Alizeh said nothing. She could think of nothing.
She heard him sigh.
It was a moment before he said, “Then may I ask you a different question?”
“Yes,” she said, desperate to say something. “Yes, of course.”
He looked up, met her eyes. “How, precisely, do you know the Tulanian king?”
Thirty-Seven
KAMRAN SCHOOLED HIS EXPRESSION AS he waited, masking the pain that seized him now. Twin agonies assaulted his heart, his skin. The clothes he wore this evening had grown only more painful by the minute, and now this—this spasm—that threatened to fissure his chest. He could hardly look at Alizeh as he waited for her to speak. Had he misjudged her altogether? Had he become every inch the fool his grandfather and minister had accused him of becoming? At every turn she was a surprise, her intentions impossible to grasp, her actions confounding.
Why would she be so friendly with the sovereign of an enemy empire? How—when—did their friendship begin?
Kamran had hoped Alizeh might absolve herself of any objectionable suspicions by admitting she’d come tonight for him, to be with him; that she’d so easily dismissed this possibility had been both a blow and a confirmation—an endorsement of his silent fears.
For why, then, had she come at all?
Why would she sneak into a royal ball held inside his home, her injuries miraculously healed, her servants’ clothing miraculously gone? Why, after so many desperate efforts to cling to her snoda—to hide her identity—would she discard the mask now, revealing herself in the middle of a ball where any stranger might see her for who she was?
Kamran could practically hear the king accuse her of duplicity, of manipulating his mind and emotions like some impossible siren. The prince heard every word of the imagined argument, saw every piece of plausible evidence that might condemn her, and still, he could not denounce the girl—for reasons so flimsy as to be laughable:
He had a feeling she was in danger.
It was his instincts that insisted, despite all damning evidence, that she was not herself a threat. On the contrary, he worried whether she might not be in trouble.
Even to himself he sounded a fool.
He recognized the glaring errors in his own judgment, the many missing explanations. He could not comprehend, for example, how she might’ve afforded such a stunning gown when just days ago she’d barely enough coppers to purchase medicine for her wounds. Or how, when just this morning she’d been scrubbing the floor of Baz House, she looked now every inch a breathtaking queen, laughing easily with the king of another empire.
King Zaal, the prince knew, would say she’d come to lead a coup, to claim her throne. The ball was, after all, the perfect venue to declare aloud—where all the nobility of Ardunia might hear—that she had a right to rule.
Perhaps Kamran had gone mad.
It seemed the only feasible explanation for his inaction, for the fear that gripped him even now. Why else did he worry for her, when he should turn her over to the king? She would be arrested, no doubt sentenced to death. It was the correct course of action, and yet—he made no move.
His paralysis was an enigma even to himself.
The prince had ordered Hazan to deliver him King Cyrus, but Kamran had changed his mind when he saw the young man’s exchange with Alizeh. Cyrus had said something to her and left; not long after which Alizeh ran madly through the crowd, looking nothing short of terrified.
Kamran had followed her without thinking, hardly recognizing himself when he moved. He only knew he had to find her, to make certain she was okay, but now—
Now, Kamran could not fathom her reaction.
Alizeh seemed perplexed by his question.
Her lips parted, her head canted to one side. “Of all the things you might wonder,” she said. “What a strange question you would choose to ask. Of course I do not know the Tulanian ki—”
“Your Highness,” came the sound of his minister’s breathless voice. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere . . .”
Hazan trailed off, coming to an abrupt halt at the prince’s side. The minister’s body was rigid with shock as he stared, not at the prince, but at Alizeh, whose silver eyes were no doubt all he needed to verify her identity.
Kamran sighed. “What is it, Minister?”
“Minister?”
The prince turned at the surprised sound of Alizeh’s voice. She stared at Hazan curiously, as if he were a puzzle to be solved, instead of an official to be greeted.
Not for the first time, Kamran thought he might be willing to part with his soul simply to know the contents of her mind.