Then—in the distance—
Alizeh gasped.
“Do prepare yourself,” said Cyrus, his tone softer than she expected. “It can be a little startling when you see it for the first time.”
She sat up straighter, wiping her eyes. “See what?” she asked. “What am I looking at?”
“Tulan.”
Three
THE FIRE HAD EXTINGUISHED UPONCyrus’s exit, leaving in its wake a charred impression of a circle several feet in diameter, the stain of which no amount of soap or toil would eliminate. Of a certainty, the floor itself would have to be demolished and replaced—but then, this work could not take precedence.
Prior to fixing the floor there were other, more pressing issues in the palace to contend with; there was, for example, a dead king sprawled at Kamran’s feet, a vermeil stain still spreading under his limp figure while, at his shoulders, the flaccid faces of twin snakes rested delicately upon their own unfurled tongues. The hulking crown of this once illustrious sovereign now glinted upside down in a plash of red, the glossy floor sticky with slipshod streaks of blood, evidence of regicide everywhere. Prominent gashes and abrasions could be cataloged around the perimeter of the imposing ballroom where the dragon’s studded tail had whipped through not merely the stonework but glittering sconces, heavy drapery, and priceless artwork—all of which would need to be discarded, their substitutes promptly sourced. Still, the physical destruction most distressing was perhaps also the most obvious.
There was a massive crater in the palace wall.
It was a cavity so large it brought to mind the perpetually shrieking mouth of a newborn babe; it gaped unabashedly open, an eclipse of moths fluttering in and out of its crumbling aperture not unlike a horde of dithering idiots.
The detritus of the evening’s chaos would be a task of its own to manage; debris littered all and sundry, heavy dust powdering the hair and shoulders of scandalized nobles, all of whom stood around now, shock briefly muzzling their aristocratic mouths, hands clasped to cheeks and hearts as their heads swiveled between horrors.
The dead king, the destroyed wall, the ossified heir—
Yes, there was a great deal of work to be done. The wreckage alone would take days to sweep up, and Kamran would have to charge Jamsheed, the palace butler, with the task of contracting stonemasons to repair all else with celerity. There was too much at stake; already there would be a week of mourning before Kamran could be crowned king in an elaborate ceremony, after which he would finally carry out his grandfather’s most impassioned command and choose a damn bride—any bride—and only then, only when that grim business was sorted could he move on to the most important task, which was to officially declare war against Tulan. He would avenge both his father and his grandfather. He would have Cyrus’s head. He would bring Tulan to its knees. And Alizeh—
No. He would not think of her now; not when the very thought of her tore open fresh wounds inside him. He could not reconcile so many horrors at once.
First, he would have to cease being stone.
There were swarms of people drawing near him now, all of them staring, speaking about him like he might be dead—which struck Kamran as a terrible taunt, for death seemed a far more pleasurable fate than this:
“Is it the light, dear, or does he look disfigured to you?”
“By the angels—what a terrifying sight—”
“First the king, now the prince—”
“Who was the girl? Does anyone know?”
“Too soon to tell—”
“The fate of our empire—”
“Will someone touch him? To see if he moves?”
“An ugly business, terribly ill-bred—”
“You cannot simply touch the prince of Ardunia!”
“Anyone understand what she was saying? I only—”
“But—”
“Thought she was helping until she ran off with the dragon—”
“Could be dead, really—”
“Why can’t we do something about the king? This is so distasteful—”
