And there, rising above the warren of streets, orchards, and buildings was the palace—the shining jewel in the crown of Akram. White pillars capped with domes tiled in crimson and gold glowed in the early morning light like torches. Carved marble tigers, the animal on the Kadar family crest, stood sentry along the glistening white walls that hemmed in the enormous palace estate. Royal purple banners hung from the upper balconies.
Rahim smiled as the carriage entered the city and began winding its way toward the palace.
He’d done it.
Influenced the right people, said the right things, made bold decisions, and won the right to enter the palace as the true prince.
Soon, he would be crowned king, a worthy successor to the current ruler whose failing health would surely inspire him to quickly put his newly returned son on the throne.
And once he was king, he would test the loyalty of those who’d helped give him the crown. They’d better be prepared to pass his test. Their lives depended on it.
His smile stretched wide and feral as he pulled away from the window and looked at the bloodstained seat across from him while the carriage pulled to a stop and waited for the palace gates to open.
Hoofbeats thundered toward the carriage from the road behind him, and Rahim’s heart kicked up a notch. A shout echoed from the top of the vehicle, and Rahim spun toward the door in time to see a boy yank it open, kick a guard onto the ground, and then launch himself straight for Rahim.
EIGHT
JAVAN LUNGED FOR the carriage’s interior as shouts and the rasp of a sword leaving its sheath echoed behind him. Pulling the door shut, he threw the bolt and ignored the sound of a weapon slamming repeatedly against the latch.
Ice slid down his spine as he turned to stare at a face that looked remarkably like his own. High cheekbones. Sharp jawline. Narrow chin.
No wonder Aaler had been fooled.
The boy sat on the carriage seat, his lips pressed tight as he glared at the prince. Javan moved closer, studying the boy intently. Javan’s skin was a darker shade of bronze, his brow was wider, his ears set closer to his head. But if someone hadn’t set eyes on the true prince for a decade, if someone was simply expecting to see a young man who resembled a Kadar, the boy would pass inspection.
Javan would worry about what that meant later. Right now, he had a promise to keep.
The boy rose into a crouch, arms up to fight.
Good. A fight was exactly what Javan was looking for.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” the boy said. He looked furious.
“You’re about to be.”
The boy smiled, sharp and vicious, and Javan drew his short sword.
“This is for killing my headmaster. May Yl’ Haliq deal justly with your soul.” Javan feinted left and then dove straight for the boy as he jerked to the right.
The sword sliced into the boy’s upraised arm as Javan crashed into him, sending them both sprawling. Blood flowed, and the boy kicked and fought, making it impossible to raise the sword again in the confined space of the carriage.
Fine with Javan. Abandoning the sword, he drove his fist into the boy’s stomach, and then rocked back as the boy’s head slammed into his own. Lunging forward, Javan punched, elbowed, and kicked, absorbing the answering blows and ignoring the pain, until he had the boy beneath him again. Until his hands were around the impostor’s neck.
“You dishonored my friend, my family, and my kingdom,” Javan said, his breath heaving. “As the prince of Akram, I sentence you to death.”
The guards outside the carriage finally smashed the lock with their swords. The door flew open behind Javan and hands grabbed him roughly, hauling him off the impostor and out of the vehicle.
“Wait!” Javan cried as a trio of guards grappled with him, driving him to his knees in the dirt beside the carriage. “He’s an impostor. A threat. I’m the real Prince Javan. I can prove it.”
The cold scrape of swords leaving their sheaths filled the air. Javan twisted in the grasp of the guard who held him. “Get the king. Please. Or Prince Fariq. They know me.”
Desperation closed in as the guards ignored him. A second guard sheathed his sword to help the first hold Javan, while the third aimed his sword at the prince’s heart.
“I’m the prince! Please, just get the king. He’ll recognize—”
“What is the meaning of this?” Prince Fariq’s voice cut through the air as he strode out of the palace gate.
Relief rushed through Javan, turning his knees to water. “Yl’ Haliq be praised. Uncle, there’s an impostor in the carriage. A boy claiming to be me.” Javan met Fariq’s gaze. “He killed the headmaster of Milisatria and tried to kill me.” Javan jerked against the guards who held him, but they refused to let go.
“A boy claiming to be you?” Fariq laughed, an unpleasant sound that sent a whisper of warning over Javan’s skin as the boy climbed from the carriage, a bruise blossoming along his cheekbone, his arm still dripping blood. “Why would my beloved nephew claim to be anything other than the prince he is?”
Javan’s mouth dropped open, and the words died on his tongue as his uncle moved to the impostor’s side and wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Dread bloomed in his stomach like sickness as he studied the two of them together. The same jaw, ears, and hands. The Kadar eyes set just a bit wider apart than Javan’s. The resemblance between the two was strong enough that the impostor could be Fariq’s son.
“Yl’ Haliq be praised for your safe arrival,” Fariq said to the boy.
The desert air felt trapped in Javan’s lungs as he stared at Fariq. Hands whisked over Javan’s body, removing the two daggers he wore, and someone pulled Javan’s arms behind his back and wrapped a short length of iron chain around his wrists. He could barely find the strength to struggle against them.
“Uncle!” Javan’s voice shook. This was his father’s cousin, raised in the palace as if he was his brother. The man who’d come to Milisatria six times over the past ten years at the king’s behest to check on Javan’s progress and to bring him new clothing, honey cakes, and news from the palace.
This was the family Javan had been trying to protect from the impostor.
This was a traitor.
Fariq swept Javan with a disdainful glance, though he didn’t meet the prince’s eyes. “Do not speak to me as if you know me.”
Anger swelled, hot and thick, and Javan yanked at the chain that bound him. “Do not speak to me as if you don’t. I demand an audience with my father.” He craned his neck to look at the guards. “I want to see the king.”
The boy laughed and then spit blood on the dust beside Javan’s knees. “Traitors don’t get audiences with the king.”
“I’m no traitor!” Javan struggled to get to his feet, but the guards pushed him down. “I am Javan Samad Najafai of the house of Kadar, esteemed prince of the Kingdom of the Sun and heir to Akram’s crown of fire. Test me.” He looked at the guards. “Ask me anything. Ask me something only I would know.”
Most of the guards wouldn’t meet his gaze, but one—a thin man with graying hair and a black armband indicating a position of command, stared directly at him, a frown on his face. A flash of recognition hit Javan. He remembered this man. Abbas. The guard assigned to Javan’s mother. Javan opened his mouth to say something, but the man turned away from him and bowed deferentially toward Fariq and the impostor.
“Enough of this.” The impostor stepped away from Fariq’s side and stood in front of Javan. With quiet malice, he said, “You have dishonored your kingdom. As the prince of Akram, I sentence you to death.”
Panic hit, a shock of fear that shook Javan’s knees and set his heart pounding as the guards hauled him to his feet and dragged him away from the palace.
“Wait! Please! I swear I’m Prince Javan. Let me talk to my father. Keep me in chains if you must, but let him see me. He’ll know me.” Javan’s words tumbled out, fast and desperate, but it was no use. The guards had orders from Fariq,
and nothing Javan could say would change their minds.
He was going to die.
“Please listen.” Javan’s breath came in quick gasps and his pulse roared in his ears. The iron chain binding his wrists behind his back cut into his skin as he walked the streets of Makan Almalik, led by Abbas, the guard who used to be assigned to Javan’s mother.
“My name is Javan Samad Najafai of the house of Kadar. I just graduated with top honors from Milisatria Academy in Loch Talam and am returning home for the first time in ten years. The boy who told you to kill me is an impostor.” Javan’s voice was hoarse from pleading his case as the guard escorted him to the magistrate’s courtyard in the heart of the city where he would be beheaded for the crime of attacking the prince of Akram.
The irony was not lost on him.
“I can prove it,” Javan said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “One minute in the king’s presence, and he will recognize me. One minute. That’s all I ask.”
“Those who attack the royal family of Akram don’t get to ask for favors.” Abbas spoke with unflappable calm.
Javan’s voice rose as they reached the base of the hill, the palace perched high above them, and turned toward the center of Makan Almalik. “That boy isn’t Prince Javan of Akram. I am. He plotted to replace me because he looks enough like me to fool those who haven’t visited the academy in Loch Talam.”
“Prince Fariq visited Javan in Milisatria,” the guard said quietly. “Are you saying he failed to recognize his own nephew?”
No, Uncle Fariq hadn’t failed to recognize Javan. How could he? He’d seen his nephew just last year on a two-day stop as he traveled to visit the king and queen of Loch Talam. Javan’s heart ached, and grief pressed sharply against the back of his throat. Fariq had lied. Thrown his support behind the impostor who looked like he could be Fariq’s own son, though Fariq himself had once told Javan the best way to deal with a bastard was to kill it before it grew old enough to want what it could never legally have. It didn’t really matter who the impostor was. Fariq had turned his back on his family. His honor.
The understanding that his uncle wanted him dead—that he was even now welcoming the impostor into the heart of the palace knowing that Javan was about to be executed—was a live coal sinking into the pit of Javan’s stomach.
If Fariq could kill his nephew to put another on the throne, how long would it be until he killed his cousin, the king? Surely Fariq didn’t believe he could deceive Javan’s father for long. The impostor would make a mistake. Forget one tiny detail. And the king would know.
Maybe his father hadn’t neglected to show up to Javan’s graduation on purpose. Maybe Fariq had somehow kept him from it so that the king wouldn’t know about the ruse until it was too late.
They were going to kill his father and take his kingdom, and Javan was the only one who knew. The only one who could save his father and his people.
But first he had to save himself.
And he was quickly running out of time.
“You look familiar,” he said as they passed a bakery with honey cakes and almond-crusted cinnamon knots on display. The air smelled of hot chicory and sugar, and Javan’s stomach rumbled. “I’m certain I remember you.”
“Move faster,” the man answered as they wove their way past clusters of people standing outside a racetrack wearing white linen with sashes the color of their favorite stables, waiting for the betting hall to open. Several craned their necks to watch the guard escorting the boy whose hands were bound in iron chains.
Frantically, Javan cast about until he unearthed a memory—faded and blurry, but it was the best he could do. The picture of happier times, easier times, was a bittersweet pain that bloomed in the hollow space carved out by Fariq’s betrayal.
“You carried me once,” Javan said softly. The racetrack disappeared behind them as they turned onto a street lined with stately white buildings whose tiny courtyards each had a single fountain flanked by a pair of orange trees. The road ended in front of a wide building with a brown domed roof and a courtyard fountain, only this fountain wasn’t flanked by orange trees. It was flanked by a pair of muqsila, their large blades affixed to their iron frames and hanging suspended over the stocks below, ready to decapitate anyone whose crime deserved death.
Javan’s stomach pitched, and the thick, sun-soaked air felt impossible to breathe.
He spoke faster, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. “I think you were assigned to guard my mother. Your name is Abbas, right?”
The guard ignored him. They were halfway up the street, and Javan couldn’t take his eyes off the muqsila blades glittering like silver glass in the sun.
He’d get to plead his case before the magistrate and ask for evidence and witnesses to be produced, though it was unlikely he’d get much of a stay of execution when everyone believed the crown prince was the one who had ordered Javan’s death. Especially with Prince Fariq ready to lend credence to the impostor’s every word.
Would it hurt? Or would it happen too fast to feel anything at all? One moment, he’d be kneeling in the magistrate’s courtyard, his arms locked in the stocks, his neck resting on a slab of wood with the blade poised above him. The next, he’d be in the verdant fields and golden cities of Yl’ Haliq, earning his reward for his faithful service.
Except that he hadn’t completed his service.
He hadn’t protected his father or his people. He hadn’t done anything at all except honor his mother’s muqaddas tus’el.
And he was out of time.
“Yl’ Haliq, be merciful upon your servant’s soul. Grant me absolution from my sins and forgiveness for my enemies.” He choked on the second line of the dying man’s prayer, but the sacred texts were implacable in their requirements of him. He couldn’t die with a pure heart if he harbored hatred for another.
He’d always thought forgiving others before death would be easy. What did it benefit you to hold an old grudge when you were moving into the next realm?
But now the pain of the injustice done to him lodged in his heart like a splinter of fire.
Abbas roughly hauled Javan into the magistrate’s courtyard. Javan glanced at the guard’s uniform, at the black armband that denoted him as the head of the palace unit. It was too late for the prince. It didn’t have to be too late for his father.
“Please double the guard on the king,” he said quietly as they approached the closest muqsila. “Even if you don’t believe that I’m telling the truth, you must know that he’s in danger. Whoever is trying to take the throne can’t do that while the king is still alive. Not unless he abdicates, which he won’t do once he realizes the boy in the palace isn’t his son.”
The guard said nothing, and Javan’s feet slowed as they reached the bloodstained stocks of the muqsila. His lips formed the rest of the dying man’s prayer, his words a faint breath of sound as his throat closed and his eyes stung.
Soon the magistrate would step out, flanked by his clerks, and the futile process of pleading for his life against the testimony of a royal would begin. It didn’t matter that Fariq and the impostor hadn’t accompanied Javan to the magistrate’s office. The word of the head of the palace guard would be enough to condemn Javan. He was going to fail to complete the destiny Yl’ Haliq had given him. He was going to fail to protect his father.
But he was finally going to see his mother again after eleven long years. The knowledge was an anchor of peace in the center of the raging tumult of fear and grief that stormed within him.
He opened his mouth to ask for the magistrate to take evidence, when Abbas said, “Why do you care what happens to the king? You just tried to kill his son.”
“I’m his son.” Javan raised his head to look at the guard.
They stared at each other for a long moment, their silence broken by the tinkling splash of the fountain and the cooing of doves roosting in the building’s dome.
“It’s a strange thing for a traitor to want to protect the king,
” Abbas said.
“I’m not a—”
“Traitor? Of course you’d say that. You’d say anything to avoid being executed.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’d even pretend to worry about the king to deflect suspicion.”
Javan shook his head, desperation lacing his words. “Do what you will with me, but please double the king’s guard. Swear it before Yl’ Haliq. I’m begging you.”
Abbas frowned, and stared at Javan for a full minute before finally saying, “I’ll double his guard.”
“Thank you.” Javan drew in a breath, but before he could say anything more, the guard said, “You definitely look like a Kadar. I’m not sure I remember you. It’s been ten years. You could be the traitor, or it could be the boy in the carriage. Either way, Fariq runs the kingdom far more than the king these days, and he gave me an order. I can’t disobey without losing my own life.”
The man’s jaw tightened. His gaze slid from Javan’s to the muqsila behind the prince. Then he abruptly grabbed Javan’s arm and pulled him away from the blades of death and toward the magistrate’s office instead.
“What are you doing?” Javan asked as they passed the fountain and began mounting the steps that led toward the front entrance.
“I’m not going to chance having a royal’s blood on my hands. Not when I swore an oath to protect them. Say nothing about who you claim to be. If anyone finds out that you’re still alive, I’ll be dead, and shortly after so will you.” He reached for the door handle.
“What are you going to do with me?” Javan asked as the door swung open and the scent of parchment, ink, and peppermint sticks spilled out.
“I’m doing the one thing that will keep us both alive and, if you’re smart about it, could eventually give you what you need to prove your claims.”
“All I need for proof is a few moments with my father.”
The guard escorted Javan into an entrance lined with framed quotes from the sacred texts and said, “I’m throwing you into Maqbara. Gaining an audience with the king will be entirely up to you.”