The Traitor Prince

by C. J. Redwine

  Pushing thoughts of his father into the same corner of his mind where the dragon crouched, Javan opened the thick wooden door to the tavern and was hit with a wall of noise. Fiddles played a lively jig. Wood crackled in an enormous fireplace that took up most of the far wall, and a din of voices was raised in merriment. A quick peek confirmed his suspicions—most of the graduating class was inside. Holding the door open for the girls, Javan raised a brow at Kellan.

  “I thought it was just going to be the two of us and the girls from hall six.”

  Kellan grinned. “I guess word got around.”

  Javan rolled his eyes. “Somehow with you, it always does.”

  Kellan’s grin widened. “If you play your cards right, it will still be just us with the girls from hall six.”

  The tavern’s door closed behind him with a soft thud, and Javan’s gaze swept the room. Square wooden tables filled half the floor, surrounded by chairs painted red, green, or black; and the other half of the floor already had a few couples dancing. Exposed wooden beams divided the ceiling into smaller sections, each lit with its own simple iron chandelier. To his left, a long counter separated the dining area from kegs of ale, racks of mugs, and bottles of whiskey. A swinging half door at the far end of the bar counter led to the kitchen.

  Javan’s stomach rumbled as he followed Kellan to two empty tables near the fireplace. The tavern smelled of roasting pig, fried blackberry tarts, and the sharpness of fermented grain, reminding Javan that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. As Kellan pushed the two tables together, Javan held out a chair for each of the girls and then shrugged out of his cloak and settled into the one closest to the fireplace, his back to the wall, his eyes on the rest of the room.

  Maybe he was just being paranoid about the Draconi, but there was no point in taking chances.

  Javan smiled at Bria, a short girl with bright red hair and an adorably freckled nose, and prepared himself to be charming and fun. Unlike Kellan, Javan had been too busy with his studies to learn how to flirt. Still, if Kellan could do it, so could he. Javan had never once failed at anything he set his mind to, and this would be no different.

  A waitress laid platters of roasted pig, stewed apples, wilted greens, and fried blackberry tarts in front of them. Once they’d eaten their fill, Javan met Bria’s eyes and said a line he’d heard Kellan say a hundred times.

  “You look lovely. I don’t know what material your dress is made of, but I’d love to find out.” He winced visibly the second the words left his mouth, and Bria’s eyes widened. His voice rose. “I mean . . . no! Not like that, I just . . . I meant dancing. Dance with me! That’s what I meant.”

  Yl’ Haliq be merciful, this was a disaster. How did Kellan get away with saying such awkwardly awful things?

  “You want to dance with me so you can touch my dress?”

  “Yes. No! I’m not . . . I’d just be touching you.” That sounded so much worse. His face felt as hot as the fire at his back. He had to fix this. Fast. “Unless you don’t want me to touch you. I don’t have to touch anything! I can just . . . We can dance. That’s all. Is it hot in here?”

  He tugged on the collar of his shirt and prayed that Yl’ Haliq would open up the floor and swallow him.

  “Um . . .” Bria cast a quick glance at her friends. “We can dance, but I think you’ll have to at least touch my back since they’re playing a pallestaya.”

  “Of course. That’s perfect.” Javan stood abruptly, and reached for Bria’s chair, but she was already pushing it back, her cheeks pink.

  He cast a quick look at Kellan, but his friend already had a girl on each arm and was whirling them both into the sweeping movements of the pallestaya. Javan offered his arm to Bria and led her to the dance floor without once looking at her face. Thank Yl’ Haliq he knew how to dance. It was a required course at the academy, so Javan had dedicated himself to excelling at it. Now he just had to get through the next few moments without saying anything stupid, and he would have redeemed himself.

  Javan spent the entire dance excruciatingly aware of the space between himself and Bria. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He was too busy making sure he didn’t sway too close or allow more than his fingertips to rest against her dress. How did one enjoy dancing while constantly monitoring oneself to make sure not a single dishonorable message was sent, even by accident?

  By the end of the dance, Javan’s shoulders were knotted with tension, and all he wanted was his chair in the back corner of the tavern again. Instead, one of Kellan’s partners cheerfully offered to swap with Bria, and Javan found himself once again painfully aware of how difficult it was to keep a proper distance while dancing. Kellan didn’t seem to mind. He whirled around the floor, his hands firmly on his partners’ backs, his face leaning toward theirs while they all laughed.

  A third dance started, and Javan found himself facing Kellan. His friend leaned close and said, “You look like you’re being forced to dance with old Mrs. Denham from the dining hall. Relax. You’re supposed to be having fun.”

  “I’m trying!” Javan rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension and glared at Kellan.

  Kellan made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat as he grabbed Javan and led them both into the movements of the dance. “Having fun isn’t a skill you have to learn. This isn’t a test. It’s just dancing and conversation.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing,” Javan said through clenched teeth.

  “No, you’ve been perfectly executing your dance steps while trying not to touch your partner.” Kellan swept Javan into a flawless dip, and Javan glared.

  “I’m trying not to send any dishonorable messages. And stop spinning me. Why are we even dancing together?”

  Kellan spun Javan out three steps and back in. “Because I wanted to prove to you that you can dance and talk and touch another person without looking like you swallowed rancid milk. Plus, it’s fun. See?”

  “It would be a lot more fun if I didn’t have to look at your ugly face while doing this.” Javan took the lead and flung Kellan into a dizzying spin. “Also, how do you get away with saying such terrible lines to girls? I tried one, and it was a disaster.”

  Kellan laughed. “It’s all about the delivery. You have to say them with confidence and a sense of humor.”

  “Even though they’re the worst things to ever come out of your mouth?”

  “Those are hardly the worst things to have come out of my mouth.”

  Javan laughed. “Point taken. Now stop dancing with me. I’d much rather pick a different partner.”

  “You wound me.” Kellan winked as he smoothly handed Javan off to Cherise, a softly rounded girl with blond hair and stunning blue eyes.

  Javan lost track of time as he danced, laughed, and danced some more. Friends slapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him for achieving top honors. Others offered to buy him an ale and toast the fact that he’d sent a dragon running. And, miracle of miracles, he had no lack of dance partners, despite the fact that he refused to say another one of Kellan’s stupid lines.

  By the time the tavern began emptying, Javan’s feet were sore, his bladder was full, and his spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks. He was going to have to make it a point to have fun more often. A difficult task for the heir to Akram’s throne, but Javan was no stranger to accomplishing difficult tasks.

  The thought of returning to Akram, and to his father, was a dash of cold water on his spirit. He was ready to fulfill the destiny Yl’ Haliq had set for him.

  He wasn’t ready to face his father.

  The thought sent a dull pain through Javan’s chest. Before the hurt could show on his face, he bowed to his last dance partner and caught Kellan’s eye as he reached for his cloak.

  “I’m heading out back to the privy. Do you mind escorting the remaining girls back to the academy without me?” He prayed Kellan would say yes and give Javan some time to wrestle with his thoughts.

  Kellan glanced at
the two girls from hall six who still remained. “Happy to do the honors if you’d rather walk back alone.”

  “Thanks.” Javan let the tavern’s door shut behind him and headed toward the privy in the back. The slim crescent of a moon was hidden behind clouds now, and knee-high ribbons of fog clung to the deserted city streets. He used the privy quickly, checked that his dagger was securely strapped to his waist, and then stepped out of the little outbuilding.

  A whisper of sound came from his left, and Javan whirled as someone’s fist crashed into his face.

  The blow rocked him back on his heels. He reached for his dagger, and someone slammed into him from the side. He lashed out, sweeping a leg that connected with someone’s knee. A man swore viciously, and something inside Javan went cold.

  That was an Akramian peasant’s curse.

  There was no reason a band of Akramian peasants would cross the desert and lie in wait outside an ordinary tavern in Loch Talam to rob just anyone.

  They were here for him.

  Had the dragon been waiting specifically for him as well?

  Pain exploded across the back of Javan’s head as something hard connected with his skull, and he crumpled to the ground as darkness closed in and the world went silent.

  FIVE

  IT WAS FINISHED.

  The FaSaa’il’s hired team of assassins had killed Javan, and no one was the wiser. In the chaos of moving day at Milisatria, no one had looked closely at Rahim as he stayed inside the Akramian carriage and waited for the coachman to pack Javan’s belongings in his dorm room and haul them outside. One boy had tried to hail him, but his guards, ordered to protect the prince’s wish for solitary prayer, had immediately blocked the way. Soon, Rahim would leave the misty, craggy land of Loch Talam—and most of the people who knew what the real Prince Javan looked like—far behind him. The Akramian aristocrats whose children had attended Milisatria with Javan would be dealt with in Akram.

  Rahim allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as the last of Javan’s belongings—the last of his belongings—were loaded atop the sturdy carriage and tied into place. Soon the coachman and the quartet of royal guards the king had sent to collect the prince from Milisatria would finish securing the load, and it would be time to leave for the long stretch of desert road that would eventually bring Rahim back to Makan Almalik.

  He’d left the city as the bastard son of a poor seamstress. He was returning as the heir to Akram’s crown of fire. And there was no one left who could stop him. Not even the FaSaa’il who thought Akram’s new prince was their puppet.

  “We’re ready, Your Highness.” The coachman stood outside the carriage door, awaiting instructions.

  “Then let’s be off,” Rahim said, careful to put an aristocratic polish on his words. “I’d like to cross the Sakhra bridge and be on the desert road by nightfall.”

  He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax against the seat again as the coachman hoisted himself into the driver’s box. Soon, he’d be in the desert staying at inns where no one would dare question the occupant of Akram’s royal coach. He’d eat as much as he wanted. Wear Javan’s fine robes and plan what he’d say when he finally saw the king face-to-face for the first time. And what he’d do once the king either died or abdicated the crown, and every citizen of Akram was at Rahim’s mercy.

  He’d had seventeen long years of living in a seamstress’s tent to dream about how it would feel to be a god among men, but nothing he’d imagined came close to the blazing heat of triumph that warmed his blood now.

  “Wait!” A man’s commanding voice cut through the air, and the coachman pulled the horses to a stop.

  Rahim rapped sharply on the carriage’s ceiling. “Continue!”

  “Prince Javan, I’d like a word before you leave.” The man sounded close to the carriage door. Rahim stiffened, but then relaxed as two of his guards stepped down from their perches on the side of the vehicle and blocked the way. “I’m the headmaster here, and this is a matter of urgent security for the prince.”

  Unease curled in Rahim’s stomach. Did the headmaster know something was wrong? What other security issue could he be talking about? If he didn’t suspect anything, he would surely anticipate Javan gladly opening the door and receiving him. If he did suspect, refusing to talk to him would simply confirm his suspicions. Rahim had seen the dark elves stationed at the academy’s entrance. If the headmaster raised the alarm, Rahim wouldn’t make it off the school’s grounds before those monsters destroyed him with their magic.

  There was only one solution.

  The unease settled into cold determination as Rahim made the only choice he could.

  Plenty of rulers began their reign with blood on their hands. His would be no different.

  “Allow him to enter,” he said quietly, lest his voice give him away to the headmaster before he’d had a chance to put his hastily constructed plan into action.

  The guards stepped aside. The carriage door opened. Rahim turned his face into his shoulder as the headmaster, a sturdily built man with gray hair and creased skin, climbed into the vehicle. Reaching past him, Rahim grabbed the carriage door and pulled it closed.

  “Kellan told me you were already in your carriage by the time he returned to the room early this morning, and that your guards wouldn’t allow him close enough to say good-bye. I understand your eagerness to return home after so long, but do you really think ignoring your friend is the best way to leave?”

  Rahim remained silent, and the headmaster sighed.

  “I’m uneasy about that Draconi attack during the final exam,” the man said. “While I have no proof that the creature was after you specifically, I’d like to send a small contingent of extra guards—”

  He broke off abruptly as Rahim lifted his face to look him in the eyes.

  “Who are you? Where is Javan?” The man glanced around the carriage’s lush red interior as if Javan might be hiding in a corner.

  Rahim crossed his arms over his chest and slid his hands into the pockets he’d sewn into his tunic beneath his armpits. The metal throwing stars concealed in their depths were a solid weight in his hands. “I am Prince Javan.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You most certainly are not.”

  Rahim smiled coldly. “I am Prince Javan Samad Najafai of the house of Kadar. Anyone who says otherwise must die.”

  Something flashed in the man’s face, and he reached for the short sword that was strapped to his waist.

  Rahim whipped the throwing stars out of their pockets and let them fly, thankful now for the hours spent practicing with the weapons while he was a boy stuck in a desert town with little else to do besides sew garments with his mother and dream of the life that should’ve been his. The weapons’ razor-sharp tips buried themselves in the old man’s chest. He gasped—a strangled, wet sound—and reached for them as if to pull them out.

  It was too late. Blood was gushing over his chest, pooling in his lap, and dripping onto the floor.

  It was fortunate the carriage’s interior was already red. That stain was never coming out.

  Rahim didn’t understand what the headmaster meant by a Draconi attack—a pity he hadn’t been able to keep up the deception long enough to get more details—but if there was a threat from the Eldrians against Loch Talam, that was all the more reason to leave this damp, craggy kingdom far behind.

  Rahim’s hands shook as he reached past the headmaster and rapped on the front wall of the carriage. “The headmaster has decided to accompany us to our stop tonight as he has business there. Let’s go.”

  The coachmen called out to the horses, and the carriage lurched into motion again.

  Clenching his hands into fists to stop the shaking, Rahim lifted the purple sash he wore across his shoulders and wrapped it around the lower half of his face.

  He hadn’t known blood would smell like sweetly decaying metal. Hadn’t imagined the awful way a body sagged when the spirit that once inhabited it was gone.

&n
bsp; And he would never have guessed that killing someone would be so unsettling.

  The future king of Akram couldn’t afford to be unsettled by the taking of a life.

  Slowly lowering the sash from his face, Rahim forced himself to breathe in the scent of blood. Forced himself to stare at the awkwardly slumped body with its glassy stare until it was no longer unsettling. No longer upsetting.

  Until it was nothing at all.

  The path to a king’s throne was often paved with the bodies of his enemies.

  Rahim had only just begun.

  SIX

  JAVAN JOLTED FROM unconsciousness when his body hit water. His eyes flew open, and he dragged in a quick, startled breath as he broke the surface of whatever body of water he’d been thrown into. The sun was a pale light in the sky, and Javan’s heart raced. He’d lost the chunk of time between leaving the tavern and dawn. Was anyone out looking for him yet?

  For a second, he could see the faces of his attackers—three Akramian men with rough woolen cowls pulled over their heads—and then they disappeared from sight as murky water rushed over Javan’s face and pushed against his lips like it wanted permission to flood his lungs.

  Javan tried to lift his arms, but his hands were tied behind his back. Tried to kick, but his legs were tied together at the ankles. He was trussed up like a pig on a spit, and the sunlight that grazed the surface of the water was quickly disappearing.

  He was sinking.

  Jerking his body, he kicked his legs as one, trying to swim without using his arms, but he kept steadily drifting toward the bottom of the lake.

  Panic hit, slicing though his thoughts like a hot knife.

  He was going to drown. Suck the murky water into his lungs and never be seen again. Jerking against the ropes that tied him, he thrashed and struggled while his lungs began straining.