Prologue
Sheikh Prince Rafiq of Al-Zahir had been born third in line to the throne and was happy to be so. He didn’t mind that his parents’ attention fell mainly on his older brother.
‘Khalid was born to be king,’ his father had explained.
On the long summer school holidays, home from England, where they were schooled, Khalid readily headed off for lessons on Al-Zahir’s history, or to study the strict edicts he would one day uphold.
Rafiq, though he was tutored extensively too—just in case—was afforded more freedom.
A lot of his summers had been spent in the desert, being taught by the elders or riding his horses, but lately his desert time was interspersed with athletic meets.
Rafiq loved to run, more specifically he loved sprinting. Long limbed, a naturally athletic build, he had the explosive power required for rapid speed. Aged eleven he was causing a stir with his track times.
Khalid was serious like their father, a bit of a geek, the good son; however you wanted to put it, Khalid studied and followed the rules meticulously.
Rafiq, on the other hand, painted outside the lines. He was very bright but challenged everything. Even so, there was a certain allure to Rafiq. He got by on charm and could eke out a smile from anyone.
Even their serious, rather grim father.
Still, horses and athletic meets weren’t the only thing on Rafiq’s mind that summer when the brothers arrived back at the palace.
‘Finally,’ Rafiq said to his older brother. ‘I get to find out the sex edicts.’
‘You are going to be so disappointed.’ Khalid laughed.
As it turned out, Khalid was right.
The edicts were many and long, more a list of dos and don’ts and intricate rules that took a full week to get through when he would far rather be in the desert.
‘I am never marrying…’ A sulking Rafiq knocked on Khalid’s study door and went in.
‘Told you.’ Khalid smiled but did not look up from his studies.
‘I mean it,’ Rafiq said and lay on a sofa with his hands behind his head, going over in his mind what he’d been taught today. ‘What’s the point in marrying if you can also keep a harem?’
‘It’s just the way things are done.’ Khalid shrugged.
‘Do you think our father keeps one?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you think he has a mistress?’
Khalid looked up from the computer. ‘You had the lesson on discretion today, yes?’
Rafiq nodded.
‘Then you would have been taught that, if he does have a mistress, it is not for us to know.’
‘Or our mother.’ Rafiq scowled, not liking what he’d been taught.
‘The discretion rules are to protect her.’
‘Well, I’m not having my bride chosen for me, or getting married before I’m twenty-one. I want to be breaking records and pulling in medals.’
‘You can still run, but of course you will have to marry young,’ Khalid told him. ‘You’re second in line to the throne now.’
Khalid had swallowed; their grandfather had recently died, and their father was now king.
Second in line felt a little too close for comfort.
‘If I die it will fall to you,’ Khalid reminded him.
‘Don’t talk like that.’ Rafiq frowned.
‘But it’s true, and with all the trouble with Al-Nawar the lineage needs to be secured. Of course you will marry.’
Al-Nawar was the neighbouring country. Usually a peaceful land, their despot king had been causing problems and there were urgent talks underway. Their father was even more serious and grim.
Life felt a little less carefree of late.
Rafiq, his hands still behind his head, had a sudden feeling of dread and looked over to his brother, who was still working away on his computer.
Nothing would happen to him, Rafiq told himself. After all, Khalid was born to be king.
More than that though, Rafiq loved his brother so.