This Woven Kingdom (29 page)

“My friend?” Alizeh's heart had begun to pound.

“Yes, miss.” Deen was looking at her strangely now. “He came in this morning—rather a tall fellow, wasn't he? He wore an interesting hat and had quite the most vivid blue eyes. He was insistent that you would come, and asked me not to close my shop, not even to take lunch, as I often do. He asked that I please deliver you this”—Deen held up a finger, then disappeared below the counter to retrieve a large, unwieldy package—“when you finally arrived.”

Carefully, the shopkeeper settled the heavy, pale yellow box onto the worn surface of the workbench, which he then slid across to her. “I thought for certain he'd informed you of his visit here,” Deen was saying, “for he seemed terribly confident you would come today.” A pause. “I do hope I've not startled you.”

Alizeh stared at the box, fear moving through her at an alarming speed. She was afraid even to touch the parcel.

Gently, she swallowed. “Did my—my friend—did he give his name?”

“No, miss,” said Deen, who appeared now to be realizing that something was wrong. “Was not my description of the young man enough to engage your memory? He said the whole thing was meant to be a pleasant surprise for you. I confess I thought it seemed . . . great fun.”

“Yes. Of course.” Alizeh forced a laugh. “Yes, thank you. I was only—I'm only shocked, you see. I'm quite unaccustomed to receiving such extravagant gifts, and I fear I know
not how to accept them graciously.”

Deen recovered at that, his eyes shining brighter this time. “Yes, of course, miss. I understand completely.”

There was a beat of silence, during which Alizeh pinned a smile onto her face. “When did you say my friend came to deliver the package?”

“Oh, I don't know exactly,” Deen said, his brow furrowing. “It was sometime in the late morning, I think.”

Late morning.

As if Deen's description of the stranger weren't proof enough, Alizeh was now certain the delivery was not made by the prince, who had been at Baz House at exactly that hour. There was only one other person who might've done such a thing for her, but for a single complication—

Hazan did not have blue eyes.

It was possible, of course, that the shopkeeper had made a mistake. Perhaps Deen had misspoke, or even seen Hazan in the wrong light. Hazan was tall, after all, that much was accurate; though Alizeh realized she didn't know enough about him to judge, with any real conviction, whether he was one to wear interesting hats.

Still, it was the answer that made the most sense.

Hazan said he would be looking out for her, did he not? Who else would be paying such close attention to her movements—who else would spare her such generosity?

Alizeh stared again at the beautiful package; at its immaculate presentation. Gingerly, she drew a finger along the scalloped edges of the outer box, the silky yellow ribbon cinching the case around the middle.

Alizeh knew exactly what this was; it was her job to know what it was. Still, it seemed impossible.

“Don't you want to open it, miss?” Deen was still staring at her. “I admit I'm terribly curious myself.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Yes. Of course.”

A braided thrill of anticipation moved through her—fear and a flutter of excitement—disturbing any semblance of peace her body had recently collected.

With painstaking care, she tugged loose the ribbon, then lifted the heavy lid, releasing a hush of delicate, translucent paper in the process. Deen took the lid from her trembling hands, and Alizeh peered into the box with the wide eyes of a child, discovering, in its depths, an elegant wonder of a gown.

She heard Deen gasp.

At first, all she saw were layers of diaphanous silk chiffon in a shade of pale lavender. She pushed away the wrappings, carefully lifting the gauzy, gossamer article up against the light. The gown was gathered softly down the bodice and cinched at the waist; a long, sheer cape was affixed at the shoulders in place of sleeves. The whisper of a skirt felt like wind in her hands, slipping through her fingers like a soft breeze. It was elegant without ostentation, the perfect balance of all that she required for the evening.

Alizeh thought she might cry.

She would freeze half to death in this gown and she'd not breathe a word of complaint.

“There is a card, miss,” Deen said quietly.

Alizeh looked up at him then, accepting the card from
his outstretched hand, which she promptly tucked into her pocket. She'd decided to say her goodbyes to the shopkeeper, to read the note away from his curious eyes, but was stopped by the strange look on his face.

Deen seemed . . . pleased.

She saw there, in the softness of his expression, that he thought her the recipient of a romantic gesture. He had not seen her face in full, she realized, and as a result the apothecarist could only guess at her age. No doubt he assumed Alizeh was a bit older than was accurate, that she was perhaps the mistress of a married nobleman. It was under any other circumstance a deeply unflattering assumption, one that would've rendered her, in the eyes of society, a common harlot.

Somehow, Deen did not seem to mind.

“I am not so miserly as to begrudge you your happiness,” he said, reading the confusion in her eyes. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live your life.”

Alizeh drew back, she was so surprised.

He could not have been further from the truth and still his sincerity touched her, meant more to her than she could say. In fact, she felt suddenly at a loss for the right words.

“Thank you,” was all she managed.

“I realize we are strangers,” Deen said, gently clearing his throat, “and as a result you might think me odd for saying so—but I've felt, from the beginning, a quiet kinship with you, miss.”

“Kinship?” she said, stunned. “With me?”

“Indeed.” He laughed, briefly, but his eyes were dark
with some abstruse emotion. “I, too, feel forced to hide who I am from the world. It is a difficult thing, is it not? To worry always how you will be perceived for who you are; to wonder always whether you will be accepted if you are truly yourself?”

Alizeh felt a sudden heat behind her eyes, an unexpected prick of emotion. “Yes,” she said softly.

Deen smiled but still his effort was strained. “Perhaps here, between we two strangers, there might exist no such apprehension.”

“You may depend upon it,” Alizeh said without hesitation. “Let us hope for the day when we might all remove our masks, sir, and live in the light without fear.”

Deen reached out and clasped her hands at that, held her palms between his own in a gesture of friendship that flooded her heart with feeling. They remained like that for a long moment before slowly parting.

In silence Deen helped her gather her things, and with only a brief nod, they said their goodbyes.

The shop bell rang softly as she left.

It was not until she was halfway down the street, her heart and mind thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts of the unexpected apothecarist, the weight of her overstuffed carpet bag, and the large, unwieldy box that housed her gossamer gown, that she remembered the card.

With a violent start, Alizeh dropped her carpet bag to the ground. She tugged free the small envelope from her pocket and, heart now racing in her chest, she tore open the thick paper.

She could hardly breathe as she scanned the brief note, the sharp, confident strokes of the script.

Wear this tonight, and you will be

seen only by those who wish you well.

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.”