“I have sources placed all throughout the palace. I am sure of everything,” Lord Borak said. “Now—”
“But what about the prince? The real one? Surely he’ll return to fight for the crown,” the man said and then took a step back as Rahim’s cold gaze landed on him.
“I am the real prince now. Anyone claiming otherwise must be put to death.”
The man flinched. “I didn’t join this group to kill a boy.”
“Quit being disingenuous, Lord Halim,” the woman at the back said. “You were the one who provided the poison our ally is giving to the king in place of the daily tonic he takes to treat his weakening heart.”
“But a boy—”
“‘Sometimes blood must be shed for the good of the kingdom,’” Rahim said.
Lord Borak shot him a look, and Rahim forced himself to incline his head respectfully. Better to let them believe they controlled him. That the puppet they thought they’d fashioned from a street rat would never turn on them the second he had the chance.
“We are doing what must be done,” Lord Borak said grimly. “The king has neglected the old ways, and has acquiesced to demands from both Ravenspire and Balavata at our expense. We’ve all lost land along the shifting lines of the kingdom’s borders. We’ve had sanctions placed on our horse races, our goods taxed, and our property invaded on accusations that we’re violating the new laws against selling child slaves or that we’ve thrown debtors into prison on false charges just to take over their businesses.” His voice rose as the others nodded in agreement. “We’re out of favor and losing power, and the only way to regain the upper hand is to put our own prince on the throne and take back what is ours.”
There was a beat of silence after Lord Borak finished speaking, and then Lord Halim said, “Let it be done. But this boy had better fool the king. I’m not going to die for treason.”
Rahim met Lord Halim’s eyes and then slowly moved his gaze around the room as each of the five aristocrats pledged their support to the plan. Kidnap the true prince after his graduation from the academy in the northern kingdom of Loch Talam. Kill him and send Rahim back to Akram in his place. Push for a quick coronation due to the king’s failing health, and once Rahim was installed on the throne, rule through him.
He bared his teeth in a smile as the pact was made.
He was no puppet.
By his father’s blood and his own tenacity, he was a prince. A ruler. A god among men.
And once he was through carving his destiny out of the blood and bone of those who stood in his way, everyone in Akram would bow before him, his name the prayer they raised as they begged for his mercy.
FOUR WEEKS LATER
ONE
WAITING WAS AGONY.
Javan Samad Najafai of the house of Kadar, prince of Akram, paced the stone corridor outside the headmaster’s office because staying still felt impossible.
He’d spent the past ten years at the prestigious Milisatria Academy for the Comportment and Education of the Nobility in the northern kingdom of Loch Talam, far from his family. He hadn’t seen his father since the moment the king had escorted him into the school at the age of seven and solemnly reminded him of his duty to his mother’s muqaddas tus’el before returning to Akram.
He’d done his best to fulfill his mother’s sacred dying wish that her son would earn the most honors of any prince educated at Milisatria. He’d studied hard for every exam. Taken extra classes and turned down invitations to visit the taverns and theaters in town so he could do schoolwork instead. He’d worked tirelessly to prepare himself mentally and physically for the challenge of earning the academy’s top honors, and now everything came down to the thin sheet of parchment the headmaster would soon be nailing to his door.
“Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous,” Kellan said. The crown prince of Balavata was slouched lazily against the wall opposite the headmaster’s door, eating a sandwich as if learning which ten students had qualified to compete in the upcoming final exam for the position of top honors was of little consequence.
Javan glanced at his roommate, his heart jumping in his chest. “Nothing makes you nervous.”
Kellan spoke around a mouthful of thick oat bread and ham. “I am pretty unflappable.”
Javan rolled his eyes, forced himself to breathe past the surge of nerves that wanted to close his throat, and continued pacing while two dozen of his friends and fellow students joined him in the corridor, their eyes lit with anticipation, their conversations echoing throughout the stone hallway.
Kellan shoved himself away from the wall and offered half his sandwich to Javan. “Here.”
“I’m not hungry.” And Yl’ Haliq knew if Javan tried to swallow anything right now, he’d choke.
“You’re always hungry.” Kellan raised an eyebrow at Javan, and the prince shook his head.
“I can’t eat right now. My stomach is in knots.”
Kellan grimaced and took a small step back. “Last time you said that, you vomited on my boots two seconds later.”
Javan punched Kellan’s shoulder. “That was in fifth year. And you said you’d never bring it up again.”
“Just making sure that’s the only thing that’s coming up.” Kellan winked at Javan, and the prince laughed, though it felt like his lungs were constricting.
He’d make the cut. Of course he would. He’d studied longer and worked harder than anyone else at the academy.
But what if?
What if the tricky question on his applied mathematics exam had knocked his grade down a point? There were three other students who were naturally better at math than he was.
What if he’d used the wrong codex to interpret the obscure quote on his philosophy exam? He could name five others who would never make that mistake.
What if the margin of victory he’d tried so hard to achieve was a fragile thing easily lost by a single mistake?
Yl’ Haliq be merciful, Javan couldn’t return to Akram without fulfilling his mother’s muqaddas tus’el. He’d never be able to look his father in the face again.
“Stop it.” Kellan smacked Javan’s back, his dark eyes glaring at the Akramian prince.
“Stop what?” Javan frowned at his friend, refusing on principle to rub the spot where Kellan’s handprint felt singed into his skin.
“Stop obsessing. You’ll make the list. You make every list. You always get everything you set your mind to. If I hadn’t spent the last ten years with an up close and personal view of your many flaws, I might be jealous.”
Javan snorted. “Since when are you jealous of anyone?”
Kellan grinned, but any reply he might have made was lost as the headmaster’s office door swung open. Silence descended on the corridor as every student watched the tall man with close-cropped gray hair and a neatly clipped beard step out of his office, a sheet of parchment in his hands.
“Greetings, students,” he said, his low voice filling the corridor.