This Woven Kingdom (30 page)

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.”

ALIZEH DROPPED HER CARPET BAG
to the ground outside the servants' entrance to Follad Place, all too eager to relinquish the luggage for a moment. The large box that held her gown, however, she only readjusted in her tired arms, unwilling to set it down unless absolutely necessary.

The long day was far from over, but even in the face of its many difficulties, Alizeh was hopeful. After a thorough scrub at the hamam she felt quite new, and was buoyed by the realization that her body would not be battered again so quickly by interminable hours of hard labor. Still, it was hard to be truly enthusiastic about the reprieve, for Alizeh knew that if things went poorly this evening, she'd be hard-pressed to find such a position again.

She shifted her weight; tried to calm her nerves.

Just last evening Follad Place had seemed to her terribly imposing, but in the dying light of day it was even more striking. Alizeh hadn't noticed before just how robust the surrounding gardens were, nor how beautifully tended, and she wished she hadn't cause at all to notice such details now.

Alizeh did not want to be here.

She'd been avoiding as long as possible this last, inevitable task for the day, having arrived at Follad Place only to return Miss Huda's unfinished gown, and to accept with grace the
lambasting and condemnation she'd no doubt receive in exchange. It was perhaps a minimization of the truth to say that she was not looking forward to the experience.

Already Alizeh had knocked at the door, after which she'd been greeted by Mrs. Sana, who, miraculously, had not dismissed outright the brazen snoda requesting an audience with a young lady of the house. She had, however, demanded to know the nature of the visit, to which Alizeh demurred, saying only that she needed to speak with Miss Huda directly. The housekeeper stared a beat too long at the beautiful garment box in Alizeh's arms and doubtless drew her own more satisfactory explanation for the girl's visit, one that Alizeh made no effort to deny.

Now Alizeh waited anxiously for Miss Huda, who was due to receive her at any possible moment. Despite the blistering cold, Alizeh had been prepared to wait for some time in the case that the young miss had been out for the day, but here, too, Alizeh had encountered a stroke of unexpected luck. In fact, despite the recent challenges she'd lately faced—nearly being murdered, losing her position, and becoming suddenly homeless among them—she felt herself to be the unlikely recipient of a great deal of good fortune, too. Alizeh had uncovered in the process a fairly solid case for optimism, her two most compelling reasons thus:

First, her neck and hands were healed, which was in and of itself a cause for celebration, for not only was it a relief to be rid of the collar around her throat and to have full use of her fingers once more, but the linen bandages had grown itchy and were made easily dirty, which had bothered
her more than was reasonable. Second, Hazan had left her a breathtaking gown to wear to the ball tonight, which would not only spare her the time and possible cost of fashioning such a complicated article in a short time, but it spared her the need to find a safe space to work. This was not even mentioning the fact that the gown was somehow imbued with magic—magic that claimed it would conceal her identity from any who wished her ill.

This
was perhaps the greatest good fortune of all.

Alizeh, who knew she could not wear her snoda to the royal ball, had decided simply to keep her eyes lowered for the length of the evening, looking up only when essential. This alternate solution was eminently preferable.

Still, she was wary, for Alizeh knew the gown to be of a shockingly rare stock. Even the royals of Ardunia did not wear magical garments, not unless they were on the battlefield—and even then there were limits to the protections such clothing might provide, for there existed no magic strong enough to repel Death. What's more, only an exceedingly complicated technique could provide such personalized protection to a wearer of a garment, and this complexity could be conducted only by an experienced Diviner—of which there were few.

Magic, Alizeh had long known, was mined much like any mineral: directly from the earth. She was not entirely certain wherefrom the empire excavated their precious commodities, for not only was it done in relative secrecy, but theirs was different from the magic Alizeh required from the Arya mountains. That which belonged to her ancestors was of a
rarer strain, and though many Clay efforts had been made over millennia, the arcane material had proven impossible to quarry.

Still, all genus of Ardunian magic existed only in small, exhaustible quantities, and were not meant to be manipulated by the uninitiated, for they killed easily any who mishandled the volatile substances. The Diviner population was as a result quite small; Ardunian children were taught little about magic unless they showed a sincere interest in divining, and only a select few were chosen each year to study the subject.

Alizeh could not, as a result, imagine how Hazan was able to procure such rare items on her behalf. First the nosta, and now the dress?

She took another deep breath, exhaling into the cold. The sun was shattering across the horizon, fragmenting color across the hills, taking with it what little warmth was left in the sky.

Alizeh had been waiting at least thirty minutes now, standing outside in a thin jacket and damp hair. With no hat or scarf to cover her frozen curls, she stamped her feet, frowning at the fracturing sun, worrying over the minutes that remained of daylight.

The ground underfoot was thick with decaying purple leaves, all of which had fallen—recently, it seemed—from the small forest of trees surrounding the magnificent home. The newly bare, ghostly branches arced tremulously toward one another, curling inward not unlike the crooked legs of a many-legged spider, intent on devouring its prey.

It was just then, as Alizeh had conjured this disturbing image in her mind, that the heavy wooden door was wrenched open with a groan, revealing the harried face and hassled form of Miss Huda herself.

Alizeh bobbed a curtsy. “Good aftern—”

“
Not a sound
,” the young woman said harshly, grabbing Alizeh by the arm and yanking her inside.

Alizeh had only just managed to swipe her carpet bag up and into her arms before they were off, barreling wildly through the kitchen and down the halls, Alizeh's cumbersome baggage knocking against the walls and floors as she struggled to keep up with Miss Huda's sudden, jerky movements.

When they finally stopped moving, Alizeh stumbled forward from the force of residual motion, staggering a bit as she heard the sound of a door slam shut.

Her box and bag hit the floor with consecutive thuds, after which Alizeh steadied herself, turning in time to see Miss Huda struggling to catch her breath, eyes closed as she slumped back against the closed door.

“Never,” Miss Huda said, still trying to breathe. “Never, ever show up unannounced.
Never.
Do you understand?”

“I'm terribly sorry, miss. I didn't realize—”

“I was only able to arrange our last meeting because I pretended to have a megrim on an evening I
knew
the family had been invited to dinner, but
everyone
is home now, preparing for the ball, which is why my maid was supposed to come to
you
to collect the gown and
oh
, if Mother discovers I've hired you to make me a dress I'll be reduced to little more than a
writhing, bloody sack on the street, for she will
literally
tear all my limbs from my body.”

Alizeh blinked. The nosta glowed neither hot nor cold against her skin in response, and Alizeh didn't understand its lack of reaction. “Surely you do not— You could not mean she would
literally
—”

“I meant exactly what I said,” Miss Huda snapped. “Mother is the devil incarnate.”

Alizeh, who knew the devil personally, frowned at that. “Forgive me, miss, but that's not—”

“Lord, but how am I going to get you back out of the house?” Miss Huda dragged her hands down her face. “Father has guests due any minute now, and if a single one of them sees you—if even a servant sees you— Oh, heavens, Mother will surely murder me in my sleep.”

Again, the nosta did not react, and for a single, terrifying moment Alizeh thought the object might be broken.

“Oh, this is bad,” said Miss Huda. “This is very, very bad . . .”

The nosta glowed suddenly warm.

Not broken, then.

Alizeh experienced a wave of relief supplanted quickly by consternation. If the little glass orb was not broken, then it was perhaps Miss Huda who was uncertain of the veracity of her statements. Maybe, Alizeh considered with some alarm, the young woman wasn't entirely sure whether her mother might one day murder her.

Alizeh studied the panicked, overwrought figure of the girl before her and wondered whether Miss Huda wasn't in
more trouble at home than she let on. She knew the girl's mother had proven overtly cruel, but Miss Huda had never before characterized the woman as a physical threat.

Quietly, Alizeh said, “Is your mother truly so violent?”

“What?” Miss Huda looked up.

“Are you— Are you genuinely worried your mother might kill you? Because if you believe her a serious threat to your li—”

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Huda boggled. “Have you no sense at all of hyperbole? Of course I'm not
genuinely
worried my mother might kill me. I am in a panic. Am I not allowed to embroider the truth a bit when I am in a panic?”

“I— Yes,” Alizeh said, quietly clearing her throat. “I only meant— That is, I wanted only to ascertain whether you truly feared for your safety. I am relieved to discover you did not.”

At that, Miss Huda went unexpectedly silent.

She stared for what felt like a long time at Alizeh, stared at her as if she were not a person, but an enigma. It was an ungenerous stare, one that made Alizeh decidedly uncomfortable.

“And what, pray,” Miss Huda said finally, “did you mean to do about it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If I had told you,” Miss Huda said with a sigh, “that my mother did indeed intend to murder me, what would you have done about it? I ask because you appeared, for a moment, quite determined. As if you had a plan.”

Alizeh felt herself flush. “No, miss,” she said quietly. “Not at all.”

“You did too have a plan,” Miss Huda insisted, her earlier panic dissipating now. “There's no point in denying it, so go on. Let's hear it. Let's hear your plan to save me.”

“It was not a plan, miss. I merely— I only had a thought.”

“So you admit it, then? You had a thought about saving me from the clutches of my murderous mother?”

Alizeh lowered her eyes at that, saying nothing. She thought Miss Huda was being intolerably cruel.

“Oh, very well,” the young woman said, collapsing into a chair with a touch of theater. “You need not speak it aloud if you find the confession so torturous. I was merely curious. After all, you hardly know me; I was only wondering why you cared.”