You need to make your uncle understand. “Let me—” you start.
Your eyes go to his hands, holding the bundle.
“Your hands, Uncle. They’re burned,” you comment.
“Yes,” Nizam replies. “From trying to pull the poisoned cloak off your father.”
Something’s not right here. You can feel it.
“Is something wrong, Dastan?” Nizam asks.
You shake your head, stalling.
“You’re certain?” Nizam presses. “You know you can trust me, boy.”
You look back up into his eyes. He smiles at you.
“Tus is my brother,” you say. “How could he betray me like this?”
Nizam puts his hand on your shoulder, consolingly. “I can’t say, Dastan. Perhaps he never respected you as you deserved. Only saw you as someone he could use.”
You frown, recalling Nizam’s words at the banquet. “‘Someone to keep his wineglass filled,’” you murmur.
Your mind whirls, thoughts colliding with one another. “How many times did Sharaman tell of you saving him from that lion? It was his favorite story.”
Nizam’s eyes narrow. “One of many.”
“No,” you press, trying to figure out what is at the tip of your tongue. “That was his favorite.”
“I’m afraid you’re speaking in riddles,” he says.