Page 45 of The Moon's Fury
Zanjeel leaned forward, a crease marring his brow. “Where were they stationed?”
“Two in Baysaht and one in Tarakshan, sire.”
He scowled. Nearly forty men had vanished now. Where on the moonsdamned continent were they disappearing? Before he could question further, another adviser rushed in, panic etched across his features. Zanjeel had been expecting him.
With another wave of his gnarled hand, he dismissed the room.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Sire, the news is concerning,” the adviser panted. “The party sent to Alzahra has returned empty-handed. There was no sign of the Moon Queen, her mother, sister, or even the prince.”
Concerning, indeed.
“They were warned. Prepare a team to find them. Dhil will lead.” Zanjeel passed a hand over his beard. “They’ll likely seek shelter in Shahbaad, with her maternal grandfather.”
“And what of Alzahra, sire?”
“I suspect the senior adviser will rule in the interim. What was his name?” Zanjeel snapped his fingers. “Ebrahim. We’ll need to wrangle him into submission.”
This may work out better than expected.
Another kingdom pressed beneath his thumb.
Zephyria, weak from war reparations and with its newly minted King Ebric, desperate for any guarantee of protection.
Sendouk, home of the Gundaari, ruled by power-hungry King Jehan.
Shahbaad, a few well-timed shoves away from collapse.
And now, Alzahra.
“What are you waiting for?” Zanjeel snapped. “Send men to find the Moon Queen and another group to Alzahra to manage affairs.”
The adviser hurried out of the hall, leaving Zanjeel alone.
Well, not quite alone.
A dark, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows.
Zanjeel scowled.
“Eavesdropping again, Ruslayn?” he drawled. “Come forward.”
The hulking man approached the dais and climbed the carpeted stairs, kneeling before him. Zanjeel pushed back the hood, and the man’s long, black hair spilled forth. He raised his head, revealing icy, blue eyes. A thick scar cut through his left eyebrow, reaching his ear.
“How fares the king?” Zanjeel asked, leaning back in the throne.
“He is acclimating well to his new accommodations,” Ruslayn rumbled, his voice dark and low. “The rats are keeping him company.”
Ruslayn hesitated, and Zanjeel knew what he was about to ask.
“Sire, letmelead the men to Shahbaad. I’ll kill the Moon Queen andherprotector.” He spat the words out as if they were poison.
Zanjeel regarded the younger man, studying the bulging veins in his thick neck, the wildness in his cold, blue eyes.
“No. Your history with the prince clouds your judgment.”
“He is no longer our prince,” Ruslayn seethed, teeth bared in a snarl. “He is a fucking traitor, and it should bemewho kills him.” He inhaled deeply, trying to regain his composure. “Father, please—”
