This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(23)

He should not have come.

After their meeting, the king had taken Kamran aside to ask further questions about the suspected servant girl, questions Kamran only too gladly answered, having felt validated by his grandfather’s concern. It was in fact at the king’s behest that Kamran was to continue his inquiries into the girl’s whereabouts, for Zaal, too, had seemed perturbed upon hearing a more detailed accounting of the morning’s events. He’d dispatched the prince into town to fulfill various obligations—among them a visit to the Fesht boy—and to then surveil the city.

Naturally, Kamran had obliged.

A focused task was precisely what he needed, as it would allow him a reprieve from his own mind, from the weight of all that his grandfather had recently imparted. The prince had thought to see the mobs for himself, in any case; he wanted to hear the commotion he had caused, to bear witness to the consequences of his actions.

In the end, it had led to this: darkness.

No, he should not have come at all.

First was his visit to the street child, who’d been installed at the Diviners Quarters in the Royal Square. The king had made it clear to Kamran that to ignore the boy now would make his earlier actions appear rash and hotheaded. Subsequent actions of care and compassion toward the boy would not only be expected, Zaal had said, but anticipated, and as Kamran already owed the Diviners a visit, it had not seemed too great a waste of his time.

Instead, it had been infuriating.

As it turned out, magic alone had saved the boy from the brink of death. This revelation, which should have been a relief, was to the prince grim news indeed, for it had been upon his perceived orders that the Diviners had acted—and rarely, if ever, was magical assistance offered to any outside the imperial family.

Vast though Ardunia was, magic as a substance was exceptionally rare. The unstable mineral was mined from the mountains at great risk, and as a result existed only in small, precious quantities, meted out only by royal decree. Kamran’s call for help had been interpreted as just that; marking yet another reason why his actions toward a thieving street urchin had been so significant, and would not be easily forgotten.

He sighed at the reminder.

Though the boy was healing still, he’d managed to flinch when Kamran arrived in his room. The child had inched backward in his bed as best he could, scrambling out of reach of his unlikely savior. They both knew it; knew that the scene within which they’d been trapped was a farce; that Kamran was no hero; that there existed no amity between them.

Indeed, Kamran felt nothing but anger toward the boy.

Through the careful dissemination of new rumors, the crown had actively sought to distort the story of the street urchin; King Zaal decided it would be more difficult to convince an audience that the prince had done good by saving a murderous child, and so had modified the tale to exclude any mention of harm done to the servant girl. This bothered Kamran far more than it ought, for privately he felt the rascal deserved neither the efforts made to spare him, nor the care he received now.

Carefully, Kamran had approached the boy’s bed, claiming a small victory as fear flared to life in the child’s eyes. From this he gained impetus enough to hone his frustration, which gave his visit focus. If the prince was to be forced into the company of this disgraceful child, he would use the opportunity to demand answers to his innumerable questions.

By the angels, he had questions.

“Avo, kemem dinar shora,” he’d said darkly. First, I want to know why. “Why did you beg me not to hand you over to the magistrates?”

The boy shook his head.

“Jev man,” Kamran had said. Answer me.

Again, the boy shook his head.

Kamran stood sharply, clasping his hands behind his back. “You and I both know the real reason you are here, and I will not soon forget it. I have no interest in forgiving you for your actions today merely because you nearly died in the effort. You would’ve murdered a young woman just to steal her wares—”

“Nek, nek hejjan—” No, no, sire—

“And were willing to kill yourself so you would not have to stand trial—so you would not be turned over to the magistrates and pay the price for your debased actions.” Kamran’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. “Tell me why.”

For the third time, the child shook his head.

“Perhaps I will turn you over to the magistrates now. Perhaps they might be more effective at yielding results.”

“No, sire,” the boy had said in his native tongue, his brown eyes large in his sunken face. “You would not do that.”

Kamran’s eyes widened a fraction. “How dare y—”

“Everyone thinks you saved my life because you are compassionate and kind. If you threw me in the dungeon now, it would not look good for you, would it?”

Kamran’s fists clenched, unclenched. “I did save your life, you ungrateful wretch.”

“Han.” Yes. The child almost smiled, but his eyes were strangely distant. “Pet, shora?” But, why? “After this, I will be returned to the street. To the same life as before.”

Kamran felt an unwelcome pang in the region of his chest; a flicker of conscience. He was quite unaware that the edge to his voice had gone when he said, “I do not understand why you would rather kill yourself than go to prison.”

“No, you do not understand, sire.” The redheaded boy would not meet his eyes. “But I have seen what they do to kids like me. Being turned over to the magistrates is worse than death.”