Feeling extremely uncomfortable and extremely anxious, Julia was thankful to be able to hide behind her improvised veil. Azhar, she only then noticed, had not covered his face. Risking a glance back, she saw that they were being followed by a growing crowd. The nudges, the murmurings and mutterings were perfectly audible even above the hooves of the mules and camels, but Azhar looked resolutely straight ahead, his gaze unswerving. On they went, and the trail of people behind them turned into a procession, the mutterings and murmurings a sort of wailing—no, not wailing. It was not an unhappy sound. She could not see the women’s faces, but the men were smiling, the children were laughing.
‘Azhar,’ Julia hissed, ‘what is going on?’
Still he remained silent. Still they continued on. In front of their little caravan, the inhabitants of Al-Qaryma threw themselves down on to their knees. Someone had strewn rose petals in their path. Rose petals! Julia could hear singing from the human tide of people behind them. Bells began to peal. This was more, much more than mere hospitality. It was not Julia they were interested in either, but Azhar. Ten years he had been gone, yet all these people had come out of their houses to celebrate his return. Why? Who on earth was he?
She had the first inkling of an answer when he finally brought the camel to a halt at the palace. Two guards, armed with glittering scimitars, dressed in immaculate white, threw the gates wide and fell on to their knees in obeisance. More guards, two long lines of sentries, stood to stiff attention. From the high windows of the palace which looked out over the courtyard, Julia could see faces peering down. Behind them, the people crowded in. As Azhar clicked his usual command and the camel dropped obediently to its knees, the crowd fell silent.
Azhar dismounted. Julia slid down, her body drenched in cold, clammy sweat. ‘Azhar?’ she whispered, but his eyes were fixed on the huge portico, the formal entrance to the palace, where a man was emerging.
Dressed in a gold tunic, his headdress encrusted with precious jewels, the man made his way towards them. He was tall, would once have been considered handsome, but his body was running seriously to fat. Above the short, precisely trimmed beard, his cheeks were florid, his chin jowly. There was an air about him of entitlement, arrogance even, and a hint of petulance about his mouth. He was clearly privileged and in a position of power, and Julia suspected that he used both to his advantage. A man who demanded not only respect but subservience. A fraction of a second too late, late enough for this royal personage to notice, Julia dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
To her astonishment, Azhar remained standing. She watched from beneath her lashes as he approached. The man’s smile was rigid. The barely disguised resentment in his expression made Julia shiver. The packed courtyard crackled with tension. He halted in front of Azhar and uttered one word. Julia’s grasp of Arabic was basic in the extreme. Brother, she thought he had said, but that could not be. They were the antithesis of each other.
The slightest inclination of his head was all Azhar gave, but the royal person eased himself with difficulty to his knees and kissed Azhar’s hand before getting up again, turning to the crowd, uttering the ritual words of welcome, and thanking God for Azhar’s arrival.
Cheers erupted and cries of the traditional words of welcome rung out, over and over. Julia could restrain herself no longer. ‘Azhar!’ The sudden hush made Julia realise she had most likely broken every single protocol, if not committed treason, but it was too late now. ‘Azhar,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?’
He turned towards her, and it felt as though every single person in the courtyard was holding their collective breath. ‘Julia. Allow me to present to you my brother, Prince Kamal, Sheikh al-Farid. Kamal, this is Madam Julia Trevelyan. She will be our guest for a few days.’
Automatically, Julia dropped a curtsy, although the man completely ignored her, saying something over her head to Azhar. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, earning herself a shocked intake of breath from the crowd as she interrupted him, but she was beyond caring. ‘If this is your brother then you...’
‘I am Sheikh al-Farid, Crown Prince Azhar of Qaryma,’ Azhar replied with a pronounced sneer. ‘Welcome to my kingdom.’
Azhar poured the last dregs of coffee from the pot. The thick, dark liquid, which he had always preferred without the customary sugar, seared its way into his stomach, adding to the edgy feeling which had kept him awake all night. His first night here in the palace for ten years. In the intervening period, he had not missed this place or this desert or this life, had taught himself never to think of any of it. Taught himself rather too well. Wrenched from his real life, returning so abruptly, it all threatened to overwhelm him. The allure of the desert itself was powerful. He had not forgotten its mystical beauty, but he had suppressed the memory of it. Yesterday, his first sighting of Al-Qaryma had stirred the depths of his soul. The world contained many other deserts, many other beautiful cities, but only here, in this kingdom, in this city, were his people.
His people?
No, they were not his people. Those crowds who had followed him through the streets yesterday, the people he refused to allow himself to acknowledge, they were not his. They were his father’s people, and now they would be Kamal’s.
As if on cue, a discreet tap on the door preceded a manservant, who announced Kamal’s arrival. The dramatic change in his appearance struck Azhar afresh. Kamal had always been a greedy child, with a penchant for sweets and pastries that he made no attempt to curtail, but youth had protected him from the worst effects of over-indulgence. Now, at twenty-nine, two years younger than Azhar, his brother looked at least ten years older.
Taking care to mask his thoughts behind a benign countenance, Azhar got to his feet. ‘At last. We did not have an opportunity to speak privately last night. It is very good to see you, Kamal. Get up, please, there is no need—you know I never did like to stand on ceremony.’
Avoiding the proffered embrace, his brother instead bowed over Azhar’s hand. ‘Things are very different now you are soon to be crowned. As King, ceremony is precisely what you are required to stand on.’
He had not imagined it last night, then, there was an appreciable edge to Kamal’s tone. ‘You must know I neither expected nor wanted this,’ Azhar said, taking a seat on the divan by the window, and indicating that Kamal should join him. ‘The summons I received came as a complete shock.’
‘Our father’s health had been in decline for some time. This past year, he was too frail to rule effectively. I was obliged to step in and assume control. With his blessing, I might add.’
‘An obligation I’m sure you discharged with great skill.’
‘One does one’s humble best, however temporarily the responsibility rests on one’s shoulders. The burden is yours now, my brother.’
Yes, his brother was definitely hostile. An understandable emotion in one who believed his powers were about to be wrested from him—and that was another thing he’d forgotten about Kamal, how much he enjoyed wielding even the most insignificant scrap of power and influence. It would be very easy to put his mind at rest, but Azhar’s instincts told him to hold fire for the present. Though his intentions were set firm, though he had absolutely no doubt as to their validity, experience had taught him the benefits of keeping his own counsel until he was ready to act. Silence was a powerful ally. There was knowledge to be gleaned from keeping Kamal in blissful ignorance for the time being, and knowledge was even more powerful than silence. The time for Azhar to declare himself would come soon enough, but it was not now.
‘When I said the summons came as a shock,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘I referred not only to our father’s demise, but to the fact of my being named rightful heir.’
Kamal