THE NEXT MORNING, Tarek was waiting beside Javan’s cell door as the bars rose slowly into the ceiling. The old man had two pieces of toast smothered in lentil paste and an orange in his hands.
Javan climbed to his feet, his knees aching from the hour he’d just spent in prayer. Still no peace. No direction. Just anger at the injustice of his position and a sense of wild anticipation that buzzed through him at the thought that today was a round of the competition the aristocracy came to see.
Today could be the day he finally saw his father face-to-face.
Pressing his hand against the sash folded over his heart and whispering one last prayer for deliverance, Javan met Tarek’s eyes and moved toward him. Tarek smiled.
“Figured you’d rather not go to the kitchen for your breakfast this morning.” He offered Javan both pieces of toast. “Sajda won’t be there to keep Hashim and his group in check like she was yesterday for lunch and dinner.”
Javan accepted the food and inclined his head in a sign of respect for the older man. “Thank you.”
It was a blow to his pride that he’d needed Sajda’s help to get his meals, but he couldn’t deny that she was the only one Hashim seemed to fear. It was clear Javan’s interference with Hashim’s treatment of Tarek had bought him nothing but ill will from the man—there’d been eight prisoners flanking Hashim in front of the kitchen’s long table at each meal, blocking Javan from the food. Until Sajda, with her predatory grace and her cold-as-stone demeanor, had turned her unnerving gaze on them and quietly asked if they wanted to be fed to the beasts one piece at a time.
Even then, Hashim moved slowly. He’d obeyed her, barely, his expression mutinous as Sajda walked past him like he mattered less than the dust on the floor beneath her feet.
“How did you get out of your cell before the bars were raised?” Javan asked. If there was a way to roam freely, he needed to know it in case his father didn’t attend the event. Or in case he couldn’t get close enough to be recognized.
He refused to consider that his father might not recognize him at all. That the king might believe the impostor was his true son.
“Been here so long the warden lets me stay in a room with a wooden door instead of bars in exchange for helping Sajda.”
“So Sajda isn’t a prisoner like you?” Javan asked.
Tarek’s expression darkened. “She’s the warden’s slave.”
The toast tasted like sawdust as Javan absorbed Tarek’s words. He couldn’t reconcile Sajda—with her confidence, her pride, and her incredible combat skills—with the word slave. There was nothing submissive about her. “How long has the warden owned . . . How long has Sajda been here?”
“Since she was five.”
How had she endured living trapped in the underbelly of the prison for so long? She had to be around his own age, which meant she’d been here for about a dozen years.
Twelve years of holding her own with hundreds of prisoners. Of navigating the treachery and violence that came with throwing the worst of the worst into a hole together. Twelve years of doing what it took to survive.
Suddenly her icy demeanor and relentless distrust of him made a lot of sense.
“The orange is for Sajda. Let’s go find her before the competitors crowd the area by the stalls. The prison’s normal routine is suspended today. Everyone who is competing will be down at the arena once they’re done with breakfast. Everyone else will be back in their cells until the round is over and the audience members are long gone.” Tarek clapped an arthritic hand on Javan’s shoulder as they moved down the corridor of level fifteen toward the closest stairwell. Already a swell of voices echoed from the arena far below. “Let’s talk about getting you out of the arena alive and mostly intact.”
Javan shot Tarek a look as they made their way down the stairs. “I’d prefer to remain completely intact.”
“Wouldn’t we all, but the beasts don’t care about pretty faces, and neither do your fellow prisoners. Now remember, each creature is worth a set amount of points. Point values will be written on the wall opposite the king’s box. Every creature you kill will add points to your score. Do yourself a favor and make sure the judges standing around the arena’s edges see you hold up your kill. Or if the beast is too heavy, make sure you get their attention. Wouldn’t want someone claiming a kill that’s yours. If you kill another competitor, you will receive a five-hundred-point deduction, but you’ll also gain that person’s tournament points. There’s been a round of competition already, but no one has reached five hundred points, so killing someone isn’t a strong strategy yet. Everyone who survives moves on to the next round.”
“This is barbaric,” Javan said, his stomach churning at the thought of murdering another prisoner just to gain the person’s points. The thought of killing wild beasts who’d done nothing to deserve it wasn’t much better. Did none of the other prisoners care about the blood on their hands when they finally stood before Yl’ Haliq for judgment?
“This is survival, and it happens twice a year. We have a summer tournament and a winter tournament.” Tarek’s voice was firm. “Collecting bets on the competition is what lines the warden’s pocket with wahda. I’m pretty sure Prince Fariq benefits too because he has the palace steward at each match recording which families attend, how much they bet, and how enthusiastically they cheer for their favorites. The better competitor you are, the more you become a crowd favorite. Crowd favorites bring in heavy betting and are granted more leeway by the warden as a result, and everybody wants to win.”
“Any crowd favorites yet?”
“Hashim and several others on level five.”
“Fantastic.” Dread settled into him. “I was young when I left Akram for school, but I don’t remember my family ever attending a tournament in Maqbara. When did these competitions start?” And why was his father allowing the dishonor of a tournament that forced people to compete for their lives?
Tarek frowned in thought for a moment. “About five years ago. It was Prince Fariq’s idea, I believe. He borrowed it from something they do in the kingdom of Llorenyae.”
Five years ago. The same time the king’s letters began to change in tone and frequency. Javan couldn’t reconcile the father he remembered—the man who put honor and obeying the sacred texts above all else—with the king who would sanction a bloodthirsty tournament for sport. Had his father really changed that much, or was this more evidence of Uncle Fariq’s betrayal of everything the Kadar family stood for?
Moments later they were at the double rows of iron stalls where Sajda was finishing tossing sheep guts to whatever monstrous creatures were housed there. An older woman with shrewd eyes and wrinkled skin was walking the arena floor, a piece of parchment in her hands. Using the door to the magistrate’s office as north, she counted paces according to the schematic on her parchment, stooping to place a black cloth where each weapon would be hidden. A trio of guards stood beside the arena entrance closest to the stalls, their glares landing as one on Javan.
“No prisoners allowed in the stalls, Tarek.” The shortest guard, a man with wide shoulders and an impatient air about him, stepped toward them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“We have a much larger group of beasts than usual for today’s round,” Tarek said. “More beasts means more work, and if we’re going to have everything ready in time for the warden, we need extra help. If you don’t want me to pull beast workers from the prisoners, perhaps you could help us instead? You know how the warden gets if the tournament falls behind schedule.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but he took a step back. “Just the one prisoner, then. You know how she gets if the competitors see the beasts before the competition.”
Tarek nodded, wrapped a hand around Javan’s arm, and pulled him quickly past the guards and toward the stalls.
“Want me to help Batula with weapon placement?” Tarek asked as Sajda washed her hands in a basin beside the last stall.
Sajda nodded as she took the orange from Tarek. “Make sure everything is weighted so we don’t have floating weapons to contend with.”
“Floating weapons?” Javan asked as Tarek joined Batula on the scarred arena floor to begin sorting through the weapons that had been dragged into a pile at its center.
Sajda pierced the skin of the orange with her fingernail and peeled the skin away in large chunks. The sweet bite of citrus filled the air, and a creature in the stall beside her began snuffling along the doorframe. “The rules of the tournament state that all weapons must be hidden in the arena at the start of the round. It gives the warden another way to collect bets. Which weapon will be found first. Which competitor will get his or her favored item. And it increases the risk because a crowd favorite might die if she doesn’t get the weapon she knows how to use. Since today is water combat, we have to weight the coverings over the weapons to make sure nothing moves from its original spot.”
“All of that is disturbing, but what do you mean by water combat?” Javan asked as he moved to the stall and stared in horrified fascination at the scrawny creature inside. It looked like a mangy, stunted goat with claw-tipped hooves, razor-sharp spikes running down its back, and fangs that hung past its chin. “And what is this?”
“That’s a devil goat. From Llorenyae.” She sounded impatient. “You don’t have to worry about that one today.”
Javan backed away from the stall as the devil goat looked up and gnashed its teeth in his direction. “That’s a relief.”
“Hardly. That one is relatively easy to kill, though of course it isn’t worth many points. You’ll have far more dangerous monsters in the water with you today. You’ll be wishing for a simple devil goat before long.” She popped an orange slice into her mouth and rubbed absently at the skin beneath her iron bracelets.
“There’s that glowing optimism again,” he said as he moved to the next stall. “Yl’ Haliq, what is this abomination?”
An enormous white worm coiled and uncoiled itself in a cistern of water. The worm was easily the size of a full-grown man, and its wide, gaping mouth revealed rows of sharp teeth. A chill chased its way across Javan’s skin at the sinking realization that the things he would face in the prison’s arena were nothing like the well-ordered contests he’d engaged in at Milisatria.
“A man-eating worm. Also from Llorenyae, as most of our beasts are. It can distend its jaw and swallow a man whole, so you should stay away from its mouth.” Sajda finished her orange and turned toward the arena. “There’s also a pair of small water dragons, nearly sixty flesh-eating fish, a dozen venomous snakes, a river sprite with a nasty temper, and an enormous blob of a thing called a lake crawler that can disguise itself as its surroundings and swallow you whole if you step on it. I think it looks a little darker than its surroundings, so try not to step on any shadows.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Javan muttered as the worm twisted and thrashed. His stomach felt like it was twisting and thrashing too. How was he supposed to survive in an arena full of water with all those creatures?
“Want some more advice?” she asked without looking at him. Other prisoners were finished with breakfast and were heading toward the stalls now.
“Only if it’s full of your usual sunshine and cheer.”
She laughed, and then shot him a glare as if making her laugh was on her list of things prisoners weren’t allowed to do. “Don’t compete.”
“Don’t compete? That’s your advice?”
She nodded, her gaze back on Batula and Tarek, who were spreading the weapons across the arena, securing some to the floor with heavy stones, while others they hung on hooks around the walls.
“Tarek said every prisoner under the age of forty is required to enter the arena,” Javan said. Glancing back at the man-size worm, he found himself hoping she knew a way out. A way to skip throwing his body into the water with the other prisoners, hoping to kill the monsters before they killed him. He could still get his father’s attention without being in the arena itself.
“Yes, you have to enter the arena. If you don’t, the warden will kill you in front of the aristocracy as an appetizer to the main event. But you don’t need to fight.” She turned the full weight of her gaze on him, and this time when his skin prickled, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Maybe because at the moment, she wasn’t looking at him as though she wanted to tear him to pieces. Or maybe because he was just getting used to feeling like lightning was skimming over his body whenever he was around her.
She lowered her voice as Hashim and several other prisoners exited the nearest stairwell and came as close to the stalls as the guards stationed by the arena’s entrance would allow. “This is the second round of combat for the tournament. There are only three rounds left after today. If you keep your back to a wall, kill any creature that attacks you, and try not to take credit for any kills, you won’t be perceived as a threat, and the other prisoners probably won’t try to murder you.”
“I don’t have any points worth stealing,” he said. “I doubt anyone would risk taking a penalty to kill me.”
“There are plenty of awful things that can happen to someone while they’re still alive. And if a group of competitors work together to kill you, they split the point deduction between them.” Her voice was cold and calm, but there was an edge to it that he hadn’t heard from her before. A thread of darkness that hinted at storms just below her surface.
“When does the king arrive?” he asked, trying hard to keep his voice level even though it felt like a ball of nervous energy was tumbling through his chest. He could get his father’s attention without truly participating in this barbaric tournament. He’d meet his gaze, wave the red sash over his head, and this nightmare would be over.
She shrugged. “I don’t keep track of royalty. Just stay against a wall and try not to die.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You helped Tarek. I just paid that debt. Once you get out into the arena, you’re on your own.” She walked away as Tarek and Batula secured the gates at both ends of the arena. Leaping onto the short wall that ran around the edge of the ring, Sajda walked nimbly toward the center point on the eastern wall, bent at the waist, and cranked a lever attached to a silver pipe cover. The cover lifted, and water gushed into the arena.
Javan left the stall area, avoiding Hashim and his friends, and joined a small group of prisoners who stood at the closest gate watching the water level slowly rise. A guard called out prisoner names and handed each competitor an armband with a number on it to help the judges keep track of their kills and to give the crowd a chance to identify and choose their favorites. Javan tied his armband into place and faced the arena.
Sajda was right. He would secure a weapon, find a space at the edge of the ring, and survive until the last monster was killed. No flashy competition. No trying for the top score. No additional risk that could rip away his chance to save his father and his kingdom. For the first time in his life, Javan was going into a competition without intending to win.
“I can’t swim,” the man closest to Javan said softly.
“The water will only be waist deep,” a woman answered, her hands moving swiftly as she secured her long black hair into a braid. “Get a weapon, plant your feet, and kill anything that comes close to you.”
The man shuddered, and Javan said, “If you go under, don’t panic. All you have to do is find the floor with either your feet or your hands. Then you can orient yourself and stand up. You’ll be all right.”
The man shot Javan a quick look and said, “This isn’t worth it. We’re risking our lives to entertain the aristocracy, and for what?”
The woman laughed, though there was no amusement in her voice. “Well, it sure isn’t so we can ask for a boon from the king when he finally shows up during the final round. Hashim and the others from level five have too many points already for any of us to win the prize.”
“The king doesn’t attend until the final round?” Javan asked, hope fizzling into despair that sank into his bones like stone. According to Tarek, the final round was at least a month away. Would the king survive the impostor and Fariq that long? Would Javan?
“No, he doesn’t. And even then, he barely pays attention. Unless you win the audience with him, he won’t even know you exist,” the woman said.
“We’re risking our lives because if we don’t, the warden turns us into meat,” another man said, but Javan wasn’t listening.
“What do you mean?” He moved closer to the woman, who gave him an irritated look. His heart kicked hard against his chest. “Are you saying we can gain a personal audience with the king?”
“And you get to ask for a boon that he will grant as long as it doesn’t break any laws in the kingdom. But only if you win the entire tournament,” she said. “And you aren’t winning. None of us are. Most of the prisoners from level five already have at least two hundred points each. It’s too late to catch up with them, and even if you did, they’d kill you as soon as you had five hundred points.”
Something bright and painful burned in Javan’s chest as he looked at the board nailed to the wall across from the king’s box. Every creature entering the ring that day was listed.
VENOMOUS SNAKE—5 POINTS
FLESH-EATING FISH—10 POINTS
RIVER SPRITE—25 POINTS
WATER DRAGON—40 POINTS
LAKE CRAWLER—50 POINTS
MAN-EATING WORM—100 POINTS
Forget standing with his back to the wall. Forget just trying to survive. The key to getting out of Maqbara was staring him in the face.
If the level five competitors had around two hundred points each, then Javan needed at least that much to even have a shot at qualifying for the final round.
After memorizing the point values of every creature that would be swimming in the water with him, Javan turned his attention to the covered weapons that lined the walls and the floor.
Hashim and his ilk weren’t going to gain an audience with the king because Javan was going to compete with a vengeance.
And he was going to win.