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.