time.”

Kamran made a noncommittal sound.

“I see.” His aunt sighed. “You seem to have done a thorough job wandering the house, in any case. The servants are all in a dither over your brooding. First the street boy, then the snoda, now you're mooning about the house, staring longingly out of windows. They all think you a tragic, hopeless romantic, and I'll be surprised if all their gossip doesn't earn you a few inches in the paper tomorrow.” She hesitated on a step; glanced up at him. “Take care, child. The younger girls might begin to swoon at the mere sight of you.”

Kamran forced a smile. “You have a gift, dear aunt. Your
flattery is always the most elaborate fiction.”

She gave a rasp of a laugh. “You think I exaggerate?”

“I think you enjoy exaggerating.”

She gave him a light smack on the arm. “Impertinent child.”

This time, his smile was genuine.

They'd reached the main floor, were now walking through the great room, and still, Kamran's heart refused to slow its erratic beating. He'd been in darkness so long it was a shock to see the sun still shining through the tall windows. He turned away from the glare, burying the sharp pang that moved through him at the sight. Kamran knew a young woman who would dearly enjoy the sun, who would find solace in its light.

The moon is a great comfort to me.

He realized, with some despair, that everything would now remind him of her. The very sun and moon, the shifting of lightness and dark.

Pink roses.

There
—they were just there, a vivid spray in a vase, the arrangement centered on a high table in the room they now occupied. Kamran disengaged from his aunt and wandered toward the bouquet without thinking; carefully, he drew a bloom from its vessel, grazing the velvet petals with his fingers before holding the flower to his nose, inhaling the intoxicating scent.

His aunt gave a sharp laugh, and Kamran flinched.

“You must have mercy, my dear,” she said. “News of our melancholy prince will spread far beyond Setar if you do not
soon exercise some discretion.”

With great care, the prince returned the flower to its vase. “Is our world really so ridiculous,” he said quietly, “that my every action is newsworthy, ripe for dissection? Am I not allowed a modicum of humanity? Can I not enjoy simple beauty without censure and suspicion?”

“That you even ask such a question tells me you are not yourself.” She drew closer. “Kamran, you will one day be king. The people look to your disposition as a bellwether of all to come; the temperature of your heart will define the tenor of your rule, which will in turn affect every aspect of their lives. Surely you do not forget this. You could not resent the people their curiosity—not when you know how dearly your life concerns their own.”

“Certainly not,” he said with affected calm. “How could I? I should never resent them their fears, nor could I ever forget the shackles that so loudly ornament my every waking moment.”

His aunt took a deep, wavering breath, and accepted the prince's proffered arm. They resumed their slow walk.

“You begin to scare me, child,” she said softly. “Will you not tell me what has disordered you so?”

Disordered.

Yes.

Kamran had been rearranged. He felt it; felt that his heart had moved, that his ribs had closed like a fist around his lungs. He was different, out of alignment, and he did not know whether this feeling would fade.

Alizeh.

He still heard the whisper of her voice, the way she'd pressed the shape of her own name into the darkness between them; the way she'd gasped when he kissed her. She'd touched him with a tenderness that drove him wild, had looked into his eyes with a sincerity that broke him.

From the first there'd been no falseness in her manner, no pretension, no agonizing self-consciousness. Alizeh had been neither impressed by the prince nor intimidated; Kamran knew without a doubt that she'd judged him entirely on his own merits, his crown be damned. That she'd found him worthy, that she'd given herself to him for even a moment—

Not until that very second did he realize how much he'd longed for her good opinion. Her judgment of his character had somehow become crucial to his judgment of himself.

How?

He did not know, he did not care; he was not one for questioning the movements of his heart. He recognized only that she'd been so much more than he'd known to hope for, and it had altered him: her mind as sharp as her heart; her smile as overwhelming as her tears. She'd suffered so much in her life that Kamran had not known what to expect; he would have understood had she been withdrawn and cynical, but she was instead vibrant with feeling, alive in every emotion, mercifully giving of herself in all ways.

He could still feel her body under his hands, the scent of her skin suffusing his head, his every thought. His own skin grew hot with the memories of her breathless sounds, the way she'd gone soft in his arms. The way she'd tasted.

He wanted to put his fist through a wall.

“My dear?”

Kamran came back to himself with a sharp breath.

“Forgive me,” he said, gently clearing his throat. “I am besieged now only by the most unimaginative of human afflictions. I slept poorly last night, and I've not eaten much today. I'm certain my mood will cool after we've enjoyed our meal together. Shall we go through for luncheon?”

“Oh, my dear”—his aunt hesitated, consternation knitting her brow—“I'm afraid we must forgo luncheon today. Your minister has come to fetch you.”

Kamran turned sharply to face her. “Hazan is here?”

“I'm afraid so.” She looked away. “He's been waiting some time now, and I daresay he's not altogether pleased about it. He says your presence is required back at the palace? Something to do with the ball, I imagine.”

“Ah.” Kamran gave a nod. “Indeed.”

A lie.

If Hazan had come for him personally—had not trusted a messenger to inspire his hasty return—then something was very wrong.

“A shame,” his aunt said, forcing cheerfulness, “that your visit was so brief.”

“Please accept my sincerest apologies,” Kamran said, lowering his eyes. “I feel I have been nothing but distracted and disappointing to you this day.” They came to a stop in the front hall. “Would you allow me to make up for this lost visit with another?”

She brightened at that. “That sounds just fine, my dear.
You know you are welcome here anytime. You need only name the day.”

Kamran took his aunt's hand and kissed it, bowing at the waist before her. When he met her eyes again, she'd gone pink in the face.

“Until next time, then.”

“
Your Highness.
”

Kamran turned at the heated sound of his minister's voice. Hazan could not—and made no effort, in any case—to hide his irritation.

Kamran forced a smile. “Heavens, Hazan, are you having a fit? Can you not allow me even to say goodbye to my aunt?”

The minister did not acknowledge this. “The carriage is waiting outside, sire. Worry not about your horse, as I've arranged for his safe return to the palace.”

“I see,” said the prince quietly. He knew Hazan well enough; something was definitely wrong.

A servant handed Kamran his coat, another, his staff. In a matter of moments he'd bid goodbye to his aunt, walked the short path to the carriage, and settled into the seat across from his minister.

The carriage door had only just slammed shut when Kamran's expression grew grave.

“Go on, then,” he said.

Hazan sighed. “We have received word, sire, from Tulan.”