Javan excelled at tests.
He would study the prison and the people in it. He would figure out its weaknesses and exploit them. Every decision, every move he made would be to bring himself one step closer to getting out in time to save his father and his kingdom from whatever Fariq and the impostor had planned.
He wasn’t going to be too late.
He wasn’t.
“Hurry up,” the magistrate said, his voice bored. As though he made this trip often. As though locking up a seventeen-year-old boy for the next thirty years of his life on the word of one palace guard was business as usual.
Javan drew in another shaky breath and tasted metal on the back of his tongue. The closer he got to the bottom of the tunnel, the more the air smelled of iron and dirt.
There was a metal gate at the bottom of the tunnel, its open scrollwork letting in the dark gold of the sunset that was unfurling above the skylights set in the prison’s ceiling. The thick glass skylights were embedded in the gutters of the streets above, and shadows cut through the sunlight as carriages swept past. The magistrate fished a key from his pocket and jiggled it inside the lock.
For a moment, Javan imagined ramming the smaller man’s body into the gate and leaving him behind as he ran for his freedom into the city above.
But of course, that wouldn’t free him from the chains that bound him. And even if he miraculously avoided the magistrate’s guards, they would unleash every guard in the city with orders to hunt him down and kill him on sight. A boy with his hands chained behind his back would be easy to find.
Maybe he could plead his case. Tell the magistrate who he was and ask for a chance to prove it.
But why would the man believe him when the head of the palace guard himself had delivered Javan to be thrown into Maqbara? Besides, Abbas had been firm in his instructions to remain quiet about who he really was. Despite Javan’s despair over being lied to, the guard was right. All Javan had going for him right now was the fact that the impostor thought he was dead.
He couldn’t attempt an escape now without losing everything.
Javan let the fantasy dissolve as the door swung open and the magistrate pushed the prince through it. They were at the mouth of an enormous rectangular arena whose wooden floor was scarred and stained, as if battles had been waged within it. On three sides of the arena, stairs led to four levels of seats. Above the seats, another eleven levels were carved into the dark stone. A cacophony of raucous voices drifted down to echo around the hollow space of the arena.
Javan scanned the area around him quickly, trying to memorize everything in case he needed the information later. Two entrances into the arena—the one he’d used and one that led to a row of what looked like iron barn stalls. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. Nowhere to hide unless the stalls were empty.
He looked up. The first level contained fancy platforms with plush chairs and woven rugs. Flags in the colors of the most esteemed aristocratic houses hung on poles in the corner of each platform. The flag directly across from where Javan stood caught his eye, and he took three quick steps forward.
“Not so fast. We’re going this way. You’ll get your turn in the arena soon enough.” The magistrate tugged on the chain around Javan’s wrists.
Javan barely heard him. The platform across the arena had a royal purple flag in the corner. He could just make out the edge of the Kadar family crest hidden within the limp folds. But more important, the chair in the center of the platform was a small teakwood throne.
“Is that for the king?” he asked, his voice shaking.
The magistrate huffed. “Of course it is. The royal family likes sport as much as the next person, and Prince Fariq likes it more than most. Now come on. I have a dinner to get to.”
Hope flared to life within Javan, a tender, fragile thing that hurt to touch as he followed the magistrate around the southern edges of the arena toward the rows of iron stalls tucked beneath the first level of seats.
The guard hadn’t lied. The king attended whatever sport happened in the prison’s arena. Javan simply had to figure out how to get close to the ring when a competition was happening. All he needed was to lock eyes with his father. Surely Javan’s resemblance to both his mother and the king himself would be enough to at least gain Javan an audience. Especially if he called him Father.
From there, Javan would discuss the one thing he was sure Uncle Fariq hadn’t been able to tell the impostor. The one thing Javan and his father shared: his mother’s sacred dying words and the sash that Javan still had, folded carefully beneath his tunic in honor of her muqaddas tus’el.
“Sajda, new prisoner!” the magistrate called as they came abreast of the stalls.
Javan winced at the sharp odor of fur and fetid water that hung heavy in the air. What kind of animals were they keeping in the prison? Whatever they were, they could do with a bath and some fresh water in their troughs.
“Sajda!” The magistrate turned to survey the rest of the prison. “Where is that girl? Should be close to evening feeding time. I expected her to be here. Never mind—just go find the warden, and be quick about it.” He waved one of the guards toward a corridor carved into the stone wall beside the stalls.
The guard started for the hall but then stopped as a tall girl with long black hair and alabaster skin stepped out of a stairwell and moved toward them. She wore solid black from her shirt and pants to her boots. Her wrists were adorned with wide iron bracelets, and her hands were curled into fists.
The animals in the stalls began a chorus of howls, hisses, and snarls that sounded nothing like any animal Javan had ever encountered. It would’ve been enough to send a chill down his spine except the girl was already doing that.
She moved like a predator—all lithe muscle and efficient grace—and her dark blue eyes were fixed on him as though she meant to tear him to pieces. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and he fought the urge to slide back a step. She looked to be his age, and Javan would’ve spent useless time wondering why she was working in such an awful place, but he was too busy hoping she didn’t decide to feed him to whatever nasty-smelling animal was currently howling for its dinner.
“New prisoner. Thirty-year term. Looks like he’ll be a good competitor.” The magistrate whisked another key out of his pocket and Javan’s chains fell away.