PROLOGUE
Nineteen years ago. The Royal Palace of Ishkana, on the edge of the Al’amanï ranges.
‘TELL ME IMMEDIATELY.’ It didn’t matter to His Royal Highness Prince Amir Haddad that he was just twelve and the advisors in his bedroom were all at least three times that in age. From birth he had been raised to know his place in the kingdom, the duty that would one day be his.
Having six men sweep into his private quarters at four in the morning might have caused a ripple of anxiety deep in his gut, but he revealed nothing. His dark eyes fixed on advisor Ahmed, one of his father’s most trusted servants, and he waited quietly, with an unintended look of steel in his eyes.
Ahmed took a step forward, deeper into Amir’s bedroom. Ancient tapestries adorned the walls and a blade of moonlight caught one, drawing Amir’s attention for a moment to the silver and blue threads that formed an image of the country’s ancient western aqueducts. He felt that he should stand up, face whatever was coming with his eyes open, and so he did, pushing back sheets made of the finest linen, pressing his feet to the mosaics—gold and blue and green, they swirled like water and flame beneath him. At twelve, he was almost as tall as any of the men present.
‘Tell me,’ he repeated, the quality of steel shifting from his eyes to his voice.
Ahmed nodded slowly, swallowing so his Adam’s apple shifted visibly. ‘There was an attack, Your Highness.’
Amir waited.
‘Your parents’ convoy was targeted.’
Amir’s only response was to straighten his spine; he continued to stare at Ahmed, his young face symmetrical and intent. Inside, his stomach was in knots and ice was flooding his veins.
‘They were hurt?’
He heard one of the other servants groan, but he didn’t take his eyes off Ahmed. With Ahmed he felt a degree of comfort; he trusted him.
‘Yes. They were badly hurt.’ Ahmed cleared his throat, his gentle features showing anguish. He put a hand on Amir’s shoulder—a contact that was unprecedented. ‘Amir, they were killed.’
The words were delivered with compassion and a pain all of his own—Ahmed had served Amir’s father for a very long time, since he himself was a boy. The pain he felt must have run deep.
Amir nodded, understanding, knowing he would need to deal with his grief later, when he was alone. Only then he would allow his pain to run through his body, felling him to his knees for what he had lost. He wouldn’t mourn publicly; that was not his way, and it was not what his country required of him. How long had that message been instilled in his heart? He was now his country’s King, his people’s servant.
‘By whom?’
One of the other servants stood forward. Amir recognised the military medals he wore across the breast of his white uniform. He had a thick moustache, black and long. ‘A band of renegades from Taquul.’
Amir’s eyes closed for a moment. The country directly to the east, with whom Ishkana had been embroiled in bitter unrest for over a century. How many lives had been lost because of it? And now his parents were gone.
He, Amir, was Sheikh of Ishkana.
‘A band of renegades,’ Ahmed continued gently, ‘led by His Highness Johar Qadir.’
Amir dug his hands into his hips, rocked on his heels, and nodded slowly. The King of Taquul’s brother was a well-documented troublemaker. It was known that he sympathised with the people who inhabited the borders of their two lands, a people who had benefited for years from the ongoing conflict and wanted it to continue, at all costs. But this?
This was a step further. This was a new twist in the century-old war, one that was unforgivable. And for as long as he lived, Amir would make the Qadirs pay. He hated them with a vengeance that nothing—and no one—could ever quell.
CHAPTER ONE
PRINCESS JOHARA QADIR cut through the room with an innate elegance, pleased the evening was a masquerade for the anonymity it afforded her. The delicately constructed mask she’d been given to wear was made of onyx and pearl, with diamonds around the eyes and ostrich feathers on one side, which rose at least two feet above her head. The mask concealed everything but her eyes and lips, meaning she could pass unrecognised on this evening to all but those who knew her very, very well and could recognise the sparkle that lit the depths of her golden brown eyes.
‘You have no choice, Johara. The whole family must appear to be united behind this decision. For our people...’
Yes, for their people. The prospect of peace with neighbouring Ishkana meant too much, would save lives, improve safety and lifestyle—of course she must support her brother’s decision to enter a treaty with the neighbouring Sheikh.