Read This Woven Kingdom for Free Online Page A

thoughtlessness save a grotesque need to be a hero—”
    Kamran looked up at the ceiling. He’d loved little in his life, but he’d always appreciated the comfort of symmetry, of sequences that made sense. He stared now at the soaring, domed ceilings, the artistry of the alcoves carved into alcoves. Every expanse and cavity was adorned with star-bursts of rare metals, glazed tiles expertly arranged into geometric patterns that repeated ad infinitum.
    He lifted a bloody hand, and Hazan fell silent.
    â€œEnough,” Kamran said quietly. “I’ve indulged your censure long enough.”
    â€œYes, Your Highness.” Hazan took a step back but stared curiously at the prince. “More than usual, I’d say.”
    Kamran forced a sardonic smile. “I beg you to spare me your analysis.”
    â€œI would dare to remind you, sire, that it is my imperial duty to provide you the very analysis you detest.”
    â€œA regrettable fact.”
    â€œAnd a loathsome occupation, is it not, when one’s counsel is thusly received?”
    â€œA bit of advice, minister: when offering counsel to a barbarian, you might consider first lowering your expectations.”
    Hazan smiled. “You are not at all yourself today, sire.”
    â€œChipper than usual, am I?”
    â€œYour mood is a great deal darker this morning than you would care to admit. Just now I might inquire as to why the death of a street child has you so overwrought.”
    â€œYou would be wasting your breath in the effort.”
    â€œAh.” Hazan still held his smile. “I see the day is not yet ripe enough for honesty.”
    â€œIf I am indeed overwrought,” said the prince, losing a modicum of composure, “it is no doubt a symptom of my enthusiasm to remind you that my father would’ve had you hung for your insolence.”
    â€œJust so,” Hazan said softly. “Though it occurs to me now that you are not your father.”
    Kamran’s head snapped up. He drew his sword from its scabbard without thinking, and not until he saw the barely contained mirth in his minister’s eyes did he stall, his hand frozen on the hilt.
    Kamran was rattled.
    He’d been gone from home for over a year; he’d forgottenhow to have normal conversations. Long months he’d spent in the service of the empire, securing borders, leading skirmishes, dreaming of death.
    Ardunia’s rivalry with the south was as old as time.
    Ardunia was a formidable empire—the largest in the known world—and their greatest weakness was both a well-kept secret and a source of immense shame: they were running out of water.
    Kamran was proud of Ardunia’s existing qanat systems, intuitive networks that transported water from aquifers to aboveground reservoirs, and upon which people relied for their drinking water and irrigation. The problem was that qanats relied entirely upon the availability of groundwater, which meant large swaths of the Ardunian empire were for centuries rendered uninhabitable—a problem mitigated only by barging freshwater via marine vessel from the Mashti River.
    The fastest path to this titanic waterway was located at the nadir of Tulan, a small, neighboring empire affixed to Ardunia’s southernmost border. Tulan was much like a flea they could not shake free, a parasite that could neither be eliminated nor exhumed. Ardunia’s greatest wish was to build an aqueduct straight through the heart of the southern nation, but decade after decade its kings would not bow. Tulan’s only peaceful offering in exchange for such access was a punishing, ruinous tax, one too great even for Ardunia. Several times they’d tried simply to decimate Tulan, but the Ardunian military had suffered astonishing losses as a result—Kamran’s own father had died in the effort—andnone in the north could understand why.
    Hatred had grown between the two nations not unlike an