He glared as his plan to simply slit Javan’s throat and walk out of the prison disintegrated before the knowledge that doing so could jeopardize his upcoming coronation. One of the prison guards could talk. The magistrate could connect Rahim’s visit with the death of the boy who looked like a Kadar. It was too risky to do the job himself, a fact that sent a flush of anger through his body.
Had the king heard the rumors yet? Rahim would have to make sure every guard around the ruler was loyal to the FaSaa’il and then instruct them not to allow the old man any visitors. And he’d have to come up with a less personal way to make sure Javan died before the king attended the final round of combat. Quickly sorting through his options, he turned to the slave girl and said, “Tell the warden I want to speak to her and then take me to the infirmary.”
She nodded, the barest inclination of her head that left him feeling like he was the one who’d been dismissed, and returned shortly with the warden.
Rahim kept it brief. “Announce to the prisoners that the aristocrat residing here and going by the name of Javan is an enemy of the crown. I will grant immediate release to any prisoner who kills him.”
The slave girl remained silent and still. It was infuriating that Rahim couldn’t tell if his words had made an impact.
“He’s becoming a crowd favorite,” the warden said. “If he dies suddenly, those betting on him will demand an investigation.”
Rage curled through Rahim. Would every person he spoke to today question his judgment? Had they no care for the power he wielded over their pathetic lives? Leaning toward the warden, he snapped, “Then tell them to do it in the arena. I don’t care. Just get it done.”
Turning away from the warden, he motioned for the girl to take him to the infirmary and followed behind her as her long strides ate up the corridor. The infirmary was a long room filled with beds. Eight prisoners were currently in residence, including the prince. Torches illuminated the dim space, and a quick glance around the room showed Rahim that the prisoners were all badly wounded. Most were asleep or unconscious, and the two who were awake were lying on their backs groaning in pain.
No one even bothered looking at Rahim as he moved to Javan’s bedside, leaving his guards and the slave girl behind in the hall.
Javan opened his eyes as Rahim approached, and anger swept his face. He struggled to sit up, and Rahim dug his hand into the bandaged wound on the boy’s stomach and shoved him back onto the mattress. Blood seeped into the bandage, and pain bracketed the boy’s mouth, though his furious expression remained unchanged.
Rahim leaned down and whispered, “Why don’t you just die?”
“You first.”
He bared his teeth. “Akram is mine now. The crown is mine. Your father is mine. You have nothing left to fight for.”
“There’s always something to fight for.”
“Keep fighting then.” Rahim shoved his fingers deeper into the wound, enjoying the hiss of pain that escaped the prince’s lips. “It will only make my victory sweeter. You’ll be dead by the end of the next combat round; but before you die, I want you to look in my eyes and know that I will personally kill your father once he gives me the crown. I was going to just let the poison he’s been drinking twice a day do its work. We’ve become rather close these last few weeks, and I thought it the most merciful course of action.”
“You know nothing of mercy. Or honor.” The prince spat the words at him.
“Mercy and honor are for those who’ve never had to fight for a single thing they possess. I know everything about taking what is mine and destroying those who stand in my way.” Blood soaked through the bandage and coated Rahim’s fingertips. He bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “And the knowledge that I will kill your father, that he will suffer as he dies, is how I will finish destroying you.”
Before the prince could reply, Rahim turned on his heel and left the room, and the prison, behind.
THIRTY-ONE
FIVE DAYS AFTER the false prince’s visit to Maqbara, Sajda paused at the door of the infirmary on her way from the weapons closet to the stalls. Javan was inside, still healing from his wounds, but she didn’t dare go talk to him. Not now that Hashim and several of the other injured prisoners were awake and aware.
With the warden’s plans to kill Javan failing, his popularity with the bettors growing, and the false prince’s bounty on Javan’s head in the next competition, Sajda didn’t dare draw attention to her friendship with Javan. For her sake, and for his. It was one thing to spar with him during level fifteen’s practice sessions—she often joined the sparring sessions for the upper levels, both to help the less capable prisoners with their skills and to keep hers honed razor-sharp—or to use level fifteen for some of the arena’s less desirable chores under her direct supervision. And keeping him from joining the others during mealtime could easily be credited to Tarek’s gratitude for Javan’s defending him against Hashim.
But something had shifted inside Sajda. A tiny crack in her defenses that she’d stopped trying to repair. When she was with Javan, she didn’t have to pretend to be cold and indifferent. She didn’t have to keep her distance. She felt free, but freedom wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. It was a fire blazing in the heart of a rainstorm. It was the star-swept sky trapped inside her, and every time she stood near him, she could barely contain the power of it.
She couldn’t risk being near him while their enemies were watching. Instead, she’d left Tarek in the infirmary to help the physician with strict instructions to shout her name if Hashim tried anything.
Turning away, Sajda brushed her palm against the stone wall outside the infirmary, drew on its icy strength, and then hurried toward the stalls as Batula shouted her name.
“They’re here. Magistrate’s door is already open. Don’t like the looks of this shipment,” Batula snapped as Sajda reached the stalls.
“You never like the looks of any of the shipments,” she said as she pulled on her leather gloves and briefly envied Batula’s iron vest.
Sajda had tried to wear a vest once five years ago when they received their first shipment of creatures from the fae isle of Llorenyae, thinking that the discomfort of the iron was better than the risk of being disemboweled by the beasts she was handling. Instant waves of agony had driven her to her knees, and she’d lost her breakfast on the unforgiving floor of the arena. The warden had laughed and said monsters didn’t get protection from other monsters. Sajda had spent the next few years mimicking every half-decent competitor in her spare hours, practicing until her raw strength and reflexes became a finely honed weapon she could use against the beasts; the prisoners; and maybe, if she was lucky, against the warden herself.