Surely I don’t look that suspicious? He could not help but be offended.
Of course, it had been a few days since he’d bathed, and his hair and clothes were matted with dust, so maybe he did look like some sand creature. He stepped back into the crowds, away from the glaring mother. Conversations slid past him like smoke.
“Blasphemous! No man could pull that off…”
“… He was imprisoned by his father for years! Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
“… in Madinne! An absolute tragedy. Gods bless the innocents who died in that struggle.”
Mazen stopped so abruptly a merchant nearly knocked him over. He cursed at Mazen as he rushed past. Mazen barely heard him. He turned and spotted the gossiper wandering into an alley with his conversation partner.
He followed, pausing just long enough to drape his shadow over his head before he chased after them. He ran to the other side of the souk, but by the time he arrived, the men had disappeared into the crowds.
Weak-kneed, Mazen fell against a nearby wall to catch his breath. It was okay; he could ask around for news from Madinne. Surely there were others who could enlighten him.
As he stood, a flicker of color caught his eye. An illustration tacked onto the wall. Curious, he stepped back to view it in full detail.
His own face, illustrated in remarkably vivid detail, frowned back at him. There were words printed beneath the image: Mazen bin Malik, exiled prince of Madinne. Traitor to the throne. Wanted for murder of the sultan.
Mazen stared.
Murder.
He tried to breathe and failed. His heart leapt into his throat and then down into the pit of his stomach. He experienced the peculiar sensation of drowning in himself.
Wanted for murder of the sultan.
There were numbers beneath his name, but he couldn’t read them. The world swam before his eyes. He stumbled in place. Pressed a palm to the wall, breathing hard.
Murder of the sultan.
Mazen was vaguely aware of the feel of parchment beneath his fingers. Of the heavy tread of his feet as he made his way back through the souk. Air trapped in his lungs. Stomach churning. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. His heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst from his chest.
He did not know how he made it to the tent, only that when he did, his lungs were starved of air. The shadow slid from his shoulders as he stumbled inside, where Loulie was waiting for him.
“What…?” She paused when she saw his face.
His breathing hitched, and a small broken sound left his mouth.
“What… what’s wrong with you?” Loulie stepped forward and frowned at the parchment in his hands. He had stolen it off the wall without realizing. He held it out to her. Breathe, he commanded himself, but every breath was a hiccup that made his heart seize.
The moment Loulie grabbed the parchment from him, he collapsed. Qadir was there to ease him to the ground as she unrolled the parchment and stared, wide-eyed, at the wanted poster.
“Oh.” Her voice caught. “Oh fuck.”
60
LOULIE
“Where is Aisha?”
Panic had, rather than clouding Loulie’s mind, made it sharper. She pushed past the fallen prince and ducked outside. Aisha’s horse was still absent from the corral. “Shit,” she murmured as she stepped back inside.
The prince was sobbing now, a miserable keening sound that made her heart hitch. Qadir was crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder. He looked up at Loulie and frowned. “Gone?”
“Gone.” Loulie ran a hand through her curls. Off to get supplies. What a lie.
She wanted to scream. This whole time, she’d been fearing the wrong person. Mazen bin Malik had never been a danger to her. And the sultan—he was dead now. Murdered by his own son. Omar had thought this through; even had Mazen still been in disguise, the damage was done. He was a wanted man now.
Loulie tore the wanted poster to pieces and threw it at Qadir, who burned it to cinders before it hit the ground. “How far do you think she’s gotten?”
Qadir shook his head. “With more than half an hour’s start and a horse? Far.”
“You think the Resurrectionist will stop her?”
“She knew Aisha’s mind the moment she saved her from death. If she did not stop her then, she will not now.” He glanced at the prince. “Can you speak?”
The prince was trembling like a newborn camel calf, but he managed to nod.
“Did Aisha say anything to you, anything at all that might explain what has happened?”
The prince opened his mouth to speak. Some sound left his throat, but it was not a word. He pressed his lips together and hung his head as tears gathered in his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was small. “It’s my fault.”
Loulie stepped toward him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s my fault. I left. I shouldn’t have left.”
Before she could ask him to clarify, Qadir fixed her with a stern look. Don’t push him.
Pity settled over her as she stared at the heartbroken prince. She knew the sorrow of losing family. She remembered how the loss had gnawed at her bones and dug itself into her heart. She remembered not being able to speak or think. She remembered having a gaping hole inside of her, an emptiness that consumed everything.
Without Qadir, she would have lost herself in that emptiness.
The prince had no one. And worse, the world had been turned against him. Words failed her. What did you say to a man who had lost his family and also been betrayed by them?
Qadir stepped away and grabbed their lantern. The moment his fingers touched the metal, a bright blue flame burst to life inside the glass. He handed it to Loulie. “I will go gather information. Call me through the fire if anything happens.” He squeezed her shoulder, picked up his shamshir, and left the tent.
Loulie turned to the prince, who had thankfully stopped crying but was now staring blankly at the ground with glassy eyes. A tremor racked his body even as she watched.
Loulie hesitated. What now?
She was good at talking, but only when it was at people. She knew how to use words as a weapon and a shield, but she’d never been good at using them to comfort others. Even when she was a child, her parents had bemoaned her lack of empathy and her inability to listen.
The prince did not acknowledge her as she stepped closer. Did not so much as shift as she awkwardly seated herself beside him and set a hand on his shoulder.
They both flinched at the contact.
Then, slowly, the tension eased from his body, and he sat there, mute and trembling. This close, Loulie could see the smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the flush of his tanned skin. He was a soft man, ill suited to the harsh realities of the world.
And here he was, facing them alone.
The prince took a deep, shuddering breath. “If I hadn’t been so selfish…” He trembled. “If I hadn’t left…”
“If you hadn’t left, you’d be dead.”
The prince stared at her. Loulie winced. The words had come out unbidden. They were a fact, she realized, and though she was not adept at navigating her own emotions, she knew she could trust facts.
“You were a scapegoat, Prince. A man hell-bent on patricide…” She faltered when more tears gathered in his eyes, but pressed on. “Clearly, Omar had the commitment to see this through. Had you been there, you would have been an obstacle. Don’t blame yourself for a crime you didn’t commit.”
Tears streamed down his face. “I lied to my father.”
“Your lies did not kill the sultan. Your brother did.”
The prince pressed a fist to his forehead and turned away, shoulders trembling. Loulie inwardly cursed. And she’d been doing so well too…
The tent flap opened. Loulie sighed. “Finally. It took you long enough.”