She reminded herself to take comfort, as she always had, in the strength she carried in her body, in her mind, in the faith she’d always had in herself. She was not stupid enough to think she could find her way to safety in her current state—bedraggled, destitute, and ignorant of this foreign landscape—nor was she delusional enough to trust anyone she might encounter in Tulan. Instead, she thought she might take a day or two to assess her new circumstances, bide her time until she could form a plan. Besting Cyrus, at least, would be the easier task—for she knew he was but a pawn in this scheme.
It wasIbleesshe’d need to outmaneuver.
Alizeh was still contemplating this when she heard the soft, unexpected voice of a stranger calling her name. She stiffened at once, fear bolting through her afresh.
Carefully, she turned to face the new arrival.
Five
KAMRAN STOOD BEFORE THE LOOKINGglass with a grim expression.
He’d been in his dressing room long enough to witness the sun rise, and still his valet, Sina, had not finished with the details of his regalia. Early golden light poured through a bank of narrow windows along one wall, casting a gentle radiance upon the uncrowned king. From collar to boot, Kamran had been styled in accordance with Ardunian tradition; he wore varying shades of dark blue, a color only the heir to a newly vacated throne might wear in mourning, symbolizing to all the empire that though they grieved what was lost, they were not without hope.
A leader still lived.
Or at least clung to life, according to the morning’s headlines.
Kamran’s jaw clenched in sympathy with his fist, a copy of Setar’s morning journal,The Daftar, crushed in his right hand. The crumple of paper was the only sound to break the strained silence. Kamran was known by his valet to be taciturn, but the prince had been unusually quiet this morning, unable to speak aloud more than a few furious words in the wake of so many devastations.
He felt he could either say nothing, or scream.
The choice seemed clear.
Painstakingly, Sina pinned the last few military insignias to Kamran’s breast pocket, then carefully tugged through the shoulder loop a satin sash so liquid it fell at once into elegant folds across his chest, the tails pinned neatly along the side seam of his field jacket with a series of silver-blue pearls. Sina then attached a collar chain at the base of Kamran’s throat; large, hexagonal amethysts were clipped on either side of the placket, the gems anchoring between them three strings of glittering black diamonds, which hung in gentle arcs across his sternum.
There was a sharp snap of fabric.
His valet had conjured from nowhere a cape of midnight-blue velvet, which Kamran felt billowing at his back; Sina fastened the cloak to the prince’s shoulders before crowning the ensemble with a set of weighty, scale-mail epaulets that had been forged in an imitation of dragon hide.
That Kamran owned these articles at all pointed directly to his mother; she alone would’ve had the foresight to order such garments, the details of which would’ve been arranged months ago. Never would it have occurred to the prince to prepare his wardrobe in anticipation of the king’s demise—which reminded him not only of his mother’s conspicuous disappearance, but of how very alone he was in the world now.
His hand trembled without warning, and he flexed his fingers in response, closing a fist once more around the day’s news.
The paper had not been delivered to Kamran on a silver tray alongside the hot breakfast he’d left untouched—it hadbeen hand delivered. It was a snoda who’d cowered before him, the man all but bent in half in obeisance as he’d held out a copy ofThe Daftar, its dusty green pages unmistakable.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he’d whispered. “We felt you should know.”
Kamran could hardly process his shock.
Never in his life had a palace snoda dared speak aloud in his presence, much less act as a mouthpiece on behalf of the others—whose opinions should not have mattered to him. Any other royal of Kamran’s caliber would’ve had the servant hung for his audacity alone, but the prince could not quell a certain measure of curiosity.
He’d had no intention of reading any articles this morning, for anything printed so early would almost certainly be old news; there’d not been enough time last night for any paper to have detailed the evening’s travesties. Even so, he’d felt compelled to study the servant for a full minute before finally accepting from his outstretched hand the proffered newspaper, after which the snoda fell to his knees with a muted gasp, hand clasped to his mouth as he crawled backward out the door.
Kamran had promptly cracked open the paper.
The headline was crammed above the fold, bold letters as black as death and just as damning:
LONG LIVE THE KING, AT WHAT COST
The pages had nearly fallen from his hands, his heart pounding viciously in his ears. The Ardunian empire wasthe largest on earth, spanning a third of the known world; that the news had been already released meant that it had by now spread like seed, no doubt disseminated via second- and thirdhand gossip that would inevitably invent details in the retelling—fomenting widespread hysteria in the process.
The people would riot.
The King Is Dead, the Diviners Are Dead, the Prince Is Unwell
SETAR—The Daftardeclares with profound regret and confusion the brutal murder of King Zaal. It was announced from the royal ball last evening, at approximately 11:43, that the young sovereign of Tulan, King Cyrus of Nara, slaughtered His Royal Highness without contest. It has been widely reported by attendees that the king was crudely exposed in the moments before death, leaving unchallenged an accusation that he’d sacrificed the lives of countless orphans to feed a dark magic keeping him unnaturally alive.
The prince and heir was present upon the king’s death, though it has been confirmed by more than one bystander that Prince Kamran suffered severe injuries upon engaging the Tulanian king in single combat, in satisfaction of honor.
