CHAPTER ONE

      THE dream came to him again. It was an assault of the senses and of memory, a tangle of images, grasping hands, the choking sea. Aarif Al’Farisi slept with his eyes clenched shut, his hands fisted on his bed sheets, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.

      ‘Help me…help me…Aarif!’

      The desperate cry of his name echoed endlessly, helplessly through the corridors of time and memory.

      Aarif woke suddenly; his eyes opened and adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom. A pale sliver of moon cast a jagged swathe of light on the floor. He took a deep, shuddering breath and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

      It took a moment to calm his racing heart. Each careful, measured breath steadied him and made the shadows retreat. For now. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, still damp with sweat, and rose from the bed.

      From the balcony of the Calistan royal palace he could see an endless stretch of moonlit sand, arid desert, all the way to the Kordela river with its diamonds, Calista’s lifeblood, mixed treacherously in its silt. He kept his gaze on the undulating waves of sand and the promise of the river with its guarded treasure, and let his breathing return to normal as a dry desert wind cooled the sweat on his skin.

      He hated his dreams. He hated that even now, twenty years later, they left him shaken, afraid, helpless. Weak. Instinctively Aarif shook his head, as if to deny the dream. The reality. For the truth, stark as it was, was that he’d failed his brother and his family all those years ago, and he was destined to relive those agonising moments in his mind whenever the dreams visited him.

      He hadn’t had a dream like this for months, and the respite had lulled him into a false sense of security. Safety. Yet he would never have either, he knew. How could you be safe from yourself, secure from the endless repercussions of your own failures?

      Letting out a sigh of frustrated exasperation, Aarif turned from the balcony and the inky night spangled with stars. He moved to the laptop he’d left on the desk by his bed, for he knew sleep was far off now. He would redeem the night through work.

      He opened the computer and the machine hummed to life as he pulled on a pair of loose-fitting cotton trousers, his chest and feet still bare. In the mirror above the bureau he caught a glimpse of his reflection, saw the remembered fear still etched in harsh lines on his face, flared in his eyes, and he grimaced in self-disgust.

      Afraid, after all these years. Still. He shook his head again, and turned to the computer. He checked his e-mail first; there were several clients he had appointments with in the next week who needed careful handling. Calista’s diamonds were precious, but the island did not possess the vast reserves of Africa or Australia, and clients needed to be counted—and treated—carefully.

      Yet there were no e-mails from clients in his message inbox, he saw, just one from his brother, King Zakari of Calista. Aarif’s brows snapped together as he read his brother’s instructions.

      I must follow a lead on the diamond. Go to Zaraq and fetch Kalila. Ever your brother, Zakari.

      The diamond…the Stefani diamond, the jewel of the Adamas Crown, split in two when the islands’ rule had been divided. Aarif had never seen the diamond in its unified whole of course; the Calistan crown held only half of the gem. The other half, meant to be in the Aristan crown, was missing, and proving to be utterly elusive. By tradition, uniting the diamond was believed to be the key to uniting the kingdoms of Aristo and Calista for ever. Aarif had seen how determined Zakari was to retrieve that precious stone, and with it gain a kingdom.

      So determined, in fact, that he now delegated this new responsibility to Aarif. Zakari’s e-mail message contained a simple directive, yet one fraught with decisions, details, and potential disaster. For Princess Kalila Zadar was Zakari’s betrothed and their wedding was in a fortnight.

      The retrieval of a royal bride was a complex and cautious affair, one that rested on ceremony, courtesy, and tradition. Aarif knew he would have to play his hand—and his brother’s hand—very carefully so as not to offend Kalila, her father King Bahir, or the people of Zaraq. The alliance with Zaraq was important and influential, and could not be treated lightly.

      Aarif pressed his lips together in a hard line before touching his fingers to the computer keys. His reply was simple: I will do as you instruct. Your servant, Aarif.

      There was never any possibility of questioning Zakari, or refusing his brother’s demand. Aarif did not even consider it for a moment. His sense of obedience and responsibility were absolute; his family and kingdom came first. Always.

      Aarif glanced up from the screen. Dawn was beginning to streak across the sky, pale fingers of light that illuminated the mist-shrouded dunes below. In that eerie grey half-light Aarif caught another glimpse of his face in the mirror, and for a moment he was startled by his own reflection, still surprised even now by the puckered finger of scar tissue that ran from his brow to his jaw, for ever a reminder of how he’d once failed in his duty to his family and kingdom.

      He would never do so again.

      Kalila