“I . . . no, I didn’t.”
“That’s no way to treat the goddess. There are mice in the prison. The kindness you show to the least of these reveals your true self to the world.” The words from the sacred text flowed from her tongue with easy practice.
“I’ve always liked that passage.” He smiled at her, but she narrowed her eyes at him. Quickly, he said, “Here’s what I have to offer, and no one has to beat me at thistles and thieves to get it. I want to fight with you four as a team in the next round of competition. I’ll work with you to come up with a strategy that plays to our individual strengths, and I’ll know where your preferred weapons will be hidden. In exchange, I expect you to stand and fight with me so that we can give ourselves the best possible chance of getting out of the arena alive.” And the best chance of helping him gain enough points to qualify for the final round. It would be far easier to focus on killing whatever was going into the arena with them if he didn’t have to worry so much about being ambushed by Hashim.
Silence descended across the small table, and the noise from the rest of the room pressed close. Cards slapping against tabletops. Swearing. Chairs scraping the stone floor while the sharp bark of mocking laughter rose from Hashim’s corner.
“You’ve got some pretty nasty enemies,” Nadim finally said.
Javan met his gaze. “I do. And having you four to help watch my back would help me stay alive. But I’ll be helping you too. I’ll know exactly where you can find your preferred weapons. And I’ve had combat training—”
“We know,” Intizara said. “We’ve seen you spar with Sajda.”
Gadi shuddered and muttered a quick prayer. “There’s something strange about that one.”
The others murmured in agreement, all of them watching him as if waiting to hear what he had to say on the matter. When he didn’t reply, Nadim said, “I’m not agreeing to anything yet, but I’d like to hear your strategy for getting all five of us through the next round alive.”
Relief unwound a bit of the tension that was strung through him like a taut rope. Quickly he outlined his idea for a fight formation based on his strengths and theirs. He had no idea what they’d be facing—he didn’t even think Sajda knew—but some strategy was better than none. When he was finished, they turned away from him, leaning across the table to whisper to one another while he sent a silent prayer to Yl’ Haliq.
Finally, Intizara turned back to him and said, “You have a deal. We’ll start working together tomorrow during sparring practice. But if Hashim comes at you outside the ring, you’re on your own.”
“Agreed.” He stood as the guards shouted for prisoners to return to their cells before twelfth bell. “Thank you.”
He had allies. He’d know where the weapons were courtesy of Sajda. And he would pray every chance he had that he could kill whatever he’d be facing in the arena before it killed him.
TWENTY-FIVE
TWO DAYS LATER, during the hour he was allowed out of his cell for chores, Javan crept out of the third level privy he was supposed to be scouring, took the stairs down to the arena, and found Sajda marking a sheet of parchment with the placement of the weapons for the combat round that was now two days away. Her back was to him as she stood in the center of the arena, black hair glowing almost midnight blue under the skylights as she gazed thoughtfully into the distance.
He hadn’t talked to her since she’d left him behind to scrub the arena without her two days earlier. She hadn’t brought his meals. She’d stayed near the stalls during sparring practice and chores. And though he was constantly aware that she was near, watching over him in case Hashim made a move, she refused to make eye contact and never came close enough for him to speak to her.
Tarek had brought Javan meals on both days, and had quietly deflected Javan’s questions about Sajda until this morning, when he finally looked at the prince and said, “Stop asking me what’s going on. Go find out for yourself.”
Easier said than done. Javan didn’t know what he’d said wrong in their last conversation, though he thought maybe it had to do with the cuffs she wore. The sight of them sent a spike of red-hot anger blazing through him as he slowly approached Sajda while hoping the guard who’d instructed him to clean the privy closets on the third level didn’t catch sight of him and decide to beat him a day before he had to enter the next round of competition.
The faster he figured out what to say to Sajda, the faster he could get back to his chores and avoid compromising himself for combat. He opened his mouth to speak, but something warm and dangerously soft filled his chest as he watched her frown over the parchment.
He’d missed her.
He hadn’t just missed their sparring sessions or her relentless pushing to build alliances for the competition. He hadn’t just missed the way she gave him advice with cheerful pessimism or the way she questioned him closely about the outside world, guarded hope in her eyes.
He’d missed her. The eyebrow that rose when she thought he was wrong. The little smirk at the edge of her lips when she got the best of him. The light of fierce intelligence and challenge in her eyes when they talked.
Being her friend was like taking a ride on a half-wild stallion with nothing but your wits and your courage between you and a long, dangerous fall. It felt fascinating and dangerous—a test he still didn’t know how to pass. Somehow, despite the fact that he was in danger from the beasts, the warden, the impostor, and his fellow prisoners, being around Sajda was like coming alive after years of sleeping like the dead.
He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to let go of the horse’s mane and tumble to the safe, predictable ground. He’d known her for a month—less time than it usually took him to notice a girl at Milisatria—but here in the bleak confines of the prison where the few hours he spent with her each day were the ray of light in the darkness that was swallowing him, a month had been enough to know he wanted more of her friendship. More of her time. More of her.
And if he wanted that, then he had to find a way to fix whatever he’d broken.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked, staying at the edge of the arena to give her space if she still craved it.
She went still, and then deliberately took another minute to write a note on the parchment. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were distant, her expression cold.
His heart ached, a sudden shaft of pain that he didn’t want to examine closely. Instead, he said, “I did what you asked.”
She raised a brow.