Rafiq said, ‘it was.’
She had the distinct impression he was not talking about the food. His smile had a sinful quality about it—though what she meant by that, she had no idea.
‘This precious race of yours,’ she said, striving to focus her thoughts on the reason she was here, ‘the Sabr. Tell me about it.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Rafiq intoned. ‘That is how we think of the Sabr here in Bharym.’ He sat up, crossing his legs with graceful ease. ‘Sabr means fortitude or endurance. The race, like my Arabians, has its origins in legend. It is said that it was first mentioned in one of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights, though our records show that it was first raced a hundred years ago this year, its centenary. An earlier Prince of Bharym, a direct antecedent of mine, designed the victor’s trophy, agreed the rules and set the course. There are four Sabr towers, spaced about twenty-five miles apart, to mark out the circuit, which is completed twice. Each section traverses very different terrain. In places flat and hard packed as you can see here, but one of the sections is across shifting dunes, and another meanders the foothills of the mountains.’
‘Two hundred miles in total!’ Stephanie exclaimed.
‘It is the ultimate test of both horse and rider,’ Rafiq said wryly, ‘though there are eight of them, and only one of him.’
‘Good grief! That means the race must take...’ Stephanie screwed up her nose. ‘How long does it take a horse to complete each stage?’
‘It depends on the terrain, but usually between two and three hours. The race starts at first light and lasts all day and through the night. A true test of endurance, though as I said, it is about a lot more than the race itself.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Stephanie said.
‘Precisely. From the very beginning, the Sabr belonged to Bharym. Not once did our horses fail to triumph. Every year as I grew up, I watched as our colours crossed the finishing line first. Like everyone in Bharym, I believed we were invincible, that our horses could never be vanquished, that they truly were descendants of the legendary Drinkers of the Wind. The Sabr is in our blood. Without the Sabr, my people believe we have lost something vital, our sense of national identity.’
She could believe it, looking at him now, his eyes alight with almost childlike enthusiasm as he described the race, so very different from the intimidating Prince she had met only yesterday. She could easily imagine Rafiq as the victorious rider, travelling like the wind across the searing desert sands towards certain triumph. She could hear the raucous cheers of his people, visualise their ecstatic faces, and Rafiq, proudly lifting the huge gold trophy. ‘It sounds magical,’ she said when he had stopped talking. ‘All that is required is a princess as the prize for the winner, and it truly would be a tale from One Thousand and One Nights.’
The glow faded from Rafiq’s eyes. His expression darkened. ‘It is the tradition that all the losers forfeit their best horse to the winner. Fourteen years ago, my father’s greatest rival, a Bedouin prince, Salim, entered the race with a team bred from new bloodstock acquired from the far reaches of Arabia. My father coveted that bloodstock. It induced him to enter into a secret side-wager with the Bedouin, where the loser would forfeit all of their stallions, the jewel of their breeding stock, to the other. You can guess the outcome.’
Stephanie covered her mouth in horror. ‘How could he have been so foolish?’ she whispered.
‘Complacency? Greed? We had never lost, there was no reason to imagine that we ever could—but we did. Even now...’ He winced, unfolding his long legs and getting to his feet. ‘Even now, I find it incomprehensible, that he risked something so precious. I remember watching the stallions being led out before being taken away. It felt as if the very lifeblood was being drained from our nation. But that was not the end of it.’
He held out his hand to help her up, and they headed out of the clearing, back to the little bridge, where there was a view into the stallions’ compound. ‘I awoke in the night to see a great light blazing in the sky. It took me some moments to realise it was coming from the stables.’
‘No!’ Stephanie exclaimed, appalled. ‘Oh, no, Rafiq.’
He pressed her hand fleetingly. Gave her a grim little smile. ‘My father released all the mares and foals into the desert first. He could not bear to look at them, to be reminded of his folly, but he could not bear to harm them. We tried desperately, but it was too late to save anything. I will never forget standing among the burning embers, a blizzard of ash swirling around me. It was the end of my dreams to ride to victory in the Sabr. I vowed then that I would find a way to rebuild the stables, restore our bloodstock, breed a new Sabr team to win back the trophy for my people.’
Stephanie waited, her heart overflowing with pity, as Rafiq gazed sightlessly out over the oasis, his throat working, afraid to say anything lest she embarrass him by witnessing the strength of his emotions. Dark shadows flitted over his face, and slowly his countenance hardened, his eyes became bleak. When he spoke again, his tone was harsh. ‘I was sixteen, too young to comprehend the true extent of our loss, the devastating impact it would have on our kingdom. Every year, we were forced to host the Sabr, to watch another nation win what was rightfully ours. My father went into a terminal decline and our kingdom languished. When he died, eight years ago, though I did not forget my oath, I had other priorities. There were so many things to attend to which my father had neglected. Our kingdom’s wealth, health and morale had all suffered. I envisaged winning the Sabr as the culmination of our recovery, but all my people were interested in was the race. It was like a—a festering sore, a painful boil to be lanced. What could I do, but change my focus to winning the race? I gave my people my word that I would do what they desired, and bring the Sabr back to Bharym, breed a winning team which were descended from the very bloodstock my father forfeited.’
‘Thus restoring your heritage in the true sense,’ Stephanie said, awed. ‘How on earth did you manage to achieve such a feat?’
Rafiq’s countenance did not change dramatically, rather it froze. There was a bleakness in his eyes that reminded Stephanie of the soldiers she had witnessed returning from battlefield like lost souls. ‘It cost me more than you can possibly imagine.’
She knew instinctively he did not refer to gold, and she also knew instinctively not to ask him what he did mean. There were some questions better left unspoken. Some secrets better kept under lock and key. After all, she had her own.
‘You have taken a terrible burden of responsibility on your shoulders. The weight of expectation of a whole nation lies with you.’
‘As Prince, it is my duty to shoulder that responsibility,’ Rafiq replied, ‘although I confess it sometimes feels onerous. My people think me a hero. They have raised me so high that I am sometimes afraid to look down. But I will prevail, Stephanie, not only for my people’s sake, but for my own.’
‘It matters to you personally, then. Because of your father?’
‘That is part of it.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘Now fate has brought you here to me and for the first time in many moons, I have reason to hope.’
His smile, the way he was looking at her, made her feel as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice. The responsibility terrified her, but the trust he had placed in her made her feel oddly powerful. ‘Rafiq,’ she said, meaning to caution him. It came out sounding like a caress.
‘Stephanie.’
He
