KAMRAN HAD ONLY JUST ENTERED

the antechamber leading to his grandfather's rooms when he felt it: a breath of
movement. There was a glimmer of unnaturally refracted light along the walls, a hint of
perfume in the air. Kamran purposely slowed his stride, for he knew his predator would
not resist such an easy mark.
There.
A flutter of skirts.
Not a moment too soon, Kamran had clamped a hand over his assailant's fist, her
fingers clenched around the hilt of a ruby dagger, which she held happily at his throat.
“I tire of this game, Mother.”
She twisted out of reach and laughed, her dark eyes gleaming. “Oh, darling, I never do.”
Kamran watched his mother with an impassive expression; she was so covered in
jewels she glittered even standing still. “You find it diverting,” he said, “to play at
murdering your own child?”
She laughed again and spun around him, velvet skirts shimmering. Her Royal Highness
Firuzeh, the princess of Ardunia, was empyreal in her beauty⠀”but then, this was not
such an extraordinary accomplishment for a princess. Loveliness was to be expected of
any royal who aspired to
the throne, and it was no secret that Firuzeh resented the untimely death of her
husband, who seven years ago had lost his head in a senseless battle and had left her
forever a princess, never a queen.
“I am tragically
bored
,” she said. “And as my child pays so little attention to me, I am forced to be creative.”
Kamran was freshly bathed, his clothes pressed and scented, but he wanted
desperately to be back in his military uniform. He'd always disliked his formal clothes for
their impracticality, their frivolousness. He resisted the urge now to scratch his neck,
where the stiff collar of his tunic scraped against his throat. “No doubt there are
innumerable other ways,” he said to his mother, “to inspire my attention.”
“Tedious other ways,” she said tersely. “Besides, I should not have to inspire your
interest. I did enough work growing you inside my own body. I am owed, at the very
least, a modicum of devotion.”
Kamran bowed. “Indeed.”
“You patronize me.”
“I do not.”
Firuzeh slapped Kamran's hand away from his neck. “Do cease scratching yourself like
a dog, my love.”
Kamran stiffened.
It did not matter how many men he'd killed, his mother would forever treat him like a
child. “You would blame me for my discomfort when the collar of this ridiculous costume
clearly seeks the decapitation of its wearer? Pray can we not, in all the empire, find
someone to stitch together two pieces of reasonable clothing?”
Firuzeh ignored this.
She said, “It is a dangerous thing to keep an intelligent woman from performing a single
practical task,” and slipped her arm through her son's, forcing them to walk together
toward the king's main chamber. “I am not to blame for my fits of creativity.”
Kamran stopped, surprised, and turned to his mother. “Do you mean to say you have a
desire to work?”
Firuzeh made a face. “Don't be intentionally stupid. You know what I mean.”
Kamran had once thought there could never in all the world exist his mother's equal, not
in beauty or elegance, not in grace or intelligence. He'd not known then how critical it
was to also possess a heart. “No,” he said. “I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea.”
Firuzeh sighed theatrically, waving him away as they entered the king's reception
chamber. Kamran had not known his mother would be joining them for this meeting. He
suspected that, more than anything else, she'd come along merely for another look at
the king's rooms, as his were her favorite in the palace, and seldom was anyone invited
inside.