Page 2

Chapter Two

T he scent of jasmine was both relaxing and distracting.

Almost every woman in Ain Zargiers wore jasmine.

It grew in most rooftop gardens. It tumbled down the sides of the city’s skyscrapers.

It nestled in shaded glades in the lush forests of the mountains, and it clung tenaciously to the last boulders before they surrendered to the dunes.

The fragrance drifted around the country from the coast to the desert.

It reminded Zynara of all she’d lost—and everything she was fiercely determined to save.

She looked up from her screen and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was working too hard, but she knew she wasn’t going to stop. She was close to a break-through. The numbers looked good—she just had to be sure they would scale—

Her assistant appeared through the tangle of plants in the rooftop garden and stopped respectfully near her table. She held a screen in her hands. She bowed.

Zynara glanced at her. The woman would wait until Zynara gave her permission to speak.

Her name was Romaissa and she’d been Zynara’s personal assistant—amongst other things— for five years now.

It was a bit of a record. Zynara chewed through assistants like they were sweet dried dates and she spat the stupid ones out with the seeds.

Romaissa had a masters in political science from Cambridge and a degree in environmental engineering from Ain Zargiers’ own prestigious university. She was wasted serving Zynara, but she possessed a sharp mind Zynara appreciated and was more than happy to take advantage of.

She took advantage of the woman’s other talents too. Romaissa was willing. It passed the time.

Being princess had some perks.

Zynara tilted her chin fractionally. Romaissa understood her perfectly.

“The reports from the hydrogen facility you asked for, Qasira,” she said, speaking Arabic.

She cast an experienced eye over the papers and screens spread out in front of Zynara on the polished cedar-wood table and placed the screen in exactly the correct place.

Her eyes lit up. “Excellent results from the most recent tests. I think you’ll like the numbers.

I’ve highlighted all pertinent comments from the technicians. ”

“Thank you.”

Romaissa hovered.

Zynara flicked her fingers.

“You have a call with the British energy minister in thirty minutes. I’ve pushed your call with the CEO of British Aerospace to this evening, and you’re meeting the chief negotiator for the Green Futures Alliance summit at four.”

Zynara stifled a sigh. It never stopped. She wanted to spend some more time with these numbers. She wanted to dive into those results from the hydrogen facility and test some more theories. She had work to do, not politics to play.

“Reschedule the call with the British government. Early evening. Get our own energy minister on that too. I won’t have the Brits trying to get around her and thinking they can come straight to me.”

Romaissa bowed again. There was something else.

“Please don’t be alarmed, Qasira, but your father was asking for you. He’s had a relapse and— and he mixed your name up with your mother’s. He’s fine. His neurologist is with him. I just thought you should know.”

This time Zynara did sigh. “Thank you, Romaissa.” She waved a hand. Romaissa knew what to do.

Her assistant nodded and withdrew.

Ain Zargiers was the wealthiest country in north Africa—all of Africa, actually, though of course that went without saying.

Nestled between Morocco to the west and Algeria to the east, it gleamed like a jewel on the edge of the Mediterranean, its towers stretching higher and shining brighter than those in Dubai.

Its people enjoyed prosperity, safety and freedom whether they lived in a modern apartment in the city, a riad in the medina, a fishing village by the sea, a farming town in the mountains or a traditional encampment in the desert.

In colonial times, Ain Zargiers had been British and both nations had benefited from its considerable resources.

Crude oil and natural gas, both present in enormous reserves on the other side of the Atlas Mountains, had topped up the sovereign wealth funds of both countries.

When Queen Charlotte of Great Britain had drawn up the Balfour Declaration in 1926, Ain Zargiers petitioned peaceably for independence, and it had been granted.

Ain Zargiers took its place beside the other Dominion Nations in the Commonwealth—Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa—and like those nations, it was a strong, healthy, secular democracy.

It was also headed by a hereditary ruling family in much the same way Britain was, however in Ain Zargiers, the monarchy was more than just a figurehead.

In Ain Zargiers, the king—or rather, the Q’sar—held veto power over all levels of government, though this power was rarely exercised.

His Excellency, Idris Al-Hakim Al Azraqui Ain Zargier, Q’sar As-Salam—officially translated into English as Idris the Wise of Noble Azraqui Lineage, Father of Ain Zargiers, King of Peace—actually was wise, noble and peaceful.

He was also Zynara’s father.

Zynara looked out at the city from the rooftop garden of her father’s palace.

Azzouan, the capital, sat in the belly of a wide bay that shone with the azure blue of the Mediterranean.

At one end, high on the hills, the palace sprawled its ten centuries of red brick pavilions, courtyards, gardens, fountains and luxurious rooms over the extensive property.

The palace gardens gave way to the medina—the old city—and at its edge, in the middle of the bay, the towers of the modern, new Azzouan pierced the endless blue of the sky.

It was a green city, both in terms of its grand old trees and cool, courtyarded gardens in almost every district, but also because of its policies. Ain Zargiers was a world leader in renewable and sustainable energy, and that was all due to the tireless work of Zynara and her father.

It was what she was still working on now— if she could get these numbers to behave.

She dropped her eyes back to her screen, dappled in the trellised shade of the garden. She glared at it. “The ratio is off,” she muttered, seizing a pen and immediately scribbling alternatives on a piece of paper. “If the process isn’t scalable—”

“—then it’s useless,” a familiar voice finished for her.

Zynara tried not to frown, but her lips tightened. How many more interruptions? Sami Habash strolled into view, a tray with a silver teapot and two delicate cups balanced effortlessly on one hand.

Show off.

He cast a knowledgeable eye over her work, then placed the tray carefully and deliberately on the report Romaissa had just delivered.

He knew her too well.

“What are you doing here?” she grumbled.

“Drinking your tea.” He poured them both a cup. “You’ve been up here for hours. Again.”

“I’m fine. I’m working.”

“You’re always fine.” He settled into a chair opposite her and grinned annoyingly. “You’re always working. Let me guess—more green aviation fuel wizardry? Haven’t you saved enough of the planet already?”

“Define enough.”

“Hmm. Fair.” He chuckled. He found her foot under the table and kicked it like an irritating older brother.

He wasn’t her irritating older brother, but he’d been best friends with the one she’d had. After Rayan had died, Sami stuck around to take on the role. He’d had a feeling the younger princess would need a friend. He’d been right.

“You’re already running circles around everyone.

You’ve single handedly steered our country into a brave green future.

You’ve planted solar farms in the desert and wind turbines in the mountains.

You export renewable power to Europe and you’ve already got them addicted to your green hydrogen.

And now you want to replace jet fuel? You’re going to burn out before you save the world. ”

He didn’t mention her father.

She finally looked up at him. He winced a little at whatever he saw in her eyes. “I don’t have time to burn out,” she said. “My baby brother is threatening all kinds of idiot energy repeals once he takes the throne. I need to get these projects moving now.”

Sami leaned forward. “You think he isn’t going to tear them down even if you do get them moving, Niz?” He used the nickname her big brother had given her. He was the only person she tolerated it from. “He’s written a ‘manifesto’. Have you seen it?”

“I just said I don’t have time.”

“He’s unhinged. Determined to remodel democracy to suit his billionaire mates. It’s insane. He’s going to strip this country for parts and sell it to the highest bidder. You should never have relinquished your claim to the throne.”

“Not this again, Sami.”

“You have to talk to your father. He postponed his abdication because he doesn’t trust Malik. He’s waiting for you.”

“It’s already signed into law. Fait accompli. Nothing to be done.”

“You must be the one to succeed him—”

“Enough!”

Sami didn’t even blink. “I taught you how to ride a bike, Niz. Don’t use that regal tone on me. You know I care.”

Zynara looked past him, through the lattice and the palms, past the billows of jasmine and the red stone edges of the palace.

There, in a prominent corner of the royal estate, was her younger brother’s—Malik’s—garishly inelegant ‘house’.

He’d built it a few years ago, declaring himself bored with the family home, and needing ‘room to breathe.’ It was a symbol of everything Zynara had come to despise about him: excess, carelessness, and a total disregard for responsibility.

Everyone knew it wasn’t just a house.

“I just wanted— I wanted to get away,” she muttered. “I just wanted to work.”

“And you have. Everything you’ve achieved has been incredible. That doesn’t have to change.”