THE MORNING OF his second round of competition Javan woke from a restless sleep with his stomach in knots.
The impostor was in the palace, sheltered by Uncle Fariq, a betrayal that still cut deep. Javan’s father would surely be killed the moment he realized the impostor wasn’t his son, or the moment he gave up the crown, whichever came first. Akram was in danger of being ruled by corrupt, dishonorable men. And the only way Javan could escape the prison and set it all right was to close the significant gap between himself and the competition’s leaders today by destroying more innocent creatures without getting himself killed in the process.
He really didn’t want to be killed. Was it selfish of him to want to live, not just for Akram or for his father, but for himself? To want the chance to dance with Sajda, to escape Maqbara, and to do all the things he’d turned down at Milisatria in the name of duty?
Climbing off his cot, he dropped to his knees and whispered his morning prayers while the faint light of dawn filtered in through the prison’s skylights. His chest felt too tight to breathe evenly, and his hands shook.
What would he be facing in the arena? He’d worked out a decent plan of defense and attack with Gadi, Nadim, Kali, and Intizara, and he was confident Sajda had hidden their preferred weapons where she’d said they’d be. But not knowing what he’d be fighting was a jagged blade that hacked at his composure until he wanted to scream.
How could he solve a puzzle when he didn’t have all the pieces?
First bell sounded, harsh and clamorous, and the iron cell bars began their slow journey toward the ceiling. The corridors filled with the sound of prisoners making their way to the kitchen. Javan remained where he was.
Yl’ Haliq knew how important today was. Surely he wouldn’t let Javan fail.
He waited to feel the calming presence of Yl’ Haliq, but there was nothing. The anxiety thrumming through Javan soured into fear, and he forced himself to exhale.
Fear out.
Courage in.
Yl’ Haliq was with him whether Javan could feel him or not. The sacred texts were clear. Hanging on to that thread of reassurance, Javan climbed to his feet and turned to find Sajda standing in his doorway, Tarek just behind her. The early morning light gleamed against her black hair and lingered on her pale skin in a way that made Javan’s heart beat a little faster.
“You look like you didn’t sleep.” Her voice was full of accusation.
“It’s a little hard to sleep before something so important,” he said as he stretched and then reached for a clean tunic.
“All the more reason to make sure you do.” She turned away as he pulled on his gray tunic and sat down to lace up his boots. “You can’t make any mistakes today.”
“I know.”
Tarek slipped past Sajda and handed Javan a banana and a bowl of lumpy porridge nearly the same color as the prince’s shirt. “Eat. You’ll want to give the food time to settle before the competition starts.”
Javan nodded his thanks, and Tarek squeezed his shoulder and smiled while Sajda paced at the door of his cell, her mouth tight.
“Your allies can’t make mistakes either,” she said, shooting a glare at him before turning away again.
“I know.” He ate the banana in four bites and then forced himself to swallow the lukewarm, congealing porridge.
“You have to watch out for Hashim and his gang. And for the warden. She isn’t supposed to intervene, but don’t trust her. If she already tried to kill you once, then she might still be working with whoever put you here.” Sajda’s voice sharpened. “And you can’t turn your back on the middle of the arena. Not for a second. I don’t know what’s in there. The warden herself brought in a creature last night, and three of the guards who helped her were killed. I found their bodies at the edge of the arena this morning.” Her voice shook at the edges, and she twisted her fingers together as if to stop her hands from trembling.
Javan’s stomach clenched, and the food he’d just eaten turned to stone in his belly. Handing his empty bowl to Tarek, he walked to where Sajda still paced in front of his doorway, her graceful strides eating up the floor while her fingers drummed restlessly against her leg. It was such a change from her usual predatory stillness that it sent the anxiety inside him spiraling into fear again, though this time for a very different reason.
If the warden was still working with the impostor, what would she do to her slave if she realized Sajda cared what happened to the prince?
“Please don’t worry,” he said quietly while his pulse raced, and his stomach churned.
“I’m not worried,” she shot back.
“Sajda.” He reached for her, his hand brushing the bare skin of her arm. She spun toward him, and for a second, her dark blue eyes were haunted with misery and fear. Then she slapped a hand against the stone wall beside her, closed her eyes, and drew in a shuddering breath.
When she looked at him again, her cold, unflappable demeanor was back in place. Meeting his gaze steadily, she said, “You still have lessons to teach me, Prince.”
“I know.”
“So don’t die.”
He swallowed hard. “I won’t.”
Javan spent the entire walk down to the arena praying that he could keep that promise—for Sajda, his father, his kingdom, and himself.
The arena was full of reddish brown sand nearly as deep as Javan’s waist. Patches of the sand glowed like blood beneath the skylights. Small black flags were planted above the location of the weapons Sajda had buried the day before. Aristocrats and some wealthy merchants in pale linen with brilliant sashes and wraps filed in through the door that led from the magistrate’s office, checking to make sure the palace steward was recording their attendance as their voices filled the hollow space with the bright din of excited conversation and laughter.
Their laughter made Javan feel sick.
People were going into the arena to fight and possibly die for the entertainment of those who would never have to worry about entering Maqbara as anything other than a spectator. Javan prowled the space between the stalls and the arena’s entrance, shaking out his arms and keeping his muscles loose, while he glared at the crowd.
“Don’t waste your energy on them,” Intizara said as she began pacing beside him, her expression fierce. “This is a game, and we’re their pawns.”
“We’re people, not pawns.”
She snorted. “What part of Akram do you come from?”
He hesitated, and then said carefully, “I was actually raised in Loch Talam. I only recently returned to Akram.”
“That explains your fancy accent,” she said. “I knew you couldn’t be a real aristocrat like some of the prisoners think. Aristocrats don’t end up in Maqbara. They’re too busy accusing us of crimes—inventing the evidence if they have to—so they can take our businesses and enslave our children. This”—she swept an arm out to encompass the arena—“is just another way to show us that in Akram the rich now own us from our first breath to our last.”
Javan met her gaze while anger burned hot and bright within him. “That goes against everything the sacred texts teach.”
“The sacred texts don’t seem to matter now that the king is in poor health and his cousin is helping with his duties until the prince returns.”
She started to walk away, and Javan grabbed her arm. “Fariq is helping to rule Akram?”
“Not officially,” she said. “But everyone knows he makes some of the decisions now. This competition was his idea. A way to entertain the aristocrats, keep the prison population down so that more can be sent here on nothing more than the word of those loyal to him, and line both his pockets and the warden’s. The king only shows up at the end, and it’s clear he’s confused about where he is and what he’s doing, but Fariq likes to check in on the competitors.” She nodded toward the royal box, and Javan whirled to find his uncle and the impostor standing, their backs to the arena as they chatted with a few members of the aristocracy, a group of palace guards stationed by the door.
The muscles in his neck knotted, and something oily and slick coated his stomach as he glared at their backs.
He was in prison because of them. Risking his life because of their lies. Their corruption.
The truth burned on his tongue, and he longed to shout it for all the crowd to hear. His body trembled with the effort of keeping silent, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to expose the impostor now except a swift death sentence. Javan had no leverage. No advantage. And the one person with the power to reverse his situation wasn’t here.
“Betting closes in a few moments,” the warden’s gravelly voice boomed out from her platform above the arena. “Competitors, line up.”
Slowly, Javan turned his back on the royal box and joined Intizara, Gadi, Nadim, and Kali at the edge of the arena, his hands curled over the wooden wall that separated him from the lake of sand on the other side and whatever horror the warden had hidden beneath it. He risked one quick glance toward the stalls where Sajda and Tarek stood. Tarek sent him a reassuring smile, but Sajda’s expression was carved out of stone. He met her eyes for one brief moment, his chest tightening at the fierceness of her gaze, and then he turned back to the arena as the audience took their seats.
He couldn’t think about Sajda or the impostor and his uncle. He needed all his focus to survive whatever waited for him in the arena.
“We have a special treat for your entertainment today,” the warden said. “For the first time in the five-year history of this tournament, at great risk and expense, we’ve brought in a beast of myth and legend from the outer reaches of our own Samaal Desert. Buried beneath the sand is a shy’ tan amarryl!”
The crowd gasped, and Javan’s skin went cold. Sand demons were deadly and impossible to kill. How would setting an unbeatable beast loose against her competitors serve the warden? If everyone died, the competition was over, and her income stream would dry up until the winter tournament.
“A sand demon?” Gadi breathed the words beside him. “I thought those were just in bedtime stories to frighten children.”
Javan had thought so too, but the warden wasn’t interested in frightening children. He looked up at the platform and found her dark eye trained on him. She smiled and reached up to touch the bandage that covered the eye his arrow had taken. Understanding settled over him, heavy as a stone, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.
This was a death sentence.
He swallowed past the thickness in his throat and tried to force his frantic pulse to slow. The warden was working with Fariq and the impostor. Javan was supposed to have died in Loch Talam. When he’d shown up in Makan Almalik and confronted the impostor, he’d been sentenced to death at the muqsila. Instead, he’d ended up in Maqbara, competing for a boon from the one person who was sure to recognize Javan as the true prince: his father.
Of course, Fariq and the impostor couldn’t let that happen. If the warden killed every competitor left in the tournament today, the takeover of Akram could continue without a hitch. The warden would probably receive a nice fee for her service to Akram’s new ruler, and she could mount another tournament as soon as she’d replenished her supply of prisoners.
He was in deep trouble, and so were his fellow competitors.
The warden’s voice echoed across the arena. “As you know, the shy’ tan amarryl has the body of a lizard the size of a full-grown dragon with seven snake heads. It lives far beneath the ground and only surfaces to eat every ten years during a season of drought. Most have never seen one of these creatures in person, but you will get to see one in action today.” Her voice lowered as if she was sharing a secret. “I can assure you the monster is most unhappy at being taken from its natural habitat. I doubt it will die willingly.”
The crowd clapped its approval, and Javan clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking.
The beast wasn’t going to die at all. The storybooks all claimed it was invulnerable to the weapons of men. All Javan could do was hope to somehow survive.
The warden raised her voice again. “Competitors, fifty points will be awarded for every head you cut off, but be careful. For every head you remove, two grow in its place.”
“Listen to me,” Javan said quietly. His allies turned to look at him, their faces blanched with fear. “Grab your weapons and get into formation quickly. We’ll fight off any head that comes our way without cutting it off, if possible.”
“We won’t get any points that way,” Gadi said.
“We aren’t going to need points if we’re dead,” Javan answered. “Killing one head makes the creature twice as powerful. Only take a head if you have no choice.”
“Then how are we going to kill it?” Kali asked, her voice shaking as the crowd stamped their feet and yelled for the competition to start, many of them glancing fearfully at the royal box to make sure Fariq noticed their fervent participation. Behind her, a ripple shuddered over the sand as if something beneath it was moving.
“I’m working on that,” Javan said, putting as much confidence as he could into his voice.
He looked past Kali to meet Sajda’s eyes once more. They blazed with fury, and the runes on her cuffs were glowing.
“Competitors, take your places!” the warden yelled.
Javan turned away from Sajda, grabbed the edge of the arena wall, and leaped into the ring.