Arran and Inna trained for more than an hour. The princess was a good teacher, though not easily satisfied, and she pushed him to his limits. At the end of their session, he felt both fatigued and exhilarated. A few new talents had sprung up aside from bending light, such as the ability to withstand extreme heat and extreme cold. However, it only worked so long as he didn't lose his concentration; the burn marks on his skin, round like Inna's treacherous fingertips, were clear proof of that.

He was only a beginner, though, and his endurance was that of a beginner's as well. The constant drain on his magic reserves had left his throat sore and his stomach empty. When Inna finally called it a day, he stumbled to the wooden bench where Zazi lay curled up and drank from his flask of water until the last drop had wetted his tongue.

Inna chuckled as she sank down beside him. "You did well today."

"Thanks," he croaked. Zazi lifted her head to rest it on his thigh. Cautiously, he stroked her green scales with two fingers, which elicited a contented sigh from her. The corners of his mouth twitched with a hesitant smile.

"Now, there's still one thing I've been meaning to ask you," Inna continued. She stared off into the distance, a slight crinkle in her brow. "The Shah's royal adviser, Farooq ... I couldn't help but notice the way you two looked at each other. The similarities between you. Arran ..." She paused, biting her lip. "Is it possible your father survived his banishment after all?"

He stiffened. Every muscle in his body pulled taut at the memory of Farooq's confounded face; the mere sight of him had twisted a dagger, hot from the forge, into Arran's heart. "Yes," he whispered. He clenched his fists. "It's him. He's right here, in Rasir, serving the goddamn Shah himself!"

Zazi looked up at his sudden outburst, watching him with wise eyes. Inna put a hand on his arm. "Have you talked to him yet?"

Shoulders slumping, Arran shook his head. "No. I don't know what to say. I'm beyond happy to see him safe and alive, but at the same time, I feel betrayed. He's lived in a palace for all these years, yet he never once reached out to us. If my mother had known ..." His voice died.

"There must be a reason why he didn't," she said carefully. "A man who risks his life to provide for his family doesn't turn his back on that same family because of one setback." When he didn't respond, she leaned closer until her hair brushed his shoulder. She placed a hand on his cheek and turned his head so that he faced her. This close, he could count the flecks of amber in her golden eyes. "Since you've named me your friend, allow me to give you a piece of advice," she went on. "Go inside that tower, find your father and ask him point-blank what happened to him all those years ago. Otherwise you'll just keep brooding about it until it drives you mad."

"I know. It's just ..." He dragged a hand through his hair. "It's too much. After everything's that happened in the past few days ..." With every surprise, every twist, every misfortune tossed onto his path, he felt more and more like he was drowning. He opened his mouth to tell her, but he didn't know how.

Inna pursed her lips, eyebrows fully knitted together now. Her hand had slid off his cheek, and it rested in the narrow space between their thighs, tapping the wood of the bench. "I understand. Believe me, I do. But I've lost a parent too, you know. And I will never have a chance to talk to her again."

Of course. The princess's mother, first wife in the Shah's harem, had died last summer. Primsharah had mourned for an entire month: black had painted the streets and the palace had been closed off to visitors, both native and foreign, during that period. The pain was still raw in Inna's eyes, so Arran's fingers searched hers in silent comfort.

"After having suffered from the disease that ate at her for so long, I suppose death was a welcome mercy," she muttered. Her voice shed the tears that she herself could not cry. "It wrecked my father, though, despite the twelve wives he has in reserve. It wrecked me too." Her gaze found his, for once wide open for him to see. "I would do anything to hear her voice again, to see her face once more, but I'll have to wait until I cross into Onshra's realm myself. However, fate has given you a second chance, Arran," she said in a stronger tone, squeezing both his hands in hers. "Don't waste it."

The silence lengthened between them, both a consolation and a source of discomfort. Arran's gaze was set on Inna, yet he didn't really see her. His thoughts were with his father, face grim and pale on the day of his banishment. The last day their family had been whole.

He cast down his eyes. "You're right," he sighed.

"When aren't I?"

A grin curved his lips as he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "You insupportable, smug brat." Only three days ago, he would have been horrified at the thought of insulting the crown princess of Primsharah. However, in spite of the short time they had spent together, he was beginning to feel at ease with her. An easiness that wasn't misplaced, given the startled laughter that burst from her mouth.

"Shoo. Get out of my sight," she teased, shoving him gently off the bench. "I have matters to attend to as well."

"Oh?" he asked while he backed away from her. "What matters?"

She cracked a conspiratorial smile, though he caught a hint of wry self-mockery behind it. "Later. There are too many eyes and ears around here."

He nodded once, deeming it best not to pry. He spun on his heel and strode back to the granite tower, hands in his pockets. A few noblewomen waved their hands at him, but his nerves only allowed him to return a thin-lipped half-smile.

The great hall was bustling with activity when he entered; one servant after the other crossed his path, giving a hasty bow upon passing him. The noise plagued his throbbing head. The butler who had guided Inna and him to the throne room the previous day stood at its center, barking orders left and right. His impatience rolled off him in steady waves whenever someone approached him with a question, be one of his own staff or a noble.

Arran straightened his shoulders. Mimicking the other man's aspect of haughty exasperation, he crossed the hall and stopped in the butler's line of vision. The man looked up from the scroll of parchment in his hand, raising an enquiring eyebrow. "How can I help you, Your Highness?"

What was his name again? Hash-something. "I need to speak to Royal Adviser Farooq."

Surprise, carefully hidden beneath a layer of indifference. "The adviser is busy this—"

"I don't care," Arran cut him off, brisk. "I'm sure he'll delay whatever he's busy with for a meeting with the Primsharahn prince."

The butler shot him one more look of disbelief, but tucked his scroll under his arm and twirled around with the elegance of the dancing girls in Primsharah's Satin Quarter. He imagined the man before him on one of those stages. The result was so comical and ridiculous he brought up his sleeve to stifle a laugh. That only earned him another look of disapproval, yet he was long past caring. In his home city, he had received similar glances all the time; what difference did it make now that he was at least properly dressed?

The butler led him to the fifth floor. Two sets of double doors flanked the staircase on opposite sides; the butler knocked on the left one. A muffled voice grumbled something through the wood in response. Arran stepped forward to go in, but the butler paused with his hand on the door handle, holding up the other to stop him. Frowning, Arran retreated reluctantly and the butler slipped inside the room.

Arran strained his ears to listen to the conversation through the crack, to no avail. His restless feet paced back and forth on the landing. After what seemed like an eternity, the butler reappeared with another man trailing after him.

Arran's breathing halted for a moment. Age and tragedy had been merciful on his father's face: his green eyes still radiated the same kindness and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth had only deepened with that familiar ready smile. Beneath those elegant clothes, his body was still lean, although life at the palace had fattened him up a little in the right places. The sole striking difference was the expression of utter sadness that flashed across his features as soon as his gaze flicked to his son's.

Arran swallowed. The turmoil of emotions that grappled with his heart had also seized his tongue. A part of him had traveled back in time, to when he was still a boy who believed the whole world lay at his feet. That boy wanted to rush forward and embrace his father and cry against his shoulder. The other part of him, though, the part that had grown up as a bitter young criminal, seethed with the growing urge to punch his father in the face.

Farooq mirrored his son's unease and made a vague gesture at the stairwell. "Let's find somewhere private," was all he said before he started climbing the steps to higher floors still. Inhaling a breath of courage, Arran willed his frozen legs to move.

Three floors higher, Farooq produced a key and opened a simple, wooden door which held his name engraved in a silver plaque. He stepped aside for Arran to pass, eyes flitting between the floor and his son's face. Arran entered a modestly decorated room, although the balcony made up for that. The sea of fluorescent towers and rooftops outside filled up the space like a large painting and cast its multicolored light on the walls, floor and furniture. The bed was a mixture of silk and soft pillows, blue-themed, with turquoise and gold details in the woodwork.

Arran's eyes landed on a pink robe, hanging from the coat rack in the corner of the room. His blood turned cold as ice. Farooq followed his gaze and a muscle in his jaw twitched, but he kept silent until he had closed the door. His back was bent, as if the burden of all those years between them had descended onto his shoulders at once.

"Arran," he said, slow and hopeful. His hands opened and closed as the awkwardness suffocated the room.

"Father," Arran answered. Not baba, no, his lips refused to articulate the loving nickname of his childhood.

Farooq flinched at the coldness of his tone. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Arran scoffed. "Clearly." He gestured at the coat rack. "Seems like you've found another to replace us. Or do you like to dress in women's clothes nowadays?"

Hurt flashed in Farooq's eyes. A pang of guilt scratched at Arran's heart with painful claws, but sudden, irrational rage held him in its grip, relentless and unstoppable.

"You have no right to chide me for moving on with my life, Arran," Farooq replied, two angry splotches of red staining his cheeks. "I have mourned for you. I have repented my actions and scolded myself for it a thousand times, but time healed the deepest wounds."

"Mourned? Repented?" Arran repeated between gritted teeth. "Not once did you try to contact us! Maia was broken after you left, and she has still not healed. We needed you." Emotion clogged up his throat, distorting his voice into a strangled sob. On impulse, he walked forward and grabbed his father's shoulders to shake him. "We needed you, baba. If we had known you had survived the desert, we would have dropped everything to join you in Rasir."

Farooq's eyes were wide, his almond skin pale in the yellow sunlight. "Didn't try to contact you?" he said quietly. "After the Shah's messenger found me in the desert, with Onshra's breath hot on my neck, and brought me to Rasir, I spent the first two years gathering every piece of parchment I could find to write you letters. When the Shah finally acknowledged my talents and offered me a job as his personal adviser, I even sent coin to pay a caravan to escort you here. But I never got a response, Arran. It was you who had banned me out of your lives!"

Arran stumbled back, heart palpitating with shock and disbelief. "No," he whispered. "No, that cannot be. You're lying."

Farooq's features softened and he pressed his hand against his heart. "I swear I'm telling you the truth, my son."

But Arran was shaking his head. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and he wiped them away with stiff, angry movements. "Maia would never have hidden your letters from Adira and me, had she received any. I can't believe ..." He shut his eyes. His fingers trembled; he hid them in the wide sleeves of his jacket.

Farooq's slippers slapped against the soles of his feet while he came closer, cautious, as though he was dealing with a feral, unpredictable animal. His hands were warm when they cupped Arran's arms, their grasp strong enough to make Arran look up. The years faded away, swept aside by proximity and warmth and the familiar smell of spices that still clung to Farooq's skin, even though he hadn't worked for a spice-dealing merchant in a long time.

When Farooq's hand came up to stroke his son's dark hair, Arran didn't resist. He buried his face against his father's shoulder, overcome with a relief so immense his bones ached with it.

"My son," Farooq whispered in Arran's hair, his voice thick with sorrow and wonder. "My son."

Their embrace lasted for a long while. No words needed to be spoken; the closeness and shared breaths were enough. At last, Arran pulled away, his eyes glassy and swollen. "I'm glad I've found you, baba."

"So am I, Arran," Farooq said. A smile brighter than the desert sun lit up his face. "In all those years, not a day has gone by when I didn't pray for you and your sister. It seems that the gods have finally answered."

Fear sliced through Arran with ice-cold violence. His father's careless mention of the gods hit him like a slap in the face, a reminder of the insignificant pawn he was in their cruel games. For years he had mourned his father, wished for his return. And only now that a deathly curse raged in Arran's blood, they had set up this reunion. Soon, the joyous spark in Farooq's eyes would once again be replaced by the dull gleam of grief.

I'm not ready to die, Arran thought while he studied his father's face, imprinted it on his memory. Rasir was known across the entire Orabi Desert for its academic knowledge in the field of medicine; surely some doctor or sorcerer in this city would be able to help him with his curse?

Farooq must have sensed the sudden mood change. "Is something wrong?" Panic flashed in his eyes. "Arran, why are you here, accompanied by a princess, of all people? Do you realize what the Shah would do to you if he found out you're an impostor?"

Arran sucked in a deep breath. "I can't tell you, baba. You would have to lie to the Shah and I don't want to put you in that position."

"But, Arran, if you are in trouble—"

Change of subject. Now. "Those letters," he hastily interrupted, ignoring the confusion written all over Farooq's face. "Who did you give them to when you wanted to send them to Primsharah?"

His father arched his brow. Although he looked reluctant to drop the previous subject, he decided to play along, much to Arran's relief. "To the main butler, Hashim."

The man with the friendliest face of Rasir. Of course. "Is it possible that the letters never left Rasir at all?" Arran pressed.

Farooq let out a nervous laugh. "No. Hashim handles the correspondence of the entire royal family. Only the Shah himself would be able to intercept a letter once it's given to him."

Arran cursed under his breath. As if he didn't have enough to worry about already, the gods had deemed it necessary to throw the mystery of the unanswered letters on top of the pile.

Someone had deliberately kept his family apart, broken. Arran was determined to find out who, and when he found the culprit, he would tear them apart for a change.