The Traitor Prince (Ravenspire #3)
C.J. Redwine
ONCE UPON A TIME . . .
A BRISK WIND scoured the packed dirt streets of the peasant quarter in Makan Almalik, tossing grit into the night air and clawing at the robes of the young man who walked briskly down a side road, his cowl pulled over his head to guard his face against the onslaught.
The streets were deserted at this time of night. The lanterns hanging in their metal cages every quarter block illuminated rickety wooden shops with their shutters closed and goat hair tents with their flaps tied shut. Only a fool would venture out at midnight to face the tumultuous moods of Eb’ Rezr. The god of wind and rain was a capricious master—one the aristocrats of Akram had stopped serving over a century ago, after Yl’ Haliq, the all-powerful, had vanquished the lesser gods—but the peasants didn’t have the luxury of betting their survival on a single god.
Rahim buried his face in the coarse wool of his cowl as another gust of desert wind tore at him. The moods of Eb’ Rezr were useful to the FaSaa’il, the rebellious faction of aristocrats who sought to use Rahim as their puppet. The wind kept people inside—their prying eyes far from the faction and its activities—as they mumbled prayers and set aside tiny offerings from their already meager supplies to gods who couldn’t or wouldn’t help them.
Pathetic.
Rahim didn’t pinch mouthfuls of food from his meals to toss to the ground for Mal’ Enish, the goddess of animals, or cut strips of cloth from his robes for the priests’ collection barrels in honor of Sa’ Loham, the god of the poor. He needed no god, and neither did the superstitious peasants who clung to the belief that their offerings would somehow bring them rescue.
The fact that he’d been forced to spend seventeen years in a tent just like them, surrounded by poverty and desperation, was a bitterness that poisoned him with every breath. He should have been raised in the palace in Makan Almalik, claimed by his father, his every whim catered to. Instead, he’d been raised in his mother’s tent in a small desert town far from the palace. He’d toiled in heat and misery—by day learning the trade of a tailor and by night dreaming of the destiny that should have been his.
A destiny that could still be his if the FaSaa’il’s plan was successful.
Grim determination lent strength to his body and sharpened his thoughts as he passed a tiny mercantile shop, its walls shaking beneath Eb’ Rezr’s onslaught, and entered an alley that stank of camel dung and trash.
Two shadows detached from the wall as he approached, cowls pulled over their heads so that all he could see of the figures were their eyes—sharp and hungry.
Rahim’s eyes were sharp and hungry too, but there the likeness ended. His skin was a darker shade of bronze, his cheekbones set slightly higher, his chin a bit more pointed—all gifts from the royal blood that ran through his veins. He was the spitting image of a Kadar, and the resemblance was going to change his future.
“Yl’ Haliq meet you and keep you safe,” the taller man said.
Rahim’s heart thudded angrily, and it took all of his restraint to keep the sneer from his face. Instead, he answered, “Yl’ Haliq be praised.”
The man drew back, and his companion opened a narrow door in the side of the shop. Rahim moved past them and into the well-ordered stockroom as the door closed behind him. Before him stood five figures, shrouded in cloaks, though the material of their garments was far finer than anything he’d ever owned. The closest figure, a man with broad shoulders and an even broader gut, strode to Rahim’s side and wrapped a hand around his shoulder.
“Here he is, friends. The answer to our problems. Yl’ Haliq be praised that I happened to catch him trying to steal from me at the racetrack a few months ago!” The man’s fingers dug into Rahim’s shoulders, but the boy didn’t flinch.
Yl’ Haliq had nothing to do with any of it. Rahim had left his mother’s tent in the dead of night, traveled the distance between her town and Akram’s capital on foot, and then spent nearly five months on the streets of the city, his eyes downcast, begging for scraps from the priests, while he listened and learned.
It hadn’t taken long to pick up on the whispers of discontent among some of Akram’s aristocrats—families whose businesses had been heavily penalized by the king or who had lost royal favor for one transgression or another. It had been a simple thing to strike up a friendship with a servant from each house until he had the information he needed. Simpler still to target Lord Borak, the man he’d judged as the leader of the FaSaa’il, and get caught stealing.
One look from Borak at Rahim’s features had been enough to spare him a trip to Maqbara prison.
“This will never work.” A woman who stood on the opposite side of the room crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t just have him trade places with the prince. Someone will notice.”
“Our friend in the palace will help confirm his identity. Besides, look at him.” Lord Borak reached up and yanked Rahim’s cowl back to reveal his face. An older woman gasped and took a step toward him. “Remarkable. You can’t even tell he’s half peasant.”
Anger flashed through Rahim, heating his cheeks and curling his fists. It took effort to smooth his expression into something bland and nonthreatening. More effort to uncurl his fists and pretend his heart wasn’t slamming against his chest as these pathetic aristocrats sized him up like a horse on an auction block.
“See?” Lord Borak sounded triumphant. “He’s the spitting image of his father, Prince Fariq.”
“Who walks and dresses like a peasant,” the woman at the far end said. “I’m willing to bet he sounds like one too. He’ll be discovered, and he’ll give up our names, and then we’ll be killed, our families will be exiled, and our holdings will be turned over to the crown.”
Rahim shook off the man’s hand and stepped forward. Giving his voice the crisp polish Lord Borak had drilled into him over the past four months of instruction, he said, “Forgive me, madam, for my uncouth clothing, but I’m afraid until the trade is made, I must continue to blend in with the peasants. I assure you, I am entirely capable of passing as royalty when necessary.”
“But even if he looks like an aristocrat, the king will surely know his own son.” The man closest to Lord Borak frowned as he swept his gaze over Rahim.
“The king hasn’t seen his son in the ten years that the prince has been at Milisatria Academy in Loch Talam,” Lord Borak said.
“A father knows his son, no matter how long it’s been,” the man argued.
“Not when the father is taking daily doses of poison and can barely remember his own name,” Lord Borak shot back.
“You can’t be sure of that,” the man said.