choice. End of story.
His brother left him then, putting a hand to Rafiq’s shoulder. ‘As I mentioned, there are matters I must attend to. Meanwhile Akmal will show you to your suite.’
His suite proved to be a collection of high-ceilinged, richly decorated rooms of immense proportions, the walls hung with gilt-framed mirrors and colourful tapestries of exploits otherwise long forgotten, the furnishings rich and opulent, the floor coverings silken and whisper-soft.
‘I trust you will be comfortable here, Your Highness,’ Akmal said, bowing as he retreated backwards out the door.
‘I’m sure I will,’ he said, knowing there was no way he couldn’t be, despite the obvious difference between the palace furnishings and the stark and streamlined way his own house in Sydney was decorated. His five-level beachside house was a testament to modern architecture and structural steel, the house clinging to the cliff overlooking Secret Cove, Sydney’s most exclusive seaside suburb.
And inside it was no less lean and Spartan, all polished timber floors and stainless steel, glass and granite.
Strange, he mused, how he’d become rich on people wanting to emulate the best the Middle East had to offer, when he’d chosen the complete opposite to decorate his own home.
‘And Akmal?’ he called, severing that line of thought before he could analyse it too deeply. ‘Before you go…’
The older man bowed again, simultaneously subservient and long-suffering in the one movement. ‘Yes, Your Highness?’
‘Can we drop the formalities? My name is Rafiq.’
The old adviser stiffened on an inhale, as if someone had suddenly shoved a rod up his spine. ‘But here in Qusay you are Your Highness, Your Highness.’
Rafiq nodded on a sigh. As nephews to the King, he and his brothers had grown up on the periphery of the crown, in line, and yet an entire family away, and while the possibility had always existed that something might happen to the heir they’d known as Xavian before he took the crown, nobody had really believed it. Their childhood had consequently been a world away from the strained atmosphere Xavian had grown up in, even with their own domineering father. They’d had duty drilled into them, but they’d had freedom too—a freedom that had allowed Rafiq to walk away from Qusay as a nineteen-year-old when there’d been nothing left for him here.
He’d made his own way in the world since then, by clawing his way up from being a nothing and nobody in a city the other side of the world. He hadn’t needed a title then. He didn’t need a title now, even if he was, by virtue of Xavian’s abdication, a prince. But what was the point of arguing?
After all, he’d leave for Sydney and anonymity right after the coronation. He could put up with a little deference that long. ‘Of course, Akmal,’ he conceded, letting the older man withdraw, his sense of propriety intact. ‘I understand. Oh, and Akmal?’
The vizier turned. ‘Yes, Your Highness?’
Rafiq allowed himself a smile at the emphasis. ‘Please let my mother know I’ll visit her this afternoon.’
He bowed again as he withdrew from the room. ‘As you wish.’
Rafiq took the next hour to reacquaint himself with the Olympic-length swimming pool tucked away with the men’s gym in one of the palace’s many wings, the arched windows open to catch the slightest breeze, while the roof protected bathers from the fiery sun. There weren’t any other bathers today; the palace was quiet in the midday heat as many took the opportunity for the traditional siesta.
And of course there were no women. Hidden away in the women’s wing, there was a similar pool, where women could disrobe without fear of being seen by men. So different, he thought, from the beach that fronted his seaside property and the scantily clad women who adorned it and every other piece of sand along the coast. He would be a liar if he said they offended him, those women who seemed oblivious to the glances and turned heads as their swimming attire left little to the imagination, but here in Qusay, where the old ways still had meaning, this way too made sense.
The water slipped past his body as he dived in, cool but not cold, refreshing without being a shock to the system, and he pushed himself stroke after stroke, lap after lap, punishing muscles weary from travel until they burned instead with effort. He had no time for jetlag and the inconveniences of adapting to a new body clock, and physical exercise was the one way of ensuring he avoided it. When finally his head touched the pillow tonight, his body, too, would be ready to rest.
Only when he was sure his mother would have risen from her siesta did he allow his strokes to slow, his rhythm to ease. His mind felt more awake now, and the weariness in his body was borne of effort rather than the forced inactivity of international travel. Back in his suite, he showered and pulled open the wardrobe.
His suits and shirts were all there, freshly pressed and hung in his absence, and there were more clothes too. White-as-snow robes lay folded in one pile, The sirwal, worn as trousers underneath, in another. He fingered a bisht, the headdress favoured by Qusani men, his hand lingering over the double black cord that would secure it.
His mother’s handiwork, no doubt, to ensure he had the ‘proper’ clothes to wear now he was back in Qusay.
Two years it had been since he had last worn the robes of his countrymen, and then it had only been out of respect at his father’s funeral. Before that it would have been a decade or more since he’d worn them—a decade since his youthful dreams had been shattered and he’d turned his back on Qusay and left to make his own way in the world.
And his own style. It was Armani now that he favoured next to his skin, Armani that showcased who he was and just how far he’d come since turning his back on the country that had let him down. With a sigh, he dropped the black igal back on the shelf and pulled a fresh shirt and clean suit from the wardrobe.
He might be back in Qusay, and he might be a prince, but he wasn’t ready to embrace the old ways yet.
The palace was coming to life when he emerged to make the long walk to his mother’s apartments. Servants were busy cleaning crystal chandeliers or beating carpets, while gardeners lovingly tended the orange and lemon trees that formed an orchard one side of the cloistered pathway, the tang of citrus infusing the air. All around was an air of anticipation, of excitement, as the palace prepared for the upcoming coronation.
He was on the long covered balcony that led to his mother’s suite when he saw a woman leaving her rooms, pulling closed the door behind her and turning towards him, her sandals slapping almost noiselessly over the marble floor. A black shapeless gown covered everything but the stoop of her shoulders; a black scarf over her head hid all but her downcast eyes. One of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting, he assumed, going off to fetch coffee or sweets for their meeting.
And then he drew closer, and a tiny spark of familiarity, some shred of recognition at the way she seemed to glide effortlessly along the passageway, sent the skin at the back of his neck to prickly awareness.
But it couldn’t be.
She was married and living the high life in Paris or Rome, or another of the world’s party capitals. And this woman was too stooped. Too sad.
He’d almost discounted the notion entirely, thinking maybe he hadn’t completely swum off his jetlagged brain after all, when the woman sensed his approach, her sorrowful
