Now he stood at the mouth of an indistinct, untraveled path; his role, his title, his tomorrow—all unknown.
“Hejjan? Hejjan—”Sire? Sire—
Very slowly, Kamran turned toward the desperate sound, catching sight of the long-legged child struggling up the stairs, two at a time. Kamran had been on his way back to his rooms to manage a bit of correspondence; he meant to send a letter to his aunt Jamilah—whose conspicuous silence in the aftermath of Zaal’s death had struck him as deeply unusual—and ask if she’d welcome a visit from him on the morrow. He did not intend, of course, to actually pay the dear woman a visit; he was only hoping to leave a paper trail that might convolute the details of his disappearance.
It seemed this would have to wait.
When Omid finally reached the landing, he doubled over almost at once, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he panted, “everywhere—”
“Yes, and what took you so long?” Kamran said quietly. “Are they here yet?”
Omid tried to stand up and nearly made it, squinting one eye as he breathed, reinforcing the effort to be vertical with one hand placed firmly on his hip. “They won’t come, sire,” he said, gasping in Feshtoon. “They don’t believe me when I say they’ve been summoned by the crown.”
Kamran closed his eyes and sighed.
This morning—grieving, delirious, and, admittedly, not quite in possession of his faculties—Kamran had thought he’d no one else to trust. In the wake of one heroic act, the boy had seemed an obvious choice for a role meant to prioritize the prince’s safety and protection above all else. Now Kamran was beginning to wonder whether Hazan had been right.
This had perhaps been a terrible idea.
“We should’ve gotten you a new wardrobe,” Kamran said, opening his eyes to study the boy’s oversized, ill-fitting clothes anew. “Of course they don’t believe you; you don’t look as if you come from a royal household.” He looked askance at the child. “Why did you not take the carriage as I instructed? The royal seal would’ve been proof enough for anyone.”
Omid shook his head, hard. “I tried, sire, honest I did. But he wouldn’t let me take the carriage.”
Now Kamran frowned. “Who wouldn’t let you take the carriage?”
“The coachman. He told me he’d whip me if I so much as touched one of the coaches, so I been runnin’ round on foot, you see, which is why it took me so long—”
“Dear God.”
The boy flushed a bright red. “Iamterribly sorry. And these”—he stared down at himself, tugging at the hem of his too-long tunic—“well, these are all the clothes I’ve got, sire, and I don’t know what to do about them, but I’d hate to toss them because they were gifts from”—his eyes filled with tears—“well, from the Diviners, see, and they were ever so kind to me—”
Kamran held up a hand to stop the boy from blubbering.
He himself had not shed a single tear since the night prior, and while there was an aspect of his consciousness that suspected, on some base level, that this was probably strange, there was a much larger, louder, and unhealthier part of him that took pride in his ability to keep his emotions constrained.
“This is my fault,” Kamran said to the child. “I should’ve seen to your clothes before sending you off on an errand. And it didn’t occur to me that I might have to make introductions to the staff. You are not to blame on these counts.” He sighed. “In fact, I see now that I made a larger mistake in giving you so much responsibility. You’re clearly a poor fit for this role—”
“No, sire—” The boy threw out a hand as if to stop Kamran from speaking, realized too late that he’d nearly touched the prince, and recoiled in horror. “I’m sorry—I mean, forgive me—”
“Omid—”
“Please,” the boy said, wiping desperately now at his damp face and straightening to his full height. “I can do it, sire, I promise I can. I want this job more than anything—my maand pa would be so proud if they could see how I’d turned things around—and I promise I’ll show you what I can do. On my parents’ graves, sire, I swear it.”
Kamran narrowed his eyes at the boy, who was standing now at attention, his red-rimmed eyes no longer leaking. In any other situation, Kamran would’ve dismissed the child without question. But the stakes were admittedly low at this juncture; come tomorrow morning, Kamran would be gone. Too, he was anticipating trouble from the nobles, taking for granted that the distorted magic snaking along his body would all but guarantee his expulsion. He felt uncertain only aboutwhenhe’d be asked to leave, for he’d so far managed to evade what seemed an inevitable encounter with Zahhak himself—
As if he’d conjured the man with his mind, Kamran saw out of the corner of his eye the slinky retreat of the defense minister, who’d appeared down the hall as if out of the ether. He was moving with some haste in the direction of the king’s wing of the palace—though what Zahhak hoped to do in his grandfather’s rooms was a mystery, one Kamran was eager to unravel. If the defense minister’s darting eyes were any indication, the answers were bound to be bleak.
“Sire?”
Kamran returned his gaze to the boy, his mind working double-time, assessing the situation from all possible angles in the space of a millisecond. As Zahhak’s treacherous figure grew fainter in the distance, Kamran grew certain he’d know more about his fate in the palace very, very soon.
In which case there was little point, he reasoned, inbreaking the boy’s heart. He might as well let the child dream a day more.
“Very well,” Kamran said stiffly, lowering his voice. “But if they’re not here by nightfall, I’m placing you elsewhere in the palace. I’m sure we could use a new stable boy.” He paused, assessing the child. “Are you any good with horses?”
Omid was shaking his head so hard Kamran feared he might shift things around in there permanently. “I don’t like horses, sire, and they don’t like me. I’ll get it done—you won’t need to place me elsewhere. They’ll be here by nightfall, I swear it.”
