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Still no sign of the woman who’d warranted this slogan. Shehab’s lips thinned as he recalled the catchphrase, his eyes slicing through the sea of costumed people who impinged on his senses and turned the ballroom into a battleground of material excess and self-serving agendas. Not if he didn’t marry a woman he’d never laid eyes on. Not if he didn’t fulfill the terms of the pact demanded by the Aal Shalaans, the second-most powerful tribe of Judar, who formed Judor’s most influential minority. If there remained a throne for him to sit on. If there remained a Judar to be future king of. All it had taken was ten words.Īnd now he was Judar’s crown prince.

In place of the freedom to lead his own life, there loomed in his future undreamed-of power. Days ago the throne had been a nonexistent specter with an older heir in his prime preceding him in line to it. He closed his eyes as the cold steel singed his flesh.ĭays ago he’d been going about his multi-billion-dollar IT business, his contribution to his kingdom being to ensure its avant-garde position in the global technological race. He’d taken on the weight of Judar’s future. The moment the heavy weapon rested on his upturned hands, it felt as if he’d just taken the weight of the world there.Īnd he had. Shehab went down on one knee in front of his older brother, extending both hands, palms up, to accept the bejeweled sword of succession. Wa ana ossaddek ala tanseebuk walley aahdi. Then their uncle, the king, barely upright on the throne with the toll of crises, both physical and political, made the intent a reality, in a voice ravaged by infirmity and deep worry. I bequeath you the succession in my stead. Then Farooq spoke, his voice reverberating in the gigantic hall, fathomless in tone, final in intent. Because he knew Shehab was capable of shouldering the burden. Farooq was only doing this because he had to. Shehab squeezed his eyes shut once, acknowledging, everything once again explained and sanctioned through the elemental bond that had bound them since Shehab was born. He blocked out all but his older brother, Farooq, standing right there in his own ceremonial robes, white on white, signifying the transfer of power, his golden eyes flashing his regret, asking understanding. So was every member of Judar’s Tribune of Elders, every member of the royal family, every noble house representative, every gaze focused on him. Was he really standing in the middle of the ceremonial hall of the citadel of Bayt el Hekmah-which had witnessed every major royal event for six hundred years from the joyous to the grim-draped in the ceremonial garb he’d never thought he’d ever wear, the black-on-black robes of succession? And Shehab ben Hareth ben Essam Ed-Deen Aal Masood could still barely believe it.

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