THE CROWD SCREAMED as Javan hurtled into the air. The spider’s legs pulled him tight against the bulbous circle of her lower body. Fear was a razor slicing his thoughts to ribbons.
His arms were pinned. His legs were pinned. He couldn’t get to the battle-ax he held in his hand. Couldn’t struggle or he might fall to his death below.
Prayers formed in his mind, wisps of panicked words and desperate thoughts as the spider slowed and came to a stop in the web she’d spun above the arena. He was so close to seeing his father—to setting everything right. He couldn’t die now. Not like this.
Over the yelling from the aristocrats who either wanted him to plunge to his death or to get out of the spider’s grasp so they could collect on their bets, a girl’s fierce voice shouted, “Turn the ax to the left!”
He twisted his wrist, following Sajda’s instructions, and felt the blade in his hand connect with something. Immediately he started sawing, jerking the ax back and forth while he prayed for something to give.
Something had to give.
He hadn’t come this far to fail.
A sticky rope wrapped around his feet, and he realized that some of the spider’s legs were moving, rapidly coiling a rope of web around his ankles. He sawed faster with the ax blade, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do if his feet were trapped.
“Push!” Sajda yelled.
He obeyed, shoving the ax blade forward as hard as he could. Something snapped, a sickening crunch that briefly loosened the spider’s grip. He leaned back and looked down. He’d sawed through the bend in one of the beast’s middle legs. It dangled useless, a thin yellow fluid leaking out. Web wrapped around his ankles at least four times, and the other legs were tightening again.
It was now or never.
The spider was no longer pinning the wrist that held his weapon. He pulled his arm up as far as it would go and then plunged the ax blade into the hard shell of the spider’s lower body.
The creature wailed, a guttural, raspy sound that sent shivers over Javan’s skin. Spinning in midair, she held Javan with her front two legs as she swung her wounded body away from him and shoved her head close to his, her mouth gaping.
He flinched at the humanlike face with its vicious, round, teeth-filled hole and swiped at her again with the ax. This time, she saw him coming, and she dropped him.
He plunged headfirst toward the arena floor. Screams rose, but then the web around his ankles jerked him to a stop several lengths from the relative safety of the ground.
The web shook, and he looked up in time to see her scuttling toward him, teeth snapping.
He swung his body, jackknifed at the waist, and drove the ax into her head as she reached him. She shuddered, and the entire web shook. And then, she slowly rolled off the web and dropped toward the arena floor.
Javan sliced through the web around his ankles, twisted as he fell, and landed on top of her. He raised the ax again, but she shuddered once and lay still.
The crowd erupted, but Javan wasn’t finished.
He hadn’t killed all of the monsters who deserved to die.
And he had a promise to keep.
He slid from the spider’s back, landed on shaky legs, and looked up. Sajda clung to the netting at the edge of the arena, her face paler than usual, her eyes full of furious relief when they met his. The runes on her cuffs were glowing, and he quickly looked away before anyone followed his line of sight and wondered about the slave girl with the fiery runes carved into her iron bracelets.
The crowd were on their feet, shouting and cheering.
All except the king.
Javan froze as he locked eyes with his father. He was standing at the edge of his platform, his hands clasped as if in prayer while he stared at Javan, a frown digging into his forehead. Behind him, the impostor slowly got to his feet, his eyes on the king.
Javan looked at the closest judge. Had he won? He’d killed both rencapals and the spider, which gave him two hundred points. Was Hashim still alive, or had he succumbed to his wounds?
He turned to look for the older man just in time to see Hashim charge, Iram’s discarded whip in his hand.
The leather cracked the air with a vicious snap. Javan moved to the side, but he was too slow. The tip struck Javan’s chest and bit deep.
Blood poured from the wound as Javan faced Hashim. He ignored his shaking muscles. The pain that throbbed from his injuries.
Hashim was done terrorizing Sajda. Done using people to further his own violent ends.
And he was all that stood between Javan and an audience with his father.
Whispering the lament for the dying, even though he wasn’t sure Hashim deserved it, Javan hefted the battle-ax and waited.
Hashim circled, with Javan turning to keep the man in sight. And then Hashim raised his arm to flick the whip again. Javan waited until the whip jerked forward, slicing through the air toward the prince, and then he ran straight for Hashim.
The whip fell as Javan slammed into Hashim, grabbed the man’s tunic, and brought them both crashing to the ground. Hashim dropped the whip and fought viciously with his uninjured arm, punching Javan’s face and fighting to get control of the ax. Javan grabbed Hashim’s shoulder and dug his fingers into the arrow wound he’d given the man at the start of the competition. Hashim cried out, but then he brought his knees up, planted his feet on Javan’s stomach, and sent the prince sliding.
The ax spun out of Javan’s hand and skidded across the arena.
“Get up! Now!” Sajda’s voice cut through the crowd’s screams, cold and furious.
Javan’s body protested as he rolled away from Hashim, who was stumbling toward him with the whip again. His chest was pouring blood. His ears were ringing. And it felt like his jaw was going numb.
He was going to pass out if he didn’t put an end to this soon.
The whip glanced off his back as Javan moved toward the far western edge of the arena, climbing over a dead rencapal while Hashim pursued him.
His legs refused to hold him when he slid over the beast’s back, and he fell to his knees. The whip slapped the rencapal’s hide, barely missing Javan. Behind him, Hashim was laughing.
“Nothing can save you now. Not that little dark elf ehira. Not your aristocratic manners. I win. I’m getting out of here, and you’re going to die in this hole.”
Javan crawled forward, hissing as the whip connected with his leg, and then laid his hands on the weapon he’d left behind at the start of the competition.
Hashim was still laughing, the whip raised over his head, as Javan whirled, raised the bow, and sent an arrow into the man’s chest.
The whip fell with a clatter, and then Hashim sank to the floor and lay still.
Javan dropped the bow and slowly got to his feet. The floor vibrated with the thunderous cheering of the crowd, but he didn’t care about them.
He’d done it.
He’d won his chance to show his father the truth.
Weary relief shook him, and he had to work just to stay on his feet. The wound on his chest sent a shaft of pain straight through him as he pulled his tunic over his head and untied the red sash that was folded up beside his heart. A tiny piece of it was frayed now, caught by the lash of the whip.
A few months ago, this sash had represented ten years of duty and sacrifice, but those words meant something different now. When Javan had first worn the sash, he’d been proud of his accomplishments and certain of his ordained destiny. Now as he unfurled its silken length, he knew that his duty went far beyond the expectations of his parents, and sacrifice was more than the willingness to give up one thing to get another.
Sacrifice was an old man refusing to let a naïve boy be crushed by his enemies, even though it cost that man his own life.
Sacrifice was a wounded, abused girl finding the courage to make her own choices without backing down.
And sacrifice was what had been demanded from the people of Akram for five long years under Fariq’s corruption. From the inmates imprisoned on false charges and forced to compete in this barbaric tournament to the aristocrats trapped into cheering for the bloodbath or risk losing their lands and livelihood to Fariq’s greed. Javan was going to put an end to all of it.
Sajda tore the netting out of the way and ran across the arena as he stood swaying, his eyes on his father. When she reached him, she wrapped her arm around his back, and he leaned on her.
“Come on,” she said softly, a wealth of pride and grief in her voice. “Let’s get you home.”
She helped him move to the center of the arena while the crowd cheered, the warden stood still as a statue on her platform, and the king clasped and unclasped his hands, his eyes on Javan.
Carefully, Javan lifted the sash. The crimson silk glowed softly in the afternoon sunlight, and the king sucked in a breath.
“I did it, Father,” Javan said loudly. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he raised his arms higher, the sash held firmly between them. “I honored my mother’s muqaddas tus’el. I made her proud.”
The king met his son’s eyes and smiled, confusion and wonder on his face. Javan trembled with relief and bittersweet happiness. No matter what had happened, no matter what his uncle had done in the name of the crown, Javan could come home. He could make it right. And he could use the power of the throne to free Sajda.
Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The impostor lunged forward as if to join the king at the edge of the platform. His father said, “Javan!” in a voice that caused an ever-widening ripple of silence to spread through the crowd. And the impostor seemed to trip and crash into the king.
The king tumbled from the platform and into the arena.
“Father!” Javan cried as the king landed in a sickening sprawl of limbs and blood.
The prince stumbled to his father’s side, Sajda right behind him, and dropped to his knees beside the king’s head.
“Javan,” the king whispered, his breath whistling in the back of his throat.
“I’m here.” The prince looked up at the royal platform where the impostor stood surrounded by guards, an unconvincing look of horror on his face. “Get a physician!”
“My son.” The king’s hand fluttered away from his chest, and Javan wrapped his father’s cold fingers in his.
“Don’t go.” Javan’s voice broke. “I just got you back. Please, Father.”
For a moment, Javan thought he would hang on. He would keep breathing, the physician would treat him, and everything could be as it should be. But then the king exhaled, and his chest went still.
Javan pulled his father’s head into his lap and curled over him while grief and rage bled through him in equal measure.
He’d lost everything now. His father. His chance to return home and make things right. His ability to force the warden to let Sajda go free.
“Get on your feet, prisoner!” The impostor’s voice filled the arena as guards hurried from the platform toward the king.
Slowly, Javan placed his father’s hand back on his chest, folding the crimson sash beneath the king’s fingers, and then climbed to his feet. Grief was a long, slow slide into utter despair, but fury was the rope that tethered him to this moment.
This boy was the cause. The root of everything that had gone wrong.
And now this boy would be acknowledged as the new king. He would win. There was no one left to believe Javan if he challenged him. No one left to see the injustice and make it right.
“I am the king now in the wake of my father’s unfortunate accident,” the impostor said. “Do you deny it?”
The crowd murmured at the strange question, and Javan met the impostor’s eyes.
“Don’t challenge him,” Sajda whispered. “It’s an excuse to kill you for treason.”
She was right. Javan could practically see the execution order forming on the impostor’s lips.
But he was still owed a boon from the king. The impostor couldn’t deny it without raising questions from the aristocracy—something he could ill afford to do in light of his part in the king’s death.
There was still one promise Javan could keep.
“I do not deny it,” he said, his voice steady though everything inside him shook. “I believe I am to be granted a boon, Your Highness?”
The title tasted like ashes in Javan’s mouth, but he didn’t hesitate.
The impostor frowned, glaring down at Javan as if hunting for the trick he was sure the prince was playing on him. Javan waited, his body still, his heart bleeding at the sight of his father lying at his feet. At the hope that had shriveled within him until only the bitter dregs were left.
Finally, the impostor glanced at the crowd who waited expectantly on the edge of their chairs and then said, “I suppose you want your freedom.”
Sajda drew in a sharp breath and whispered. “You can still be free. You’ll find another way back into the palace. Someone else will recognize you and then you can—”
“Not my freedom,” Javan said in a loud, clear voice. “Hers.”
The crowd gasped, and the impostor’s eyes widened as Javan turned to Sajda. “For my victory boon, I ask for the cuffs to be removed from the warden’s slave and for her to be set free.”