This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(36)

When Kamran asked what prediction the Diviners had made for him, King Zaal had grown unnaturally reticent, saying only that he’d been warned of the rise of a fearsome adversary, a demon-like creature with ice in its veins. It was said to be an enemy with allies so formidable its mere existence would lead to the king’s eventual demise.

Enraged, the young prince had promised his grandfather right then that he would search all of Ardunia for this monster, that he would slay the beast and deliver its head to the king on a pike.

You need not worry, his grandfather had said, smiling. I will slay the beast myself.

Kamran closed his eyes and sighed.

He splashed water on his face, performing his morning ablutions with care. It seemed impossible that the terrifying monster of his childhood imaginings was in fact the stunning young woman he’d encountered last night.

Kamran towel dried his face and applied orange blossom oil to his neck, to the pulse points at his wrists. He took a deep breath and drew the intoxicating scent into his body, relaxing as it warmed his chest, lowered his heart rate.

Slowly, he exhaled.

He was so unfamiliar with the feelings that possessed him now that he wondered for a moment whether he might well and truly be ill. How he’d even delivered himself to his chambers the evening prior he knew not, for he rode home through the blustery night as if in a trance. The girl’s beauty had first rendered him speechless under the most unflattering conditions—in the half-light of a vicious storm—but seeing her face by firelight had dealt him a physical blow from which he had no hope of recovering.

Worse, far worse: he thought her fascinating.

He found himself captivated by her contradictions, the choices she made, even the way she moved.

Who was she, precisely? Where had she come from?

His ambitions upon arriving at her door last night had been scattered by a battering of his senses. He’d hoped to accomplish a great deal by going to her; he’d wanted to return her packages, yes, but there was something more that had compelled his senseless visit, a motivation of which he was entirely ashamed. Had his visit been successful Kamran might’ve betrayed his king, his empire. He would’ve been reduced to the most repellant variety of idiot, instead of the next king of Ardunia.

He’d gone to warn her.

He’d gone to tell her to run, to pack her bags and flee, to find a safe place to hide and remain there, possibly forever. And yet, when he saw her face, he realized that he could not simply ask her to run; no, she was an intelligent girl, she would have questions. If he told her to flee, she would want to know why. And what reason would she have to trust him?

He’d hardly begun to process this when she’d all but dismissed him.

It was possible she’d not known who he was—she’d called him sir, at one point—but he suspected that even if she’d known she were speaking to a prince she’d have treated him the same.

In any case, it did not seem to matter.

Kamran had known his grandfather’s position on the girl; going against the king would’ve been an act of treason. Had Kamran been found out, his head would’ve been removed from his body in short order. It was some small miracle, then, that he’d lost his nerve.

Or perhaps regained his good sense.

He did not know this girl. He did not understand why the thought of killing her left him feeling ill. He only knew that he had to at least try to find another way—for surely she, a humble servant, was not the demon-like creature with an abundance of formidable allies prophesied all those years ago.

No, most assuredly not.

Kamran finished dressing himself without the assistance of his still-sleeping valet, and then—to the shock and horror of the palace servants—stole belowstairs to filch a cup of tea from the kitchens on his way out.

He needed to speak with his grandfather.

Kamran had lived at the royal palace his whole life and yet he never tired of its resplendent views, its acres of manicured gardens, its endless pomegranate groves. The grounds were of course always magnificent, but the prince never loved them more than he did at sunrise, when the world was still quiet. He stopped where he stood then, lifting the still-steaming cup to his lips.

He was standing in the illusion of a glittering infinity; the single mile of ground beneath his feet was in fact a shallow pool three inches deep. A sudden wind nudged water against his boots, the soothing sounds of gentle waves a welcome balm for his tired mind.

Kamran took another drink of his tea.

He was staring up at the soaring, open-air archways, their tens of dozens of exquisite columns planted into the shallow depths around him. The smooth white stonework of the structures was inlaid with vibrant jewels and vivid tiles, all of which benefited now from the blossom of a waking sun. Fiery light refracted against the bezel-set gems, fracturing endless prismatic colors along the sleeping grounds. More golden rays shattered through the open arches, gilding the water beneath his feet so that it looked almost like liquid bullion.

The beauty of Kamran’s life was often lost on him, but not always. There was some mercy in that.

He finished the last of his tea and hooked a finger through its glass handle, letting the cup swing as he strode onward. With the rise of the sun came the stir of servants; snodas were popping up all around him, bustling past with vessels and trays.

Baskets of pomegranates were balanced precariously on heads, under arms. There were silver trays heaving with baklava and delicate honey grapes, others stacked high with fresh barbari bread, each oblong sheet the length of a setar. And flowers—manifold bouquets of flowers—tens of servants rushing by carrying armloads of the fragrant stems. There were copper bowls filled with glossy green tea leaves; basil and mint and tarragon piled high on gold platters. Another endless procession of snodas carried rice—innumerable, incalculable sacks of rice.