table to place between them, then loaded it down with golden plates filled with figs and dates, small, rich squares of baklava and a pot of strong tea. “We will talk of what the nightingale has told me.”
“How poetic. And what has the nightingale told you, my friend?”
“Whispers, my friend. Whispers of Farid planning to unite Balahar with the enemy of Sorajhee. I would slit the nightingale’s throat, should I know this to be the truth, that the alliance between Balahar and Sorajhee is no more.”
“What alliance would that be, Azzam? That dream was no more the day your brother died, my friend. I know that, the world knows that, and you most certainly should. Our last treaty was made more than fifty years ago, and never did have teeth,” Zakariyya said, selecting a fig, turning it in his bejeweled fingers as if inspecting it, then popping it into his mouth.
He was a large man, with large appetites, but his oil-rich country was still small, just a dainty nibble for any larger country with its own appetite that wished to swallow it up. The age-old, tenuous and outmoded treaty with Sorajhee of both Azzam’s and Zakariyya’s fathers’ time no longer kept Balahar safe, and Zakariyya knew it. Azzam knew it. The time to act had been decades ago, and had passed along with Azzam’s fallen brother, that brother’s fallen sons.
King Zakariyya kept his expression carefully blank as his mind became busy. There was no good, strong alliance. So why this meeting? What purpose would it serve? Or had his spies been doing more than repeating women’s prattling? Was there truth to that gossip about Queen Layla, about the sons? Had he cast out his political nets on the strength of that gossip, in hope, and now stood ready to reap a great catch?
“You declared that there would be no political alliance, by deed if not by word, Azzam,” he continued, “even knowing of Ibrahim’s secret agreement with me that a son of Jeved would wed a daughter of mine, to insure our alliance. Now the sons of Ibrahim and both their parents are dead these many years—ask others to believe your lies that they are in seclusion, my friend, not me—and you have only daughters.”
Azzam half closed his eyes, hiding their expression behind his heavy lids. He would overlook Zakariyya’s less than veiled hint that the sons of Ibrahim had been martyred along with their father. Zakariyya had delivered an even deeper insult to his manhood, or so it would seem if Zakariyya had been able to father any children of his own, which he hadn’t. What was worse? Azzam’s three daughters and the fact that he’d been unable to sire any children at all within his harem, let alone a son—or Zakariyya’s adopted son and daughter, proof that his only wife was barren.
Children were a treasure everywhere, but here, in the Middle East, and with a succession to assure and a country to protect, often with alliances through marriage of royal children, they were essential.
Azzam’s brother had fathered three sons—two at one time—and Rose had proved fruitful enough to have borne many more children, many more male babies, each birth pushing Azzam further and further from the throne he’d coveted, believed to be his right as his father’s son.
“And how is your son, Zakariyya?” Azzam asked, wishing to draw attention away from himself and his daughters. Away from the badly broken alliance between Sorajhee and Balahar.
“Sharif is well, as always. Headstrong, but a good, loyal son,” Zakariyya said smoothly. “We are so grateful to your Layla for bringing him to us as a newborn, gifting us with such a precious honor. My people accept him, love him, and Balahar is stronger for Sharif.”
“My wife meant to assuage some of your wife’s grief when her child was stillborn, and the foundling was in a need as great as your own. I rejoice that Layla showed such a generous spirit, and that your Nadirah found solace with her adopted son. Indeed, you are twice blessed by another’s misfortune, as your adopted daughter came to you only because her American parents perished. She is a woman grown now. How does she fare?”
“Serena is more the Arab than those with the blood of the Middle East flowing through their veins. She is my pride, and her mother’s treasure until that dear woman’s death. She would have been a splendid princess of Sorajhee. But, alas, we all know this to be impossible.”
Azzam lifted a hand to his mouth and gnawed on his knuckle, knowing the moment had come for him to tell Zakariyya what he knew, or at least what he thought he knew. “My friend, perhaps…perhaps it is not impossible for our countries to resume the alliance.”
Zakariyya spread his hands, palms up. It was time to pull in the net and inspect the catch. “My friend, although I have not yet announced it publicly, I have already begun talks with—”
“Not this new political alliance I’ve been told you are considering, Zak. Such alliances are only bits of paper. I’m speaking of a blood alliance. I’m speaking of the promise made between you and my brother. You were right to question the story that Rose and her sons are hidden away in Sorajhee all these years, in seclusion, but you are wrong to believe that I had them killed.”
“Really?” Zakariyya steepled his fingers in front of him and waited, not quite as patiently as it might seem to Azzam. He had allowed rumors of negotiations with another neighboring country, but he had done so only after hearing from his agents in Sorajhee, only in the hope that he would be sitting here today, listening to Azzam’s words.
“There has been treachery, Zakariyya, but not of my making. Treachery, and many lies. I believed them all dead, much as it shames me to admit to being so gullible, so eager to accept news that benefited me. Ibrahim’s American wife may still be alive, her children still alive,” Azzam said quickly, motioning for his chief adviser, Abdul-Rahim, to step closer. “Tell him,” he ordered. “And spare me nothing in the telling.”
“Sire,” Abdul-Rahim said, bowing. “It gives me great pain to repeat the words, knowing they may be true.”
Zakariyya held up his hands, effectively silencing the advisor. He would never admit to the spies he had planted here in the palace, but he saw no reason to draw out Azzam’s humiliation. “Then it is true? I have heard rumors over the years, but since half were that you had the queen and her boys killed, and half were that you keep them imprisoned somewhere, I could be sure of nothing. Ibrahim’s wife, the beautiful Rose—she’s alive? And the sons?”
He sat forward in his chair, no longer bothering to keep up the pretext of kingly unconcern, longing for the words that would tell him the information brought to him was correct. “What of the sons?”
Abdul-Rahim bowed, cleared his throat. “We are sure of nothing, Your Highness. But as Sorajhee comes closer to danger from our neighbors, and as word of Balahar’s negotiations with those neighbors comes to our ears, negotiations that would further weaken us…”
“Yes? Speak clearly, man. You have been given permission.”
The advisor folded his hands together in front of him. “It is Her Highness, you understand. Queen Layla. She has…she has become volatile, Your Highness. Agitated. And she has said some things within the harem…”
“Layla is losing her mind, her reason,” Azzam said abruptly, and the advisor bowed again, backing away from the two royals, and quickly took his leave. “My wife is going mad, Zakariyya, and she is saying things that threaten my own sanity.”
Zakariyya popped another fig into his mouth, careful not to look at Azzam, for the man had his pride and that pride must be respected at all costs. Even as the man figuratively bared his breast and groveled before him. Zakariyya had all but invited himself here, to Sorajhee, to learn the truth. He did not feel comfortable
