“No.”
“A monster, then?”
He almost smiled. “Don’t say you’ve been speaking with my mother?”
“How do you have access to so much magic, then? The dress, the shoes—now this—”
“And this,” he said, placing his hat atop his head.
Without warning, Alizeh was pitched forward into endless night.
Thirty-Five
MUSIC SWELLED IN KAMRAN’S EARS,the screaming darkness of his mind punctured occasionally by the sound of laughter, the clink of glass and silver. His dark eyes were lined with kohl; his neck bound heavily in ropes of sapphire; a single, hammered gold circlet nestled in the midnight of his hair. He stood tall in weighty layers of dark green silk, an emerald-encrusted harness crisscrossing his chest and cinched at his waist, and from which hung, as always, his swords. He was both immaculate and uncomfortable as he nodded his head, greeting, unseeing, the nobles who bowed before him, the young women who curtsied low at his feet.
Occasionally Kamran glanced at the glittering throne beside him, which was occupied by his grandfather, and the one beyond that, in which sat his mother, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine. Both royals were smiling, but the king’s jolly countenance was a necessary facade, doing a great deal to belie what was no doubt an interior tempest straining at the capacity of his self-control.
This would describe how Kamran felt, too.
Just steps away, half obscured by a potted olive tree, was the Tulanian ambassador, who’d been ordered to stand by, ready at any time to identify the Tulanian king should theyoung man ever arrive. Farther in the shadows stood Hazan, awaiting orders.
Kamran had not yet decided what to feel about his minister, or how best to proceed; for though the prince’s instincts insisted something was amiss, Hazan’s actions had yet to draw an obvious line to deception. Kamran, however, was watching him closely, waiting for even a hint of unusual behavior.
The Fesht boy, at least, had not lied.
Omid had been living at the Diviners Quarters these last days, and, by his own account, had grown quite close to the priests and priestesses who’d saved his life. He’d gone to bid them goodnight for the evening when he discovered that all twenty-five Diviners had been slaughtered in their beds.
Kamran and the king had gone, of course, to bear witness.
There’d been no blood to mop up, no clear evidence of violence to investigate. Their faces had been peaceful, hands clasped across their chests. Only a thorough search had revealed proof of an attack: a subtle growth of frost between their cold, parted lips.
Dark magic, the king had whispered.
Nothing else could’ve so easily killed Diviners capable of wielding great power. As to the owner of the crime, there was little doubt there, too. The Tulanian king, who, earlier in the evening had been seen and spoken with at a gathering of Ardunian ambassadors, had deserted his party without notice, disappearing into the ether. Neither had he met with the king ahead of the ball, as was expected.
Kamran knew not whether the young King Cyrus wouldshow his face at the fete tonight, but his absence would indicate its own answer, for such actions were without question a declaration of war—one of the more barbaric instigations the prince had ever witnessed.
Still, there was no proof.
Worse, it would take weeks to collect and deliver to the Royal Square the rare other Diviners scattered throughout the empire, and until then, all of Ardunia would be left vulnerable, lacking an essential layer of protection long provided by the quorum at the Diviners Quarters.
Even so, there were pretenses to be maintained.
The king did not want the horrible news spread throughout the empire, not just yet. He did not want people to panic before he was ready to formally address their fears, which would not be possible until tomorrow morning, for the brutal events of the evening had rendered the ball only that much more important. More acts of violence could arrive at anytime—could threaten the crown at anytime—
Which meant Ardunia needed to secure the royal line, and quickly, with another heir.
Kamran, whose mind was resigned even as his heart protested, stared indifferently at the faceless horde, at the individuals peeling off to pay respect to the Ardunian royals. The prince was meant to choose a bride from among these strangers, and yet, the ladies all looked the same to him. They were all of them in nearly identical gowns, their hair styled in a similar fashion. He could not tell them apart save the occasional unflattering impressions they left behind: a barking laugh, a set of stained teeth; one girl in particularwho could not stop biting her fingernails, not even when she spoke.
The vast majority could scarcely look Kamran in the eye, while a select few had leaned in dramatically, whispering in his ear illicit invitations for that very evening.
It all left him feeling exhausted.
Among the many travesties of the day, Kamran had not been able to relinquish the memories of one young woman in particular. He wondered, as he nodded his head at yet another girl curtsying low before him, whether Alizeh would remain with him always in his mind, in the occasional manifestation of sensation across his skin, in the sharp breath he might take at the reminder of her touch. It was a thought both strange and thrilling, and which imbued in him a striking fear.
Would he forever compare all others to her?
Would anyone else ever make him feel as much? And if not, would he be cursed forever to live only a half-life, a life of quiet acquiescence, of unfulfilled expectations? Was it worse, he wondered, to never know what you might have—or worse to have it snatched away before you might have it?
