NINE
THE ENTRANCE TO Maqbara was in the back of the magistrate’s building behind a narrow wooden door with a thick iron bolt across its middle. Abbas had left three hours ago after turning Javan over to the magistrate, a small man with ink-stained fingers and a meticulously groomed mustache, on the charge of attempted murder.
No mention had been made of Javan trying to kill the “prince.”
The magistrate had accepted the guard’s account of catching Javan in the act of trying to run another boy through with a sword. Seconds after the guard had signed his testimony, the magistrate sentenced Javan to thirty years in Maqbara and locked him in a holding cell until he could be escorted into the bowels of the prison. No witnesses called. No evidence recorded.
It was unsettling how easy it was to be convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.
Did a palace guard’s testimony carry enough weight to excuse the fact that the magistrate hadn’t conducted an investigation or allowed Javan to speak in his defense? Whatever the reason, Javan had more important things to think about. He was about to enter Maqbara, Akram’s most infamous prison. No one ever got out before their sentence was served, but Javan was going to have to change that.
As the magistrate unbolted the door and swung it open, Javan sent a swift prayer to Yl’ Haliq for deliverance. Then, heart crashing wildly against his chest, he started the long walk down the tunnel that led into Maqbara.
The magistrate and two of his guards walked behind him. One of the guards held a lit torch. The air smelled of dust and burning pitch. Javan sucked in one slow breath after another, trying desperately to calm the terrible thunder of his pulse so he could think instead of panic.
The guard had said gaining an audience with the king was entirely up to Javan. What did that mean?
The chains that bound Javan’s wrists behind his back clinked with every step, a noise that began to feel like the tolling of a funeral bell.
Why would the king grant an audience to a prisoner? It didn’t make sense.
Javan’s mouth went dry as the truth hit him. Abbas must have lied. He hadn’t wanted to kill Javan himself and risk having innocent blood on his hands, and so he’d thrown him in Maqbara to be forgotten.
What would happen to his father while Javan and the truth of his birthright spent the next thirty years in a cell? The tunnel curved gently to the left, and a light glowed faintly at the bottom of the long incline in front of the prince. It took everything he had to keep walking when all he wanted to do was run, even if it meant the magistrate’s guards would kill him before he ever made it out of the building.
His head spun, and he forced himself to stop thinking about the prison. About spending thirty years here while his father unwittingly welcomed a traitor into the palace.
Maqbara was a puzzle he had to solve. A task that required him to be at his best physically, mentally, and spiritually.
The riotous thunder of his heartbeat steadied. He’d spent ten years focusing on completing every task set before him. On being the best. The stakes were impossibly high this time, but at the heart of it, Maqbara was a test.
Javan excelled at tests.
He would study the prison and the people in it. He would figure out its weaknesses and exploit them. Every decision, every move he made would be to bring himself one step closer to getting out in time to save his father and his kingdom from whatever Fariq and the impostor had planned.
He wasn’t going to be too late.
He wasn’t.
“Hurry up,” the magistrate said, his voice bored. As though he made this trip often. As though locking up a seventeen-year-old boy for the next thirty years of his life on the word of one palace guard was business as usual.
Javan drew in another shaky breath and tasted metal on the back of his tongue. The closer he got to the bottom of the tunnel, the more the air smelled of iron and dirt.
There was a metal gate at the bottom of the tunnel, its open scrollwork letting in the dark gold of the sunset that was unfurling above the skylights set in the prison’s ceiling. The thick glass skylights were embedded in the gutters of the streets above, and shadows cut through the sunlight as carriages swept past. The magistrate fished a key from his pocket and jiggled it inside the lock.
For a moment, Javan imagined ramming the smaller man’s body into the gate and leaving him behind as he ran for his freedom into the city above.
But of course, that wouldn’t free him from the chains that bound him. And even if he miraculously avoided the magistrate’s guards, they would unleash every guard in the city with orders to hunt him down and kill him on sight. A boy with his hands chained behind his back would be easy to find.
Maybe he could plead his case. Tell the magistrate who he was and ask for a chance to prove it.
But why would the man believe him when the head of the palace guard himself had delivered Javan to be thrown into Maqbara? Besides, Abbas had been firm in his instructions to remain quiet about who he really was. Despite Javan’s despair over being lied to, the guard was right. All Javan had going for him right now was the fact that the impostor thought he was dead.
He couldn’t attempt an escape now without losing everything.
Javan let the fantasy dissolve as the door swung open and the magistrate pushed the prince through it. They were at the mouth of an enormous rectangular arena whose wooden floor was scarred and stained, as if battles had been waged within it. On three sides of the arena, stairs led to four levels of seats. Above the seats, another eleven levels were carved into the dark stone. A cacophony of raucous voices drifted down to echo around the hollow space of the arena.
Javan scanned the area around him quickly, trying to memorize everything in case he needed the information later. Two entrances into the arena—the one he’d used and one that led to a row of what looked like iron barn stalls. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. Nowhere to hide unless the stalls were empty.
He looked up. The first level contained fancy platforms with plush chairs and woven rugs. Flags in the colors of the most esteemed aristocratic houses hung on poles in the corner of each platform. The flag directly across from where Javan stood caught his eye, and he took three quick steps forward.
“Not so fast. We’re going this way. You’ll get your turn in the arena soon enough.” The magistrate tugged on the chain around Javan’s wrists.
Javan barely heard him. The platform across the arena had a royal purple flag in the corner. He could just make out the edge of the Kadar family crest hidden within the limp folds. But more important, the chair in the center of the platform was a small teakwood throne.
“Is that for the king?” he asked, his voice shaking.
The magistrate huffed. “Of course it is. The royal family likes sport as much as the next person, and Prince Fariq likes it more than most. Now come on. I have a dinner to get to.”
Hope flared to life within Javan, a tender, fragile thing that hurt to touch as he followed the magistrate around the southern edges of the arena toward the rows of iron stalls tucked beneath the first level of seats.
The guard hadn’t lied. The king attended whatever sport happened in the prison’s arena. Javan simply had to figure out how to get close to the ring when a competition was happening. All he needed was to lock eyes with his father. Surely Javan’s resemblance to both his mother and the king himself would be enough to at least gain Javan an audience. Especially if he called him Father.
From there, Javan would discuss the one thing he was sure Uncle Fariq hadn’t been able to tell the impostor. The one thing Javan and his father shared: his mother’s sacred dying words and the sash that Javan still had, folded carefully beneath his tunic in honor of her muqaddas tus’el.
“Sajda, new prisoner!” the magistrate called as they came abreast of the stalls.
Javan winced at the sharp odor of fur and fetid water that hung heavy in the air. What kind of animals were they keeping in the prison? Whatever they were, they could do
with a bath and some fresh water in their troughs.
“Sajda!” The magistrate turned to survey the rest of the prison. “Where is that girl? Should be close to evening feeding time. I expected her to be here. Never mind—just go find the warden, and be quick about it.” He waved one of the guards toward a corridor carved into the stone wall beside the stalls.
The guard started for the hall but then stopped as a tall girl with long black hair and alabaster skin stepped out of a stairwell and moved toward them. She wore solid black from her shirt and pants to her boots. Her wrists were adorned with wide iron bracelets, and her hands were curled into fists.
The animals in the stalls began a chorus of howls, hisses, and snarls that sounded nothing like any animal Javan had ever encountered. It would’ve been enough to send a chill down his spine except the girl was already doing that.
She moved like a predator—all lithe muscle and efficient grace—and her dark blue eyes were fixed on him as though she meant to tear him to pieces. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and he fought the urge to slide back a step. She looked to be his age, and Javan would’ve spent useless time wondering why she was working in such an awful place, but he was too busy hoping she didn’t decide to feed him to whatever nasty-smelling animal was currently howling for its dinner.
“New prisoner. Thirty-year term. Looks like he’ll be a good competitor.” The magistrate whisked another key out of his pocket and Javan’s chains fell away.
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly scanned Javan like he was a prize pig she was thinking of butchering. “Maybe,” she said finally, her voice cold and quiet. “Looks a little soft, though.”
Javan’s chin rose, and he glared at her. He’d taken honors in every physical competition hosted at Milisatria with the exception of the disastrous fencing tournament in fifth year. He’d just buried the body of his mentor, ridden hard across the desert, tried to stop an impostor from taking the throne, and been thrown into Maqbara, where he was determined to either gain an audience with the king or escape, whichever came first.
He was anything but soft.
Her brow rose as if his thoughts had been written on his face. “You think I’m wrong?”
“Yes.” The word came out before he could think better of it.
For a second he imagined something like regret flashed across her face, and then she said in her eerily quiet voice, “I’m never wrong. You’ll either toughen up fast, or you’ll be meat.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged as if she couldn’t be bothered to explain herself, and stood silently next to him as the magistrate and his guards hurried across the arena and out of the prison, slamming the door shut behind them.
When the echo of the door’s closing died, she said, “Here’s the schedule. Breakfast is at first bell. Chores are at second, third, and fourth depending on which level your cell is on. Fifth bell is lunch. Arena practice is divided up between bells six through nine, again depending on your level. Dinner is at tenth bell, rec time is at eleventh, and lockdown is at twelfth. Prisoners will be locked in their cells between meals and tasks. There are six guards per level and all of them will beat you within an inch of your life if you disobey a single order. Tenth bell just rang. Kitchen is on the ninth level. Eat what you can grab. If someone steals it from you, you either take it back, or you don’t eat. If you steal food from someone else—”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Better not take it from someone stronger and faster than you.” She met his gaze, and he forced himself to stand his ground beneath the ferocity in her eyes. “I run the prison when the warden is busy. If you attack me—”
“I would never—”
“If you try, I will hurt you until you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel anything but pain. If you attack other prisoners, you’d better be certain they aren’t allied with those who are more vicious than you.”
“Miss . . . I’m sorry. I don’t remember what the magistrate called you.”
“Sajda.” She said it like it was a challenge she’d thrown in his face.
“I’m Javan.”
“I don’t care.”
“I can see that. I just . . . I wanted to tell you that I’m not dangerous. I’m not a criminal. I shouldn’t be here.” He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could, but her expression remained cold.
“Everyone says they shouldn’t be here. Only some of us are telling the truth.” She turned from him and motioned toward the stairs. “There’s an open cell on the fifteenth level. Don’t miss lockdown. Any prisoner who fails to answer roll call in his or her cell after lockdown will be hunted down and killed.”
“I suppose you do the hunting,” he muttered as he followed Sajda toward the stairs.
Her back stiffened. “The warden does the hunting. And if I were you, I’d do everything I possibly could to stay far, far away from her.”
He thought he might like to stay far, far away from Sajda as well, but that wasn’t an option yet. Not until he understood the way the prison worked and the people who lived in it.
As he climbed the narrow stone steps that led to the next level, he pressed his hand to his heart, feeling the soft brush of the red sash against his skin, and whispered a prayer that he would find a way out of Maqbara before it was too late for his father and for himself.
TEN
RAHIM’S BLOOD CHURNED as he entered the inner courtyard of the palace. So many years spent dreaming of this place—of the famed mosaic fountains and the lush beauty of the hanging gardens. Of the cool tiled halls, the gilt-edged domes, and the massive teakwood throne.
Most of all the throne.
It was unfortunate that Javan had survived his assassins in Loch Talam, but Fariq’s quick thinking had bolstered Rahim’s claim and silenced any doubt in the guards’ minds.
It was a story, though. A whisper that might linger in the air, drifting through the city until it found ears that would welcome it.
Aristocrats who could recognize the real Javan from their visits to Milisatria.
Loyalists who were already suspicious about the king’s extended absences and failing health.
Opportunists who would wonder if this was their moment to seize the throne instead.
As Rahim skirted the largest fountain and brushed past a hanging jasmine vine, he considered his options.
He could call in the aristocrats and have them thrown into Maqbara or killed, but that would be hard to explain to the king. There was no point in taking the risk yet. The families from Milisatria would have to die before Rahim made public appearances, of course, but for now, that could wait.
He could convince the FaSaa’il to get their allies to spy on the loyalists and report any rumors. That seemed the easiest and most productive course of action. Once he knew the rumors, he could figure out how to put a stop to them.
A path of white stone connected the courtyard to a wide veranda with thick, round pillars, scalloped ironwork, and an ornate door dipped in bronze. A small wooden altar for Mal’ Enish and an equally small stone altar for Eb’ Rezr held places of honor on the westward edge of the veranda but looked as though they were rarely used. Rahim supposed the king preferred Yl’ Haliq, who the stories said had first united the smaller nations across the land into one nation under the rule of the Kadar family, joining their diverse customs, teachings, and ideologies into one cohesive kingdom.
A servant dressed in the pale yellow of the palace house staff held the door open, her head bowed in deference.
Fariq stepped aside to allow Rahim to enter first. Rahim brushed past the man who’d fathered him without bothering to claim him as his own until it suited his ambition to do so and entered the palace. Colorful, hand-painted tiles edged in gold formed an enormous rosette on the floor in the circular entrance hall. Bouquets of waxy blooms from the palace garden were arranged in ruby urns and set in front of the six pillars that formed the edges of the hall. Diamonds dripped from a chandelie
r nearly the size of the royal carriage, and more jewels were inlaid around an altar for Yl’ Haliq that was set into the northern wall. There were no altars to the lesser gods in here.
He had to work to keep from staring at the opulence. Javan wouldn’t gawk at a diamond chandelier like it was his first time seeing a precious gem.
Of course, Javan’s father hadn’t condemned him to either be killed by the palace guard or to live in poverty far from his birthright.
The bitterness Rahim had nursed for years snaked through his blood like poison, igniting the rage that always simmered just beneath the surface of his skin. He’d lived in tents, scrounging through trash heaps for food, while Fariq and his useless cousin, the king, lived without a single care in the world.
Pain shot through Rahim’s jaw, and he forced himself to unclench his teeth and shake off the tension in his shoulders. He’d never pass for an aristocrat if he allowed his fury to show.
“Javan?” A man’s voice, shaky and weak, came from behind Rahim.
The rage coiled and writhed within him, but Rahim carefully blanked his expression as he turned away from the grand entrance to find the king standing in a corridor to the left, a tremulous smile on his face.
Rahim froze, his blood racing. The king would instantly recognize him for a fraud and demand to see his real son. He’d call the guard, and Rahim would follow Javan to the muqsila. Fear clawed at him as the king hesitated, and Rahim reached for the throwing stars hidden in his tunic. He might not be able to escape with his life, but many would die while he tried.
The king frowned, but then Fariq swept past him and said in a booming, jovial voice, “Look who’s returned from Milisatria at long last, Cousin!”
Rahim hesitated another beat and then let go of the throwing stars to rush forward, following Fariq’s lead. “Father!” he cried, forcing himself to sound as if the sight of the stooped, frail man before him was cause for joy.