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 chandelier 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.
The king opened his arms, and Rahim stepped into them.
He would only have to play the king’s dutiful son until the king died or decided to abdicate the throne because of his poor health. Then the FaSaa’il would fall in line or be eliminated, and all Akram would belong to Rahim.
Enduring the king’s cloying embrace took enormous effort. When the king stepped back, he patted Rahim’s shoulder with one hand as he stared hungrily at the boy’s face.
“You’ve changed some. I always thought you had your mother’s eyes.”
“I believe he takes after you,” Fariq said smoothly.
The king leaned toward Rahim, raising his trembling hand from the boy’s shoulder to his cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.” Rahim tried to sound sincere.
“Cousin, it has been a long and arduous journey for Javan. Perhaps we should let him rest.” Fariq gripped Rahim’s elbow and pulled him away from the king, but both of them froze when a low, menacing snarl rose from behind them.
Rahim spun and found himself staring into the amber eyes of a white leopard with black spots and a golden collar around its neck. The beast’s whiskers twitched, and its lips curled away from its fangs as it growled again.
“Malik! Don’t you remember our Javan?” the king asked, stepping past Rahim to shake a finger at the enormous cat.
The leopard sat back on its haunches and stopped growling, though it flicked its tail and kept its eyes locked on Rahim.
“Does it . . . he . . . Malik often get upset when people enter the palace?” Rahim asked.
The king frowned. “Sometimes, but you know we keep him in the residential wing. I let him out because you were coming home. I thought he might like to sleep on your rug again.”
Rahim thought the cat might like to disembowel him in his sleep, but he pasted on a smile and said, “It’s been ten years. I’m sure he’ll be used to me again in no time. But perhaps for tonight, it would be best if he slept elsewhere.”
“Perhaps.” The king’s gaze wandered away from the leopard, roamed the entry hall, and then landed on Rahim with startling ferocity. There was a keenness to the king’s eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and though his body still trembled, the confusion was clearing from his face.
He knew.
The cat had given the ruse away.
If the king knew that Rahim wasn’t his son, he’d have to be eliminated immediately, but Rahim didn’t dare kill him while the leopard watched him with such unblinking malice.
Fariq stepped to the king’s side and said soothingly, “Malik is simply upset that Javan abandoned him for so many years. They’ll be friends again before we know it. Meanwhile, it’s time for your tonic, dear cousin.”
“Is it?” The king glanced outside in bewilderment. “I thought I was to take it only once a day.”
“The physician has increased it to twice a day. Don’t you remember? He told you this last week.”
Rahim drew in a slow, calming breath as the king agreed to be handed over to a page who would take him to his sitting room. Once he was out of earshot, Rahim turned to Fariq and whispered, “Lord Borak didn’t tell me the leopard might hate me.”
“I’ve been wearing a piece of your clothing each day for weeks. He should’ve been comfortable with your smell by now.” Fariq eyed the leopard, who sat still as stone watching them. “Hopefully he won’t try to kill you before we can get the crown on your head. I’d hate to have gone to all this trouble only to lose my shot at the throne.”
“Your shot?” Rahim’s voice rose. “You forget that I’ll be Akram’s king.”
Fariq’s laugh was cruel. “You? You’re the little bastard who was raised in a filthy hovel in some no-name desert town. Your only value is the fact that you are the same age as Javan. As it stands, I can’t inherit the crown because I’m not a direct descendant of the royal line. Once you are crowned, you will sign a law allowing any surviving member of the Kadar family to rule.”
Rahim shook with fury. “And then what? You try to kill me and take the throne?”
“Not if you do exactly as you’re told. You get to wear the crown in public. The FaSaa’il gets their property and favor restored. And I make the decisions from behind the scenes.” He smiled, slow and vicious. “I’ve spent a lifetime watching my cousin get all the power while never trusting me with a single bit of it. Cutting off my royal allowance when he thought I bet too often at the tracks. Revoking my diplomatic authority in Balavata and Ravenspire when their rulers complained that I was sanctioning slave trade. Ruining my reputation so that even though I’m making most of the decisions for him now, many of the aristocrats are watching me like a hawk, waiting for a chance to drive me out. That’s over now. I will take what I’ve been denied, and I will do with it as I see fit. Behave yourself, and once I die, the throne is yours free and clear. Understood?”
Rahim matched Fariq’s smile with one of his own and said quietly, “Understood.”