The Traitor Prince

by C. J. Redwine

  He’d have a chance to socialize once he returned to Akram, having brought honor to his family name and peace to his mother’s spirit. He could invite Kellan to visit from Balavata and show him the racetracks, the roasting pits full of pistachios and marinated goat meat, and the dimly lit salons with their citrus-flavored liquor and their harp players whose nimble fingers flew across the strings until you couldn’t help but dance.

  A pang of homesickness hit. Ten years was a long time to go without seeing his father. The other students returned home for the winter and summer holidays, but not Javan. He’d stayed to study. To practice. To sit with the headmaster or a tutor and do his best to live up to the expectations that rested on his shoulders.

  Soon it would all be worth it. He just had to enter the exam with the best strategy, stay focused, and win.

  “If you change your mind, we’ll be at the Red Dwarf. You can come embarrass yourself with your poor drinking and conversational skills,” Kellan said.

  “I think you’ll be embarrassing enough for the both of us,” Javan said with a quick smile for Kellan as the other boy crooked his arm through the elbow of the closest girl, flashed her a charming smile, and walked out of the building with a pack of students on his heels.

  “You don’t want to celebrate with your friends?” the headmaster asked, pinning Javan with his gray eyes. “Not even for an hour?”

  “I can’t. The exam—”

  “Isn’t for three days.”

  “Only three days to study the tasks and come up with a plan—”

  “Only four days before commencement and your friends scattering to their own kingdoms.” The headmaster smiled at Javan, though there was a sadness in his eyes. “You’ve pushed yourself hard for your entire tenure at the academy. No student of mine has ever given more to his studies. But being the best at everything isn’t all that matters.”

  “It is to my father.” The words were out before Javan could stop them. Heat flushed his cheeks at the expression of pity on the headmaster’s face. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “We should never apologize for speaking the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be to hear.”

  “It’s just . . . I’m the only heir. My uncle Fariq doesn’t have any children, and even if he did, he’s my father’s cousin, though he’s been treated like a brother. Only a direct descendant can inherit the throne. I’m the last of the Kadars, and we’ve ruled Akram for nearly two hundred years. I have to bring honor to my kingdom.”

  The headmaster moved to Javan’s side and rested a heavy hand on the prince’s shoulder. “No student has brought more honor to his kingdom than you. Taking an hour away from studying won’t tarnish that. If anything, it will improve your ability to be an excellent ruler.” At Javan’s raised brow, the headmaster squeezed his shoulder. “People matter more than competitions and grades. You matter. I hope you realize that you are more to your father than the honors you bring home from school. And I hope you know that you are more to me than any of your accomplishments.”

  The warmth in Javan’s cheeks poured into his chest, and he stood a little straighter. Earning his father’s respect and fulfilling his mother’s dying wish were the fuel that pushed him to the limits of his endurance every day. But earning the headmaster’s affection—seeing love and pride in the eyes of the man who’d been like a second father to Javan for the past ten years—was a light that burned steadily in the prince’s heart.

  “And before I forget, another letter arrived for you.” The headmaster reached into his robes and produced an envelope with creased corners and a gritty coat of the burned red sand of the Samaal Desert that separated Akram from Loch Talam.

  Javan took the envelope, and the light inside him burned a little brighter.

  Maybe he hadn’t seen his father since he’d arrived at Milisatria, but the letters his father sent—as infrequent as they’d become in the last five years—kept Javan tethered to the family he’d soon be returning to.

  “Thank you, Headmaster. I need to go now,” Javan said.

  “I hope you mean go to the tavern with your friends,” the headmaster called to Javan’s retreating back.

  The prince clutched the letter to him as he exited the building and turned toward the dormitory. Moments later, he was inside his room and sliding a slim dagger across the envelope’s edge, leaving the royal purple wax seal with its Kadar family crest intact as he always did.

  There was a single piece of parchment inside, and Javan tried to quell the sting of disappointment at how few lines were written on it. The first letter his father had sent him, three months after he’d arrived at Milisatria, had been two full pages detailing the comings and goings of Uncle Fariq, who loved to travel, the antics of Javan’s pet leopard Malik, and the growth of the jasmine he’d planted on the queen’s grave. Until five summers ago, his letters had contained a wealth of details that kept Akram alive in Javan’s mind and strengthened the connection he felt with his father.

  But then the letters had begun to change. Less description. Less interest in Javan’s life. When the letters began arriving every six to eight months instead of every three months, and Javan found entire paragraphs that didn’t quite make sense, the prince had finally sent a letter of his own to his uncle asking after his father. His uncle had assured him that King Samaal was simply busy—distracted by the heavy burden of ruling Akram.

  Javan had absorbed both the hurt and the comfort in his uncle’s reply and had redoubled his efforts to prove to his father that he too was worthy of the burden of ruling Akram. Turning to the latest letter from his father, Javan’s eyes devoured the two short paragraphs greedily, lingering on the last sentence.

  I am sure you will do your duty.

  Slowly, he placed the letter in the box that contained the rest of the correspondence from his father. A band of pressure wrapped around Javan’s chest as he slid the box back under his bed.

  Javan’s duty wasn’t to Kellan or the rest of his friends, no matter how much he might wish to spend an afternoon with them at the tavern.

  His duty was to fulfill his mother’s wish, earn his father’s respect, and return to Akram ready to rule his people with strength and honor when the time came for him to take his father’s place. Nothing less would do.

  And to do that, he had to earn first place in the final exam.

  Without hesitation, he sat at his desk, pulled out a sheaf of parchment and a quill, and began to plan.

  TWO

  THE DAY OF the final exam dawned cold and damp, and Javan woke with a prayer on his lips and a coiled tension in his chest. A heavy mist clung to the rocky hilltops and belly crawled over the fields as the ten students who’d earned the honor of taking the test filed out of the dormitory and headed toward the stables for the first of the five tasks.

  The headmaster met them at the mouth of the stables, while behind him grooms saddled horses and assembled armor and lances.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, Headmaster,” the students answered.

  “A brief reminder of the rules,” he said. “Each task is a test of your strength, your skills, and your strategy. You must remain at that task until you have earned enough points to move on. Jousting requires ten points. You receive one point per touch, two points for hitting the center of someone’s chest, and three points for unseating your opponent. Once you’ve reached ten points, you may leave for the next task. I will wait for you on the final field where you will try to gain the sash by using your combat training to defeat any challengers who arrive at the field with you. A touch from the weapons will count as an injury.” His eyes narrowed. “Any actual injury caused to a fellow student will result in your immediate disqualification. Good luck.”

  Javan’s stomach felt as though he’d swallowed rocks, and his mouth was dry as he wished Kellan and the other students luck and then quickly moved into the stable and chose a mount.

  He was decent at jousting. Maybe not
as skilled as Cora or as fast as Eljin, but he could keep his seat and put points on the board in quick order, and that was all that mattered. He simply had to hold his own in the first three tasks and not fall behind. The fourth task was where he planned to take the lead. Pulling a hauberk over his head, he reached for a helmet and mounted the horse.

  It was time to fulfill his mother’s dying wish and make his father proud.

  Two hours later, Javan was in serious danger of the one thing all of his planning hadn’t accounted for: being eaten by a dragon.

  The beast crouched at the edge of the precipice above Javan, its talons digging into the rugged stone cliff, its wings casting a shadow as wide as seven men lying end to end, and its dark eyes locked on the prince. The morning sunlight glanced off the dragon’s dull gray scales and disappeared in the shadow of the beast’s black underbelly. A long, jagged scar ran the length of the dragon’s chest, from the base of its neck to its stomach. Javan swallowed as the creature’s lips peeled back from a row of knife-sharp teeth, smoke pouring from its nostrils.

  Fear was lightning spiking through Javan’s veins, threatening to send his carefully crafted plan into chaos as images of being snapped up in the dragon’s immense jaws filled his head.

  He was trapped. A dragon in front of him. A treacherous climb through slippery, shale-covered hills behind him. And no one he could call for help.

  He’d been certain of his strategy. He’d walked the academy’s vast grounds long after he should have been asleep, memorizing the craggy landscape—the green hollows that dipped into pools of shadow, the gray-blue rivers that reflected the stars, and the rocky peaks that pierced the sky like a smithy’s nails, looking for an advantage over his fellow students.

  He’d found the trail that sliced through a cluster of steep, rocky hills two nights ago. By his calculations, using this trail to get to the final task instead of staying on the main path that neatly dissected the academy’s enormous estate into tidy quadrants would save him valuable time.

  The rest of his strategy had worked beautifully. He’d held his own in jousting, trapped his opponent in a game of kingdoms at war within twelve moves, and completed the obstacle course with only two students ahead of him. He’d banked his success on the fourth task. Archery had always been one of his best sports. Arriving at the grounds for the fourth task in a tie with three other students, including Kellan, he’d grabbed a bow, nocked an arrow, and then sent it flying dead center into the target. Two more quickly followed, and then he’d tossed the weapon to the grass and left the archery grounds at a dead run while the others were still reaching for their second arrows. Veering left at the tumble of rotting tree trunks that marked the intersection between the north quadrant and the east, he’d ducked behind a rocky outcrop and hurried toward the shortcut.

  Everything had gone according to plan until the headmaster decided to block the shortcut with a dragon.

  The beast exhaled, a long, rasping growl of breath that shivered through the air and sent smoke curling toward the thick gray clouds that scudded across the sky.

  Javan forced himself to breathe as well. Fear out. Courage in.

  This was just another test. Another way to make sure that only the truly deserving wore the crimson sash at tomorrow’s commencement ceremony.

  Doubtless there was another equally daunting obstacle blocking the others on the main path. Javan shoved all thoughts of his friends and fellow competitors from his mind and focused on the problem of getting past the beast.

  The dragon beat its wings, slowly at first, and then shale began sliding down the hill as the beast picked up speed. Every flap of its wings was a leathery slap of sound that sent a chill over Javan’s skin.

  He had no weapons. They were forbidden between tasks.

  He had no allies. He’d left them behind on the main road.

  He had nothing but his instincts and his brain.

  That didn’t seem like enough to best a dragon the size of a small house, but the headmaster wouldn’t have allowed it to be here if he didn’t believe his students already had the skills to beat it.

  Fear out.

  Courage in.

  Javan looked away from the dragon to quickly scan the area, forcing himself to catalog his options as the dragon’s talons scraped the rocky precipice, sending chunks of rock tumbling past the prince.

  He needed a weapon. He needed shelter.

  He needed a way through the hills to the fifth task before one of his classmates got to the sash first.

  His list of options was pitifully short. There were plenty of small pieces of shale. There were rocks ranging from fist-size to ones as large as a carriage. There was the hill in front of him, but no tunnels that could offer safety while keeping the dragon at bay. And there was Javan himself with his tunic, his boots, his pants, and his belt.

  His belt.

  The dragon rose, blocking the pale sun, its immense shadow swallowing Javan whole.

  The prince was out of time. Whipping off his tunic, he leaned down and scraped a hand through the shale until he found a piece sharp enough to cut his skin. He scooped it up along with a few rocks the size of pomegranates. The dragon’s roar shattered the air above him, and Javan’s heart thudded as he dumped the rocks onto the center of his tunic, tied the sleeves into a makeshift knapsack, and then scrambled for the incline that led to the hill’s precipice.

  Doubtless the dragon would try to block Javan. He’d just have to find a way to distract it or fend it off long enough to get through the pass.

  The dragon dove for him, the air whistling past its body as fire poured from its mouth.

  Yl’ Haliq be merciful, the dragon wasn’t just trying to block his progress. It was trying to burn him.

  Javan leaped to the side, crashing onto the shale as the fire seared his left arm. The dragon slammed into the ground beside him, sending a wave of rocks skidding down the rest of the hill.

  Terror lanced Javan, bold and bright. Fragments of prayer tumbled from his lips as he reached for his tunic full of rocks with shaking fingers. The beast wasn’t trying to stop Javan. It was trying to kill him.

  Javan lunged forward, grabbing sharp outcroppings to haul himself over the slippery ground, his breath sobbing in his lungs as he whispered a prayer for deliverance.

  The outcroppings sliced into his hands, and soon his palms were slick with blood. The dragon’s wings swept the air, and Javan had to brace himself to keep from being flattened by the gusts of wind that hit him.

  As the dragon rose into the air once more, Javan forced himself to reach. To climb.

  To hurry.

  The precipice was three body lengths away.

  The dragon was circling overhead, smoke pouring from its nostrils.

  “Yl’ Haliq, save your faithful servant,” Javan breathed as he dug deep for more speed. More strength. As he tried to push the blinding terror into the corner of his mind so he could think.

  The dragon’s roar thundered as Javan’s bloody hands closed over the spiny ridge of the hill. The prince pulled his legs under his chest, planted his boots against the shifting shale beneath him, and leaped.

  Fire exploded against the side of the hill as Javan cleared the ridge and landed on the narrow flat strip of the hill’s precipice. Throwing his makeshift knapsack to the ground, the prince tore the knot loose and grabbed the sharp piece of shale. Four quick slices and he ripped a patch of fabric the size of his hand from the bottom of his tunic.

  The dragon dove toward him. Javan threw himself forward, skidding on his hands and knees as the beast’s talons dug into the ground, leaving long gashes where the prince had been crouched.

  Javan’s hands shook as he flattened the square of fabric and gouged a slim tear into two opposite sides of the patch. Above him, the dragon flew into the air and began circling. The prince grabbed the braided cord of his belt, unwound it from his waist, and shoved one end through the tear in the right side of the patch. The dragon’s roar shook the ground.
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  Fear wrapped around Javan’s chest and squeezed. Hastily pushing the end of his belt through the other tear, he centered the patch in the middle of the corded rope while the dragon dove.

  This time, Javan didn’t move fast enough. The beast’s great leathery wing collided with the prince and sent him spinning toward the edge of the precipice. Javan dug into the ground with his elbows and feet, his hands still clutching the slingshot he’d fashioned.

  The beast flew into the air and circled back.

  Javan jumped to his feet and dove toward the cache of rocks sitting in the middle of his ruined tunic.

  Smoke gushed from the dragon’s mouth and hurtled toward the prince with every flap of the creature’s wings.

  Javan’s hand closed around a rock, and he centered it in the piece of tunic even as he spun to face the dragon’s next assault.

  There would be no time to dive out of the way if he missed.

  The dragon roared.

  Javan pulled the rock back with one hand until the cord of his rope belt was taut.

  With an enormous whoosh of smoky air, the beast locked eyes on the prince and came straight toward him.

  He was going to die.

  The words chased one another inside his head as his stomach dropped and his knees shook. He was going to die, and he’d never been to a tavern or kissed a girl or seen pride in his father’s eyes.

  Terror threatened to turn Javan’s limbs to stone as the dragon closed in, and he forced himself to breathe.

  Fear out.

  Courage in.

  Flames gathered in the back of the dragon’s throat.

  Javan leaned his weight onto his back leg, stared at the space between the dragon’s eyes, and let the rock fly as fire began pouring from the beast’s mouth.

  The flames rushed for Javan as the rock sailed through them and struck the dragon’s left eye.

  With a guttural cry, the dragon wheeled away, clawing at its face with its front talons.

  Javan lunged forward, ducking beneath the wave of fire and wincing as the heat seared the bare skin of his back. Grabbing another rock, he readied it in the slingshot even as he hurtled over the far edge of the precipice and began sprinting down the incline and toward the path that wound through the next cluster of craggy hills.