But then we were through the doors, into the safe haven of the Hidden House, where we’d all been together only two nights before. Sara was waiting inside the doors, a screaming baby on her hip. Her lips were moving, but I didn’t hear anything she said. Jin pulled me past her. And it came on like a punch to the gut. My knees gave out below me on the stairs.
I sobbed. For all the dead. For all the losses. For the things that had been taken away. It was seared into my mind forever. The blade. The blood. The eyes.
The look in his eyes as they met mine across the crowd.
A second before he died.
And it was my fault. Mine and someone I trusted. Someone I thought was innocent.
The scream came on so sudden and violent that I had to stuff my sheema into my mouth to keep it from being heard through the walls of the house. It tasted of sweat and sand and of Jin’s skin somehow.
I could hear the sounds from the next room. Voices dropped low, tentative with uncertainty and thick with grief. What was left of the Rebellion. The folk who’d escaped the attack at Shazad’s.
The murmur was soothing. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall.
Too many people had traded their lives for someone else’s now.
Bahi had burned to save Shazad.
Shira had walked to the executioner’s block for her son.
Rahim had thrown himself on the mercy of his merciless father for Leyla.
My mother had bowed her head to a noose for me.
I thought about revenge and about love and about sacrifice and the great and terrible things I’d seen people do. I thought about how many people I’d seen lay their lives down for the Rebellion, over and over.
I thought about the moment the axe fell. The eyes locking with mine a second before the light left them.
The stairs creaked with a new weight next to me. I knew it was Jin without opening my eyes. I knew before he leaned his weight into my side. Before he laced his hand with mine, running his thumb across my palm in a slow circle.
‘We’re not done yet.’ My voice scraped out. Almost gone but still there. I finally opened my eyes.
‘I know.’
*
The low murmur of voices died with our entrance, leaving nothing but the chanting in the streets below. A constant thrum like a heartbeat. Good. Silence was death. And the Rebellion wasn’t dead yet.
And every eye in the room was on me. Rebels I knew well and rebels I didn’t.
Hala’s golden hands were wrapped around a steaming cup someone had given her, dark hair all over her face. Sara sat in a corner, her son asleep in her arms, staring through the shutters into the street below and blinking back tears. Sam was running his finger around the rim of an empty glass, over and over. Maz was wrapped in a blanket, shaking violently, blue hair sticking up at all angles. Tamid was stitching the wound in Izz’s arm from where the bullet had torn through his wing, obviously grateful for something to do.
There was only one spot left free, at the head of the table. Half of the people in the room were sitting on the floor rather than take that place. I felt Jin tense behind me as he saw it.
I cleared my throat, but my voice came out steady. ‘We need a plan.’ I fought the instinct to look for Shazad to start making one with me. She’d been taken with Ahmed. Delila. Imin. Rahim. Navid. They’d all been captured, along with dozens of others.
‘What is there left to plan?’ Hala was looking into her coffee cup instead of at me. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘You don’t think it’s only a matter of time before that axe comes down again, and again and again—’
‘Hala.’ Maz cut her off with a hand on her arm. She pulled herself up short, opening her eyes, staring me down. I flinched at the gaze. Her eyes might be the dark brown of any desert girl’s, but they still reminded me of Imin’s golden eyes.
‘—until everyone else is gone, too,’ she finished.
‘No.’ I held my ground. The Sultan might’ve thought he was using me, those months in the palace. But I hadn’t spent all that time there without learning a thing or two about the man who ruled over Miraji. The Sultan was smart. Too smart to risk more rioting in the streets. ‘The Sultan is losing his grip on his people. He knows that. That’s why Rahim wasn’t executed. He needed Ahmed to die publicly.’ Someone in a corner made a noise like a sob, quickly smothered in their sheema. ‘But for the rest of them, he gains more by showing mercy than by showing force.’
‘You’re thinking he’ll send them away,’ Hala said.
‘Instead of executing them,’ Maz filled in. A spark of life flared back in the room briefly.
I had to tell them the rest, the thing I’d figured out. I was going to have to tell all of them. But my eyes kept drifting to Hala in her corner. Waiting was not going to make it easier.
‘There’s something else.’ The room went quiet. ‘We lost someone today.’ I could see it all in my mind. A head lifting on the block. Meeting my eyes. Creatures of illusion and deceit. ‘But it wasn’t Ahmed.’ My eyes the colour of the sky. His the same shade as molten gold. Staring straight at me. I knew those eyes. But they weren’t Ahmed’s.
My meaning dawned slowly through the room. Slowest across the golden-skinned Demdji’s face.
Imin.
‘Hala, I’m so sorry.’
Grief and rage warred across her face while the rest of us were silent for Imin. Her head dropped into her hands.
Ahmed wouldn’t have let anyone go to the executioner’s block for him. But he wasn’t the only one being kept prisoner. Half the Rebellion would’ve sooner walked onto that stage than let Ahmed do it. Shazad would’ve worked out the plan, in all the confusion of the attack. Delila with her hair dyed dark, concealing her Demdji side; she might not be able to hide a whole rebellion but she was good enough to hide her brother, for a time, conceal his identity under an illusion of a different face. Whichever one Imin had been wearing when they were taken. And Imin was good enough to take Ahmed’s place. Not just good enough. More than good.
Imin had walked into an execution for our prince.
‘Ahmed is alive.’
I looked around the table, the small cramped room in this, our last refuge. ‘The Sultan might’ve bested us today, but he can’t plan for everything. He didn’t plan on me slipping out of his grip.’ I met Tamid’s eyes. ‘He didn’t plan on us escaping. And he sure as hell didn’t plan on Ahmed living. So he’s not planning on us saving him, either.’
‘Who is going to lead us?’ Izz asked. His eyes turned to Jin.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Jin said. He was leaning against the door frame. Like he might disappear on the Rebellion again any second.
‘I can lead us.’ That drew every eye in the room to me. I waited. But there wasn’t a single word of protest. Not a word of argument.
I was a Demdji. I was the Blue-Eyed Bandit. I was their friend. I had learned strategy from Shazad. I had been among the enemy. I hadn’t left them when Jin had. And they believed me when I said that I could lead.
We were going to rescue our people, our friends, our family. And when we had them all back we were going to march Rahim to Iliaz for an army. I pressed away from the wall. I was unsteady, but I was still standing. We were still here.
And this time, the Sultan had given us an advantage – the only thing that was truly invincible. Not an immortal creature. But an idea. A legend. A story.
The Blue-Eyed Bandit was always more powerful than I was. The Rebel Prince was always more powerful than Ahmed. And now, we could write a better story than the prodigal prince. One no one would ever forget. One the entirety of Miraji would stand behind.
The prince who returned from the dead to take his throne and save his people.
Acknowledgements
I owe a lot of thanks to a lot of people, both for all the support since the release of Rebel of the Sands, and all the support in writing this book. I haven’t even started and I’m already worried about forgetting someone. So to every
one who was there for these books and for me: friends and family who offered anything from a kind word or a drink to help get the book from my brain to the laptop; publishing professionals who helped get this book from my laptop to the bookstore; booksellers and librarians who helped get it from the shelf into readers’ hands – please know that I am grateful!
First, always, my parents, who somehow managed to raise me with both the absurd belief I could achieve anything I set my mind to, and the very pragmatic understanding that I would have to work hard for it. I wouldn’t have aspired to or achieved one book, let alone two, if not for them. And I probably wouldn’t have finished if they hadn’t provided a steady supply of both encouragement and alcohol in the final weeks of drafting.
I’m still not sure who I sold my soul to in order to land an agent who is as smart, passionate about books, and supportive (and a million other things I don’t have room to list here) as mine. I can probably do without a soul, but I know I can’t do without Molly Ker Hawn in my corner.
Thank you also to the rest of the Bent Agency and the wonderful foreign rights agents they work with for all they have done for Rebel.
I think the trick to putting a good book on shelves is to work with people who are smarter than you are. So thank you to Kendra Levin, who I suspect of being psychic because she understands what I’m trying to achieve even before I do, as well as somehow always managing to time encouraging emails exactly when doubt is about to get the better of me. And to Naomi Colthurst who brought so much positivity and enthusiasm to this book that I’m pretty sure I syphoned some of it from her to be able to finish editing.
To use the old cliché it takes a village. So to my two transatlantic villages at Penguin Random House and Faber & Faber, thank you.
Ken Wright and Leah Thaxton for being so wonderfully supportive of me and of Rebel throughout the whole process. As well as Stephen Page. And to Alice Swan who brought Amani and crew to their UK home in the first place.
My publicists on both sides of the pond. Elyse Marshall who I’m pretty sure could power a small country with her positivity, and who can organise a bookish jaunt around the US and make it look easy. And in the UK Hannah Love, who kept me (semi) sane in my jaunts around the UK and who sometimes goes as far as to dress as my creepy twin. Thank you for getting my books to readers!
To Maggie Rosenthal, Krista Ahlberg, Natasha Brown, Sarah Barlow, Mohammed Kasim and Naomi Burt, for all the hard work you do on this book day to day that I don’t see, but also for the parts that I do see like seriously smart contributions and comments about this book. The kind that clearly come from a great deal of care. I’m so grateful to have had so many additional eyes and brains on these words.
To the people who make my books look good. Theresa Evangelista, Will Steele and Emma Eldridge for my covers. And to Kate Renner for designing the US insides, including the awesome map, and for having an endless amount of patience when dealing with my complete geographical incompetence.
To the whole of the marketing and social media teams. Emily Romero, Rachel Cone-Gorham, Anna Jarzab, Madison Killen, Erin Berger, Lisa Kelly, Mia Garcia, Christina Colangelo, Kara Brammer, Erin Toller, Briana Woods-Conklin, Lily Arango, Megan Stitt, Carmela Iaria, Venessa Carson, Kathryn Bhirud, Alexis Watts, Rachel Wease, Rachel Lodi, Susan Holmes and Niriksha Bharadia. And especially Amanda Mustafic and Kaitlin Kneafsey for all your support on the road. And Bri Lockhart and Leah Schiano for being early readers of this book and just in general endlessly awesome human beings when it comes to book love.
To the whole of the sales teams on both sides of the Atlantic, especially Biff Donovan, Sheila Hennessy, Colleen Conway and Doni Kay who were kind enough to guide me as I traversed the US and introduce me to some awesome booksellers. And to the Faber sales team, David Woodhouse, Miles Poyton, Clare Stern and Kim Lund.
And to all the incredible booksellers I met in Boston, Chicago, Seattle, and Raleigh who were kind enough to be readers of a very early draft of Rebel. In particular Kelly Morton, Allison Maurer, Lauren D’Alessio, Betsy Balyeat, Rosemary Publiese and Kathleen March who wrote such nice things about that early draft. And Gaby Salpeter for your enthusiasm about a later draft. And to every bookseller in the UK who has been such a wonderful champion of the book, in particular Aimee and Kate at Waterstones Piccadilly, Chloe at Foyles and Jamie-Lee at Waterstones Birmingham.
And though you are too many to name, thank you to all the awesome bloggers, vloggers and general YA supporters who have been so enthusiastic in spreading the word about a new author online.
This book is dedicated to my friend, Rachel Rose Smith, who is one of the smartest, kindest people I know and who has been there for me in the best and worst times both around writing and outside of the bookish world. She only begins a long list of people I have been lucky enough to accumulate in my life. And who I will wear out my fingers trying to name. But particular thanks go to Michella Domenici for being my first fangirl always. Amelia Hodgson who always has the time to help dig me out of plot hole. Justine Caillaud for being a creative support since I was able to pick up a pen. Meredith Sykes, for the early read and the necklace made of sand. Christie Coho, for keeping me sane. Cecilia Vinesse for coffee, food and puppies.
And Roshani Chokshi for actual medical advice about scars and metal under the skin. And Juno Dawson for excellent advice about tackling pronoun use for a gender-fluid shapeshifting character.
For being kind enough to write nice blurb for Rebel: Rae Carson, Alison Goodman and Erin Lange.
And to everyone else who has been there through this, who has pushed this book into the hands of others or offered a kind word, advice or an ear in the good times and the less good times, personal and writerly alike … Jon Andrews, Kat Berry, Anne Caillaud, Emma Carroll, Lexi Casale, Sophie Cass, Traci Chee, Jess Cluess, Noirin Collins, Laure Eve, Max (Hamilton) Fitz-James, Maya (M.G Leonard) Gabrielle, Stephanie Garber, Jeff Giles, Meave Hamill, Janet Hamilton-Davies, Heidi Heilig, Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock, Mariam Khan, Rachel Marsh, Kiran Millwood-Hargrave, Anne Murphy, Elisa Peccerillo-Palliser, Marieke Peleman, Chelsey Pippin, Harriet Reuter-Hapgood, Marie Rutkoski, Melinda Salisbury, Samantha Shannon, Tara Sim, Evelyn Skye, Carlie Sorosiak, Solange Sykes, Emma Theriault, Annik Vrana, Katherine Webber, Anna Wessman and all of my fellow ’16er authors for getting it. Also, the whole of my bookclub crew for being bookish with me, and the very nice people at Artisan coffee who basically fueled this book and have let me spend more hours in their establishment than in my own home. And so many more, thank you all!
And finally thank you to all the readers of Rebel of the Sands who have taken the time to share your enthusiasm for my first book, and your anticipation for this one. I think I’m supposed to write for myself first. But I’ve always wanted to write for others. And you make that possible.
About the Author
ALWYN HAMILTON was born in Toronto and spent her early years bouncing between Europe and Canada until her parents settled in France. After attending school in France, Alwyn went to Cambridge University to study History of Art at King’s College. On graduating she returned to France and worked in a bookshop, where she rediscovered YA. She then moved to London where she now lives and put her degree to use working for an auction house. She is now a full-time writer and Rebel of the Sands was her first novel.
Copyright
First published in the US by Viking Penguin USA, in 2017
First published in the UK in 2017
by Faber & Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House, 74–77 Great Russell Street
London, WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2017
All rights reserved
© Blue Eyed Books Ltd., 2017
Design by Faber
The right of Alwyn Hamilton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
ISBN 978–0–571–32542–9
This ebook is copyright materia
l and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
Traitor to the Throne Page 38