“Tarek is a prisoner. A criminal. I don’t trust criminals.” The warden stepped closer to Sajda, her tone venomous, and grabbed one of the iron cuffs around Sajda’s wrist. Heat rippled along the warden’s skin, sinking into the iron and burning Sajda’s scars until she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. “I don’t trust you, either. But I know how to control monsters. Isn’t that right?”
Sajda nodded, magic snapping impotently at the runes that glowed with heat along her cuff.
“Did you tell anyone else what to expect in the combat rounds?” the warden asked softly while the skin beneath Sajda’s cuff burned.
“No. I—”
“She didn’t even tell me anything,” Tarek said, his voice shaking with fury. “You don’t have to punish her.”
The warden whipped her gaze toward him, and Sajda instantly moved between them, her arm still trapped in the warden’s grip, her magic still throwing itself relentlessly at her palms as if testing the strength of the runes.
“It’s all right, Tarek.” Sajda tried to sound calm. “I shouldn’t have said anything at all. You should just go get your breakfast with the other prisoners.”
“That’s right, Sajda. You shouldn’t have said anything.” The warden’s smile died before it reached her eyes. “If you want to continue living under my hospitality, you will perform your duties to perfection. That includes keeping secrets.” The warden yanked Sajda close, and the girl’s magic seared her skin. Lowering her voice, the warden said, “Unless you’ve decided that we’re going to start sharing each other’s secrets now.”
Sajda shook her head, her stomach tightening.
The warden cocked her head. “Is that a no?”
“No,” Sajda breathed.
Leaning close, the warden whispered, “Don’t get careless, slave. The only good elf is a dead elf, remember? We wouldn’t want the prisoners to know that the monster they fear the most walks among them.”
TWELVE
JAVAN HAD AWAKENED to the sound of wind and sand scraping over the skylights in the ceiling outside his cell. The room was a narrow space cut deep into the bedrock with nothing but a small shelf, a privy bucket, and a sagging bed pushed up against the far wall. Javan hadn’t seen much of his new home since he’d arrived at his cell after sunset, but even the moonlight shining in through the corridor’s skylights had illuminated the layer of grit that clung to the floor and the spiderwebs that draped across each corner.
The prison was still dark as Javan slipped from his bed and got to his knees.
His morning prayers felt harder to speak, his whispered words swallowed up by the immense darkness of Maqbara. He’d waited for the peace that usually filled him to come, but instead his heart had ached, a steady throb of loneliness that was impossible to ignore.
The flame of anger that had stirred in the wake of his grief as he crossed the desert burned steadily, a sharp counterpoint to the ache in his heart.
He shouldn’t be here. His father shouldn’t be in danger. And the headmaster shouldn’t be dead.
And yet Yl’ Haliq had allowed it. How could Javan reconcile his divine destiny with his present circumstances? He was abandoned. Tossed into a hole and forgotten. Surrounded by criminals who behaved with dishonor.
He’d finished his prayers, lingering on the last word, his eyes tightly closed as he waited for . . . something. A sign. A reassurance that Yl’ Haliq still had his eyes on the prince.
Instead, he’d felt nothing but the steady burn of anger at the injustice of it all and the aching pressure in his chest whenever he thought about how alone he really was. Slowly he’d climbed to his feet.
The sacred texts taught that Yl’ Haliq was beyond human understanding. His ways were inscrutable, his wisdom unknowable, and his mercy boundless. Though Javan couldn’t see how, surely Yl’ Haliq was already at work on the prince’s behalf.
As first bell rang, Javan resolved to do his part to solve the puzzle of either gaining an audience with his father or escaping the prison. Whispering one more quick plea that Yl’ Haliq would bless his efforts, Javan had stretched and reached for a tunic in the murky light of dawn that managed to filter in.
His clothes, stained with the impostor’s blood, had been taken from him the previous night, though Sajda had let him keep the red sash with the quiet warning that if any of the more dangerous prisoners saw it and wanted it, they’d tear him limb from limb to get it. He’d been given two spare tunics in a dingy gray cotton, one spare pair of pants in the same hue, three pairs of socks, and several undergarments that were nearly worn thin. Everything was clean, though, and he had much bigger things to worry about than his clothing.
The only prison employee he’d met so far was Sajda. His stomach tightened as he thought of the unrelenting fierceness in her dark blue eyes and the way her body moved like a leopard’s—sleek and lethal. He’d hoped to gain an employee as an ally, but it clearly wouldn’t be her. He’d have to scout the prison for others today. According to Sajda’s coolly delivered list of facts and instructions as she’d escorted him to his cell on the fifteenth level, there were six guards on each level during the day. It was possible Javan could turn one of them into an ally, but it was risky. Better if he could get close to the cook or whoever ran the menagerie downstairs.
In the rush of grabbing a crust of bread for dinner, he’d forgotten to ask about the strange-sounding beasts. He had Sajda to thank for his meal since he hadn’t arrived in time to get any food. It didn’t surprise Javan one bit that when she calmly demanded food from a prisoner with a full plate, the woman had handed over the bread without dissent.
The prisoner had probably witnessed what happened when someone disobeyed Sajda.
A small, treacherous part of Javan’s mind was curious to see that too. Would Sajda be the kind of fighter she seemed to be? If she turned against him, would he be able to stop her?
He was getting out of Maqbara, even if he had to go through Sajda. She might be formidable, but thanks to his training at Milisatria, so was he. And he had far more at stake than the simple wish to get out of prison.
As the iron bars that covered the mouth of his cell slowly rose into the ceiling, he shoved his feet into the boots he’d been allowed to keep, folded the sash and tucked it next to his heart again, and then hurried toward level nine before all of the breakfast food was taken.
Prisoners were already crowding the stairs on their way to the kitchen as Javan joined those who were housed on the top level with him. Conversation surrounded him, and he moved quietly down each step, listening intently.
“I swear by all that’s holy, if it’s nothing but toast and lentil spread again, I’m going to kill the cook.”
“Haven’t seen the warden in days. Best sleep I’ve had in weeks.”
“They don’t have enough land beasts. I caught a peek at the stalls when I was scrubbing the royal box yesterday. I’m telling you the next round is going to be water monsters.”
He reached the landing for the ninth level and turned right, letting himself get caught in the flow of people making their way into the long galley kitchen with its double hearths, its wooden table the length of five full-grown men lying end to end, and this morning, its cooking staff.
Three people wearing aprons moved between huge cauldrons simmering on the hearths and the table that was already laden with bowls of a soupy-looking porridge, slices of flatbread, and dishes of crushed lentil paste. The fourth—a woman with a bun sliding halfway down her head and a scowl that seemed permanently etched onto her face—stood arms akimbo barking orders to the prisoners to take a bowl, a slice of bread, and a spoonful of paste and then get away from her hearths.
Javan caught her gaze and gave her a polite smile. Her scowl deepened.
Maybe he wouldn’t be allies with the cook after all.
The prince got into line behind a short older man with a limp. The man shot him a quick glance, and when Javan smiled, miracle of miracles, the man smiled back.
Making allies with a criminal wasn’t on Javan’s list of ways to get out of Maqbara, but it couldn’t hurt. Besides, seeing something other than anger or cold disdain on another person’s face loosened a bit of the ache in Javan’s chest.
“I’m Javan,” he said quietly.
“Tarek,” the man replied. “Don’t usually wait so long to get my breakfast, but this morning got away from me.” He picked up a bowl of porridge, handed it to Javan, and then grabbed one for himself.
“Thank you.” Javan braced himself as a group of prisoners rushed through the door and lunged for the food that remained on the table. “We should get out of the way.”
“I’m not staying. Work to do. Take care of yourself, Javan.” Tarek smiled once more and turned to go, but there was a large, muscled man with scarred flesh and flat, unfriendly eyes standing in his way.
“What are you doing here without your protector, old man?”
Someone jostled Javan as they went for a slice of bread, and the prince stepped closer to Tarek.
“Running behind, Hashim. Step aside, please.” Tarek’s voice was firm, but his bowl of porridge shook in his hands.
“Should’ve eaten already, old man.” Hashim moved closer, flanked by several other prisoners.
“Take it, Dabir,” Hashim said.
A tall man with small eyes and a beaked nose snatched the porridge out of Tarek’s hands and handed the bowl to Hashim.
“You really shouldn’t wander the prison without your guard dog. Anything could happen,” Hashim said.
Javan’s pulse kicked up, and his grip on his own porridge bowl tightened.
A woman on Hashim’s right lunged forward and shoved Tarek back into the table. Javan grabbed the older man’s arm and steadied him. The flame of anger within Javan fanned into a blaze as he glared at Hashim and his friends.
“Who are you?” Hashim demanded, his gaze flicking over Javan as if assessing an opponent before finally coming to rest on the prince’s face.
“Someone who isn’t going to allow you to shove this man around.” Javan kept his hand on Tarek’s arm, though all his focus was now on the threat in front of him.
Hashim laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound that sent Javan’s anger crashing through him, a lightning bolt of furious purpose.
He couldn’t afford to make enemies inside Maqbara, especially when he’d yet to figure out how the prison worked.
But he couldn’t afford to behave dishonorably either. Not if he intended to rule Akram with a pure heart.
“Don’t do this.” Tarek breathed the words beside Javan’s ear. “It’s just food.”
It wasn’t just food. It was someone with the upper hand using it to hurt a man who couldn’t defend himself.
It was a dragon lying in wait to kill a schoolboy. Assassins ready to finish the job. It was Uncle Fariq using Javan’s absence against him to take the throne. The impostor killing the headmaster because what he wanted mattered more to him than another person’s life.
It was wrong, and Javan was sick of people doing wrong.
“You’re new here, so I’m going to give you a second chance,” Hashim said, his eyes boring into Javan’s. “Tarek here gets special treatment from the warden because he’s the watchdog’s little pet. Makes him think he’s better than us, though he wouldn’t survive a single round with me in the arena. We can’t touch him when his guard dog is near, but she isn’t here now, is she?”
Javan frowned. “Guard dog?”
“I’m sure you met her when you got here. Tall, pale skin, black hair, looks like she’d like to kill you? You probably thought she was beautiful, and that you’d like a piece of that little ehira.”
“You’ll watch your mouth about Sajda.” Tarek pushed away from the table to move past Javan, who whipped his arm out to stop the shorter man from barreling straight into Hashim’s raised fists. “Do what you please to me, but you will not disrespect that girl in my presence.”
Hashim laughed cruelly. “How are you going to stop me? Kick my shins?”
Keeping his voice even, Javan said, “Give Tarek back his breakfast, apologize for saying such a filthy thing about Sajda, and we’ll all walk away and forget this happened.”
Hashim’s smile blinked out, and he turned the full weight of his gaze onto Javan. “You need to think really hard about your next words. I can make your stay in Maqbara pleasant, or I can make every day a living hell.”
Javan held the man’s eyes and said with painstaking precision, “Give Tarek his breakfast, apologize, and walk away.”
Hashim’s lips twisted. “I’m going to enjoy teaching you your place.”
The man’s fist shot toward Javan, but the prince was already moving. Lunging to the side, he shoved the bowl in Hashim’s hands against his scarred chest, sending a wave of piping-hot porridge sloshing out. Hashim shouted in pain, and the four prisoners who flanked him charged for Javan and Tarek.
Throwing his own bowl of porridge into the face of the man closest to him, Javan pushed Tarek behind him, planted his feet, and started swinging.
Pain exploded across his face as someone’s fist connected with his cheekbone, and he hissed as a boot slammed into his stomach, sending him crashing into Tarek and the table behind them. Javan snapped out a kick, sending a female prisoner spinning back into Hashim, but two men were instantly there to take her place.
Javan was surrounded. Back against a now empty table. No weapons except Tarek, who’d put up his fists and was daring anyone who thought they could call Sajda names to get what was coming to them.
“Let me through!” Hashim roared, and tossed aside his friends as he came at Javan.
“Enough!” A cold voice cut through the noise, and Hashim froze, his fists still raised.
Javan kept his fists up too, as did Tarek, but a ripple of silence spread throughout the kitchen until the only sound was the faint pop of the porridge still bubbling on the hearth and the ragged sound of prisoners trying to catch their breaths.
Javan glanced at Sajda as she stalked to Tarek’s side, her expression promising pain to everyone in her path. Maybe it was the light from the lanterns hanging from the walls inside the kitchen, but her alabaster skin seemed to glow like she had a sheath of light trapped within.
“Are you hurt?” she asked Tarek. Javan blinked at the gentle edge to her cold voice and then locked his gaze back on Hashim as the man shifted, turning his feral eyes toward her.
“I’m fine,” Tarek said. “Thanks to Javan.”
Sajda’s eyes met Javan’s for a moment, though he couldn’t read her thoughts. Then she turned to Hashim and said quietly, “I would think someone focused on winning the competition would have more important things to do than bother an old man over his breakfast.”
Hashim smiled slowly, and Javan’s muscles tensed at the expression on his face. “You’re right, ehira. I need to practice defeating monsters.” His voice dropped as he leaned toward her. “You wouldn’t want to practice with me, would you?”
Sajda’s eyes narrowed, and she tugged at the iron bracelet on her left wrist. “Leave Tarek alone, Hashim.”
“Or what?” he asked.
Sajda matched his smile with one of her own, and Javan’s skin prickled. “Or I’ll show you why the warden puts me in charge when she’s gone.”
Looping her arm through Tarek’s, Sajda began pulling the old man toward the door. Javan frowned as he tried to reconcile the cold, distant person he’d met the night before with a girl who would protect an old man. She’d gone three steps when Tarek whispered something that brought her to a stop. She stood silent for a moment before sighing and tossing a glance over her shoulder at Javan.
“Are you coming?”
“I . . .” Javan glanced around the kitchen, at the way no one would meet his eyes except Hashim and his friends, who each looked like they wanted to kill him. The guards stationed at the door hadn’t even bothered to come inside the kitchen when the fight started, and they showed no inclination
to change their positions once Sajda left.
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged and turned back toward the door.
“No, I’m coming.” Javan let his fists drop and brushed past Hashim.
As Javan followed Sajda and Tarek into the corridor, Hashim yelled, “You’re meat. First chance I get in the arena. Better watch your back.”
Javan had no intention of facing Hashim in the arena—whatever that meant. He’d blown his chance to quietly and carefully integrate into the prison, judiciously choosing his friends. He’d made a vicious enemy; his allies consisted of a kind old man and a girl who unnerved him completely; and somewhere above the prison, his father was in danger of losing both the throne and his life.
Javan wasn’t sure things could get much worse.
THIRTEEN
WHAT WAS SHE supposed to do with the new boy?
The prisoners who joined the ranks in Maqbara were either petty thieves, vicious criminals, or poverty-stricken debtors who couldn’t afford to pay what they owed to a member of the aristocracy and who spent their lives in the prison while their families tried desperately to scrape together enough wahda to pay off the debt.
This boy held himself like he owned every space he entered. He met everyone’s gaze like an equal. And he spoke with a crisp polish to his words that sounded jarringly out of place amid the softened syllables of the peasants who filled Maqbara’s cells.
Plus, he was almost pretty, a fact that shouldn’t have offended Sajda but somehow did. His smooth bronze skin, shoulder-length black hair, and brown eyes were a distraction in a place where distraction could get her killed.
“Why didn’t the guards on level nine stop Hashim? Shouldn’t they protect us from attacks?” the boy asked, righteous indignation filling his words.
“They aren’t here to protect you,” Sajda said. “They’re here to protect the warden and keep the prisoners from breaking her rules. And her rules say nothing about prisoners keeping their hands to themselves.”
“It’s dishonorable.”
“It’s a prison.” Sajda shot Javan a glare as she escorted Tarek toward the stairs with the boy right behind them. He met her gaze without flinching, a hint of challenge in his eyes.
The Traitor Prince Page 9