Yl’ Haliq was with him whether Javan could feel him or not. The sacred texts were clear. Hanging on to that thread of reassurance, Javan climbed to his feet and turned to find Sajda standing in his doorway, Tarek just behind her. The early morning light gleamed against her black hair and lingered on her pale skin in a way that made Javan’s heart beat a little faster.
“You look like you didn’t sleep.” Her voice was full of accusation.
“It’s a little hard to sleep before something so important,” he said as he stretched and then reached for a clean tunic.
“All the more reason to make sure you do.” She turned away as he pulled on his gray tunic and sat down to lace up his boots. “You can’t make any mistakes today.”
“I know.”
Tarek slipped past Sajda and handed Javan a banana and a bowl of lumpy porridge nearly the same color as the prince’s shirt. “Eat. You’ll want to give the food time to settle before the competition starts.”
Javan nodded his thanks, and Tarek squeezed his shoulder and smiled while Sajda paced at the door of his cell, her mouth tight.
“Your allies can’t make mistakes either,” she said, shooting a glare at him before turning away again.
“I know.” He ate the banana in four bites and then forced himself to swallow the lukewarm, congealing porridge.
“You have to watch out for Hashim and his gang. And for the warden. She isn’t supposed to intervene, but don’t trust her. If she already tried to kill you once, then she might still be working with whoever put you here.” Sajda’s voice sharpened. “And you can’t turn your back on the middle of the arena. Not for a second. I don’t know what’s in there. The warden herself brought in a creature last night, and three of the guards who helped her were killed. I found their bodies at the edge of the arena this morning.” Her voice shook at the edges, and she twisted her fingers together as if to stop her hands from trembling.
Javan’s stomach clenched, and the food he’d just eaten turned to stone in his belly. Handing his empty bowl to Tarek, he walked to where Sajda still paced in front of his doorway, her graceful strides eating up the floor while her fingers drummed restlessly against her leg. It was such a change from her usual predatory stillness that it sent the anxiety inside him spiraling into fear again, though this time for a very different reason.
If the warden was still working with the impostor, what would she do to her slave if she realized Sajda cared what happened to the prince?
“Please don’t worry,” he said quietly while his pulse raced, and his stomach churned.
“I’m not worried,” she shot back.
“Sajda.” He reached for her, his hand brushing the bare skin of her arm. She spun toward him, and for a second, her dark blue eyes were haunted with misery and fear. Then she slapped a hand against the stone wall beside her, closed her eyes, and drew in a shuddering breath.
When she looked at him again, her cold, unflappable demeanor was back in place. Meeting his gaze steadily, she said, “You still have lessons to teach me, Prince.”
“I know.”
“So don’t die.”
He swallowed hard. “I won’t.”
Javan spent the entire walk down to the arena praying that he could keep that promise—for Sajda, his father, his kingdom, and himself.
The arena was full of reddish brown sand nearly as deep as Javan’s waist. Patches of the sand glowed like blood beneath the skylights. Small black flags were planted above the location of the weapons Sajda had buried the day before. Aristocrats and some wealthy merchants in pale linen with brilliant sashes and wraps filed in through the door that led from the magistrate’s office, checking to make sure the palace steward was recording their attendance as their voices filled the hollow space with the bright din of excited conversation and laughter.
Their laughter made Javan feel sick.
People were going into the arena to fight and possibly die for the entertainment of those who would never have to worry about entering Maqbara as anything other than a spectator. Javan prowled the space between the stalls and the arena’s entrance, shaking out his arms and keeping his muscles loose, while he glared at the crowd.
“Don’t waste your energy on them,” Intizara said as she began pacing beside him, her expression fierce. “This is a game, and we’re their pawns.”
“We’re people, not pawns.”
She snorted. “What part of Akram do you come from?”
He hesitated, and then said carefully, “I was actually raised in Loch Talam. I only recently returned to Akram.”
“That explains your fancy accent,” she said. “I knew you couldn’t be a real aristocrat like some of the prisoners think. Aristocrats don’t end up in Maqbara. They’re too busy accusing us of crimes—inventing the evidence if they have to—so they can take our businesses and enslave our children. This”—she swept an arm out to encompass the arena—“is just another way to show us that in Akram the rich now own us from our first breath to our last.”
Javan met her gaze while anger burned hot and bright within him. “That goes against everything the sacred texts teach.”
“The sacred texts don’t seem to matter now that the king is in poor health and his cousin is helping with his duties until the prince returns.”
She started to walk away, and Javan grabbed her arm. “Fariq is helping to rule Akram?”
“Not officially,” she said. “But everyone knows he makes some of the decisions now. This competition was his idea. A way to entertain the aristocrats, keep the prison population down so that more can be sent here on nothing more than the word of those loyal to him, and line both his pockets and the warden’s. The king only shows up at the end, and it’s clear he’s confused about where he is and what he’s doing, but Fariq likes to check in on the competitors.” She nodded toward the royal box, and Javan whirled to find his uncle and the impostor standing, their backs to the arena as they chatted with a few members of the aristocracy, a group of palace guards stationed by the door.
The muscles in his neck knotted, and something oily and slick coated his stomach as he glared at their backs.
He was in prison because of them. Risking his life because of their lies. Their corruption.
The truth burned on his tongue, and he longed to shout it for all the crowd to hear. His body trembled with the effort of keeping silent, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to expose the impostor now except a swift death sentence. Javan had no leverage. No advantage. And the one person with the power to reverse his situation wasn’t here.
“Betting closes in a few moments,” the warden’s gravelly voice boomed out from her platform above the arena. “Competitors, line up.”