Shock rippled through Kavin. “The highborns killed her?”
“No, jarriah. She killed herself.”
Dread pooled in Kavin’s soul as she looked down at the soapy water, the bubbles slowly dissipating around her, much as her own will to live. Would that be her fate? If she survived her test, would she ever be able to accept her new role? Or would she slowly wither and die on the inside until there was nothing but a cold, empty shell of her former self left behind?
For the first time, she thought of the sahad in the dungeon of the arena not as a monster but as djinn. What had he been like before his imprisonment? Before being sent to the fighting pits of Jahannam? Had he always been a monster intent on death and destruction? Or had he been something—someone—more?
“Tip your head back, jarriah.”
Kavin did as Hana said and closed her eyes while questions swam in her mind. Warm water trickled down her hair to dribble along her shoulders. A click resounded as Hana set the pitcher on the edge of the pool, then the water rippled as the servant girl moved behind her. Strong fingers massaged Kavin’s hair into a lather.
Long moments of silence echoed through the vast room. Finally, Kavin said, “You mentioned Marid view females differently. That they don’t employ the test. Surely they have other means of keeping their jarriah in line.”
“They don’t keep jarriah.”
“Not at all?”
“Not at all.”
Kavin pondered that as the girl’s fingers moved down the length of wet hair at her back. “Then they must have many wives.”
“Only one.”
Disbelief rippled through Kavin, and she turned her head to the side, expecting to see humor on the slave girl’s face, indicating she was joking. Only, Hana’s face was stoic as she went about her duties. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely. I told you before. Marid males mate for a lifetime. With only one female.”
Kavin could barely believe what she was hearing. “And what if the female dies?”
Djinn were known to live for a thousand years, but they weren’t immortal. Though they were generally immune to most illnesses, they could be killed, just like humans.
“That,” Hana said as she reached for the pitcher from the side of the pool and filled it with water, “is the only thing that could turn a Marid from civilized to barbarian.”
Kavin’s chest tightened as Hana rinsed her hair. And images of the sahad raining down death and mutilation in the arena, then later standing hulking and menacing in his cell, flashed in front of her eyes all over again.
Hana wrung the water from Kavin’s hair. “You are lucky your master is sending you to a Marid for your test. Considering their instinctive nature, you’ll most likely be safe, even if he is a sahad.”
She rose from the water and lifted a towel from the edge of the pool, which she held open for Kavin. Slowly, Kavin pushed out of the water and stepped into the bath sheet.
Hana wrapped the soft cotton around her naked body but didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned close. “Though, if he’s already lost his mate…” Her breath sent a shiver of foreboding down Kavin’s spine. “Then, if I were you, I would be afraid. I would be very afraid.”
* * *
Three males tattooed with the Ghul slave markings—just like the one Nasir sported on his left arm—treated his wounds.
They didn’t speak as they went about their duties, and Nasir stood still and unmoving as his cuts were stitched, just as he always did. But something was off. Unlike the normal treatment he received after a match, this time the slaves weren’t bathing the grime of the arena from his skin. In fact, the most cleansing they were doing was wiping the dripping blood, then covering the wounds thin bandages.
He didn’t know what that meant, but since he’d been sent to the pits nearly four months ago, not a whole lot surprised him. He stayed alive by staying alert. And right now, his senses were buzzing that something was up.
His gaze drifted from the wall across the room to the slaves around him. Each wore the traditional slave attire—loose gray pants, no shirt, sandals on their feet—and not a single one was more than half Nasir’s size. He knew he could take them if he wanted, but there was no reason. The threat wasn’t in this bathhouse but outside its rock walls. Where guards waited with weapons and magic Nasir couldn’t touch. Where an army of Ghuls itched for any excuse to execute him.
Rage rippled through his veins, the same bitter anger he felt whenever he thought of his captors, whenever he pictured the sorceress who’d trapped him to begin with, whenever he felt the firebrand opal brush the base of his throat. But he tamped down the urge to annihilate, just as he did every day, knowing succumbing to the rage now, before he’d had time to formulate his plan, would do nothing but get him killed.
His gaze swayed back to the wall, and his thoughts drifted to the Ghuls who’d visited his cell earlier. The highborn and the female he’d dragged in behind him. The female hadn’t been branded with the slave tattoo, so the Ghul couldn’t have been her master. Which meant she’d been there by choice, regardless of the little act she’d put on. Was she his lover? His mate? Nasir didn’t know—nor did he care—but some instinct deep inside said whatever the two had planned for him couldn’t be good.
The slaves finished their treatment of his injuries and turned Nasir for the door. Just as he’d predicted, there would be no bath for him today. Which meant someone wanted him to remain filthy. His newest punishment for remaining alive? To be treated as a rat instead of only caged like one?
They marched him down the long stone corridor back toward his cell. Guards in heavy armor with wicked blades were positioned every twenty feet, preventing any hope for escape this day. Heavy steel doors marked the openings to cells Nasir imagined were just as dank and depressing as his. He had no idea how many others were imprisoned here, but knew there had to be many. Every time they threw him into the arena, there was another djinni ready to gut him, as if they had an endless supply of slaves from all six tribes, just waiting to make their mark.
The slaves pulled him to a stop outside his door. The two guards stationed out front stepped to the side, then the one on the right unlocked the door and pushed it open. Darkness beckoned, as did the ever-present scent of mildew and filth. From the corner of his eye, he saw Malik, his trainer, striding his direction down the corridor, speaking in hushed voices with a highborn—the same highborn who’d visited Nasir earlier.
The guard shoved him into his cell and yanked the door closed. A clank echoed through the room, followed by muffled voices from the hallway, but Nasir couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then footsteps receded until all that remained was silence.
Normally, a mu’allim spoke with his sahad after a match, but Nasir had yet to see Malik since killing that Shaitan. Another oddity.
Nasir pondered what that could possibly mean as he moved toward the dark corner of his cell. He didn’t bother to light the one lone candle he was given, nor did he lie on the dirty mattress. Instead, he eased down to rest his back against the cold, unforgiving stone wall.
Comfort was something he didn’t require anymore. There was only one thing that sustained him these days. Only one goal left to achieve. He drew his legs up, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared into the darkness as three words revolved in his mind.