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.”
FORTY-FOUR
SAJDA STARED AT Javan while his words rang in her ears and the crowd whistled and cheered their appreciation for the unexpected twist to the end of the tournament.
He could have asked for his freedom.
He’d asked for hers instead.
And now he stood before her, broken and bleeding, with steady resolve in his eyes, but grief written in every line of his body.
“Javan,” she said quietly, “you can’t. It’s more important that you get out. You can go to the other aristocrats. Convince them. You can—”
“If he agreed to give me my freedom, he’d either exile me or send assassins after me the moment I left Maqbara.”
“But you’re good at improvising. You could find a way to eventually take back your throne.” Her voice shook as the resolve in his eyes hardened.
“I’m not leaving you here, Sajda. I made you a promise. Now I’m keeping it.”
Tears gathered in the back of her throat, and she pulled him against her, his blood staining her shirt as he wrapped his arms around her and leaned his face against her hair.
“I love you,” he whispered, and her magic churned, scraping at her skin.
He’d just traded his life for hers. There were no words she could give him, no pretty promises that would ever match the depths of his sacrifice. Still, she had to try.
Pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, she said, “I don’t think I deserve this.”
His smile was gentle and full of pain. “You deserve the stars, Sajda.”