This Woven Kingdom (36 page)

Two have a friend who is foe to all

“Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone—”

The serpent, the saber, the fiery light

Three will storm and rage and fight

Alizeh caught a marble column around the middle and sagged against it, pressing her uncommonly overheated cheek to its cool skin. “Please,” she gasped. “I beg you— Leave me be—”

Always the jester will interfere

For there cannot be three sovereigns here

Something broke, smoke unclenching from around her throat, and just like that, he was gone.

Alizeh felt dizzy in the aftermath, breathless with fear. She pressed herself against the glossy marble, felt the cold penetrate her skin through her gauzy gown. She'd been so certain she'd freeze in this dress, but she'd not anticipated the crush of bodies, their collective heat, the unusual warmth she'd feel this night.

Alizeh closed her eyes, tried to calm her breathing.

She didn't know where she was and she didn't care; she could hardly hear her own thoughts over the sound of her heart, beating wildly in her chest.

She'd not even been able to decode the first riddle she'd
received from the devil—how was she supposed to understand this second one?

Worse, so much worse: his visits had proven over and over to be an omen. It was just days ago that he'd filled her head with whispers of misery, and oh, how she'd suffered the consequences. How dramatically had her life changed and collapsed since she last heard his voice in her head? What did that mean for her now? Would she lose every crumb of hope she'd recently collected?

There was no precedent for this precipitous visit from Iblees. Alizeh usually experienced months, not days, of a reprieve before his torturous voice infected her mind again, bringing with it all manner of calamity and unrest.

How, now, would she be tortured?

“Alizeh.”

She stiffened, turning to face an altogether different torment even as she grasped for purchase at the cool column. Alizeh's heart pounded now in an entirely new fashion, her pulse fluttering dangerously at her throat.

Kamran stood before her, magnificently turned out in a heavy green coat, the open, buttonless front cinched closed with a complex emerald harness, his neck wrapped up to his chin in more gleaming jewels. His eyes were made impossibly darker with kohl, more devastating as they searched her now. But it was the glint of the circlet in his hair that sent a terrifying bolt through her heart.

He was a prince.
She'd nearly forgotten.

“Alizeh,” he said again, though he whispered it now, staring at her with a longing he did nothing to conceal. The
infinite darkness that was his eyes took in every detail of her face, her hair, even her gown. Alizeh felt weak standing this close to him, disjointed in her mind. Nothing was going according to plan.

How had he even spotted her in the melee?

She'd glimpsed him, briefly, from afar, watched him coolly receive a long line of guests she'd been certain would distract him through the night. Surely he had responsibilities he could not abandon—surely someone would soon be along to collect him—

The prince made a sound of distress that startled her, sharpening her instincts; Alizeh drew closer without thinking, stopping just short of touching him. She watched as Kamran winced a second time, gently tugging the collar away from his neck, doing his best to find relief without disturbing the artfully constructed ensemble.

“What is it?” Alizeh asked softly. “Are you in pain?”

He shook his head, attempting a brief laugh that did little to deny his obvious discomfort. “No, it's nothing. It's only that I find these costumes suffocating. This coat is supposed to be made of silk, but it's frightfully stiff and coarse. It was uncomfortable before, but now I swear it feels as if it's full of needles.” He grimaced again, pulling at the lapel of his coat.

“Needles?” Alizeh frowned. Tentatively, she touched him, felt him stiffen as she drew her hand along the emerald brocade, its raised embroidery. “Do you— Do you have a sensitivity to gold?”

His brows furrowed. “To gold?”

“This is silk, yes,” she explained, “but it's silk woven with
a gold-spun weft. The threads are, in some places, wrapped with gold fibers. And here”—she grazed the raised embroidery at the collar, at the lapels—“here it's overlaid with yet more goldwork. These are real gold threads, did you not know?”

“No,” he said, but he was staring at her strangely; for a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I didn't know one might weave gold into fabric.”

Alizeh took a breath, stole back her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “The garment should feel heavy, and perhaps a bit rough against the skin, but it shouldn't hurt you. It certainly shouldn't feel like needles.”

“How do you know this?”

“Never mind that,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “What's more important is that you are in pain.”

“Yes.” He took a step closer. “A great deal of it.”

“I'm—I'm sorry to hear it,” she said, nervous now. She began to ramble. “It's quite rare, but I think you might have an aversion to gold. You should perhaps avoid wearing such textiles in future, and if you want a softer fabric, you might be more specific and ask your seamstress for silk charmeuse, or satin, and avoid georgette and certain types of, of taffeta or—or even—”

She stopped breathing when he touched her, when his hands landed at her waist, then moved down her hips, his fingers grazing her skin through the layers of sheer fabric. She gasped, felt her back sink against the marble column.

He was so close.

He smelled like orange blossoms and something else, heat
and musk, leather—

“Why did you come tonight?” he asked. “How? And your injuries— This dress—”

“Kamran—”

“Say you came back for me,” he whispered. There was a thread of desire in his voice that threatened the good sense in her head, her very composure. “Tell me you came to find me. That you changed your mind.”

“How—how can you even say such things,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble, “on an evening you are meant to choose another as your bride?”

“I choose you,” he said simply. “I want you.”

“We— Kamran, you cannot— You know it would be madness.”

“I see.” He bowed his head and drew away, leaving her cold. “So you've come for another reason entirely. Will you not share that reason with me now?”

Alizeh said nothing. She could think of nothing.

She heard him sigh.

It was a moment before he said, “Then may I ask you a different question?”

“Yes,” she said, desperate to say something. “Yes, of course.”

He looked up, met her eyes. “How, precisely, do you know the Tulanian king?”

KAMRAN SCHOOLED HIS EXPRESSION AS
he waited, masking the pain that seized him now. Twin agonies assaulted his heart, his skin. The clothes he wore this evening had grown only more painful by the minute, and now this—
this spasm
—that threatened to fissure his chest. He could hardly look at Alizeh as he waited for her to speak. Had he misjudged her altogether? Had he become every inch the fool his grandfather and minister had accused him of becoming? At every turn she was a surprise, her intentions impossible to grasp, her actions confounding.

Why would she be so friendly with the sovereign of an enemy empire? How—when—did their friendship begin?

Kamran had hoped Alizeh might absolve herself of any objectionable suspicions by admitting she'd come tonight for him, to be with him; that she'd so easily dismissed this possibility had been both a blow and a confirmation—an endorsement of his silent fears.

For why, then, had she come at all?

Why would she sneak into a royal ball held inside his home, her injuries miraculously healed, her servants' clothing miraculously gone? Why, after so many desperate efforts to cling to her snoda—to hide her identity—would she discard the mask now, revealing herself in the middle of a ball
where any stranger might see her for who she was?

Kamran could practically hear the king accuse her of duplicity, of manipulating his mind and emotions like some impossible siren. The prince heard every word of the imagined argument, saw every piece of plausible evidence that might condemn her, and still, he could not denounce the girl—for reasons so flimsy as to be laughable:

He had a feeling she was in danger.

It was his instincts that insisted, despite all damning evidence, that she was not herself a threat. On the contrary, he worried whether she might not be in trouble.

Even to himself he sounded a fool.

He recognized the glaring errors in his own judgment, the many missing explanations. He could not comprehend, for example, how she might've afforded such a stunning gown when just days ago she'd barely enough coppers to purchase medicine for her wounds. Or how, when just this morning she'd been scrubbing the floor of Baz House, she looked now every inch a breathtaking queen, laughing easily with the king of another empire.

King Zaal, the prince knew, would say she'd come to lead a coup, to claim her throne. The ball was, after all, the perfect venue to declare aloud—where all the nobility of Ardunia might hear—that she had a right to rule.

Perhaps Kamran had gone mad.

It seemed the only feasible explanation for his inaction, for the fear that gripped him even now. Why else did he worry for her, when he should turn her over to the king? She would be arrested, no doubt sentenced to death. It was the correct
course of action, and yet—he made no move.

His paralysis was an enigma even to himself.

The prince had ordered Hazan to deliver him King Cyrus, but Kamran had changed his mind when he saw the young man's exchange with Alizeh. Cyrus had said something to her and left; not long after which Alizeh ran madly through the crowd, looking nothing short of terrified.

Kamran had followed her without thinking, hardly recognizing himself when he moved. He only knew he had to find her, to make certain she was okay, but now—

Now, Kamran could not fathom her reaction.

Alizeh seemed perplexed by his question.

Her lips parted, her head canted to one side. “Of all the things you might wonder,” she said. “What a strange question you would choose to ask. Of course I do not know the Tulanian ki—”

“Your Highness,” came the sound of his minister's breathless voice. “I've been searching for you everywhere . . .”

Hazan trailed off, coming to an abrupt halt at the prince's side. The minister's body was rigid with shock as he stared, not at the prince, but at Alizeh, whose silver eyes were no doubt all he needed to verify her identity.

Kamran sighed. “What is it, Minister?”

“
Minister?
”

The prince turned at the surprised sound of Alizeh's voice. She stared at Hazan curiously, as if he were a puzzle to be solved, instead of an official to be greeted.

Not for the first time, Kamran thought he might be
willing to part with his soul simply to know the contents of her mind.

“Your Highness,” said Hazan, bowing his head, his eyes cast down. “You must go. It's not safe for you here.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Kamran frowned. “This is my home, of course it's safe for me here.”

“There are complications, Your Highness. You must go. Surely you received my message.”

Now Kamran grew irritated. “Hazan, have you lost your mind?”

“Please trust me, Your Highness. Please return to your quarters and await further direction. I worry greatly for your safety so long as you remain here. Things are not going according to plan—did you not receive my message?”

“That is quite enough, Minister. Not only do you exaggerate, but you bore the young lady with talk of politics. If that is all—”

“No— No, sire,” he said, lifting his head sharply. “The king has requested your presence at once. I'm to deliver you back to the throne with all possible haste.”

Kamran's jaw tensed. “I see.”

He watched as Hazan glanced from Alizeh to the prince, looking suddenly frantic—and Kamran couldn't be entirely certain, but for a moment he thought he saw Hazan shake his head at her.

Or did he nod?

Alizeh surprised them both by dropping into an elegant curtsy. “Good evening, sir,” she said.

“Yes—yes, good evening.” Awkwardly, Hazan bowed. To the prince, he said quietly, “Sire, the king awaits.”

“You may tell the king that I'll b—”

“
Alizeh!
”

Kamran went immobile at the sound of the unexpected voice.

Of all people, Omid Shekarzadeh moved fast toward them now, ignoring both the prince and his minister in his pursuit of Alizeh, who beamed at the boy.

“Omid,” she called back, rushing forward to meet him.

And then, to Kamran's utter astonishment, she drew the child into her arms. She
hugged
the street urchin who'd nearly murdered her.

Kamran and Hazan exchanged glances.

When the unlikely pair drew apart, Omid's face had gone bright red. In Feshtoon, the boy said nervously, “I wasn't even sure it was you at first, miss, because I've never seen you without your mask, but I've been searching for you all night, and I asked near everyone I could find if they seen a girl in a snoda—in case you were still wearing yours—but they only kept pointing at the servants, and I said no, no, she's a guest at the
ball
, and everyone laughed at me like I was crazy except one lady, of course, one lady, I forget her name, Miss something, she told me she knew just who I was talking about, and that you were here wearing a purple dress, and that you weren't a snoda, but a queen, and I laughed so hard, miss, I said—”

“I beg your pardon?” Hazan interjected. “Who is this
person? Why would she say such things to you? How does she know anyth—”

“While we're asking questions, how on earth do you know this young woman's name?” Kamran interjected. “How are the two of you even on speaking terms?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” Omid said, “but I could ask you the same question.”

“You little blighter—”

“Actually, Omid is the reason I'm here tonight,” Alizeh interjected quietly, and Kamran went taut with surprise.

Always, she astonished him.

He watched as she smiled fondly at the child. “He invited me to the ball as an apology for trying to kill me.”

Impossibly, Omid went even redder. “Oh, but I was never gonna kill you, miss.”

“You used your credit with the crown to invite a girl to a ball?” Kamran stared at the boy, agog. “You conniving rascal. Do you imagine yourself to be some kind of young libertine?”

Omid scowled. “I was only trying to make amends, sire. I didn't mean nothing inappropriate by it.”

“But who was the woman?” Hazan demanded. “The one who told you that”—nervously, he glanced at Alizeh—“that this young lady was a queen?”

Kamran shot his minster a warning look. “Surely it was a lark, Minister. A silly jest to startle the child.”

“Oh, no, sire.” Omid shook his head emphatically. “She weren't joking. She seemed pretty serious, and scared,
actually. She said she was hiding from someone, from a man who'd done some awful magic on her, and that if I found Alizeh I should tell her to run away.” He frowned. “The lady was mighty strange.”

A shock of fear moved through the prince then, apprehension he could no longer push aside. A man who'd done magic? Surely there could be little doubt as to the identity of the culprit?

All of Setar's Diviners were dead.

None but King Cyrus was suspected of using magic this night. What other havoc might the monstrous king have wrought?

The prince locked eyes with Hazan, who looked similarly panicked.

“Omid,” Alizeh said quietly. “Will you show me where this lady was hiding?”

“Your Highness,” Hazan said abruptly, turning his eyes to the floor once more. “You must go. Go now. With all possible haste you must lea—”

“Yes, very well,” Kamran said coldly. “You need not have a fit, Minister. If you would please excuse me—”

He was interrupted by a sharp, bloodcurdling scream.