This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(63)

“More than that,” said the king. “I think you assisted her.”

“What an odious suggestion, Your Majesty. The very idea is absurd.”

“It was quite a while before you answered your door tonight,” said Zaal. “I wonder: Were you still slithering back into your rooms? In the dead of night, dragged from your bedchamber, you now stand before me fully dressed, wearing your swords and scabbards. Do you expect me to believe you were abed?”

Kamran laughed, then. Like a lunatic, he laughed.

“Do you deny it?” King Zaal demanded.

Kamran leveled a violent glare at his grandfather, hatred flashing through his body. “With my very soul. That you even think me capable of such unworthiness is so insulting as to astonish me to the point of madness.”

“You were determined to save her.”

“I asked you merely to consider sparing the life of an innocent!” Kamran cried, no longer bothering to contain his temper. “It was a basic plea for humanity, nothing more. You think me so weak as to go against a formal decree issued by the king of my own empire? You think me so frail of mind, so weak of spine?”

For the first time in Kamran’s life, he watched his grandfather falter. The older man opened then closed his mouth, struggling for the right words.

“I— I did worry,” King Zaal said finally, “that you were overly preoccupied with thoughts of her. I also heard about your foolishness with the defense minister, who, despite your undisguised loathing of the man, is a prominent elder from the House of Ketab, and your speech toward him was nothing short of mutinous—”

“So you sent armed men to my door? You sentenced me to indefinite imprisonment without trial? You would’ve risked my head over a mere misunderstanding—an assumption? Does this seem to you an appropriate reaction to your concerns, Your Majesty?”

King Zaal turned away, pressed two fingers against his closed lips. He appeared lost in thought.

Kamran, on the other hand, was vibrating with fury.

The unfolding of the evening’s events struck him suddenly as so unlikely, so impossible, that he wondered distantly whether he’d detached from his own mind.

It was true that he’d privately considered pushing back against his grandfather’s command to find a wife. It was true, too, that in a moment of madness he’d thought to warn the girl, had even fantasized about saving her life. But Kamran always knew, deep down, that those silent ravings were bred only of transient emotion; they were shallow feelings that could not compete with the depth of loyalty he felt for his king, for his home, for his ancestors.

His empire.

Kamran would never have staged a counterattack against the king and his plans—not for a girl he did not know, not against the man who had been more of a father to him than his own had ever been able.

This betrayal— It could not be borne.

“Kamran,” the king said finally. “You must understand. The girl was prepared. She was armed. The puncture wounds inflicted indicate she had access to highly unusual weapons, which one can only assume were supplied to her by a third party with access to a complex arsenal. She was prophesied to have formidable allies—”

“And you thought one of those allies might be me?”

Zaal’s expression darkened. “Your ridiculous, childish actions—your fervent desire to spare her life even with the knowledge that she might be the death of mine—left me with no choice but to wonder, yes, for it remains highly unlikely that she was able to dispose of six armed men without assistance. Five of the six she flatly murdered; she only spared the last to send back a warni—”

“The girl is a Jinn!” Kamran shouted, hardly able to breathe for the vise clamping around his chest. “She is heir to a kingdom. Never mind the fact that she has preternatural strength and speed and can call upon invisibility at will—she was no doubt trained in self-defense from a young age, much like I was. Would you not expect me to easily defend myself against six ruffians, Your Highness? And yet? What? You thought a queen might be easy to murder?”

King Zaal looked suddenly livid.

“You are the heir apparent to the greatest empire in the known world,” his grandfather cried. “You were raised in a palace with the best tutors and masters in existence. She is an orphaned, uneducated servant girl who has spent the last few years living mostly on the street—”

“You forget, Your Highness,” Kamran said sharply. “You said yourself that she was not an ordinary girl. What’s more: I forewarned you. I told you the girl spoke Feshtoon. I shared with you from the first my suspicions of her abilities, her intelligence. I’d watched her dispatch that street child as if he were a twig and not a tree. I’ve heard her speak; she is sharp and articulate, dangerously so for a girl in a snoda—”

“I say, child, you seem to know a great deal about a young woman you so vehemently deny defending.”

A gust of fury blew through Kamran at that, tore through him with a virulence that stripped him entirely of heat. In its wake, he felt only cold.

Numb.

The prince stared at the floor, tried to breathe. He couldn’t believe the conversation he was having; he doubted he’d be able to endure much more of the suspicion in his grandfather’s eyes.

A lifetime of loyalty, so easily forgotten.

“You underestimated her,” Kamran said quietly. “You should’ve sent twenty men. You should’ve anticipated her resourcefulness. You made a mistake, and instead of accepting fault for your own failure, you thought it better to blame your grandson. How easily you condemn me. Am I so superfluous to you, sire?”