“There most certainly are. I think you broke my ribs.” He stayed hunched over and waited.
She paused and then leaned down. “I should’ve held back. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He grabbed her left arm and spun her to face the wall. When she brought her foot up to kick him, he hooked his leg beneath hers and tried to knock her off-balance.
She recovered much faster than was strictly fair.
Who had trained her? Had there been a prisoner with extensive combat experience who’d taken an interest in a little girl?
She lunged for the wall, pressed her hands against it, and snapped a double-legged kick in his direction.
He was already ducking and moving, though it hurt to do so. She spun to face him, and landed a glancing blow, but he was figuring her out now. She moved so fast, she relied on her speed to get her in and out of range before he could react. If he kept moving, kept breaking pattern, it threw her off. And when she was off-balance he had a second to react. To tap her shoulder. Nudge her kneecap. Nothing to hurt her, but enough to let her know that the point was his.
When that worked three times in a row, she stopped and glared at him.
“What? Do you need me to stand still so you can punch me?” He was wearing a ridiculous grin on his face. He could feel it stretching his lips too wide, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Says the boy who still hasn’t hit me.”
“I’m not interested in hitting you. And according to the rules of engagement, I’ve now scored three points in a row.”
“Points?” She looked at him like he’d gone mad. “Who tallies points when they fight?”
“It’s . . . like a game.”
“A game?”
“Yes. A game where the person who gets the touch gets the point. The first person to the predetermined amount of points wins.”
“I don’t usually like games, but I’ll make an exception for this one.” She gave him a sly smile. “Are you still mad?”
He went still. The anger was still there, but it was banked. A pile of embers steadily glowing instead of a fire raging out of control. The vicious, violent energy that had careened through him had steadied. And the loneliness that had filled him when he’d awakened that morning had lost some of its sting.
He was thinking clearly again.
And she’d given him that on purpose.
“You picked a fight with me to get me to calm down?” He frowned.
“It worked, didn’t it?” The challenge was back in her voice.
“Yes.” He almost didn’t want to ask, but the question was already leaving his lips. “Why did you do it?”
“Because you needed it,” she said. “And if I have to be friends with you, then I should get to punch you now and then. Did you give me a point for that? Because I deserved about five.”
“You don’t get five points for one touch.”
“You do when that one touch nearly breaks someone’s ribs. Now get back to the arena for your level’s chore hour before the guards decide to beat you into submission.”
TWENTY-TWO
RAHIM KNOCKED ON the door of the king’s chambers and waited. In his hands he held a stack of parchment—orders for the king to sign, correspondence to reply to, and various details that needed his attention. Some of them had been given to Rahim by Fariq with strict instructions to make sure the king signed everything without looking too closely at the contents. One of the pieces of parchment Rahim himself had written in the solitary confines of the small office that was attached to his receiving room, far from the prying eyes of Fariq or any of the palace staff.
He was going to make very sure the king took notice of that sheet.
The door swung open, and Abbas, the head of the palace guard, slowly backed away to allow Rahim entrance. Rahim wasn’t sure why the head of the entire guard felt it necessary to personally stay so close to the king, but he was tired of the man watching his every move. He was the prince. Once he took the crown, Abbas would either treat him as a member of the royal family he’d taken an oath to guard, or he would be removed from his post.
He found the king ensconced in pillows on a couch that faced the same lemon grove Rahim could see from his receiving room. A thick woven blanket covered the older man’s legs. Several guards were stationed throughout the room—far more than attended either Rahim or Fariq. The king waved his guards out of the room when he saw Rahim approach.
“Javan!” The king smiled and reached a trembling hand toward Rahim. “I do enjoy our daily visits.”
Rahim smiled. “As do I, Father. I’m afraid today I’m being used as a messenger by the palace steward, the magistrate’s office, and Uncle Fariq.” He waved the sheaf of parchment in the air as proof. “Apparently your signature is required on a number of things that you already discussed with them in previous meetings this week.”
The king eyed the parchment and then struggled to sit up. “I recall the meeting with the steward and the magistrate, but I haven’t spoken to Fariq about anything of importance in quite some time.”
Rahim’s heart raced. “Really? Well, perhaps I misinterpreted his words.”
“Perhaps.” The king frowned as he pushed the blanket to the floor and stood on shaking legs. Rahim quickly wrapped an arm around the king’s frail waist and helped him walk to the massive ebony desk that rested against the far wall. Carvings of falcons and vines decorated the edges, and its surface gleamed with polish.
The king noticed Rahim admiring the desk and said, “It was a gift from Queen Lorelai of Ravenspire two years ago after she assumed the crown. I moved my old desk into your mother’s library. I remember how much you loved to sit at it and pretend to use your little ring to seal letters to her.”
Rahim gave the king the warm, slightly sad smile he’d adopted for any conversation that brought up the late queen and then gently steered the king into the chair. “I’ll have to go see it again for myself one day soon.”
“You’ll need to see her grave as well.” The king’s voice sharpened. “I’m surprised that you didn’t do so immediately.”
Rahim closed his eyes to hide his annoyance and tried to look stricken. “I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that I’ve been gone so long. And now I see her around every corner, and it’s like losing her all over again. I’m not ready to . . . I just need more time.”
The king’s shaking hand patted Rahim’s cheek. “Of course, Son. I should have realized that it would all feel very fresh to you. You haven’t had time to make new memories here. Perhaps you could take Malik for a walk around the grounds as you used to. He never gets enough exercise anymore.”
Rahim would rather drive a sword through his own foot than go anywhere near that vicious leopard, but he simply nodded and then turned to the parchment. Swiftly separating them into three stacks, he pulled the king’s quill and ink pot forward and lit a candle beneath the wax warmer.
“What is this? Magistrate’s?” the king asked as his trembling fingers sent one pile of parchment spilling across the desk.
Rahim gathered up the sheets, careful to keep the four that Fariq had slipped into the pile hidden in the middle. “Yes, these are the orders you discussed with the magistrate two days ago. All they need is a signature and a seal. Would you like me to do the seals for you?”
“That would be helpful,” the king said as he glanced over the parchment before scrawling his shaky signature across the bottom and handing it to Rahim.
“I’ll need your ring, Father.”
The king laughed a little as he slid the royal signet ring off his finger and dropped it in Rahim’s waiting palm. “Soon enough you’ll be the one wearing this.”
Something flashed across the king’s face as he watched Rahim, waiting for a reply, but Rahim was a fast learner. His first suggestion that they schedule a quick coronation had upset the king. He was ready to try a different approach.
“I’ll wear the ring and assume the heavy burden of ruling only when you deem me re
ady, Father.”
The king beamed with pride. “That’s my boy.”
The older man worked quickly through the magistrate’s stack, but Rahim’s stomach dropped as the king took the time to glance over each page before signing. If he read the orders Fariq had included, he’d launch an investigation into where the sheets had come from and who was out to destroy the most loyal families in the kingdom.
Rahim couldn’t have that.
His mind raced as he glanced around the room, hoping to be struck with inspiration. What he needed was a distraction. Something that could hold the king’s full attention. His gaze landed on the window and the glossy green leaves of the lemon grove that spread across the hill beyond it.
As the king slid another page to Rahim to be sealed with wax, revealing the first of the four orders from Fariq, Rahim said, “Have you been out to the lemon grove lately?”
The king looked at the window. “Not for years. Not since . . . well, you know it was your mother’s favorite place.”
Yes, Fariq had mentioned that to Rahim in his detailed descriptions of palace life while Javan was a boy. Resting his hand on the king’s shoulder, Rahim said, “I haven’t been there either. Would you like to go with me?”
Hope flared in the king’s eyes, and his smile was warm. “I’m not much for walking long distances now, but perhaps just to sit. I’d love to hear about your time at the academy.” He paused, a frown digging into his forehead. “Have we talked about it yet? I sometimes forget things now.”
“The academy?” Rahim asked, holding the king’s gaze. “Just a bit.”
“Did you do it? Did you honor her muqaddas tus’el?”
Rahim froze, working hard to keep his expression neutral. Fariq hadn’t told him a thing about the queen charging Javan with a sacred dying wish. He was going to have to bluff and hope the king bought it. “Yes, Father. You know I did.”
The king’s frown deepened. “I do?”
“We discussed this when I first came home.” Rahim gave the king a gentle smile, tinged with just enough pity to have the older man straightening his back and nodding sharply.
“Of course we did. That would’ve been the first thing you wanted to show me. We can take the sash out to her grave when you’re ready.”
Rahim squeezed the king’s shoulder gently while he frantically inventoried the items taken from Javan’s room at Milisatria. He couldn’t remember a sash, but maybe Fariq would know what the king meant.
“That sounds fine, but let’s take that walk in the lemon grove first. Shall we hurry through these so that we can enjoy the light before it’s time for afternoon meetings?”
The king’s eyes were teary as he turned back to the parchment and quickly signed the rest of the pile. The orders waiting from the castle steward were handled just as promptly, but when the king reached for the last sheet, the one Rahim had filled out himself not an hour ago, the boy said quietly, “That was the one Uncle gave me. I forgot that he wanted it placed in the middle of the pile, but I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”
It was about as unsubtle as Rahim could be, but it worked. The king was already frowning. Already pulling the parchment close to carefully read every word. His lips pressed together in a tight line, and there was cold anger in his eyes when he finished.
“When did Fariq give this to you?” The king’s voice was deadly calm.
“This morning. You seem upset. Have I done something wrong?”
“Did you read this?”
Rahim let a bite of indignation enter his voice. “No. Those weren’t mine to read.”
“No, of course, my son. Forgive me. I keep hoping to see the best in my cousin, but time and again, he shows me only his worst.”
Rahim frowned, though inside his heart was racing. This was it. He’d hedged his bets, banking on the king’s distrust of Fariq to put Rahim one step closer to becoming Akram’s ruler. If Fariq learned of his deception, he would try to kill Rahim. If the king learned Rahim’s identity, he’d order his death as well.
But if both trusted Rahim implicitly and sought only to destroy each other, no matter the outcome, Rahim would be the winner.
“What has he done?” Rahim asked, keeping his hand on the king’s shoulder.
“This is an edict proclaiming Fariq to be the regent, to rule in my place due to my failing health.” The king’s voice shook with anger. “Not only is he trying to supplant me, but in doing this, he is also trying to supplant you.”
“But why?” Rahim did his best to sound distressed.
“Because he is greedy for power and angry that Yl’ Haliq has seen fit to deny it to him.” The king turned to Rahim. “Listen to me now. Fariq has friends within the palace and without. We cannot know who is with him in this plan. You must not tell anyone about this. We have to proceed with speed and caution. I wasn’t willing to take this step yet, because it seemed like Fariq was pushing me toward it, but now I wonder if he was pushing me because he knew that would make me resist doing the one thing that can put the crown out of his reach.”
“What are we going to do?” Rahim asked as triumph, bold and bright, spread through him.
“We will hold your coronation.”
TWENTY-THREE
IT HAD BEEN almost two weeks since the last combat round, and Sajda still didn’t know what to do about Javan.
He was surviving, a fact that shouldn’t have made her feel anything one way or the other, but which somehow made her glad. He’d kept to the rules she’d outlined for him—eating in his cell with her or Tarek, staying close to the other prisoners on the fifteenth level during chore and arena practice hours since Hashim and the rest of level five had a different schedule, and staying in plain view of the doorway during rec hour so she could keep an eye on him from the hallway in case Hashim decided to pick a fight while all the prisoners were in a room together. Occasionally she was able to get him out of his cell between his sparring hour and the bell that heralded the prisoners’ recreation time, but she’d had to invent excuses that wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions and get back to the warden. She’d told the guards that Javan had been given extra cleaning duties, and to make her story sound legitimate, she’d included several others from the fifteenth level as well. They’d scrubbed the arena until it glowed, polished the seats, and wiped the walls; and when they were finished, she had them start over again. Anything to keep an eye on Javan during the hours when Hashim might be able to bribe a guard to let him leave his cell.
He’d had to mingle with the other prisoners during recreation time—it would be hard to make allies otherwise, and he desperately needed those for his next stint in the arena—but Sajda had remained vigilant just outside the recreation room with the guards, her expression daring Hashim to give her a reason to punish him. Hashim had glared right back, and Sajda’s magic stung her veins at the memory.
He wouldn’t take her interference much longer. Either he’d confront her directly, or he’d do his best to kill Javan in the next combat round.
Worry chased her thoughts during the day and kept her up at night. Her bargain with Javan was a sword held over their heads by a fraying thread. One wrong move, and he could die. One mistake, and the warden could get suspicious and decide to expose Sajda. She couldn’t even coach him on the beasts he would face in the next round, because for the first time in the tournament’s history, she had no idea which creatures would go into the arena. It was supposed to be a combat round against beasts of the air, but the warden had canceled her shipment from Llorenyae and simply told Sajda she should order plenty of sand.
Instead, Sajda had coached Javan on which prisoners might make potential allies and had tried to hold up her end of the bargain by sparring with him during his arena practice. She thought it strange that he insisted on making it into a game where a simple touch counted as a point, and no one was supposed to use their full strength, but there was no accounting for the ways of aristocrats.
She’d done what she could, but she had t
he terrible feeling that disaster was careening toward them. She ought to walk away. Protect herself. Focus on surviving.
But he was kind, even when she wasn’t. He made her laugh. He listened to her as though her words mattered. He treated her as if she was something far better than a slave, and every time he smiled at her, something warm swirled through her veins like a new kind of magic.
It was strangely exhilarating until this morning when she woke before dawn and realized that the odd, fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t hunger.
At least not hunger for food.
Somehow, he’d become someone she wanted to be with each day, and it was terrifying. She wanted to back away. Cut him off at the knees before he had the chance to do the same to her. Before the thread holding the sword over their heads snapped.
But even as she considered what she would say to leave him friendless in Maqbara once again, something dark and aching opened up within her, and the words refused to pass her lips.
What was she going to do when he found out what she really was? When he turned on her and saw the monster instead of the girl?
The only good elf was a dead elf.
Maybe it was better to just show him the truth herself. At least then, he’d be walking away because she’d given him a push.
“Where are you?” Javan asked beside her, and she jumped.
“I’m standing right here in the middle of the arena with a scrub brush and bucket, just like you,” she snapped. “The warden won’t be happy if you and the other prisoners don’t get your work done before the next bell.”
“We’ll get it done. I meant where are you up here.” He tapped lightly on the side of her head.
“Do that again, and I’ll give myself ten points for every touch I get this afternoon during sparring practice.”
He gave her an exasperated look. “You can’t arbitrarily change the rules just because you’re in a bad mood.”
“I can do as I please. I did what I pleased for eleven years before you showed up, and I’ll keep doing as I please long after you’re gone.” She’d forgotten to borrow the cold composure of the stone wall outside her bedroom this morning, and everything inside her felt like a rope fraying under the strain of something far too heavy to lift.
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