The Traitor Prince

  Prayers tumbled through his mind, fragmented and desperate. Was this the end? He’d survived the Draconi, the assassins, a death sentence, and a stay inside Maqbara only to be killed by criminals in a tournament that went against everything his father and his kingdom stood for?

  It was impossible to breathe the fear out and let courage in. Panic was an iron fist squeezing his chest. Frantically he scrambled for leverage, reason, anything that could stop what was about to happen.

  Hashim and his friends might hate Javan, but they wanted the same thing he did. They wanted to win. To gain an audience with the king and ask for a boon. Killing Javan would hurt their goal. He had to make them see it.

  “You can’t afford a five-hundred-point loss,” he said, his voice sharp with desperation. “You could lose your place as the tournament leader. You could lose your chance to talk to the king.”

  A shudder worked its way down his spine as someone else screamed and the crowd applauded.

  How did his father condone this bloodbath? How did the audience? Surely sending people to their deaths for sport violated everything the sacred texts taught. It hardly mattered that the people in question were criminals. If their crimes had deserved death, they’d have been sentenced to the muqsila instead of Maqbara.

  “I told you I would make you regret interfering. I can afford a point deduction. There are still three rounds left,” Hashim said, but his eyes darted toward the warden as he spoke.

  “Here!” A female competitor with broad shoulders and the outline of a galloping stallion inked into her neck called.

  Javan bucked and twisted as he caught sight of the faint shadow spreading out along the floor beneath him.

  They were going to drop him on the lake crawler.

  The iron fist of panic squeezed, and his throat constricted.

  The crowd roared. Someone cried out. But Javan could barely hear past the deafening beat of his heart.

  He couldn’t die like this. He was the prince. His destiny had been foretold by Yl’ Haliq. He wasn’t supposed to be in this bloodbath trying to survive monsters that should never have been brought to Akram in the first place.

  His lungs burned for air as he struggled to breathe past the noose of fear closing around his neck.

  He’d have an instant to react once they dropped him. An instant to twist, as he fell through the water, then to drive his sword into the thing that lurked beneath him.

  And he had no idea where to aim for the kill shot.

  “Now!” Hashim yelled.

  The people holding Javan let go.

  His back hit the water and he began to sink.

  A flash of white shimmered out of the corner of his eye, and he twisted toward it as he fell.

  The worm’s jaw was already distended—a cave of teeth and tongue.

  Javan kicked out, his foot finding someone’s chest, but hands were reaching into the water, shoving him down. Panic burned through him. There was no way out of this. Either he dove beneath the worm and landed in the gaping maw of the lake crawler, or he would be swallowed by the monstrous thing surging toward him.

  Spinning, he raised his weapon and collided with the worm.

  His head slammed into the roof of the worm’s mouth, and he drove his sword up, through the soft palate and deep into the creature’s tiny brain.

  The thing shuddered, and its fangs scraped over Javan’s bare skin. And then the worm was sinking, taking Javan with it.

  He’d killed the worm only to be eaten by the lake monster.

  His lungs burned for air, and his pulse was thunder in his ears as they hit the floor of the arena. Yanking the worm’s jaw open, Javan struggled to get his arm out of its mouth, unhooking fangs from his skin and tugging his sword free so that he could face the lake monster.

  The shadow was gone.

  Hands reached for him, and Javan slashed at them with his sword.

  He wasn’t getting caught by Hashim’s group again. He’d killed the worm. One hundred points to add to the sixty he already had. Sixty-five if the judge had seen him kill the snake. No one was taking that from him now.

  Ignoring the pressure that was building in his head as his lungs strained for air, he plunged his sword through the worm’s tongue and deep into its jaw. Then, using that as a hook, he dragged the creature over a floor now littered with the corpses of the water beasts and a few human corpses as well. When he could hold his breath no longer, he rose from the water, dragging the huge white worm with him.

  The crowd cheered as he stood there, surrounded by blood and bodies, the monster in his hands. He caught the eye of the same judge who’d scored his earlier kills and heaved the worm into the water in front of her.

  Fifty paces away, Hashim stood holding the mangled body of the lake crawler and glaring at Javan. The prince glanced around the arena, noting the other competitors who still remained upright. None of them would meet his eyes.

  Not even the man who was still wearing Javan’s tunic as a bandage.

  A bell tolled, deep and sonorous. “This round is over.” The warden’s rough voice echoed across the arena. “Scores will be tallied shortly and winnings may be collected at that time. Prisoners, you are dismissed. If you need the infirmary, the guards will escort you. Otherwise, return to your cells.”

  Slowly, every inch of his body feeling battered, bloodied, and bruised, Javan made his way to the side of the arena closest to Sajda and Tarek and climbed over the wall.

  His knees gave out as his feet touched the ground, and he went down hard. The stone was rough and cold against his skin, and he lay his cheek against it as he struggled to breathe. To ride out the waves of pain that racked his body now that the distraction of battle was over.

  He’d survived. More than survived, he’d put a worthy number of points onto the board.

  But he’d only made his situation with his fellow prisoners worse, and he had no illusions. Hashim wouldn’t accept the humiliation of failing to defeat Javan. He’d be coming for Javan—in the near future or in the next round of competition. And none of the other prisoners wanted to be in the middle of it.

  Javan was on his own.

  Tarek rushed toward him as a guard barked an order to get on his feet and go to the infirmary or be beaten for noncompliance. Quickly, the older man slid his arthritic hands beneath Javan’s arms and helped the prince struggle to his feet.

  “Thank you,” Javan said, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Pain sent a wave of sickness crashing through him as he took a tentative step forward. Gritting his teeth, he moved cautiously, holding his injured arm close.

  Sajda stood apart from them, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression cold as he limped past her to follow the other injured prisoners to the infirmary. “What happened to staying near the wall? To not competing?”

  Javan met her gaze. “I changed my mind once I learned about the prize for winning.” His voice trembled, and he glanced once more at the audience above him, hoping to see a familiar face. Hoping someone would be staring at him with recognition and horror that the crown prince of Akram had nearly died as a prisoner inside Maqbara.

  No one was paying him any attention.

  No one but the guard tasked with bringing him to the infirmary.

  “I said move,” the guard snapped, pulling a thick iron bar from its place on his belt. Javan barely had the energy to flinch as the bar swung toward him and slammed into his back. Staggering forward, he caught himself on the wall beside Sajda.

  Her eyes were chips of ice boring into him. “You’re a fool. And now you’ve put an even bigger target on your back. The infirmary is wasted on you. You’re as good as dead.”

  She turned away, calling Tarek to her side. Javan stumbled down a side corridor that led to the infirmary, her words echoing in his head, a prophecy he didn’t know how to avoid.

  EIGHTEEN

  JAVAN COULDN’T STAY in the infirmary overnight. Not if he wanted to survive to see the dawn.

  I
t wasn’t because the physician was nothing more than an old prisoner who’d once sold medicinal herbs to feed herself and her children on the streets of Makan Almalik. It wasn’t because the cries of pain and anguish from a few of the other eighteen patients scraped against the fragile hold Javan had over himself until he thought he’d scream just to give the helpless despair that had taken root in him somewhere to go.

  No, he couldn’t survive in the infirmary because four of Hashim’s friends were also patients, though they didn’t look to be in bad shape, and judging from the hushed whispers that had drifted Javan’s way, he had until the guards locked the infirmary door at twelfth bell before all four came for him.

  The old woman had smeared a salve over his wounds and bandaged his arm, though it did little to quell the pain. Every move felt as though there were shards of broken glass beneath his skin.

  As the heavy, mournful tone of eleventh bell filled the air, Javan slowly pushed his way off the flimsy cot he’d been resting on since the tournament round ended and got to his feet. He swayed for a moment, darkness swarming his vision, and there was a rustle of sound behind him.

  Turning, he saw Hashim’s friends rising from their cots too, their eyes locked on him.

  Forcing himself to go as quickly as the pain would allow, Javan stepped away from his cot and moved down the aisle that bisected the row of beds. Shadows stretched long fingers down the stone walls from the half dozen torches lit inside iron cages, and Javan nearly stumbled over a prisoner’s boots left haphazardly at the end of her cot.

  “I’m going back to my cell,” he announced to the guards stationed at the door.

  One of them glanced between Javan and the swiftly approaching prisoners behind him and said, “Better make sure you’re inside your cell by twelfth bell, or you’ll be hunted down.”

  He was already being hunted down. Hashim’s friends were closing in as Javan moved back down the corridor toward the arena. Sparks danced at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t outrun them up fourteen flights of stairs to his cell, and even if he did, they could just follow him inside. He had no protection until the bars dropped. And he was in no shape to survive a fight with one person, much less four.

  There was only one place he could think of where he might find any kind of help, and even that was a long shot. Still, a long shot was better than nothing. At the end of the corridor, Javan turned away from the stairs that led to level fifteen and headed toward the stalls instead.

  They were deserted.

  Sending a swift, urgent prayer to Yl’ Haliq, Javan scanned the area. Sajda had to be here. Her combat skills and the eerie control she exerted over the other prisoners were the only chance he had. She’d said her debt to him for helping Tarek was paid, but he didn’t think she was unfeeling enough to let him die at the hands of the same people who’d tried to hurt the older man.

  The wooden chute still hung from the side of the iron wall that separated the stalls from the arena. Blood, fish guts, and scales littered the floor, and a snuffling sound came from one of the few stalls that still housed a creature. But Sajda and Tarek were gone.

  The faint whiff of hope that had held Javan together unraveled, and his shoulders sagged.

  There was no one to help him. No one who cared. Even Yl’ Haliq seemed as distant as the stars. Javan had thought he could stop the impostor. Save his father and his kingdom from Fariq’s treachery.

  Save himself.

  He’d believed Yl’ Haliq would deliver him. That the destiny he’d been training for since birth was written in stone.

  Instead, he was going to die at the hands of vicious criminals, friendless in the bowels of Maqbara, and no one who mattered to him would know to mourn his passing.

  “Go get Hashim,” the woman with the neck tattoo said as she and the others flanked Javan. “He’ll want to do this himself.”

  “Do what himself?” A cold, quiet voice drifted from the corridor Javan had just left.

  Javan’s knees shook as he turned to find Sajda standing at the mouth of the hallway, her dark blue eyes a storm of ice and fury as she stared down the prisoners who surrounded Javan.

  Maybe Yl’ Haliq had heard his prayer after all.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” the tattooed woman said, though the bravado in her voice trembled. “Unless you’ve decided to take the pretty boy on as a new pet.”

  “A pet?” Sajda cocked her head, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline.

  “We know you collect prisoners the rest of us want nothing to do with. Tarek. This boy. That woman Maeli who died in the arena two years ago,” the man on Javan’s right said. Javan recognized him as Dabir, a prisoner who seemed to worship the ground Hashim walked on.

  Something dark flashed across Sajda’s expression and was gone before Javan could decide if it was grief or anger.

  “Twelfth bell is coming,” Sajda said, her voice giving nothing away as she faced the man. She looked unconcerned that he was a handspan taller than Javan and nearly twice as broad, or that his small round eyes bored aggressively into hers. “Dabir, you’re still recovering from the last punishment you got for not obeying the guards. Better run along to your cells now, or a beating is the least of your worries.”

  “Hashim already despises you,” Dabir said from Javan’s right. “You don’t want to make an enemy of him.”

  Sajda smiled, slow and vicious. “Hashim doesn’t want to make an enemy of me.”

  The tattooed woman took a small step back, but then glanced at her friends and held her ground. “There are four of us and only one of you. You might be good in a fight, but you can’t take all of us.”

  Sajda’s smile became a baring of teeth. “Fine. If you four can knock me off my feet, you can have the boy.”

  Javan’s stomach clenched. She was strong and fast, and her reflexes were incredible, but the odds of her keeping her feet in a fight against four others weren’t good. Certainly not good enough that he wanted to bet his life on it.

  Hissing in a sharp breath as a shaft of pain blazed a trail from his fingers to his jaw, he raised his fists.

  Dabir laughed. “Looks like Sajda’s little pet wants to come to her rescue now.” Dabir twisted, and even though Javan saw the blow coming, he couldn’t block it. Couldn’t get his injured arm to hold steady. The man’s fist plowed into Javan’s chest, and the prince went down.

  He had to get up. Get his hands into position and his feet moving. He had to, but his body moved sluggishly and his limbs were weak.

  The man aimed a boot at Javan’s face, and then he was gone. Flying through the air and slamming into the iron wall of the stalls several paces away.

  Javan looked up to see Sajda, her body a blur of motion as she blocked, feinted, kicked, and spun with swordlike precision. The carvings on her iron bracelets seemed to glow faintly in the fiery light of the sunset from the skylights above.

  In moments, it was over. All four of Hashim’s friends were crumpled on the floor or limping away, and Sajda was still standing.

  Javan shivered as the full weight of her gaze landed on him. Her eyes were cold and predatory, her body a tightly coiled spring held perfectly still as she hunted for more prey.

  He had the uneasy feeling that if he said the wrong thing, he would be the next body she sent into the wall. She blinked, and the predator was gone, replaced once again by icy indifference. Bending forward, she offered him her hand. He took it, and tried not to wince as she pulled him roughly to his feet.

  “The warden is in a foul mood tonight,” she said, encompassing the other four prisoners with her gaze. “Get to your cells now, or you’ll be dead by morning.”

  Javan looked at the stairs, dread pooling in his stomach. He could barely keep his feet. Climbing fourteen flights of stairs before twelfth bell was going to be nearly impossible.

  The other prisoners dragged themselves quickly toward the stairs, and beside him, Sajda sighed.

  “Lean on me.” She sounded irritated.

 
“If you’re sure—”

  “Do you want to die tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Less talking, more walking. Let’s go.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and took some of his weight as she guided him toward the stairs.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly as they navigated the steps. “For saving me from them and for helping me now.”

  She sniffed. “You’re just lucky I was still cleaning and storing weapons. Usually I’m already in my room for the night.”

  “What made you want to help me?”

  “I’ve seen enough death for one day.”

  They cleared the fifth level and hurried toward the sixth, brushing past other prisoners who were returning to their cells from rec hour. Some of them cast curious looks at the pale girl who was hauling the injured boy up the stairs, but most of the prisoners refused to look at them at all.

  The despair that had briefly lifted at Sajda’s assistance settled heavily on Javan’s shoulders once more.

  He had no allies beyond a sweet old man and a girl who barely tolerated his presence and who had duties that didn’t include constantly watching over Javan. He’d made powerful enemies, both inside and outside the prison. He’d put up enough tournament points to get a foot in the door, but he was nowhere close to being in a strong position to earn a place in the final round. His back was against the wall, and his survival depended on coming up with a better strategy than just fighting hard enough to win the combat rounds.

  He needed help, and there was only one person he could ask.

  As Sajda assisted him up the last flight of stairs, twelfth bell began tolling, thick and mournful. The iron bars shuddered and began their slow journey toward the floor.

  “Move,” Sajda snapped as they reached the corridor.

  He made himself walk faster, and ducked beneath the bars of his cell as they reached the halfway point between the ceiling and the floor. The dying rays of the sun lingered over Sajda’s skin, a rosy glow at odds with the glare she was aiming his way.