Zayen
The skin of the child is as dry as leather, like he has not had enough water. It tugs at my heart.
He tries to pull out of my grasp, begging for forgiveness. "Please, don't hurt me." I won't hurt him. I can't.
I've put enough children in danger. When this child speaks, he sounds scared and alone. It is the same fear that was in Saad's voice when I wouldn't—couldn't—look at him inside the palace.
At this point, people turn to see what is going on. There are hushed whispers about the prince being here. We tried to dress down, to avoid notice, but with a child crying there are many people turning to us.
"We need to go. We'll decide what to do to him later." Akilah grabs the boy, lifts him over her shoulder and turns off into a quieter street.
I glance at Alara. She is already watching me. The way she looks irritates me. I wish she was a man, so I could shove my shoulder into hers. Instead I walk off, down the dark passage where Akilah took the boy.
I follow his whimpering cries until I find him. His body is shaking, his hand pinned against the wall as Akilah threatens to cut off his fingers. "Do you understand the danger of stealing? Never take what does not belong to you. If your mother needs food or treatment, you work until you can afford to buy it for her. Understand?"
"Yes, I understand." He shakes his head rapidly, his eyes darting to me and then behind me.
"I don't think you do. I think—"
"What are you doing with my brother?" An angry voice comes from behind me.
I turn to the direction of the voice. A man, about my height, glares at Akilah. There are four other men behind him, two of them hold onto figures.
The thief and the prince. The two people I was supposed to protect, but didn't. They have black bags placed over their heads. If they're harmed at all, Saad and Aya will be in serious danger.
But they outnumber us, and they have the advantage of two hostages. This is not a good situation for fighting or negotiation.
There is still a fire lighting Akilah's gaze, almost as if she is looking forward to being able to beat the life out of someone.
I assume she is going to let the boy go, but she doesn't. She pulls him closer and twists his neck to the side slowly. "You're going to let them go, or I am going to keep twisting his neck until it pops right off."
At that statement, the boy starts squirming and crying, which makes me regret ever grabbing his hand. I should have let him go and told him to run. The way I did with Alara on the day we met.
"Why would I let them go, when I can kill them just as easily?" He clicks his fingers and the two men holding onto the thief and the prince bring sharp, pointed daggers to their necks. "Draw blood."
The men listen to the command and press the daggers deeper, until blood is dripping from their necks.
"Unfortunately, I believe you care about this child more than I care about those people you have in your hold." Akilah pulls the child's arm back and tugs it so that it dislocates from the socket. He cries out for his brother, legs beginning to wobble. "So let them go, and I will release your brother."
I lower my gaze to the ground. My training as a guard has prepared me for this. We were taught to not be merciful; taught to behave exactly as Akilah is behaving right now, but how can she not care for that child?
His arm is visibly handing out of its socket. Tears and snot run down his face. Fear is clouding his vision as he sobs and calls for his brother, who he calls Rayan.
Rayan grabs a lit torch from the wall, and suddenly the street—the world—becomes darker. The flames of the fire dance in his eyes as he turns and holds it dangerously close to the bag hanging over Nawaz's head. "Do you think I do not realise how invaluable the life of a royal is?"
I step closer to Rayan. Small rocks shift under my boots, making him swing to me, holding the torch out like a fire-tipped sword.
"Your brother was caught trying to steal. We will not hurt him or punish him any further. He has learnt his lesson." I turn and narrow my eyes at Akilah. Her loved ones lives may not be on the line, but mine are. Those kids. "I will send a medic to your house, paid for by the royal family, to treat your brother's arm and your mother's illness."
I will stay true to my word. The Hakeem gave us a good sum of money for this journey.
"That doesn't sound bad—" Rayan lifts his free hand to silence his friend. He walks up to the thief, Alara is what her mother called her, and pulls the bag off of her head.
She doesn't squirm or try to fight. Her eyes narrow and she spits at his face.
He wipes it off and smirks back at me, putting the torch back against the wall. "She's a fighter. I like fighters. Especially beautiful ones." I'm waiting for him to reach his point. "Is she your girl?"
He wants her for himself. The way he looks at her, though, tells me that he will still be generous enough to share her with his friends.
I have to think logically here. If I say no, then he will assume she isn't worth much to me and try to negotiate to keep her. If I say yes, it means he has more power than he should and will ask for more than I might be able to give.
The Hakeem only cares about his son. If Alara doesn't make it back, I doubt he'll blink an eye.
But the more people we have, the easier it might make getting this forsaken stone. She needs to live, to get the stone back to the Hakeem. Because if there's one thing that my father loves more than his perfect little prince, it's power. If that rock doesn't make it to him, I'll lose everything.
"Yes, she's mine."
The thief looks shocked by my choice, as if she was expecting me to send her off with these men.
I wonder what she would say if she knew how strongly I considered it. That if she was not needed, I'd tell them to do whatever they want to her. Thieves and liars get what they deserve, after all.
"Throw in that knife of yours." Rayan nods his chin towards my dagger. The same one his little brother tried to steal from me.
My mother gave it to me, when she thought I would be the next ruler. Before Nawaz was born and everything changed. I will not trade for it.
"No. Pick something else."
"Fine." He takes his time thinking. Arrogance written on his face, he walks in a circle around me—assessing me. Trying to see what he can take from me. "Let's fight. One on one. You win, I let her go. You lose, I keep the girl and the knife."
"First of all, it's a dagger, not a knife." If he doesn't know that, he can't be a very good fighter. I've had years of training for this. "One on one. Fight until first blood. You've got yourself a deal."
I hold my hand out to shake his. He glances down at my hand, reaches out and tugs me forward so that I stumble to the ground. His grip is stronger than I had expected.
My nose is inches from the dirt and I find myself wondering why I am doing this. The faces of Saad, with his nose in an old children's book, and Aya, with her chubby cheeks that look like they're filled with marshmallows, come to mind. I'll keep getting up, for them.
He somehow has my dagger in his grip, coming at me. Rolling onto my back, I shove my foot against his shin and then again on the socket of his knee. There is a soft crack.
He grunts, shifting back so that my foot can't reach him. It gives me a chance to get back on my feet.
Everyone else watches, silent. The sound of my heavy breathing is all that can be heard. I grab the scimitar that is strapped across my back and hold it out. It has the advantage of reach, but it is less forceful.
It clashes against my dagger that he holds. I use the forward-back-forward-forward motion that we were trained to use. I should have never underestimated his strength, but his endurance is a different story.
He continues blocking my hits, but the strength it takes is wearing him down. His arms shake and sweat breaks on his forehead.
All I have to do is keep going, until he lets down his guard and I find a spot to get past his defences.
With each final hit, Rayan picks up on what I am planning and anger creases the lines between his brows. The harsh angles of his face are sharpened by the shadows that move when he moves. His nostrils flare, his eyes drifting behind me. "Kill her."
"No." I turn to look for the thief. As I do, Rayan swipes the dagger across my bicep—drawing blood. No.
In a way, fighting is a lot like love. In the beginning there is a lot of tension and emotions, and then after some time one side gets tired and gives up. Or someone cheats.
"Good fight." He wipes the blood on my dagger off using the hem of his shirt. "I will enjoy my gifts very much." When he looks at the thief, I get mad.
Angry enough to want to challenge him to the death. I was a fool to have fallen for his distraction trick.
His friends release Nawaz but not Alara. Nawaz comes up in front of Rayan, pulling the black bag off his head. "Let me fight you."
Rayan scoffs, taking his brothers good arm and tucking my dagger into his pocket to walk away. "Why would I choose to do that when I have already won? That's idiocy."
"I'll give you all the coins and gems that we carry with us." I thought my gamble was stupid, but Nawaz made it impossibly worse.
"Nawaz." My tone is a wary warning.
He glances over at me. "Look at her. I have to."
The thief. I asked her if she would cry, when I hurt her feelings earlier. She didn't. If there is any time for someone to cry, it would be now. Because I lost in the trade for her life.
She's not crying. It's worse than that. She has completely checked out. Her mind is miles away, to escape whatever she might have to endure with these men.
"Deal," Rayan says after consideration. "Beating the shit out of a spoilt prince will be fun."
His little brother tugs on Rayan's shirt. "What will you do with the girl? Let her go. No more fighting. I'm sorry for stealing." His voice is light and adorable, edged with the pain of his injury.
"Get back, kid. I win this, and you and mom never have to struggle or starve again." He steps forward, up to Nawaz, pulling my dagger out of his pocket. "Let's see if you bleed gold," he tells Nawaz, snarling. The hatred in his voice wounds oddly familiar to the way I would talk to Nawaz.
Already, in a swift movement, Nawaz disarms him. The dagger flies to the ground. "It's cute that you think you're going to find out."
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