This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(104)

The Fesht boy, at least, had not lied.

Omid had been living at the Diviners Quarters these last days, and, by his own account, had grown quite close to the priests and priestesses who’d saved his life. He’d gone to bid them goodnight for the evening when he discovered that all twenty-five Diviners had been slaughtered in their beds.

Kamran and the king had gone, of course, to bear witness.

There’d been no blood to mop up, no clear evidence of violence to investigate. Their faces had been peaceful, hands clasped across their chests. Only a thorough search had revealed proof of an attack: a subtle growth of frost between their cold, parted lips.

Dark magic, the king had whispered.

Nothing else could’ve so easily killed Diviners capable of wielding great power. As to the owner of the crime, there was little doubt there, too. The Tulanian king, who, earlier in the evening had been seen and spoken with at a gathering of Ardunian ambassadors, had deserted his party without notice, disappearing into the ether. Neither had he met with the king ahead of the ball, as was expected.

Kamran knew not whether the young King Cyrus would show his face at the fete tonight, but his absence would indicate its own answer, for such actions were without question a declaration of war—one of the more barbaric instigations the prince had ever witnessed.

Still, there was no proof.

Worse, it would take weeks to collect and deliver to the Royal Square the rare other Diviners scattered throughout the empire, and until then, all of Ardunia would be left vulnerable, lacking an essential layer of protection long provided by the quorum at the Diviners Quarters.

Even so, there were pretenses to be maintained.

The king did not want the horrible news spread throughout the empire, not just yet. He did not want people to panic before he was ready to formally address their fears, which would not be possible until tomorrow morning, for the brutal events of the evening had rendered the ball only that much more important. More acts of violence could arrive at anytime—could threaten the crown at anytime—

Which meant Ardunia needed to secure the royal line, and quickly, with another heir.

Kamran, whose mind was resigned even as his heart protested, stared indifferently at the faceless horde, at the individuals peeling off to pay respect to the Ardunian royals. The prince was meant to choose a bride from among these strangers, and yet, the ladies all looked the same to him. They were all of them in nearly identical gowns, their hair styled in a similar fashion. He could not tell them apart save the occasional unflattering impressions they left behind: a barking laugh, a set of stained teeth; one girl in particular who could not stop biting her fingernails, not even when she spoke.

The vast majority could scarcely look Kamran in the eye, while a select few had leaned in dramatically, whispering in his ear illicit invitations for that very evening.

It all left him feeling exhausted.

Among the many travesties of the day, Kamran had not been able to relinquish the memories of one young woman in particular. He wondered, as he nodded his head at yet another girl curtsying low before him, whether Alizeh would remain with him always in his mind, in the occasional manifestation of sensation across his skin, in the sharp breath he might take at the reminder of her touch. It was a thought both strange and thrilling, and which imbued in him a striking fear.

Would he forever compare all others to her?

Would anyone else ever make him feel as much? And if not, would he be cursed forever to live only a half-life, a life of quiet acquiescence, of unfulfilled expectations? Was it worse, he wondered, to never know what you might have—or worse to have it snatched away before you might have it?

“You are making no effort,” the king whispered sharply, startling the prince out of his reverie.

Kamran dared not turn his head to look at the king. He’d not even realized the curtsying young woman had gone.

“You might ask the girls a single question,” King Zaal was muttering, “instead of standing there like a statue.”

“Does it truly matter, Your Highness, when I already know you will choose for me whomever you think is best?”

King Zaal went quiet at that, and Kamran’s heart wrenched at the confirmation of his fears.

“Even so,” the king said finally. “You might at least act as if you are at a ball and not a funeral, dire though the circumstances may be. I want your engagement announced before the week is out. I want you married before the month is done. I want an heir before the year is finished. This night is not to be disturbed before its purpose is fulfilled. Are we clear?”

The prince tensed his jaw and studied the crowd, wondering how their numbers seemed to bloat before his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

Kamran’s gaze landed unexpectedly on the Fesht boy, who stood idly by, wringing his hands. The child stared often at the entrance, and with obvious anticipation. His eyes were red from sobbing, but as he’d been expressly forbidden from crying at the ball—under threat of expulsion—he only bit his lip and flinched every time a name was announced.

Kamran frowned.

He could not understand what the child was searching for. Certainly Omid knew no one else here; he had no family to name. No friends.

Why then, did he seem so eager?

A finely dressed older woman came suddenly forward, and the prince, distracted, did not at first discern the familiar face of his aunt—and then, disarmed, could not hide his relief. Kamran was so pleased to see Duchess Jamilah that he took her outstretched hand and bowed before it, paying the woman an undue level of respect that attracted a number of unwelcome stares.