A heavy silence fell across the table as the aristocrats shifted uneasily in their seats.
Rahim pressed his palms together and touched his fingertips to his forehead in a show of obeisance. “You told me it was important that the coronation was scheduled quickly. I thought that meant I should take steps to make that happen. My apologies if I misunderstood.”
Fariq paused for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t misunderstand what needs to happen, but from this point forward, you don’t make a move that I haven’t authorized. Is that clear?”
“Of course.” Rahim smiled through gritted teeth.
The FaSaa’il drew a collective breath and the mood in the room lightened.
“Now let’s discuss the rumors about the king’s health and how to combat the loyalists who are certain I must be behind it,” Fariq said. “We can’t have anyone taking issue with the upcoming transfer of power. I’d also like a list of all families with children who attended Milisatria. Those who can’t be turned to our side must be eliminated before our prince can make a public appearance. That might raise some questions, so I’ll also want a list of other influential families who can be bribed into being loyal to us.”
Rahim opened his mouth to suggest that they deal with the Milisatria families in a way that wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions at all, but Fariq whipped a hand into the air.
“You just sit and listen. When we’re ready for you to speak, we’ll tell you what to say.”
Fools, all of them. So sure the puppet they were using to take Akram’s throne didn’t have teeth of his own.
Rage was a fire churning through Rahim’s blood as he folded his hands in front of him, assumed an expression of boredom, and fantasized about driving a sword through the heart of every person seated at the table.
FIFTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Tarek was waiting beside Javan’s cell door as the bars rose slowly into the ceiling. The old man had two pieces of toast smothered in lentil paste and an orange in his hands.
Javan climbed to his feet, his knees aching from the hour he’d just spent in prayer. Still no peace. No direction. Just anger at the injustice of his position and a sense of wild anticipation that buzzed through him at the thought that today was a round of the competition the aristocracy came to see.
Today could be the day he finally saw his father face-to-face.
Pressing his hand against the sash folded over his heart and whispering one last prayer for deliverance, Javan met Tarek’s eyes and moved toward him. Tarek smiled.
“Figured you’d rather not go to the kitchen for your breakfast this morning.” He offered Javan both pieces of toast. “Sajda won’t be there to keep Hashim and his group in check like she was yesterday for lunch and dinner.”
Javan accepted the food and inclined his head in a sign of respect for the older man. “Thank you.”
It was a blow to his pride that he’d needed Sajda’s help to get his meals, but he couldn’t deny that she was the only one Hashim seemed to fear. It was clear Javan’s interference with Hashim’s treatment of Tarek had bought him nothing but ill will from the man—there’d been eight prisoners flanking Hashim in front of the kitchen’s long table at each meal, blocking Javan from the food. Until Sajda, with her predatory grace and her cold-as-stone demeanor, had turned her unnerving gaze on them and quietly asked if they wanted to be fed to the beasts one piece at a time.
Even then, Hashim moved slowly. He’d obeyed her, barely, his expression mutinous as Sajda walked past him like he mattered less than the dust on the floor beneath her feet.
“How did you get out of your cell before the bars were raised?” Javan asked. If there was a way to roam freely, he needed to know it in case his father didn’t attend the event. Or in case he couldn’t get close enough to be recognized.
He refused to consider that his father might not recognize him at all. That the king might believe the impostor was his true son.
“Been here so long the warden lets me stay in a room with a wooden door instead of bars in exchange for helping Sajda.”
“So Sajda isn’t a prisoner like you?” Javan asked.
Tarek’s expression darkened. “She’s the warden’s slave.”
The toast tasted like sawdust as Javan absorbed Tarek’s words. He couldn’t reconcile Sajda—with her confidence, her pride, and her incredible combat skills—with the word slave. There was nothing submissive about her. “How long has the warden owned . . . How long has Sajda been here?”
“Since she was five.”
How had she endured living trapped in the underbelly of the prison for so long? She had to be around his own age, which meant she’d been here for about a dozen years.
Twelve years of holding her own with hundreds of prisoners. Of navigating the treachery and violence that came with throwing the worst of the worst into a hole together. Twelve years of doing what it took to survive.
Suddenly her icy demeanor and relentless distrust of him made a lot of sense.
“The orange is for Sajda. Let’s go find her before the competitors crowd the area by the stalls. The prison’s normal routine is suspended today. Everyone who is competing will be down at the arena once they’re done with breakfast. Everyone else will be back in their cells until the round is over and the audience members are long gone.” Tarek clapped an arthritic hand on Javan’s shoulder as they moved down the corridor of level fifteen toward the closest stairwell. Already a swell of voices echoed from the arena far below. “Let’s talk about getting you out of the arena alive and mostly intact.”
Javan shot Tarek a look as they made their way down the stairs. “I’d prefer to remain completely intact.”
“Wouldn’t we all, but the beasts don’t care about pretty faces, and neither do your fellow prisoners. Now remember, each creature is worth a set amount of points. Point values will be written on the wall opposite the king’s box. Every creature you kill will add points to your score. Do yourself a favor and make sure the judges standing around the arena’s edges see you hold up your kill. Or if the beast is too heavy, make sure you get their attention. Wouldn’t want someone claiming a kill that’s yours. If you kill another competitor, you will receive a five-hundred-point deduction, but you’ll also gain that person’s tournament points. There’s been a round of competition already, but no one has reached five hundred points, so killing someone isn’t a strong strategy yet. Everyone who survives moves on to the next round.”