RAHIM WAS SO close to being recognized by Akram as its prince, he could almost taste it.
He’d been traveling the Samaal Desert for over three weeks now, passing inns and long stretches of road with nothing to see but the ruins of altars to the lesser gods and the iron-caged effigies of dark elves ready to be lit on fire during the week of Tu’ Omwahl as Akramians remembered the war six generations before that had finally freed them from servitude to the monstrous creatures from the far north.
By the week of Tu’ Omwahl, the FaSaa’il would have either finished poisoning the king or Rahim would have convinced him to abdicate. Either way, Rahim would be ensconced on Akram’s throne, the crown of fire on his brow, and the bodies of all who’d opposed him strewn in his wake.
It would be interesting to kill again. He’d acted so quickly with the academy’s headmaster that he hadn’t had time to really savor his victory.
He sniffed as he glanced across the carriage at the ruined upholstery. He’d been right about the bloodstain. It was never coming out. The velvet was crusty and matted, and the man’s bright red blood had dried an unsightly brown. As the unforgiving desert sun beat down on the carriage, the smell that lingered in the stifling confines coated the back of Rahim’s tongue with sharp bitterness and almost made him wish to ride atop the vehicle with his guards.
Almost.
But Rahim had spent too many years in the burned red sand of the desert, sewing garments to help his mother eke out a living and nursing his rage, to ever travel as anything less than the royal he was.
Besides, it was good to sit with the smell. To realize that he was strong enough to kill those who caused him problems and live with it afterward. Ordinary people couldn’t stomach it, but Rahim was hardly ordinary.
A sharp knock sounded on the door, and then a guard poked her head into the carriage, her eyes scraping over the bloodstained seat as if it didn’t exist.
None of the guards and coachmen had questioned Rahim when he’d demanded they stop the carriage at the entrance to the Sakhra bridge. Not even when they discovered his reason for stopping was to dump the body of Milisatria’s headmaster onto the shore.
If the power of being Akram’s prince was this intoxicating, Rahim couldn’t wait to experience what it was like to be king.
“Forgive my intrusion, Your Highness.” The guard’s voice was brisk. “We’ll be entering Makan Almalik soon. The journey is almost over.”
He nodded his thanks and leaned forward to sweep the curtain from the carriage’s window as the guard closed the door and resumed her post.
Makan Almalik spread across a bowl-shaped valley deep in the heart of Akram. Gentle hills dipped and curved, and the copper pipes, which funneled rainfall during monsoon season into enormous holding tanks, gleamed at the edges of the city.
Rahim drank in the sight like a starving man staring at a feast. A few months ago, he’d arrived in the city as a peasant. Now he was entering as its prince. Pride swept through him, fierce and possessive.
There were the gleaming white clay homes with their colorfully painted rooftops lining the hills in stately elegance. The cinnamon trees with their rust-brown bark and lemon groves with their rich green leaves and thorny stems. There were the packed-dirt streets and the brilliant sashes tied to balconies to flutter in the wind and give early warning of incoming sandstorms. The wooden stables painted in bold hues of peacock blue, apple red, or sunlit gold and the racetracks with their betting halls and trampled sweet grass seats for the peasants who paid five wahda to watch the aristocrats race their steeds.
And there, rising above the warren of streets, orchards, and buildings was the palace—the shining jewel in the crown of Akram. White pillars capped with domes tiled in crimson and gold glowed in the early morning light like torches. Carved marble tigers, the animal on the Kadar family crest, stood sentry along the glistening white walls that hemmed in the enormous palace estate. Royal purple banners hung from the upper balconies.
Rahim smiled as the carriage entered the city and began winding its way toward the palace.
He’d done it.
Influenced the right people, said the right things, made bold decisions, and won the right to enter the palace as the true prince.
Soon, he would be crowned king, a worthy successor to the current ruler whose failing health would surely inspire him to quickly put his newly returned son on the throne.
And once he was king, he would test the loyalty of those who’d helped give him the crown. They’d better be prepared to pass his test. Their lives depended on it.
His smile stretched wide and feral as he pulled away from the window and looked at the bloodstained seat across from him while the carriage pulled to a stop and waited for the palace gates to open.
Hoofbeats thundered toward the carriage from the road behind him, and Rahim’s heart kicked up a notch. A shout echoed from the top of the vehicle, and Rahim spun toward the door in time to see a boy yank it open, kick a guard onto the ground, and then launch himself straight for Rahim.