“Not everything, I hope,” the woman who clung to the man’s arm murmured. “We need something held back—”
“I have a major trade contract up for approval in Prince Fariq’s office,” the man snapped, silencing his wife. “You know he only approves contracts for those who attend the tournament, cheer loudly, and bet big. Without that contract, we’ll lose a lot more than the amount I’m prepared to bet on this boy if he has enough skill.”
Javan’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at the man as if hoping to hear more about the way Prince Fariq awarded favor to those who supported the tournament.
Another man laughed. “Already saw his skills in the last round, didn’t we? Bet this one had training from somewhere.”
The rotund man who’d shut down Lady Bah’ Thrayn’s complaints spoke quickly. “Probably just another street rat who grew up fighting in the peasant quarter.”
Sajda raised a brow and handed Javan a bow and a quiver of arrows, her hand brushing his for a split second before he turned toward the target mounted fifty paces away.
Blood from his shoulder wound caked his tunic, drying a rust-brown at the edges though the center of the stain was still a dark crimson. He hefted the bow, testing its weight and balance, and then reached for an arrow. His jaw tightened as he nocked the arrow and smoothly lifted the bow. Drawing back the string, he let the arrow fly. It buried itself in the center of the target. Two more arrows immediately followed, each hitting the center ring.
A few in the group surrounding him clapped lightly as he handed the bow and quiver back to Sajda. Blood flowed fresh from his shoulder, but he didn’t seem aware of it. Instead, he turned to face the bettors and slowly looked each of them in the eye.
“Would you like to see Javan use another weapon?” Sajda asked.
“I think we’ve seen plenty—”
“The sword,” a woman interrupted the fat little man, and he cast a quick frown up at the warden.
Sajda handed Javan a sword. Sending an icy smile toward the man who she now suspected was working with the warden, she said, “I think you’ll find this prisoner is an experienced swordsman.”
A murmur swept the group as Javan performed a complicated series of exercises, the sword moving through the air in smooth, competent strokes. Proof that he understood the mechanics of the weapon and was an expert.
Before anyone else could suggest another weapon, the warden’s cohort swept Javan toward the strength test. As the others made to follow, the woman who’d requested the sword demonstration said, “That’s no street rat.”
“Did you see his face? Reminds me of the royal family.”
“And he shares the same first name as the prince.”
“He’s had professional training. You don’t get that unless your family has money.”
The group moved too far away from Sajda for her to hear the rest of their conversation, but it didn’t matter. The speculation would catch fire and spread. Every aristocrat who was attending the competition would be watching Javan tomorrow. He would be grist for the gossip mill for weeks.
If the warden thought she could contain the fact that she had an aristocrat in Maqbara, she was seriously mistaken.
Sajda glanced up at the warden’s platform once more, her magic sizzling beneath her skin at the look of dark satisfaction on the warden’s face. Surely she realized that even though she’d effectively kept Javan from telling his story to anyone with influence, she couldn’t contain the curiosity. The rumors. And yet, she looked unperturbed. More than that, she looked pleased.
The skin beneath Sajda’s cuffs stung as her magic hurled itself against the iron.
If the warden looked pleased, it meant she was already two moves ahead in the game, and that meant Javan was in trouble.
Sajda stared across the arena at the boy’s back as he stood, proud and confident while the bettors prodded his muscles and discussed his merits as if he couldn’t hear them. Something dark opened in her chest, pressing against her throat until she had to turn away or risk losing the last of the icy composure she was barely clinging to.
She didn’t know how to save Javan from the warden. She had no idea what he’d be facing in the arena the following day. And even if she did save him, she would still be no closer to saving herself.
Throwing her shoulders back and relaxing her stance, she angled her chin to mimic the casual confidence of the aristocrats around her and mouthed their words, trying for the polished accent that marked someone as an educated, wealthy member of society.
The darkness within her ached, but she kept her expression cold and distant as she practiced looking like she was free.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE MORNING OF his second round of competition Javan woke from a restless sleep with his stomach in knots.
The impostor was in the palace, sheltered by Uncle Fariq, a betrayal that still cut deep. Javan’s father would surely be killed the moment he realized the impostor wasn’t his son, or the moment he gave up the crown, whichever came first. Akram was in danger of being ruled by corrupt, dishonorable men. And the only way Javan could escape the prison and set it all right was to close the significant gap between himself and the competition’s leaders today by destroying more innocent creatures without getting himself killed in the process.
He really didn’t want to be killed. Was it selfish of him to want to live, not just for Akram or for his father, but for himself? To want the chance to dance with Sajda, to escape Maqbara, and to do all the things he’d turned down at Milisatria in the name of duty?
Climbing off his cot, he dropped to his knees and whispered his morning prayers while the faint light of dawn filtered in through the prison’s skylights. His chest felt too tight to breathe evenly, and his hands shook.
What would he be facing in the arena? He’d worked out a decent plan of defense and attack with Gadi, Nadim, Kali, and Intizara, and he was confident Sajda had hidden their preferred weapons where she’d said they’d be. But not knowing what he’d be fighting was a jagged blade that hacked at his composure until he wanted to scream.
How could he solve a puzzle when he didn’t have all the pieces?
First bell sounded, harsh and clamorous, and the iron cell bars began their slow journey toward the ceiling. The corridors filled with the sound of prisoners making their way to the kitchen. Javan remained where he was.
Yl’ Haliq knew how important today was. Surely he wouldn’t let Javan fail.
He waited to feel the calming presence of Yl’ Haliq, but there was nothing. The anxiety thrumming through Javan soured into fear, and he forced himself to exhale.
Fear out.
Courage in.