“No, but I soon will be.” Kamran rounded the corner and rushed up the grand marble staircase, the staccato knock of his boots echoing in the massive hall. “I intend to empty out the treasure houses before we go, and I’d rather not leave aneasily followed trail, else the nobles will sort out my execution with impressive speed.”
“Wait”—Hazan hurried up the stairs alongside him—“what need do you have of the treasure houses?”
“Gold. Weapons. Horses.” Kamran came to an abrupt stop at the landing and turned sharply to face Hazan. “This task I leave to you: open our stores while we still have access and take a great deal more than you think we’ll require. If I’m to be ousted from the palace, I’ll need a place to land upon our return. Find us somewhere safe—purchase property from an unsuspecting farmer if you must—then organize a team of the finest riders and fighters, and compensate them handsomely for a period of six months. We will require our own armed force.”
“Tell me you jest.”
“You are more than capable.”
Hazan stared at him in stupefaction. “You want me to raid the coffers of the crown, travel north to the country, chase down a farmer, buy his broken home, scour the empire for its best mercenaries, and form a covert militia—all in the same day?”
“You are possessed of supernatural speed, strength, and invisibility, Hazan. I grant you full permission to use your powers for good.”
“And if I’m stopped by a magistrate?”
Kamran reached into his pocket, retrieved a coin, and flipped it in the air, watching as Hazan easily caught the piece in one hand.
“Show them this,” said the prince. “It has my seal upon it.”
“Which they will believe is forged.”
“I feel confident you will figure it out,” Kamran said with some finality.
Hazan shot him a dark look, but still he gave Kamran a deferential nod. “You are very lucky, then, that I already have a trusted team upon whom I rely. They’ll make a fine militia.”
Kamran, who’d been about to resume his walk, turned fully to face his friend. He was unable to leach the surprise from his voice when he said, “You have ateam?”
“I’ve never worked alone,” said Hazan quietly. “I’m not the only one who’s been searching for her, you know.”
The prince looked away at that, subdued. For over a year he’d been reading about small revolts in Jinn communities throughout Ardunia. He’d thought they were merely unhappy—seeking change—he’d not known then that they might’ve sought solace in the idea of a lost empire, that some might’ve even been searching for an unknown leader around whom they might rally.
“No,” he said finally. “I suspect you’re not.”
“Kamran.”
The prince looked up, the question in his eyes.
“What will you do?” Hazan asked, watching him closely. “When you see her?”
At the mere suggestion, Kamran’s heart reacted. Until this very moment he’d managed to avoid visualizing this part; some protective instinct in his brain had prevented him from focusing too much on the aspect of the journey that might injure him most. But that he might see her again—speakwith her again so soon—
It was almost too much.
He felt the grip of a terrible anxiety close around his throat, experiencing an inexplicable pain in the aftermath, a searing heat along his breastbone he could not fathom into words. She’d betrayed him, punched through his sternum with the heft of it, and he didn’t know what he’d do when he saw her again, for he couldn’t know what he’d uncover in Tulan. Either he’d discover he’d been a faithless jackass to have doubted her, or he’d be dealt a final, obliterating blow he feared would break him. He might fall to his knees before her; or he might be forced to kill her.
The possibility left him sick.
His voice was an unrecognizable rasp when he said, finally answering Hazan’s question: “I don’t know.”
“For what it’s worth, sire, I don’t believe she betrayed any of us.”
“Enough,” Kamran said, turning away. “We’ve much to do. You will meet me at the docks at midnight.”
Hazan stared at him a beat.
Then, with a nod, his former minister was gone, and in his wake, Kamran found he could not move. He stared into the middle distance, clutching the book in his hand ever more tightly. Her handkerchief he’d tucked into his pocket much earlier, telling himself he’d deliver it to her himself one day, not knowing then how soon he might face her.
Kamran had never known how muddy grief might be; it had never occurred to him that the death of a loved one might prove difficult to mourn, or that a heart might continueto beat long after it was broken. He’d not been taught to navigate this misty, middle track of uncertainty; no, Kamran had lived always with the luxury of absolutes. Even in childhood he’d known the delineated position he was meant to occupy in the world, had known the rules that corralled his life. He’d stepped from one gilded milestone to another with a confidence so complete it had never occurred to him, not until Alizeh tore open his life, to doubt the course laid before him.
