TWO DAYS LATER, during the hour he was allowed out of his cell for chores, Javan crept out of the third level privy he was supposed to be scouring, took the stairs down to the arena, and found Sajda marking a sheet of parchment with the placement of the weapons for the combat round that was now two days away. Her back was to him as she stood in the center of the arena, black hair glowing almost midnight blue under the skylights as she gazed thoughtfully into the distance.
He hadn’t talked to her since she’d left him behind to scrub the arena without her two days earlier. She hadn’t brought his meals. She’d stayed near the stalls during sparring practice and chores. And though he was constantly aware that she was near, watching over him in case Hashim made a move, she refused to make eye contact and never came close enough for him to speak to her.
Tarek had brought Javan meals on both days, and had quietly deflected Javan’s questions about Sajda until this morning, when he finally looked at the prince and said, “Stop asking me what’s going on. Go find out for yourself.”
Easier said than done. Javan didn’t know what he’d said wrong in their last conversation, though he thought maybe it had to do with the cuffs she wore. The sight of them sent a spike of red-hot anger blazing through him as he slowly approached Sajda while hoping the guard who’d instructed him to clean the privy closets on the third level didn’t catch sight of him and decide to beat him a day before he had to enter the next round of competition.
The faster he figured out what to say to Sajda, the faster he could get back to his chores and avoid compromising himself for combat. He opened his mouth to speak, but something warm and dangerously soft filled his chest as he watched her frown over the parchment.
He’d missed her.
He hadn’t just missed their sparring sessions or her relentless pushing to build alliances for the competition. He hadn’t just missed the way she gave him advice with cheerful pessimism or the way she questioned him closely about the outside world, guarded hope in her eyes.
He’d missed her. The eyebrow that rose when she thought he was wrong. The little smirk at the edge of her lips when she got the best of him. The light of fierce intelligence and challenge in her eyes when they talked.
Being her friend was like taking a ride on a half-wild stallion with nothing but your wits and your courage between you and a long, dangerous fall. It felt fascinating and dangerous—a test he still didn’t know how to pass. Somehow, despite the fact that he was in danger from the beasts, the warden, the impostor, and his fellow prisoners, being around Sajda was like coming alive after years of sleeping like the dead.
He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to let go of the horse’s mane and tumble to the safe, predictable ground. He’d known her for a month—less time than it usually took him to notice a girl at Milisatria—but here in the bleak confines of the prison where the few hours he spent with her each day were the ray of light in the darkness that was swallowing him, a month had been enough to know he wanted more of her friendship. More of her time. More of her.
And if he wanted that, then he had to find a way to fix whatever he’d broken.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked, staying at the edge of the arena to give her space if she still craved it.
She went still, and then deliberately took another minute to write a note on the parchment. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were distant, her expression cold.
His heart ached, a sudden shaft of pain that he didn’t want to examine closely. Instead, he said, “I did what you asked.”
She raised a brow.
He lifted his hand to tick the items off his fingers. “I made what I think is a solid alliance with Gadi, Intizara, Nadim, and Kali. We’ll compete as a team for the next round. I memorized the weapon placement, and I’ve sparred enough to be as ready as I can be. You’ve fulfilled your end of our bargain, but I haven’t. I still owe you a lesson before tomorrow. In case I die, remember?”
He lifted a brow of his own, a clear challenge he hoped she wouldn’t be able to resist.
She held out for a long moment, and though he couldn’t see the struggle on her face, he knew her now. The little finger she tapped rapidly against her thigh, the way her eyes narrowed when she looked at him—she was considering saying no.
The thought left him feeling anchorless, a boat tossed into the heart of a storm without a rudder.
Yl’ Haliq, he was in trouble.
When did he start thinking of Sajda as his anchor? She’d tear him to pieces if she knew. It had been hard enough to get her to accept his friendship. Trying for more would be asking for her to cut ties completely.
Not that he wanted more.
Probably.
She rolled her eyes and stalked toward him, folding the parchment as she went. “Fine. We’ll have a lesson. But only because I want to know the outside world, and you might die tomorrow.”
Relief was a swift, shaky river of painful hope that surged through him like a monsoon.
He was definitely in trouble.
“Where should we go?” he asked. “I’m supposed to be washing the privy closets on the third level, so if we can find some place in that vicinity, it will help throw off the guards’ suspicions if we get caught.”
She scanned the honeycomb of cells above them, and then led him up the closest set of stairs to the third level. They exited behind a row of seats perched high above the arena floor. Several prisoners were sweeping and scrubbing the corridor to their right. Sajda turned left, and he followed her past a long row of seats, another stairwell, and finally to a door that led to a room twice the size of his cell. Faint beams of sunshine from the corridor’s skylight gave the room a purple-gray twilight gloom. A large woven rug covered the floor and cherrywood lounging couches with pillows in deep jewel tones were scattered about.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It’s where the people with weak stomachs sit during the competition.”
“If they have weak stomachs, why come at all?”
She gave him her people-are-generally-idiots, what-do-you-want-me-to-do-about-it? look.
“All right, let’s sit.” He sank into the cushions of a couch that rested against the far wall, out of sight of the doorway in case a guard walked by.
She eyed him warily and sat on the opposite end of the couch. She was tense, fists clenched, braced for him to approach subjects she didn’t want to discuss.
“What do you want to learn?” he asked.
She watched him for a moment, and then said, “Where should I go when I get out of here?”
He eased back against a peacock blue pillow and considered her question. “That depends. If you want to stay in Akram—”
“I don’t.” The words rushed out, cracking her icy facade for an instant.
Her words hit him harder than they should have. He had to stay in Akram. There was no choice in the matter. He’d selfishly assumed she’d stay too.
Keeping his voice steady, he said, “Then let’s talk about the surrounding kingdoms. There’s Loch Talam to the north, Balavata to the south, and Ravenspire to the east.”
“I want stars and wide-open spaces.” The longing in her voice lingered in her eyes.
This was the real Sajda. The girl who’d been trapped underground for most of her life, forced to be with crowds of dangerous people. He wanted to tear open Maqbara’s ceiling and let her breathe. Let her revel in the vast reaches of the sky above.
“There are small settlements along the road through the Samaal Desert, which is between here and Loch Talam. I know you said you don’t want to stay in Akram, and that’s fine, but you can’t find any more wide-open spaces and star-filled skies than our desert. If you want the north, Loch Talam has a lot of lakes and rivers, and it’s green and rocky. Mountains, hills, and friendly people. To the south, Balavata has the coastline, so you could have the sea with your stars.”
She smiled, slow and wistful, and he caught himself before he moved closer to her. “I might like the sea.”
“You might.” He made himself smile at her, and she frowned.
“That makes you sad.”
“I’d miss you.”
Her frown deepened. “Why?”
He laughed, though it hurt to do so. “Because we’re friends. I care about you. I want to be around you.”
A sound drifted in from the doorway, and Javan held his breath as the sharp clip of a guard’s boots moved past. If he was caught in here, he’d have to talk fast to convince the guard he’d been cleaning. Maybe Sajda would have a convincing story ready. Something that would spare him a beating that could make surviving the next round impossible. He met her eyes, and they stared at each other in silence until the footsteps faded.
“Friendship is a lot of work.” Her expression challenged him to deny it.
“Anything that matters takes effort sometimes, but friendships are also comfortable and easy. Like this.”
“This is easy?” Her brow called him a liar.
He laughed again, and this time he meant it. “When do we ever run out of things to talk about? Or argue about? Or compete over?”
She smiled, but it was still haunted.
He could ask her what was bothering her and risk sending her running, or he could move on to the next subject she wanted to learn about. Before he could make up his mind, she said, “The only magical creatures I know about are those from Llorenyae. Are there others?”
“Yes. Mardushkas from Morcant are sorceresses. The queen of Ravenspire is a mardushka because her mother was from Morcant. There are rumors of a fae Wish Granter in the southern kingdom of Súndraille and of other fae living in Balavata. Loch Talam has a few who still know the old ways to work magic.”
“What about dark elves?” This time the question didn’t just crack her facade. It shattered it. Her eyes were full of misery, and her lips trembled.
He shivered and started to tell her they were disturbing wielders of nightmares who somehow swallowed the essence of things and used it as a weapon, but something in her expression stopped him. Feeling his way carefully, he said, “Most of them live in Ystaria, a kingdom far to the north of Loch Talam. A mountain range full of dwarves separates the kingdoms.”
“Are they dangerous?” She traced her fingers over the runes on the cuffs she wore, and he had the sudden, sickening realization that iron held both fae and elven magic in check, especially when used with runes. Akram had won its freedom from slavery to the dark elves six generations ago using weapons, traps, and cages made of iron.
He swallowed hard, and studied her beautiful face with its pale skin, midnight blue eyes, and long black hair that always covered her ears. She was shorter than most dark elves, even though she was nearly as tall as he was. But if she was part human and part elf, it would explain her incredible speed and strength. And it might explain why when she touched his bare skin with her hand, he felt as if he’d been hit by a tiny jolt of lightning.
The room felt as if it was spinning around him. He’d always believed the only good elf was a dead elf. He’d been given the honor of lighting an elven effigy on fire as a child. If you’d asked him a month ago what he would do if he were forced to be in close quarters with a dark elf, his answer would’ve involved his sword and little else.
Now he had to pick up his beliefs, one by one, and examine them for the flaws that surely ran through them. He couldn’t imagine the world without Sajda in it, and he didn’t want to.
“Javan, are they dangerous?” she asked, but it sounded as though she’d already decided on the answer.
He leaned toward her. “They can be. Just like the mardushkas in Morcant. Anyone with that much power can be dangerous, but the queen of Ravenspire is widely regarded as the most powerful mardushka to have ever lived, and she is kind, protective, and acts in the best interests of others instead of herself.”
“So she’s the exception?”
“There’s always an exception. Magic isn’t evil. It’s what people do with magic that counts.”
She looked away.
“Sajda, do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” he asked gently, and prayed that she knew she could trust him.
She shook her head.
He tried not to let it bother him. Instead, he said, “What else did you want to learn today?”
She met his gaze again. “I don’t know how to meet people without threatening to hurt them.”
He smiled. “That could be a complication in the outside world. When you don’t need to intimidate people in social situations, you’ll want to hold conversations about mutual interests, ask them questions about things they enjoy, eat with the appropriate dining ware, dance when asked—”
“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.