“You don’t need to. I shouldn’t have asked,” Gretel said. “I’ll be here with a wooden crate this winter if you still need help.”
“Three wooden crates,” Sajda said. If Javan didn’t win the tournament, he’d need a way out, and Sajda couldn’t imagine leaving Tarek behind.
Gretel nodded. “Three crates. Be safe until winter.”
“Until winter,” Sajda said as Gretel left the stall.
Maybe Sajda would still be in Maqbara in five months when Hansel and Gretel brought the first shipment for the winter tournament. Or maybe Javan would win the competition, ask the king for his freedom, and return for her once he’d been restored as the prince. Her magic sizzled against her cuffs as she imagined what it would be like to be free.
THIRTY-TWO
RAHIM PULLED HIS royal purple sash across his chest and through the loop at the waist of his blue tunic. Checking his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror above his dresser, he practiced blinking the violent hunger from his eyes. Nearly two months of living at the palace and hiding how much he hated those who still treated him like a puppet was getting easier.
It was about to be easier still.
The coronation was scheduled in three weeks, just after the end of the tournament. He was sure the other prisoners would take the bait and kill Javan during the next round of combat, but he had another plan in place should that one fail. The FaSaa’il was in a fury over Javan’s continued existence—rumors were growing into bold talk as people speculated about the prisoner who looked so much like their ruler.
Rahim wasn’t worried. Rumors would never reach the king. The distrust Rahim had sown with the forged document from Fariq had blossomed into full-blown paranoia as the older man refused to have any staff wait on him, to receive visitors, or to leave the palace unless accompanied by the one person he knew he could trust: his son.
On the day of the final tournament round, should Javan miraculously make it that far, a simple dose of saffeyena could be administered to make the king pliable and open to suggestion. If it seemed the king was fixating on Javan, a quiet word about rumors that one of Fariq’s bastards had been sent to Maqbara would be enough to swing the king’s favor against the true prince once and for all.
Turning away from the mirror, Rahim moved toward the door. He had a packed schedule of visits from the various aristocratic families who lived in or around Makan Almalik. Invitations to the coronation ceremony had finally been sent, and it seemed every wealthy aristocrat in the area wanted to greet him one-on-one and remind him of all they brought to the table as an ally.
Every wealthy aristocrat, of course, except those who’d had children at Milisatria with Javan. Those families were now exiled to distant political posts in Ichil and Eldr or had lost their lands, fortunes, and reputations to accusations of treason. All Rahim’s idea, though he’d had to make it seem like Fariq had thought of it.
Soon, he wouldn’t have to worry about playing the part of a good little puppet.
Soon, he’d be a god among men, and everyone who wanted to survive would do well to remember it.
The families who remained in the crown’s good graces would either immediately accept Rahim as their king and repudiate the rumors about Javan, or they would find themselves in Maqbara.
The priests would continue their little charity work with the poor but would give a portion of all donations to the crown as a reminder of who truly ruled Akram.
And the FaSaa’il, who thought they’d found an uncouth little peasant who would obey their every whim, would go to their graves knowing they’d been outwitted at every turn.
Rahim’s heart beat faster.
It had been a simple matter to mix a sleeping herb into the king’s morning tonic so that he would remain in his bed for most of the day. And it was easy to arrange to have as Rahim’s personal guard Abbas, the man who’d escorted Javan to the magistrate’s office and then allowed him to go into Maqbara instead of executing him as ordered. The crowning achievement of Rahim’s day was the ease with which he’d smuggled into the palace the three peasant assassins the FaSaa’il had tasked with killing Javan in Loch Talam. It had taken a bit of manipulation on his part to get the assassins’ names from Lord Borak, but he’d done it. He couldn’t pull off today’s plan without them.
Leaving his bedroom, he moved through his opulent sitting room and then down the hall in the residential wing until he came to the dining room used only by the Kadars and their closest friends. Abbas followed at his heels, his eyes constantly studying Rahim as if searching for flaws in his claim to be the true prince.
It was infinitely satisfying that he would go to his grave still unsure which boy had been telling the truth.
Voices filled the dining room, and Rahim flagged a page who was standing at attention by the door.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
That title never got old. “Have all the invited families arrived?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Every member is present?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I checked the invitation list as you instructed.”
“Excellent. You’re dismissed,” Rahim said as the kitchen staff began assembling the first course on a table beside the door.
“Very good, Your Highness.” The page left, and Rahim nodded at the two maids who were checking that the orange florets that garnished each plate were in their proper places. “You may begin serving. I’ll be along shortly. Abbas, please take a position in the dining room.”
The maids curtsied, picked up the trays, and entered the dining room. Abbas frowned as if he wanted to argue that he should stay with Rahim, but a quick glare from the boy sent him into the room as instructed.
Rahim examined the tray of goblets the maids had left behind. Pale, golden apple wine shimmered in the sunlight that streamed in through the nearby windows.
His breath was a ragged gasp that sounded deafening in his ears, and his hands shook as he unstoppered a bottle Fariq had purchased from an apothecary weeks ago for the king’s tonic.
Poison.
A soft white powder made from grinding cyallip seeds.
Rahim had ordered cyallip tarts for dessert even though there would be no one left alive to eat them. It had seemed fitting.
Tipping the bottle over each glass, he watched as the powder spilled into the goblets, spinning like a tiny sand devil until it disappeared into the golden liquid. A small amount, as was given daily to the king, would weaken the body, eat away at the immune system, and confuse the thinking as the body fought to heal the damage to itself.
The large amount he’d just mixed into each goblet would do far worse than that.
When the maids returned for the trays, Rahim had the bottle concealed in his pocket again. He waited until the maids were finished serving the drinks before excusing them.