WITH LESS THAN a week before the next tournament round, Javan and the other prisoners from his level worked an extra hour during chore time at the behest of the guards to once again scrub the arena, the warden’s platform, and the spectators’ seats. Sajda hadn’t returned. Tarek had brought Javan a lunch of stale cheese and bruised apples and said he hadn’t seen Sajda either, though the older man thought Javan was safe in his cell until level fifteen’s sparring session, as Hashim and crew were distracted by the inexplicable mental collapse of their friend Dabir.
Javan stayed in his narrow, filthy cell, alternately praying and thinking through what he knew of the other prisoners on his level while he waited for seventh bell and the start of his sparring session. With Sajda’s help, he’d spent the last two weeks assessing their skills during practice, observing their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, and how they responded to Hashim’s bullying tactics during rec hour. There were four who stood out to him. Four Sajda had agreed could be bribed to become his allies. Tonight during rec hour, he’d make his move and pray for Yl’ Haliq’s blessing.
Tension knotted his shoulders as seventh bell tolled. If these four turned him down, his options were limited, and the next combat round was less than a week away. He left his cell, shaking out his arms, satisfied that the injuries he’d sustained during his first round were little more than distant aches, easily ignored. It was time to spar with Sajda and mend whatever he’d done wrong.
She never showed.
Worry twisted through him, slick and heavy, as he returned to level fifteen after practice, checked in with the pair of guards assigned to his section, and then obediently stayed within the confines of his cell while levels ten through twelve practiced in the arena far below.
There had been something off about Sajda that morning, though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. Maybe it was that she’d been irritable instead of calm. Jumpy instead of still. She could simply be having a bad day—Yl’ Haliq knew being constantly trapped in the dim cavern of Maqbara was enough to set anyone on edge—but Sajda didn’t show her nerves. She held her body still, kept her expression cold, and maintained eye contact until sometimes he wished she wouldn’t.
But today, she’d been fidgety. Unable or unwilling to meet his gaze for more than a quick glance, her expression haunted. And her fingers had worried the iron cuffs she wore as if somehow today the pain of wearing the constant reminder of her position at Maqbara was too much to bear.
Anger coiled within him, hot and dangerous.
What kind of monster bought a child, kept her inside Akram’s most dangerous prison, and forced her to wear cuffs so that no one could possibly forget that, though many of the prisoners would eventually leave, Sajda never could?
The moment Javan was restored to his rightful place as heir to Akram’s crown, he was going to punish the warden for everything she’d done. On the outside, it would certainly appear that the treasonous act of trying to murder Akram’s prince was her greatest crime, but Javan knew better. He would punish her for Sajda first. It wouldn’t give Sajda back her childhood, and it wouldn’t take away the strange web of scars he’d glimpsed beneath her cuffs, but it would set her free of this despicable place. It was the least he could do for her as her friend.
Her friend.
If someone had bet Javan during his first few days in prison that he would come to enjoy spending hours with the girl who’d raised the hairs on the back of his neck at their first meeting, he’d have lost everything he owned. He’d been sure she was cold, uncaring, and dangerous.
He was still sure she was dangerous, and one day he planned to ask her who had trained her. It hadn’t been Tarek, and she wasn’t attached to any of the other prisoners. But someone with an excellent understanding of how to harness Sajda’s speed, strength, and flexibility had shown her how to fight. Not just fight but win. Perhaps it was the woman Hashim’s friends had mentioned when they’d followed Javan out of the infirmary. The woman who’d apparently been Sajda’s friend and had died two years ago in the arena. He’d never asked her about it. The look on her face when Hashim’s friends brought the woman up was enough to stop him. If she wanted to talk to him, she would. But someone had taken her under their wing and made sure she could defend herself.
It was more than a little humbling that he had to work so hard just to keep her from outscoring him in their sparring competitions. The thrill of trying to keep up with her, of pushing himself to move faster and fight smarter, kept something alive inside him, despite the shadow of despair he constantly fought to ignore.
He had no idea if it did the same for her, but he had other things to think about if he wanted to get out of Maqbara so he could punish the warden, save his father and his kingdom from the impostor who’d taken his place, and set things right. He had to survive the next round of combat and put significant points on the board. And he needed allies.
Quickly, he slipped to his knees, his lips already moving in a desperate prayer for help, though the longer he stayed in Maqbara, the farther away Yl’ Haliq seemed to be. Eighth bell rang, sending a new wave of prisoners down to the arena to practice, and still Javan prayed, fragments of the sacred texts mixing with his own pleas for mercy as they fell from his lips.
By ninth bell, his knees ached, and his back was stiff, but still he prayed, his forehead pressed to the edge of his bed as he acknowledged the truth.
Beneath his anger at the warden, his budding friendship with Sajda, and the righteous belief that he would be restored to his destiny, fear curled tight around his heart.
What if this next round of competition was even more brutal than the last? What if he lost and remained trapped within the prison, at the mercy of the warden and the enemies he’d made?
What if he died? He’d be a prince stripped of honor, dignity, and the love of his family, turned into meat by the warden and forgotten by all.
His heart beat a frantic tempo against his chest, and he sucked in a slow, calming breath before the fear could paralyze him.
He wasn’t forgotten. Yl’ Haliq would hear him. He would see the great injustice done to Javan, and he would deliver him.
Javan climbed to his feet as tenth bell rang and Tarek appeared with a bowl of boiled vegetables and a wedge of flatbread.
“Have you seen her?” Javan asked as he accepted the food.
Tarek nodded. “She was at the stalls doing her job a few moments ago.”
Javan moved toward the mouth of his cell, and Tarek stepped in front of him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see her.”
Something soft entered Tarek’s expression. “It does my heart good to see that you care about her, but I can’t let you go down there now.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s tenth bell. You’re supposed to either be in your cell or in the kitchen. Combat is in four days. You can’t afford to be beaten by the guards for breaking the rules.”
Javan clenched his jaw. Tarek was right, but that didn’t stop the prince from wanting to go see Sajda for himself, beating or no.
“Eat up and then go to rec hour,” Tarek said. “Make those alliances and stay out of trouble.”
Javan obeyed, eating quickly, though he saved his flatbread for rec hour, and then running through his approach over and over until eleventh bell rang. Tarek walked with him to level eight and the long rectangular room the prisoners used for their hour of rec time each night. Sajda stood outside the room with the guards as usual, though she wouldn’t meet Javan’s eyes.
An ache bloomed in Javan’s chest as he moved past her and into the room, and he gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t think about Sajda or her reasons for ignoring him. It was time to focus on his strategy.
He needed allies.
Scanning the room, he found the four prisoners he and Sajda had decided would make the best allies. In the far corner, Hashim and seven others from level five were huddled by a fireplace whose flames hissed and popped. None of them looked up from their discussion. Dabir was missing from his usual place beside Hashim. One less threat to worry about.
Moving to the opposite end of the room, Javan approached his quarry. Grabbing a chair from a nearby table where soon a trio of women from level ten would play cards as they did every night, Javan spun it around, carried it a few steps, and plunked it down at the corner of a square table with two cups of dice and a fraying deck of cards with the symbols of Balavata’s head families worked into their upper right corners.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked the four who were already seated, two of which were still finishing their dinners. Quickly he ran through their names as he sat. Intizara was on his right, a woman who looked to be about ten years older than Javan. Beside her sat Gadi, a man with smile creases at the corners of his eyes and nervous fingers. A woman named Kali sat beside him and then on Javan’s left was a tall, narrow man named Nadim.
“It’s a game for four,” Intizara said, hauling her cards close to her chest as if he might announce to the others what was in her hand.
He shrugged. “Then I’ll wait for the next round. It’s been a while since I’ve played thistles and thieves. Might help me to watch.”
Intizara frowned, but Nadim said, “Fine, but we play for the pot, so you better have something to offer.”
Javan watched silently as the four tossed out their bets—half of whatever they grabbed for lunch the next day, a short break from the morrow’s chores while the others at the table did the jobs assigned to the winner, and even a small packet of dried apricots someone’s family members had bribed a guard to bring in. As the game began in earnest, he leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and ate his flatbread.
These four were his key to surviving Hashim’s attempt to kill him in the next tournament round, and he was their key to having a better chance at staying alive. If he could get them to accept his offer and work as a team, all of their odds improved.
When the round ended, Javan said, “Time for me to place my bet.”
Four pairs of eyes found his. The spit dried in his mouth, and he forced himself to swallow.
“What do you have to offer, boy?” Kali asked as she pinched a bit of her flatbread off and scattered the crumbs on the floor for Mal’ Enish, the goddess of animals. When she noticed his gaze following her moves, she shook the rest of the crumbs free and glared. “Didn’t see you giving an offering from your food.”
“I . . . no, I didn’t.”
“That’s no way to treat the goddess. There are mice in the prison. The kindness you show to the least of these reveals your true self to the world.” The words from the sacred text flowed from her tongue with easy practice.
“I’ve always liked that passage.” He smiled at her, but she narrowed her eyes at him. Quickly, he said, “Here’s what I have to offer, and no one has to beat me at thistles and thieves to get it. I want to fight with you four as a team in the next round of competition. I’ll work with you to come up with a strategy that plays to our individual strengths, and I’ll know where your preferred weapons will be hidden. In exchange, I expect you to stand and fight with me so that we can give ourselves the best possible chance of getting out of the arena alive.” And the best chance of helping him gain enough points to qualify for the final round. It would be far easier to focus on killing whatever was going into the arena with them if he didn’t have to worry so much about being ambushed by Hashim.
Silence descended across the small table, and the noise from the rest of the room pressed close. Cards slapping against tabletops. Swearing. Chairs scraping the stone floor while the sharp bark of mocking laughter rose from Hashim’s corner.
“You’ve got some pretty nasty enemies,” Nadim finally said.
Javan met his gaze. “I do. And having you four to help watch my back would help me stay alive. But I’ll be helping you too. I’ll know exactly where you can find your preferred weapons. And I’ve had combat training—”
“We know,” Intizara said. “We’ve seen you spar with Sajda.”
Gadi shuddered and muttered a quick prayer. “There’s something strange about that one.”
The others murmured in agreement, all of them watching him as if waiting to hear what he had to say on the matter. When he didn’t reply, Nadim said, “I’m not agreeing to anything yet, but I’d like to hear your strategy for getting all five of us through the next round alive.”
Relief unwound a bit of the tension that was strung through him like a taut rope. Quickly he outlined his idea for a fight formation based on his strengths and theirs. He had no idea what they’d be facing—he didn’t even think Sajda knew—but some strategy was better than none. When he was finished, they turned away from him, leaning across the table to whisper to one another while he sent a silent prayer to Yl’ Haliq.
Finally, Intizara turned back to him and said, “You have a deal. We’ll start working together tomorrow during sparring practice. But if Hashim comes at you outside the ring, you’re on your own.”
“Agreed.” He stood as the guards shouted for prisoners to return to their cells before twelfth bell. “Thank you.”
He had allies. He’d know where the weapons were courtesy of Sajda. And he would pray every chance he had that he could kill whatever he’d be facing in the arena before it killed him.