Not the kind of chills-down-her-spine challenge she saw in the eyes of Hashim and several of the other prisoners. Not the threatening kind.
More like he was determined not to show fear in the face of her icy dislike of him.
Which would be admirable, except that Sajda’s safety depended on the prisoners fearing her. If they didn’t—if they pushed her beyond the speed and strength she possessed—she had nothing left but her trapped magic. Magic she had precious little idea how to use as a weapon.
Plus, using magic against a prisoner would ignite a firestorm of rumors. It wouldn’t be long before someone put her magic together with the fact that Sajda’s hair always covered her ears and came up with the answer.
Dark elf.
Cursed.
Monster.
If she’d heard it said once, she’d heard it a thousand times: the only good elf was a dead elf.
Sajda had no intention of being a dead elf, which meant the new boy needed to learn to fear her. She knew exactly how to accomplish that. One quick sparring match with her, and he’d see her speed. Her strength. He’d know he was outmatched.
She waited until they’d reached the stalls before turning to Javan and saying, “The magistrate already put your name into the betting pool for tomorrow’s tournament, but of course since you’re an untried competitor, the aristocracy isn’t biting. If you survive tomorrow, maybe you’ll move up the ranks a bit, but now that you’ve made an enemy of Hashim, surviving isn’t likely.”
“You are quite the optimist,” Javan said in his elegant voice, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have no idea what competition you’re talking about, but I’ve had plenty of training, and I’m no stranger to winning contests of sport.”
Her brow rose. “Contests of sport? Who talks like that?”
He frowned. “Who doesn’t?”
“Everyone but you.”
“Aristocrats talk like that,” Tarek said quietly, his eyes on Javan.
The boy tensed, his gaze darting quickly to Tarek’s face before returning to Sajda. “I must have overheard it, then.”
Her eyes narrowed. His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. The vein at the side of his neck showed that his pulse was beating rapidly.
He was lying. But why?
“I’m sure that’s it.” Tarek gave Sajda a pointed look and said, “We should check on the beasts. Javan can help. His level isn’t assigned chore time until third bell. We’ll just tell the guards on level fifteen not to come looking when he doesn’t return to his cell at second bell—”
Sajda ignored Tarek. “Why are you lying?” she asked Javan.
His body stilled—prey who’d just sensed a predator closing in. “Lying about what?”
“Sajda.” Tarek’s voice was stern, something he never tried with her. “Let’s check the beasts.”
She shot a glare at Tarek. “I’m not turning my back on him. I don’t trust him.”
“He defended me.” Tarek put his hands on his hips.
“He’s lying.”
“We all have secrets. The boy proved himself—”
“The boy hasn’t even begun to prove himself.”
“The boy is standing right here and would really appreciate it if you stopped talking about him like he’s part of the scenery.” Javan uncrossed his arms and stepped forward.
Sajda whipped her arms up and crouched, her body braced for his attack.
Javan froze as he took in Sajda’s defensive stance. Raising his hands as if to show he meant no harm, he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. I already told you I would never do something so dishonorable.”
Why did he talk like an aristocrat? Was he spying on the warden? Surely a woman that vicious had enemies outside the prison.
Sajda’s magic bit into her skin as she considered another possibility. Could he be spying on her? Had she let something slip—been too strong, too fast, too frustrated by her restrained magic as the runes in her cuffs glowed—in front of someone? The warden had always warned her that if her true identity was discovered, she’d be killed. Maybe there were rumors about a dark elf in Maqbara and this boy had come to the prison to find the truth.
“Why are you here?” Sajda demanded.
“I was sentenced to prison by the magistrate—”
“Yes, but why?” She stared him down, magic itching painfully beneath her skin, begging for release. “You aren’t afraid of me. You defended Tarek against a pack of bullies. Both of those facts mean you must have combat training, which is rare to find in a prisoner. It also means you must think gaining Tarek’s trust, and by extension mine, will benefit you somehow. And you talk like an aristocrat. Aristocrats rarely get thrown into Maqbara. But here you are. I want to know why you’re here and what you want. If I’m not satisfied with the answer, you’d better pray your training is enough to save you from me.”
The skin beneath her cuffs ached as her magic hissed through her blood, a feral creature anxious to hurt the liar in front of her.
Javan stared at her, the silence between them punctuated by the sand scraping the skylights above and the faint slosh of a water beast in its cistern.
Finally, he said, “I won’t dishonor Yl’ Haliq by lying, but I can’t tell you the whole truth.”
“Wrong answer.” She rose from her crouch, magic burning, arms extended toward him, this aristocrat masquerading as a prisoner and trying to gain her trust.
Did he know what she was? Had the warden slipped up after all these years and told the wrong person just what kind of slave she was keeping in the bowels of Maqbara?
“Wait!” He kept his hands in the air, palms facing her even as she lunged for him.
“Sajda!” Tarek yelled as she crashed into the boy and wrapped her hands around his throat.
Magic hummed through her blood, stinging her palms as it reached for Javan, hunting for his strength, his truth.
The boy’s brown eyes widened as if he could feel the pull of her magic on his blood, and then he brought his arms up beneath hers in a sharp movement that loosened her hold on him and knocked her back a step.
He didn’t wait for her to find her footing.
Pivoting, he swept her leg with his, sending her hurtling toward the floor. She spun into the momentum of the fall, landed briefly in a handstand, and then flipped onto her feet again.
“Let me explain—”
She rushed toward him, letting her elven speed carry her fast enough that he never had a chance to brace before she crashed into him, wrapped her arms around him, and threw him to the ground.
He rolled as he landed and was back on his feet in a flash.
Definitely trained. She was going to have to be more elf than human if she wanted to gain his fear and his truth.
Pouring on the speed, she took two running steps forward and plowed her fist into his chest.
He flew backward, but as he fell, he grabbed the front of her shirt and took her with him.
“Let go!” She seized his wrists, magic raking at her skin, hunting for a way into Javan’s body. His mind. His weaknesses.
A tiny thrill of pain seared her wrists beneath her cuffs as his pulse beat rapidly against her palms.
She wanted to draw his strength and his composure from him and leave him shaking and weak. Leave him begging her for mercy. She wanted to hear the truth spilling from his lips so she would know if she was in danger or if the warden was the one in trouble.
Her magic prickled and hummed, and she imagined turning it loose on the boy with the challenge in his eyes and the aristocracy in his voice.
He dug his heels into the ground and flipped them. She hissed as her back hit the floor, her hands still wrapped around his wrists, his pulse fluttering against the heat of her magic.
“Let. Me. Explain.” He bit the words out as he eased back onto his knees, his legs straddling her waist as he opened his hands to show her his palms.
A gesture of surrender she couldn’t accept while she was
at a disadvantage. He’d surrender to her, but it would be because he understood that she could hurt him if he didn’t.
Feeling a faint whiff of regret for his pretty face, she concentrated on her strength, on the magic coiling in her blood, and then she sent her right fist straight into his jaw.
His head snapped back, and he hit the ground. Sliding away from him, she lunged to her feet, hands up and ready. He dabbed at the blood welling from a cut that had opened beside his mouth and then slowly stood to face her.
She frowned. His lips quirked.
“Are you smiling at me?”
“Yl’ Haliq forbid,” he said gravely, the ghost of a smile disappearing, though the challenge in his eyes had been replaced by something warmer.
“I just knocked you to the ground—”
“I knocked you down first.”
Tarek waved his hands in the air. “Maybe you two could stop fighting, and we could hear the boy out.”
“I didn’t actually fall. I turned it into a flip.” Sajda raised her chin to glare at Javan.
“And I flipped us both.” He tilted his head to the side to study her. “You’re fast. And strong. That’s a mean right hook you’ve got.”
She smirked, caught herself, and resumed glaring. “I was holding back.”
He gave her a slight nod. “I believe you. Whoever trained you truly understood how to help you harness your power.”
Her skin went cold, magic piercing it like shards of ice. “What do you know of my power?”
He frowned. “Lower center of gravity since you’re female, but still the power behind any combat move comes from the abdomen.” He glanced at hers, and then quickly looked away, a faint pink highlighting his cheekbones.
She drew in a slow breath, willing the painful itch of her magic to settle. Either he was the world’s best liar, or he knew nothing about her true power. And she’d already established that he was a terrible liar.
“Will you listen to me without trying to kill me now?” he asked. There was a note of deep sincerity in his voice that made her want to walk away.
She didn’t want his story. Didn’t want to understand why, even when she’d thrown him to the floor and punched him hard enough to split his skin, he hadn’t tried to do anything but hold his own.
He hadn’t tried to hurt her.
Either he was after the warden, or he needed her trust for something else entirely.
“I’ll listen,” she said. “But if I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to stop holding back.”
“Understood.” He glanced around them as second bell rang, but they were alone by the stalls. Still, the boy lowered his voice as he said, “I was accused of attempted murder.”
Her brow rose. Murder was the last thing she’d expected him to say. If someone wanted to plant an aristocrat in the prison, a murder accusation against a boy whose every move screamed “give me honor or give me death” was a pretty flimsy disguise.
“Did you do it?” she asked, and waited smugly for him to spin a tale about wrongful accusations and misunderstandings and could he please see the warden to sort it all out?
“Yes.” He held her gaze, a muscle clenched along his jawline.
Misery and defiance warred for dominance on his expression, and she blinked.
He was telling the truth.
“Who did you try to kill?” she asked.
Defiance won. “The false—a boy who stole my life. Took my belongings, killed my friend, and tricked my father.”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell me whole truth,” she said as her magic settled, a smooth heat coursing through her veins.
His dark eyes settled on her, and something in her stomach twisted in a warm, unfamiliar way. “I haven’t. But only because if I do, it could cost someone his life. Someone I owe a debt to for putting me here instead of executing me.”
“You’re an aristocrat, aren’t you?” She gave him a look that dared him to deny it.
“I was.”
He wasn’t a threat. Not to her. If he’d wanted to prove she was a dark elf, he’d have gone for her ears. Tried to push her into using her magic.
Maybe he’d rescued Tarek out of the sense of honor he wore like a second skin. Maybe he’d been trying to gain allies and had heard that Tarek was special to her.
It didn’t matter. She was satisfied that he wasn’t after her, and that was good enough for now. He’d made powerful enemies of Hashim and his crew, which meant that once tomorrow’s arena competition started, the problem of whether or not to completely trust Javan was going to be moot.
No way would he survive what was coming at him.
She turned away from Javan to check on the beasts, ignoring Tarek’s and Javan’s discussion of the upcoming tournament’s rules and then Tarek’s hurried explanation to the guards who’d entered the arena intent on punishing Javan for not returning to his cell by second bell.
It was easy to let their conversation wash over her and float away without leaving anything behind.
It was far harder to silence the whisper of regret that tightened her throat when she thought of the pretty aristocrat lying dead on the arena floor.
FOURTEEN
RAHIM FOLLOWED A page through a long corridor in the east wing of the palace, his woven sandals tapping a sharp rhythm against the mosaic tiles beneath his feet. Sunlight streamed in through windows set deep into the walls, washing the jeweled colors of the tiles with gold.
It had been three days since he’d arrived at the palace, and he’d spent his time doing what he did best: listening. Gathering information.
Planning.
The king was doing poorly. The poison he unknowingly swallowed twice a day dulled his senses and sent tremors through his body. It wouldn’t take much to finish what the poison had started, but the FaSaa’il didn’t want to make a move until the coronation ceremony, something the king seemed reluctant to schedule. They reasoned that if the king willingly abdicated to Rahim, anyone left who’d known the real prince would have no recourse but to accept Rahim as their ruler. If the king suddenly died, leaving Rahim the crown, and someone raised questions about the new ruler’s parentage, the aristocrats loyal to the current king could claim he was murdered and cause problems for the FaSaa’il’s bid for power.
Fariq ran the palace, and by extension Akram, while the king was indisposed, but even then, the king tried to keep his cousin’s authority on a short leash by refusing to just hand over the royal signet ring and allow Fariq to deal with all correspondence to ambassadors, magistrates, and aristocrats in the king’s place. Not that Fariq hadn’t found ways to get things done without the royal seal, but it made any true grab for power difficult.
The palace staff seemed evenly divided between those who showed genuine love and concern for the king and those who spied on him and were quick to do Fariq’s bidding when the king’s back was turned.
Which meant those same servants would be spying on Rahim, reporting his every move to Fariq and the FaSaa’il. No doubt the other half of the servants would also be watching him closely to make sure he truly was as dutiful to the king as a son ought to be.
Neither of them would find fault with him. He would walk the line between faction puppet and honorable prince until he was ready to strike.
“In here, Your Highness,” the page said as she stopped before a thick door of carved teakwood.
Rahim nodded his thanks and swept into a room filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Dust motes danced in the sunlight as he strode forward to take his seat at the long oval table that rested in the center of the library. Fariq sat at the head of the table. The five FaSaa’il members Rahim had met a month ago at Lord Borak’s behest were seated on either side of him, along with a man who hadn’t been at the original meeting. Rahim took a seat at the end opposite Fariq.
As soon as he was settled, Lord Borak leaned forward and caught his eye. “You’re looking every inch the prince, my boy.”
My boy. As if Rahim w
as nothing more than a trained dog who reflected well on his master. As if they weren’t all here because Rahim had been smart enough to see his opportunity and take it.
Schooling his expression into one of bland respect and obedience, Rahim inclined his head and said, “I am the prince, my lord.”
Lord Borak laughed and clapped his hands. “Excellent. Didn’t I tell you he could pull it off?” He looked around the table, but Fariq rapped his knuckles against the wood, and Lord Borak fell silent.
“The king suspects nothing,” Fariq said, “and his health continues to fail. I’m certain our prince can convince him to set a coronation date shortly so that we don’t need to worry about rumors or rebellion once Rahim is on the throne. My cousin has always been prone to put the needs of Akram above his own, so that’s the approach you use.” Fariq looked at Rahim. “Tell him you’re concerned about his health and want to ensure a peaceful transfer of power just in case.”
“I’ve tried,” Rahim said. “He isn’t yet willing to move forward.”
“I didn’t instruct you to do that.” Fariq’s eyes narrowed as he glared suspiciously at his son.
A heavy silence fell across the table as the aristocrats shifted uneasily in their seats.
Rahim pressed his palms together and touched his fingertips to his forehead in a show of obeisance. “You told me it was important that the coronation was scheduled quickly. I thought that meant I should take steps to make that happen. My apologies if I misunderstood.”
Fariq paused for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t misunderstand what needs to happen, but from this point forward, you don’t make a move that I haven’t authorized. Is that clear?”
“Of course.” Rahim smiled through gritted teeth.
The FaSaa’il drew a collective breath and the mood in the room lightened.
“Now let’s discuss the rumors about the king’s health and how to combat the loyalists who are certain I must be behind it,” Fariq said. “We can’t have anyone taking issue with the upcoming transfer of power. I’d also like a list of all families with children who attended Milisatria. Those who can’t be turned to our side must be eliminated before our prince can make a public appearance. That might raise some questions, so I’ll also want a list of other influential families who can be bribed into being loyal to us.”