“You can come out now,” he said quietly. A rustling came from the drapes that flanked the windows along the hall and then the three peasants hired to assassinate Javan joined him outside the dining room. “You remember what to do?”
“Wait until you shout, and then enter and kill the guard,” one of the men said.
“He’s highly trained. I trust you brought poison-tipped blades as instructed,” Rahim said.
“We’re ready,” the tall man said.
Turning away from them, Rahim entered the dining room and closed the door behind him.
The members of the FaSaa’il sat at the table glaring at him.
He met their eyes calmly.
“What is the meaning of this?” Borak demanded. “You don’t call meetings with us. We call meetings with you.”
Rahim raised a brow. “Then why didn’t you refuse to come?”
“And have it be said that we disobeyed the prince?”
Moving to the head of the table, he inclined his head graciously and said, “I can see your dilemma.”
“Where is Fariq?” Borak demanded.
Sweeping the assembled aristocrats with his gaze, Rahim said, “I apologize that Fariq is unable to join us as promptly as he wished. He’ll be along as soon as he’s able. In the meantime, we have excellent news. The coronation plans are proceeding without a problem. The king is fully in support. In a few weeks, all you wanted will be accomplished.” He raised his glass as Abbas stiffened, his eyes widening as he stared at Rahim. “A toast! To the success of your plan and to many years of prosperous rule in Akram!”
They stood with him. Raised their glasses. Spilled a drop as an offering for Yl’ Haliq before raising the liquid to their lips.
The shortest man went first—the poison working rapidly as it shut down his organs and dropped him to the floor. The others realized something was wrong, but they were already too far gone to do anything but fall to the ground, convulse briefly, and die as well.
Rahim set his goblet on the table with a click as Abbas scrambled for the closest aristocrat, calling for someone to send for the palace physician.
“Happy to oblige,” he said. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Help! Bring the physician!”
The door burst open, and the three peasants rushed in, poison-tipped weapons drawn. By the time Abbas realized he was in danger, it was too late.
Rahim reached inside the pockets of his tunic for his throwing stars. The first star embedded itself in the tallest assassin’s neck. The second burrowed into the shortest man’s chest. The third man tried to run, but Rahim simply adjusted his aim and sent the final star deep into the man’s back.
In moments, all three were dead, their blood spreading across the hand-painted tiles of the floor like a river. Rahim took an extra minute to arrange the bodies so that it would look like Abbas had taken out the intruders and lost his own life in the process and then rehearsed the story he’d tell about being the last to raise his glass to his lips, seeing the others fall, and realizing that someone in the kitchen staff was a murderer. He’d call for a full investigation, and no one would doubt his word. After all, he was their prince.
His smile stretched wide and feral.
A god among men indeed.
THIRTY-THREE
THE NIGHT JAVAN was well enough to leave the infirmary, Sajda waited until twelfth bell rang, the bars dropped, and the prison fell silent before she quietly instructed Tarek to bring Javan to her. Tarek winked at her as he escorted Javan to the stairwell that led up to the old man’s room on level eight and then left them alone.
The second Tarek was out of sight, Sajda froze.
What was she doing?
Sneaking a boy out of the infirmary when she knew what would happen if the warden discovered that Javan, of all people, wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Worse, planning on taking him to the one place that had always been hers alone.
Her magic stung her veins, an anxious buzzing she couldn’t ignore as she met his gaze beneath the moonlight that filled the skylights above.
He smiled, a slow journey of warmth that hammered away at her already shaky defenses.
“What are we doing?” he asked, his voice a low breath of air that brushed against her, sending a shiver over her skin.
She took a step back.
This could be a mistake. The kind of mistake that ripped out her heart and left it in ruins. She’d had enough of that in her sixteen years to last her a lifetime. If she was smart, she’d return him to the infirmary.
“Sajda?” He came closer, and she held her ground, her magic churning, her heart aching at the concern on his face.
Who knew if she’d ever truly escape Maqbara? Javan could lose the competition and his chance for an audience with his father. Gretel could change her mind about smuggling Sajda out. The warden could find the tunnel her slave was digging. Even if she did escape, would she ever find another friend who fit her jagged edges so effortlessly? If she backed down now, she might never know what he would do with her truth.
He faced his demons, both in the arena and without, and he was honest with her about every doubt, every fear.
It was absolutely terrifying that she wanted to do the same thing with him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and she took his hand before she could talk herself out of it.
“Come with me,” she whispered, magic dancing across her fingertips and on to his as she led him to the fifteenth level, past the mostly empty cells, and into the storage closet at the end. Leaping into the crack in the ceiling, she turned, braced herself, and offered her hand to help pull him up.
Once he was through the gap, she guided him around pillars and under support beams until they reached the corner of the ceiling where her skylight was waiting for them. The stars were just winking to life, and the moon was a thin slice of brilliant light high in the sky. She helped him duck past the last beam and then they crawled onto the blankets she kept there.
Javan stared at the blankets and pillows, at the skylight and the huge swath of sky above them, and slowly smiled.
“You like it?” she asked, and her cheeks warmed as she waited for his answer. This wasn’t just a hideout. It was her dreams. Her secrets laid bare. It was the side of her she sheathed in stone every morning to keep it from the prison’s taint.
“I love it. It suits you,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice settled the churn of magic through her blood.
She sank back against a pillow and waited for her tiny blue star to appear. He lay beside her, his head on a second pillow, his arms crossed beneath the back of his neck. The silence between them was warm and welcoming, and she let it linger.
When finally her tiny blue star shimmered into focus, she said softly, “Sometimes I pretend I live there.”
“Where?” He followed her finger as she pointed, and then said, “Seraphael.”
“Seraphael? Is that the star’s name?”
He turned to watch her face. “It’s not a star. It’s another planet like ours.”
“I knew it.” She smiled, wide and content, as she turned the word Seraphael over and over in her mind until it felt familiar.