He hadn’t known blood would smell like sweetly decaying metal. Hadn’t imagined the awful way a body sagged when the spirit that once inhabited it was gone.
And he would never have guessed that killing someone would be so unsettling.
The future king of Akram couldn’t afford to be unsettled by the taking of a life.
Slowly lowering the sash from his face, Rahim forced himself to breathe in the scent of blood. Forced himself to stare at the awkwardly slumped body with its glassy stare until it was no longer unsettling. No longer upsetting.
Until it was nothing at all.
The path to a king’s throne was often paved with the bodies of his enemies.
Rahim had only just begun.
SIX
JAVAN JOLTED FROM unconsciousness when his body hit water. His eyes flew open, and he dragged in a quick, startled breath as he broke the surface of whatever body of water he’d been thrown into. The sun was a pale light in the sky, and Javan’s heart raced. He’d lost the chunk of time between leaving the tavern and dawn. Was anyone out looking for him yet?
For a second, he could see the faces of his attackers—three Akramian men with rough woolen cowls pulled over their heads—and then they disappeared from sight as murky water rushed over Javan’s face and pushed against his lips like it wanted permission to flood his lungs.
Javan tried to lift his arms, but his hands were tied behind his back. Tried to kick, but his legs were tied together at the ankles. He was trussed up like a pig on a spit, and the sunlight that grazed the surface of the water was quickly disappearing.
He was sinking.
Jerking his body, he kicked his legs as one, trying to swim without using his arms, but he kept steadily drifting toward the bottom of the lake.
Panic hit, slicing though his thoughts like a hot knife.
He was going to drown. Suck the murky water into his lungs and never be seen again. Jerking against the ropes that tied him, he thrashed and struggled while his lungs began straining.
Why was he sinking?
Forcing himself to stop struggling, he tried to think.
Weights in his cloak pockets. It had to be. There was no other explanation for his rapid descent. His lungs begged for air as his pulse pounded inside his head.
He had to get his cloak off. It was his only chance.
His chest ached with the need to take a breath as his feet grazed the bottom of the lake, his boots catching on the rocky surface. Yl’ Haliq be praised that the lake was shallow enough to allow a faint sheen of sunlight to help Javan see his surroundings.
Prayers tumbled through his mind as he frantically looked around the lake floor, searching for something he could use. He was surrounded by algae-coated rocks. Ignoring the fierce pressure in his chest, Javan crouched in front of a rock the size of his torso and thrust his bound hands toward its sharp edges.
A quick bite of pain snaked up his arm, and blood bloomed in the water around him as the rock sliced into his palm. Desperately rubbing the rope against the rock, Javan pressed his lips closed while a faint ringing sounded in his ears and spots danced at the edges of his vision.
Yl’ Haliq be merciful, he didn’t want to die.
His thoughts began to fray, and panic screamed through him. Gritting his teeth, Javan called on his remaining strength and scraped the rope against the rock as hard as he could.
It gave. Heedless of the cuts that sliced into his skin, Javan scraped harder, tugging and pulling at the rope as it began to unravel. Seconds later, as the ache in his lungs became a burning pain, the rope loosened enough for Javan to pull one hand free. Quickly freeing the other, he shoved the cloak off, kicked his feet against the ground, and shot toward the surface.
At the last moment, he realized the men could still be on the shore watching for him. His lungs spasmed, and he nearly coughed. The ringing in his ears was deafening. When at last he couldn’t avoid breathing for another moment, he turned onto his back and let just his face clear the water.
Air rushed into his lungs, and the pressure eased. He stayed like that for nearly an hour, floating on his back just beneath the surface, letting his mouth leave the water long enough to take a breath before he submerged again, before he finally dared poke his head out of the lake to search the shoreline for his attackers.
They were gone.
Quickly, Javan swam to the bank, hauled himself onto the shore, and assessed the position of the sun.
The sun was halfway toward midday. That meant the royal coach was at Milisatria and everyone would be wondering where he’d gone.
He needed to get back to the academy to enlist the help of the royal guards and the headmaster to flush out the three men who’d tried to kill him and get some answers. It was unlikely Akramian peasants could afford to hire a Draconi assassin, which meant they were probably working for the same person. Javan had no idea why someone would want him dead, but the why mattered less right now than getting to safety before those who wanted to kill him realized he was still alive. Turning in a slow circle, he got his bearings and then started moving south toward Milisatria.
It was nearly noon by the time he reached the academy. There were still a few carriages scattered about the academy’s semicircular drive, but a quick glance showed that none of them were the teak and ebony vehicles preferred by Akram’s aristocracy.
Was the royal coach late? Or had the same person who’d sent men after Javan attacked his coachman and his guards too?
Javan hurried toward his dorm. Maybe Kellan was still here. Maybe one of his remaining classmates had seen something that would give Javan a clue about why anyone would want to kill him.
Did a rival family want to declare him dead and make a move to put themselves in line for the throne instead?
Was this a ploy to break his father’s will or punish him for something?
He brushed past a pair of third years who were hauling a chest between them and edged around a woman with a wide skirt and an even wider hat who stood, arms akimbo, in the center of the hall calling instructions to a trio of servants as they scrambled to empty her child’s room of its belongings.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the top floor quickly, but then had to lean against the wall as dizziness swamped him. His head still ached from the blow that had knocked him unconscious, and his near drowning had only served to make the pain worse. When the spell passed, he entered his hallway and moved to his room.
The door stood open, and the room was empty of all but the beds, dressers, and desks the academy provided for students’ use.
Javan blinked and moved a few steps into the room.
Where were his belongings? His blankets. His framed painting of Makan Almalik at sunset. His copy of the sacred texts.
He pulled open the drawers of his dresser while confusion warred with dread within him.
Everything was gone.
It was as if he’d never been here.