Curse of the Forbidden Book by Amy Lynn Green

thin, soapless dishwater after his aunt had finished all the dishes on a busy night at the inn. “Well then, Duke Hale, I should tell you that I do not believe in chance. Just skill, hard work, and the will of God.”
    That stopped Duke Hale for a moment. Then the cocky gleam returned. “So what if it’s God’s will that I stomp you into the dirt today?”
    â€œIt is possible,” Prince Corin said, shrugging. “But I have found that God rarely takes the side of the haughty and cruel.”
    Duke Hale’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, island boy?”
    â€œJust that I look forward to the honor of fighting against you during the tournament,” Prince Corin said mildly, turning away again.
    Jesse glanced back at Duke Hale, who stood staring at them, looking as if he were trying to figure out if he had been insulted or not.
    â€œSuch kind people here in District Two,” Prince Corin commented. “Very welcoming indeed.”
    â€œWhat did he mean about Lady Taralyn?” Jesse wanted to know.
    â€œThere are three stages to the tournament,” Prince Corin explained. “Whoever wins the competition will receive Lady Taralyn’s hand in marriage.”
    â€œOh.” Jesse tried to imagine that—being handed over as a prize, like a trophy or ribbon. “That’s a strange tradition.”
    â€œI thought the same,” Prince Corin admitted.
    â€œThen why did you come here to compete?” Silas asked.
    â€œSome months ago, a ship brought tidings to my father that the governor of District Two requested a member of his court to participate in a tournament for the hand of his daughter. It would have been a great affront to refuse. I chose to come, out of a desire to see the world, a thirst for adventure.” He sighed. “I have found that it is much different than I expected.”
    They continued walking, until they reached a tent on the very edge of the green, near the moat. It wasn’t really a tent, or at least, not like any Jesse had ever seen. It looked more like a great woven box, with panels of light-colored straw mats stitched together with thick red cords.
    â€œI suppose that one is yours,” Parvel said, pointing.
    â€œYes,” Prince Corin said, continuing toward it. “How did you know?”
    Parvel chuckled. “Just a guess.”
    Prince Corin pulled the thin linen curtain aside from the doorway of the tent and gestured for them to enter. Again, Jesse shook his head in amazement. How many princes let their slaves go before them?
    Every few years, a nobleman would stay at his uncle’s inn, and Jesse always hated waiting on them. They seemed to give orders just for the sheer pleasure of it, demanding to be served immediately, as if there were no other guests. Like them, Prince Corin was wealthy and important, but there the similarities ended.
    It must be because of where he’s from , Jesse decided as he stepped into the tent.
    Since he was expecting something strange and exotic, Jesse was not surprised to see that the inside of Prince Corin’s tent was as unusual as the outside. More woven mats covered the ground, and there were four metal boxes on skinny wooden legs, one in each corner. Several large pillows in bright colors overflowed on a mattress in the back of the tent, and a few bags and chests were stacked nearby.
    â€œI apologize; it may be a bit crowded,” Prince Corin said, glancing around. “I did not anticipate having guests.”
    Jesse looked around. There was no sign that anyone but Prince Corin stayed in the tent. “Don’t you have any other slaves with you?” Jesse asked.
    Prince Corin shook his head. “No. In my country, we have workers, not slaves. And all of them were too busy bringing in the spring kalem harvest to follow the king’s youngest son across the sea.”
    â€œYou’re from Dagen?” Parvel asked.
    Prince Corin’s dark