Captured by the Sheikh

‘How was that arguing? I’m not going to just give up, if that’s what you want. “Attack is the secret of defence”,’ she quoted recklessly. ‘“Defence is the planning of an attack”.’

Khalil nodded, a slight smile on his lips. ‘The Art of War by Sun Tzu,’ he said. ‘Impressive.’ She simply stared at him, chin jutted out, and he quoted back at her, ‘“He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious”.’

‘Exactly.’

He laughed softly, shaking his head. ‘So you think you can win in this situation, Your Highness, despite all I’ve said?’

‘“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting”.’

He cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her almost lazily. ‘And how do you intend to subdue me?’

Surely he hadn’t meant those words to have a sensual intent, a sexual innuendo, yet somehow they had. Elena felt it in the warmth that stole through her body, turning her bones liquid and her mind to mush.

Khalil held her gaze, his eyes glowing gold and she simply stared back, unable to reply or even think. Finally her brain sputtered back into gear and she forced out, ‘“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night”.’

‘Clearly you’ve studied him well. It makes me curious, since your country has been at peace for nearly a thousand years.’

‘There are different kinds of wars.’ And the war she fought was scarily subtle: a murmured word, a whispered rumour. She was constantly on the alert for an attack.

‘So there are. And I pray, Your Highness, that this war for the throne of Kadar might be fought without a single drop of blood being spilled.’

‘You don’t think Aziz will fight you?’

‘I hope he knows better. Now, enough. I must ride. I hope you enjoy your day.’

With that he strode towards the horses, his body dark and powerful against the brilliant blue sky, the blazing sun. When he had gone Elena felt, absurdly, as if something was missing that she’d both wanted and enjoyed.

* * *

After Khalil had left, riding off into the desert with several of his men, great clouds of dust and sand billowing behind them, Elena went back to her tent. To her surprise, she saw a book—The Making of Modern Kadar—had been placed on her bedside table. Was Khalil being thoughtful, she wondered, or mocking?

Curious, she flipped through the book. She already knew the basics of Kadar’s history: its many years of peace, isolated as it was on a remote peninsula, jutting out into the Arabian Sea. While war had passed it by, so had technology, and for centuries it had remained as it had always been, a cluster of tribal communities with little interest beyond their nomadic life of shepherding. Then, in the early 1800s, Sheikh Ahmad al Bakir, the great-great-grandfather of Hashem, had united the tribes and created a monarchy. He’d ruled Kadar for nearly fifty years, and since then there had only been peace and prosperity.

None of it told her why Khalil believed he was the rightful ruler and not Aziz, Hashem’s only son. The book didn’t even hint at any insurgency or civil unrest; if it was to be believed, nothing had caused so much as a flicker of unease in the peaceful, prosperous rule of the House of al Bakir.

She tossed the book aside, determined not to wonder any more about Khalil. She didn’t need to know whether his claim had any merit. She wasn’t going to care.

She just wanted to get out of here, however she could. Resolutely, she went in search of Leila. The guards outside her tent summoned her, and Leila was happy to show her the way to the oasis. She even brought Elena a swimming costume and a packed lunch. It was all so civilised, Elena almost felt guilty at her deception.

Almost.

Alone in her tent, she searched for what she needed. The legs of the table were too thick, but the chairs might do.

Kneeling on the floor of the tent, the sound muffled by a pillow, she managed to snap several slats from the back of a chair. She stuffed the slats in the bag with the picnic and with her head held high walked out of the tent.

The guards let her pass and Leila directed her down a worn path that wound between two towering boulders.

‘“Threading the needle”, it’s called,’ Leila said, for the path between the rocks was incredibly narrow. ‘It is a beautiful spot. See for yourself.’

‘And you’re not worried I’ll make a run for it?’ Elena asked, trying to keep her voice light. Leila’s face softened in sympathy, causing another flash of guilt that she ruthlessly pushed away. These people were her captors, no matter how kind Leila was being. And she had to escape somehow.

‘I know this is difficult for you, Your Highness, but the Sheikh is a good man. He is protecting you from an unhappy marriage, whether you realise it or not.’

Now that was putting quite a spin on things. ‘I wasn’t aware that Khalil was concerned with the happiness of my marriage,’ Elena answered. ‘Only with being Sheikh.’

‘He is Sheikh already, of one of the desert tribes,’ Leila answered. ‘And he is the rightful heir to the throne of Kadar. A great injustice was done to him, and it is finally time to make it right.’

Again Elena felt that uncomfortable flicker of uncertainty. Leila sounded so sure...as sure as Khalil. ‘What injustice?’ she asked before she could think better of it. Leila shook her head.

‘It is not for me to say. But if you had married Aziz, Your Highness, you would have been marrying an impostor. Very few people outside of Siyad believe Aziz should be Sheikh.’

It was what Khalil had said, yet Elena could not accept it. ‘But why?’

Leila’s forehead creased in a troubled frown. ‘You must ask Sheikh Khalil—’

‘He’s not really Sheikh,’ Elena interjected, unable to keep herself from it. ‘Not of Kadar. Not yet.’

‘But he should be,’ Leila said quietly, and to Elena she sounded utterly certain. ‘Ask him,’ the older woman advised. ‘He will tell you the truth.’

But did she want to know the truth? Elena wondered as she walked between the towering rocks towards the oasis. If Khalil had a legitimate claim to the throne, what did it mean for her—and her marriage?

Would she still marry Aziz if he wasn’t the rightful Sheikh? Would her Council even want her to? The point, Elena reminded herself, was most likely moot—unless she got out of here.

After walking between the boulders she emerged onto a flat rock overlooking a small, shimmering pool shaded by palm trees. The sun sparkled on the water as if on a metal plate, the sky brilliant blue above. The air was hot, dry and still, perfect for a swim.

She glanced around, wondering if the guards had followed her, but she could see no one. Just in case, she made a show of putting down her bag, spreading her towel on the rock. She slathered herself with sunscreen before she stripped down to the plain black swimming costume Leila had provided.

She glanced around again; she was definitely alone. No one had followed her from the camp.

And why should anyone? She was but a five-minute walk from her tent, in the middle of the desert, the middle of nowhere. In every direction the desert stretched, endless sand and towering black rocks, both bleak and beautiful.

There was, Elena knew, nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait and hope that Aziz found her.

Or send a signal.

She reached for her bag and took out the slats she’d broken from the chair. A few weedy-looking plants grew by the oasis’s edge, and she took them and made a small, rather pathetic-looking pile. She wasn’t going to get much of a blaze from this, Elena realised disconsolately, but it would have to do. It was her only chance. If someone saw the smoke from her fire, they might investigate, might look for her.

Resolutely, she started rubbing the sticks together.

Fifteen minutes later she had blisters on both hands and the sticks were a little warm. She hadn’t seen so much as a spark. Frustrated, she laid the sticks aside and rose from the rock. The air was hot and still and the shimmering waters of the oasis looked extremely inviting.

Balancing on her tiptoes, she executed a neat dive into the pool. The water closed around her, cool and refreshing, and she swam under water for a few metres before she surfaced, treading water, not knowing what was on the bottom and not particularly wishing to touch it with her bare feet.

Even if she managed to start a fire, she thought, what would distinguish it from any other camp fire? She’d have to get a really big blaze going for someone to take notice. She’d have to set the whole camp on fire.

Her plan, Elena realised, was ridiculous. The sense of purpose that had buoyed her all morning left her in a depressing rush. Yet even so she decided to try again. It wasn’t as if she had many, or any, other options.

She swam to the side of the oasis and hauled herself, dripping, onto the rock ledge. Drying herself off, she knelt before the sticks again and started to rub.