The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns. Кейт Хьюит
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I won’t.
The sun beat down on Aarif as he stood in the palace courtyard, waiting for Kalila to arrive. A light wind blowing from the desert eased his discomfort, and he was grateful for the refreshment. He’d been up since dawn, seeing to arrangements; he wanted nothing left to chance or circumstance, no more mistakes to be made.
The first one had been bad enough.
Aarif’s mouth twisted in a grimace as he recalled his private interview with King Bahir last night, after dinner. The king was too shrewd and politic to be overt about his displeasure, but he’d made his disappointment over Zakari’s absence known.
Aarif had done his best to be apologetic without weakening his own position, or that of his brother. He half-wondered if Bahir was making a bigger to-do about Zakari’s absence than perhaps was warranted; it could be, in future, a necessary bargaining chip.
And what of Kalila? His mind drifted back to the evening in the garden, the scent of roses mixed with a heady scent that he felt—feared—was the princess herself. He’d watched her out of the corner of his eye as he’d sat on the bench, less than a foot away from her. He’d seen how the moonlight had gleamed on her heavy, dark hair; he’d found his eyes drawn to the bare, graceful curve of her neck.
He’d felt her fingers in his, and he had not wanted to stop touching her. It had been a balm, that gentle touch, as if she’d understood him. As if she’d wanted to.
Yet even more than her appearance or touch had been her words, her smile. You look as if someone came at you with a scimitar. No one talked about his scar, no one asked him to remember. No one made him smile.
Except, somehow, inexplicably, she had. She’d slipped under his defences without even knowing she’d done so, and it made him both uneasy and strangely glad.
Stop. His mind clamped down on these wandering thoughts with the precision and power of a steel trap. He had no business thinking of Kalila’s neck or hair, wondering what she smelled like, remembering the feel of her fingers. He had no business thinking of her at all.
She was to be his brother’s wife. He was here as a proxy, a servant, and he would do his job, fulfil his task.
He wouldn’t fail.
There was a flurry of movement at the palace doors, and Aarif saw Kalila come out into the courtyard. Her father was behind her, dressed simply as Aarif was, in a white cotton shirt and tan chinos.
It was too hot, Aarif acknowledged, for formal dress. And his sense of the festival in Makaris was that it was a fun, lighthearted affair, a celebration rather than a ceremony.
Kalila approached him, looking fresh and cool, her eyes bright and clear, her smile firmly in place. As she came closer he saw shadows under her eyes, and her smile started to look a little fixed. She was bound to be a bit nervous, he supposed, a bit uncertain.
‘Good morning, Princess.’
‘Prince Aarif.’ She gave a small, graceful nod. ‘Thank you for helping with these arrangements. You do me a great service.’
Aarif sketched a short bow back. ‘It is my honour and pleasure.’
The formalities dealt with, she lowered her voice. ‘Thank you for your conversation in the garden last night. It helped me immeasurably.’
Aarif felt himself grow cold, his formal smile turning rigid. He felt as if her simple thanks had cast a sordid, revealing light on that innocent conversation—for it hadn’t been innocent, had it? His thoughts hadn’t, his touch hadn’t.
He nodded brusquely, saw the flicker of disappointed hurt in her eyes before she nodded back, accepting. He turned to gaze at the line of shiny black cars. ‘The day grows old and the sun high. We should not delay, for the people of Makaris are eager, I am sure.’
Kalila folded her arms protectively across her middle before becoming aware of the defensive position and dropping them. ‘Tell me, will King Zakari be in Calista when I arrive?’ Aarif hesitated, and she met his gaze knowingly. ‘Will he be waiting at the airport with a bouquet of roses, do you think?’ He heard the thread of mockery in her voice and felt equal stabs of annoyance and alarm. Did the girl actually expect a love match? Was she that naive, or simply hopeful?
Didn’t she deserve one?
He made his voice non-committal. ‘I am sure King Zakari will be pleased to renew your acquaintance.’
‘If you ring him to tell him,’ Kalila said, and now he heard laughter in her voice, brittle and sharp, ‘tell him I don’t actually like roses. Irises are my favourite.’
Aarif did not answer, and she moved away, her body held with stiff dignity. He suppressed another prickle of irritation. The last thing he needed was a royal princess’s hurt feelings to deal with. Surely she’d known this was an alliance of countries, not some great romance! Yet apparently she’d been hoping for something of the sort, or so it had seemed last night, when he’d heard the aching disappointment in her voice…
Aarif turned his mind resolutely away from the memory of last night, the quiet, forbidden intimacy of the garden. He turned to one of the palace staff who waited patiently for orders.
‘Have the cases been loaded?’ he demanded, hearing his tone and knowing it was unnecessarily surly and abrupt.
The aide lowered his eyes. ‘Yes, Prince Aarif.’
‘Good.’ Aarif glanced at the sky, the endless blue smudged by a faint streak of grimy grey on the horizon. ‘It looks like a wind is kicking up. We should leave without delay.’
It was another half-hour before they actually began to drive the five kilometers to Makaris, as servants and staff hurried to and fro, remembering this, forgetting that, while Aarif waited and watched, curbing his irritation with effort.
He wanted this whole spectacle to be finished. He wanted to be back in Calista, in his offices, away from the distractions, the temptations—
Again his mind clamped down, and he shook his head. No, he wouldn’t think of it. Of her.
As the motorcade moved into Makaris people lined the road, and the cars slowed to a crawl. Ahead of him Aarif saw Kalila’s car window open, and a slender, golden arm emerge to accept ragged bouquets of flowers, scraps of paper printed with blessings and prayers, and other well wishes. The crowd smiled, cheered, and called their blessings, children and dogs trailing the cars as they went under the main arch of the city into the Old Town, with its crumbling buildings of red clay, before emerging into a large square lined with food stalls and filled to near overflowing with a joyous throng.
The cars drew to a halt, and King Bahir emerged from the front car, smiling and waving while aides stayed close to his side. Aarif looked around the ragged crowd with a deepening unease.
It was crowded, dirty, impossible to keep track of Kalila. Anyone could accost her, anything could happen. Aarif knew how quickly it could all go desperately, dreadfully wrong. And he, Aarif, would be responsible. Again.
He threw open the door of his car, snapping to an aide behind him. ‘Stay close to the princess. Don’t let her out of your sight.’
The man nodded, scurrying off, and Aarif stood in the centre of the square, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as people pressed close, desperate for a glimpse of the royals, a blessing from the princess.
A space had been cleared for dancing, and Aarif watched as some local women put on a little show, a band of men in colorful robes and turbans playing instruments, the bandir drum, the maqrunah, the garagab. Together the instruments made a reedy, dissonant, not unpleasing sound, yet with the crowds and the heavy, spicy smell of fried food from the stalls, Aarif found himself annoyed, tensing, on alert.
There was too much risk. Too much danger. It kicked his heart-rate up a notch, made his palms slick with sweat. He despised himself for it; he despised his fear.
He despised the uncertainty,