Slowly, he looked his old teacher in the eye.
The man glided forward, his dark robes mesmerizing in motion. Tulan’s Diviners were distinguished by their black cloaks, the curious material shimmering like liquid metal, heavy with secrets. The elder pulled back his hood an inch, baring a hint of his face to the cold light. What was visible of his brown skin was smooth despite his advanced age, though his eyes were milky with cataracts. Still, there was no censure in his energy; in fact, there was a compassion that emanated from deep within the man, even now. At once, Cyrus understood.
You already know, he said soundlessly.
The Diviner canted his head.We have always known. But we were not meant to interfere.
The young prince felt his heart wrench at this revelation, the words landing as a betrayal even as his mind knew better. To be a Diviner was to be burdened by knowledge and bound by brutal limitations; powerful as they were, the priests and priestesses were not allowed to obstruct the free will of others, and they were not allowed to offer unsolicited guidance. Cyrus understood this better than most.
Still, his eyes flashed with heat as he stood there, for he knew now, with a categorical certainty, that his dreams had died; his role had changed forever. Never would he become a Diviner.All he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever worked for. His life, his future –
The teacher tilted his head once more, this time the small motion delivering Cyrus to the ground, where the violet walls of the temple rose behind them to breathtaking heights. With fresh heartache the prince registered the press of a barrier between their bodies, magic keeping him at bay.
These hallowed quarters would never be his home.
Please, he said desperately.I’ve come to seek your counsel.
Slowly, the Diviner shook his head.There are only two choices, little one.
Cyrus moved to speak, a fragile hope gathering in his chest, but his old teacher lifted a hand to stop him. It was with unmistakable sorrow that the man looked him in the eye and said –
Few can die. Or many.
ONE
“WHAT ARE YOU – AREyoueating an orange?”
Kamran turned as he spoke, his face taut with dismay, to study the young woman seated in the night sky beside him. For hours now they’d been soaring through the heavens, and whereas he’d only grown frigid with disquiet, Miss Huda half reclined atop her magical bird, staring up at the stars and eating a piece of fruit for all the world as if she were the heroine in some impassioned novel.
“Yes, why?” She’d paused in the act of lifting a section of orange to her mouth and suddenly startled. “Oh! Forgive me, Your Highness – would you care for a piece?” She held out her sticky palm, upon which sat a sticky wedge, and Kamran recoiled.
She’d offered him the fruit she’d been about to put in her own mouth. It was as if the girl had no manners at all.
“No,” he said curtly.
How Miss Huda had procured the citrus, or why she’d thought to tuck away an orange in the midst of so much mayhem, he’d never know, for he’d no intention of –
“I filched a few from a passing tray before we left the palace,” she supplied, pausing briefly to chew and swallow. A wash of starlight illuminated her artless movements, her eyes glassy as she stared at him with ill-concealed admiration. “I hope that’s all right.I grow a little light-headed when I take too long between meals.”
Kamran made a noncommittal sound, turning away.
Of all things, he’d not meant to encourage conversation. All this time their unlikely troop had been little able to converse – the constant noise and turbulence of their journey making long chats impossible – but the headwind had finally settled, and the relief among their quintet was nearly palpable. The stunning winged beasts that carried them drew together in a tight formation as they began their slow descent into Tulan. Not long before they touched land.
Meanwhile, Kamran’s mind was waterlogged with fear and weariness. Grateful as he was for the extraordinary circumstances of his escape, the shine of their journey had begun to dull under the steady scour of his thoughts. He’d no interest in holding forth with anyone.
“Oh – can I have some?” came Omid’s eager Feshtoon. “I’m so hungry.”
The boy had recently decided to communicate exclusively in Feshtoon while the others responded in Ardanz. This new system of communication had lately given their conversations an interesting texture, developed only after the child had discovered, to his supreme delight, that all in attendance were fluent in Feshtoon.
Even, apparently, Miss Huda.
Kamran had been surprised to discover the illegitimate miss was properly educated. He knew the assumption made him seem cruel, but neither could he condemn himself for the thought; it was, quite frankly, bizarre for someone of her uncertain station to be brought up with a governess.Then again, her father was known to be an eccentric.
“I’d love a piece as well, if you’ve enough to spare,” added Deen, the apothecarist. “It smells heavenly.”
This much was true.
The air around them had been scented by the spritz of orange oil, and as Miss Huda broke apart her rations to share with the others, their excited voices and ensuing conversations served only to provoke the prince. He’d barely tolerated most members of this unlikely group even in the best of spirits, and now, rumpled and unsettled, his patience had worn thin.
