“Dance? Why would I want to dance with anybody?” She glared at him.
He laughed helplessly. “You might not. But if you’re at a party or a fancy dinner or one day if you decide to get married, you’ll be expected to dance.”
“I’ll just say no.”
“You can certainly do so, but what if you want to say yes?”
“Why would I?” She shuddered. “Having a stranger’s hands on me and having to move around together?”
There was a humming in his blood, a wild, reckless light burning in his chest, as he said quietly, “What if it isn’t a stranger? What if it’s someone you really want to be close to? And you don’t want to be rude?”
“I always want to be rude.” She grinned at him, and he looked away before she could see how badly he wanted her to agree to what he was about to propose.
“Think of dancing like sparring.”
“Are you allowed to leave bruises?”
He laughed. “You’re hopeless. No bruises, unless you’re doing it wrong. But it’s a give and take, an action and a reaction. You learn the moves, and it flows.”
“I suppose you’re a good dancer.” She eyed him suspiciously, and he pretended to dust the wrinkles out of his prison-issued tunic.
“Best in my class four years in a row.”
“So you competed.”
“Kind of. It was for school, so it was for a grade. I wanted the best grade in the class.” He gave her the same look he did when he was sure he could score against her in their sparring matches. “I’m still the best. You might want to quit before you discover that dancing is harder than it sounds.”
Her brow rose, and the wild light inside him felt like it was consuming him a piece at a time.
“If you can dance, so can I. We both know I move better than you do.” She rose from the couch, her expression defiant.
“You’re going to take back those words in a minute.” He stood and held out his arms, and then closed his eyes when she walked right into them. “Hold my hand . . . not that one, this one. My other hand goes on your waist.”
“Move it any lower and you’ll draw back a stump.”
He leaned his cheek against her hair and laughed. “I wouldn’t dare.”
When he had her in position, he began softly counting a four-quarter beat while he moved her gently into the sweeping movements of the pallestaya.
“Why do you get to make me dip backward?” she demanded.
“Because I’m leading the dance.”
She lifted her chin and gave him a long look. He grinned. “Memorize what I’m doing, and then if you want to lead, I’m happy to relinquish the honor.”
“Fine. I’ll learn it.”
“Fine.” He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he spun her out and back in, swayed with his hand resting gently on her hip, and laughed as she hung on by the tips of her fingers and dipped twice as far as he would’ve taken her.
Her face was flushed pink with laughter as she came out of the dip, and she landed hard against him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her face against his chest.
He pressed his hands against the small of her back and swayed slowly while he prayed for this one perfect moment to stretch on forever.
She pulled back, with a shy, sweet smile he’d never seen from her before. In a flash it was gone, and she folded her arms across her chest. “I won, didn’t I?”
“Won what?”
“The grade. The top prize. I dipped farther and spun faster and—”
“Yes, you won.” He grinned, and she smiled back.
“This was nice,” she said, and then before he could think of a reply, she snatched up the parchment she’d left on the couch and left him behind with the realization that somehow when he hadn’t been paying attention, he’d started falling for Sajda.
TWENTY-SIX
“GET THOSE BEASTS under control immediately, or suffer the consequences,” the warden barked as she swept out of her office, her hair scraped back into an unforgiving bun. “The doors open soon. We can’t have our most important bettors feeling nervous.”
Sajda hurried to comply, the skin beneath her wrists aching as her magic stormed through her. It was Exhibition Day, the day before the third round of the tournament when the betting heated up as the pool of crowd favorites narrowed to those who actually had a chance of winning the entire thing. The guards were escorting the surviving competitors into the arena where they’d be thoroughly examined by members of the aristocracy and merchant class who were interested in paying the warden’s Exhibition Day entrance fee for the privilege of making a more informed bet on the upcoming round of combat.
A shape-shifter howled in its stall, and Sajda snatched a handful of sheep’s guts to toss into its trough before the warden could decide to punish her slave for not feeding the creatures fast enough.
“I’ll finish this row, little one,” Tarek said as he limped toward her, a bag of sheep’s guts dragging behind him. “You go on out to the arena to assist the warden. She’s in a foul mood today.”
“When is she in a good mood?” Sajda asked as she pulled off her leather gloves, hung them from their peg, and moved toward the arena.
The prisoners who were going to compete tomorrow were lined up across the middle of the arena facing the warden’s platform. Their hands were shackled behind their backs, and a row of guards stood behind them holding the chains attached to the shackles.
Sajda glanced at the warden’s platform, expecting to see the woman glaring down at the arena while her accountant readied herself for a flurry of bets on the upcoming tournament round. Instead, the accountant was sitting at her table shuffling parchment while the warden was nowhere to be seen.
The sharp crack of a whip cut through the air, and Sajda whirled to face the prisoners as Javan stumbled forward out of the line, his lips pressed tight against the pain while blood bloomed against the shoulder of his tunic. Behind him, the warden drew the whip into the air again, her dark eye lit with fury.
The guard who held Javan’s shackles yanked the boy back into line, and the warden stalked past him to face the prisoners, the whip held ready.
“You will cooperate fully with everything the bettors ask you to do.” The whip sliced through the air and bit into Javan’s shoulder again.
He threw his head back as he grimaced, and blood dripped down his arm.
The other prisoners murmured, shifting their bodies away from Javan as if worried whatever he’d done to anger the warden would somehow bring the whip down on them next.
What had he done to anger the warden? Sajda held herself still, her magic churning beneath her skin as her mind raced. It was unlike the warden to damage a competitor right before she expected to take bets on his chances of survival. Especially when that competitor had impressed the crowd.
The warden’s voice rang out. “You will show respect and deference to everyone who examines you.”
The whip snaked out, and Javan flinched as it dug into his already wounded shoulder.
Sajda frowned, magic itching in her blood. What could possibly be the point of injuring him before the bettors arrived unless the warden no longer wanted him to have a chance to be a crowd favorite? He was the underdog who’d wowed the audience with his unexpected display of both skill and compassion—the warden could make a killing on the bets people would be lining up to place on him.
“Finally, you will not speak.” The warden raised her whip, and Javan’s chin came up, his eyes meeting her gaze in challenge. “Not a single word. If you break this rule, I will personally cut out your tongue.”
The back of Sajda’s neck prickled with unease. In the five years since Prince Fariq and the warden had begun the tournaments, the warden had never instructed the prisoners to be silent on Exhibition Day.
But in five years, the warden had also never had an aristocrat who resembled the royal family shackled to the line of competitors. She couldn’t do anything to change Javan’s face, but she cou
ld make sure none of the bettors heard the refined, elegant polish in his voice. She could make sure no one speculated about the one aristocrat who’d landed himself in Maqbara.
For the first time since Javan had confessed to her that he was Akram’s true prince, Sajda began wondering if he was telling the truth.
Magic hissed and scraped at her as Sajda met Javan’s gaze and willed him to obey. The warden didn’t bluff. His expression was stoic, but the defiance blazing in his eyes sent a cold wave of fear over her.
This is what came of having friends. Of letting herself get close to others. She couldn’t afford to worry about him. He’d leave her, either by dying in the competition or by winning it. She needed to spend her time worrying about finishing her tunnel, deflecting the warden’s suspicions, and making a decent plan for how to get the cuffs off her wrists once she was out of Maqbara.
Part of that plan meant paying close attention today so she could glean knowledge about the world outside the prison.
“Let them in,” the warden called. The guards stationed at the far end of the arena opened the door that led up to the magistrate’s office, and a small crowd of those who took betting on the tournament as seriously as the rest of Akram took betting on the horses filed in.
Sajda went to work. Meeting the visitors as they stepped into the combat arena while the warden climbed to her platform to oversee the bets, Sajda said, “Good morning and welcome to Maqbara.”
A few of them nodded or murmured in response, though most didn’t deign to speak to a slave girl. She continued, “As a reminder, the rules for Exhibition Day allow you to personally examine each competitor for a few moments. Once everyone has had a chance to make an examination, each of you may request a skills demonstration from three of the prisoners and may choose up to five skills for the prisoner to present. I will handle the weapons demonstrations, and the warden has chosen guards to run both the speed and strength tests.”
The group nodded impatiently, their eyes already scanning the line of prisoners, looking for their favorites. Sajda glanced once at Javan, and found him watching the small crowd around her with desperate hope in his eyes. She cleared her throat and said quickly, “The warden has added one last rule. Today, none of the prisoners will be allowed to speak.”
A woman closer to Sajda’s shoulder frowned. “Why not? Questioning them about their background and experience is an important part of making an educated bet.”
A short, round man who stood at the edge of the group said, “It adds to the risk, which adds to the fun. Scared your instincts won’t be good enough, Lady Bah’ Thrayn?”
The woman glared. “My instincts have already made me far richer than you.”
Sajda took note of the woman’s posture, the way her shoulders were thrown back, her hands hanging loosely at her sides. This was how a free woman stood. Not braced for attack. Not scurrying to do someone’s bidding. This was how she took on the world and left her mark.
As the bettors made their way to the line of prisoners, Sajda threw her own shoulders back and strode toward the weapons table, arms swinging loosely as if she owned the prison and had nothing to fear. Unguarded. Unbowed by the weight of the warden’s gaze.
It was like being naked in front of the entire prison, but she had to learn how to do it. When she escaped Maqbara, she needed to blend in.
The morning passed in a blur of activity. Sajda handed weapons to unshackled prisoners, watching closely to make sure they did a proper demonstration instead of turning the weapons against the guards or the guests. Some of the prisoners did a passable job at showing some expertise with the weapon they’d been handed. Some made it clear they’d survived to this point in the competition by sheer luck.
When Javan was hauled to the weapons area, a dozen or so bettors surrounding him, Sajda risked a quick glance at the furious set of his jaw before looking up toward the warden’s platform. The warden was watching closely, her whip clutched tightly in one fist.
“Let’s see what this boy’s got,” one man said. “This might be the one to bet everything on.”
“Not everything, I hope,” the woman who clung to the man’s arm murmured. “We need something held back—”
“I have a major trade contract up for approval in Prince Fariq’s office,” the man snapped, silencing his wife. “You know he only approves contracts for those who attend the tournament, cheer loudly, and bet big. Without that contract, we’ll lose a lot more than the amount I’m prepared to bet on this boy if he has enough skill.”
Javan’s brow furrowed, and he glanced at the man as if hoping to hear more about the way Prince Fariq awarded favor to those who supported the tournament.
Another man laughed. “Already saw his skills in the last round, didn’t we? Bet this one had training from somewhere.”
The rotund man who’d shut down Lady Bah’ Thrayn’s complaints spoke quickly. “Probably just another street rat who grew up fighting in the peasant quarter.”
Sajda raised a brow and handed Javan a bow and a quiver of arrows, her hand brushing his for a split second before he turned toward the target mounted fifty paces away.
Blood from his shoulder wound caked his tunic, drying a rust-brown at the edges though the center of the stain was still a dark crimson. He hefted the bow, testing its weight and balance, and then reached for an arrow. His jaw tightened as he nocked the arrow and smoothly lifted the bow. Drawing back the string, he let the arrow fly. It buried itself in the center of the target. Two more arrows immediately followed, each hitting the center ring.
A few in the group surrounding him clapped lightly as he handed the bow and quiver back to Sajda. Blood flowed fresh from his shoulder, but he didn’t seem aware of it. Instead, he turned to face the bettors and slowly looked each of them in the eye.
“Would you like to see Javan use another weapon?” Sajda asked.
“I think we’ve seen plenty—”
“The sword,” a woman interrupted the fat little man, and he cast a quick frown up at the warden.
Sajda handed Javan a sword. Sending an icy smile toward the man who she now suspected was working with the warden, she said, “I think you’ll find this prisoner is an experienced swordsman.”
A murmur swept the group as Javan performed a complicated series of exercises, the sword moving through the air in smooth, competent strokes. Proof that he understood the mechanics of the weapon and was an expert.
Before anyone else could suggest another weapon, the warden’s cohort swept Javan toward the strength test. As the others made to follow, the woman who’d requested the sword demonstration said, “That’s no street rat.”
“Did you see his face? Reminds me of the royal family.”
“And he shares the same first name as the prince.”
“He’s had professional training. You don’t get that unless your family has money.”
The group moved too far away from Sajda for her to hear the rest of their conversation, but it didn’t matter. The speculation would catch fire and spread. Every aristocrat who was attending the competition would be watching Javan tomorrow. He would be grist for the gossip mill for weeks.
If the warden thought she could contain the fact that she had an aristocrat in Maqbara, she was seriously mistaken.
Sajda glanced up at the warden’s platform once more, her magic sizzling beneath her skin at the look of dark satisfaction on the warden’s face. Surely she realized that even though she’d effectively kept Javan from telling his story to anyone with influence, she couldn’t contain the curiosity. The rumors. And yet, she looked unperturbed. More than that, she looked pleased.
The skin beneath Sajda’s cuffs stung as her magic hurled itself against the iron.
If the warden looked pleased, it meant she was already two moves ahead in the game, and that meant Javan was in trouble.
Sajda stared across the arena at the boy’s back as he stood, proud and confident while the bettors prodded his muscles and discussed his merits as
if he couldn’t hear them. Something dark opened in her chest, pressing against her throat until she had to turn away or risk losing the last of the icy composure she was barely clinging to.
She didn’t know how to save Javan from the warden. She had no idea what he’d be facing in the arena the following day. And even if she did save him, she would still be no closer to saving herself.
Throwing her shoulders back and relaxing her stance, she angled her chin to mimic the casual confidence of the aristocrats around her and mouthed their words, trying for the polished accent that marked someone as an educated, wealthy member of society.
The darkness within her ached, but she kept her expression cold and distant as she practiced looking like she was free.
TWENTY-SEVEN
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.