“Enough,”his grandfather said angrily, his voice rising an octave. “You accuse me of things you do not understand, child. The decisions I’ve had to make during my reign—the things I’ve had to do to protect the throne—would be enough to fuel your nightmares for an eternity.”
“My, what joys lie ahead.”
“You dare jest?” the king said darkly. “You astonish me. Never once have I led you to believe that ruling an empire would be easy or, for even a moment, enjoyable. Indeed if it does not kill you first, the crown will do its utmost to claim you, body and soul. This kingdom could never be ruled by the weak of heart. It is up to you alone to find the strength necessary to survive.”
“And is that what you think of me, Your Highness? You think me weak of heart?”
“Yes.”
Kamran’s eyes flew open.
He felt his hands tremble and quickly curled them into fists, struggling to restore his confidence. Kamran liked to think of himself as a powerful, invulnerable force, but a single look at the last week of his life was enough to prove the truth: he was too easily ruled by his heart, too easily manipulated by his emotions.
He was, in fact, weak.
The realization made him nauseous, a wave of self-loathing roiling in his gut. Kamran had been better in command of himself when he was distracted, when Hazan demanded from him a sharpness of mind and wit, when he was moving fast and making plans. But in the wake of Hazan’s and Omid’s departures—and after he’d dispatched a letter to his aunt—he’d spent the better part of the afternoon evading the stammering servants intent on delivering him hand-printed notes from Zahhak, all of which requested his immediate presence in one of the grand parlors.
Instead, Kamran had made himself scarce.
He’d flit from one darkened corner to another as a silver sea of Diviners slowly infiltrated his home; their long, liquid metal robes skimming the floor as they moved, the trained motions of their feet so unnatural they only ever appeared to glide.
He’dfeltthem as they arrived, each new presence striking him like a tap against a tuning fork, a low level hum of electricity buzzing along the distorted gold veins of his body.
It had frightened him, and like a child, he’d fled.
Kamran knew that a meeting with the nobles and Diviners would be explosive and absolute, for they owed him answers he was not yet ready to receive. There was more work he wanted to do before he was paraded before the priests and priestesses like a sick horse, assessed for worthiness and found wanting. He didn’t want to hear them declare him unfit to rule; he didn’t wish to be sentenced to a distantprovince, where he might live in an old, dilapidated holding of the crown, accompanied by a brooding cook, a miserable maid, and an unhappy valet, none of whom would’ve willingly left Setar to keep him company.
He was not yet ready for his entire life to change.
Instead, Kamran had pored over the enigmatic Book of Arya, which he kept clutched in one hand even now, loath to part with this essential piece of an enigmatic puzzle. Over and over he’d tried to get the book to give up its secrets, studying its skin for more hidden symbols, and pressing a pen to its pages without success, the paper proving impervious to ink. When he’d tired of that he’d filched food from the kitchens, filled skins of water, stocked empty crates with supplies they’d need for their weeklong journey—all of which he’d then hidden carefully near the stables.
The prince only deigned to dress for dinner in the interest of upholding a veneer of the status quo, for though he’d no intention of sitting down to a formal meal, he figured he might, at the very least, pretend to make an appearance before surreptitiously ducking out. Night had fallen upon Setar like a stroke of tar, and he meant to use the darkness to his advantage—for he still had to haul the hidden crates down to the dock.
“Thank you, Sina,” he said quietly.
The valet drew back and bowed, straightening before saying, “As a reminder, sire, your cloak awaits you in your bedroom.”
Kamran turned carefully to face the man.
There was no reason Sina should suspect the prince of needing his cloak, for he’d done nothing to betray his intentions of leaving the castle at this hour. “I shouldn’t require my cloak,” he said quietly, “if I’m only going down to dinner.”
“Of course, sire.” Sina lowered his eyes. “It’s only that, earlier, one of the Diviners saw me passing in the hall and she bid me remind you that your cloak is hanging in your bedroom.”
Kamran stiffened. “Why would she say such a thing to you?”
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Sina said, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”
Kamran’s heart was pounding in his chest now. Once again, he seemed to feel the electric hum of the Diviners’ presence, feel it spark along the glittering branches disfiguring his left arm. He didn’t know what this new sensation meant, but he suspected that, whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
“You may go,” he said.
Sina retreated with another bow and without a sound—after which Kamran charged into his room, retrieved his hooded cloak from its hook, and stormed the halls of his own home.
He was perturbed.
Too many disturbing revelations and unanswered questions had finally unraveled his mind enough that it seemed, sometimes, like he was little more than a mess of nerves. He felt powerless in the face of so much uncertainty, and inaction made him uneasy. He felt he must do something or combust, and this was his sole thought as he flew downthe grand staircase, heaving the cape around his shoulders as he went, the superfine black wool billowing about him like a pair of wings. He fastened the heavy gold latch at his throat before making certain the Book of Arya was tucked safely into his cloak, then assessed his escape options. He was determined to make an undetected exit from the palace and was just reaching for the chain mail mask in his pocket when he heard the distant, echoing sound of Omid’s voice.
Omid, who’d failed him.
