The Secret Heir Of Alazar. Кейт Хьюит

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       CHAPTER THREE

      Ten years later

      ‘I’M SORRY, YOUR HIGHNESS.’

      Malik looked up as the doctor entered the examining room and he narrowed his eyes. ‘Pardon?’

      ‘The results of the test were conclusive.’ The doctor, a dour-faced man who had been medical consultant to generations of royalty, lowered his head. ‘You are infertile.’

      Malik’s expression did not change as the words reverberated through the emptiness inside him. ‘Infertile,’ he repeated tonelessly. The doctor looked up.

      ‘You had a sustained high fever while you were out in the desert. It is a situation that can unfortunately, in rare cases, cause infertility.’ He lowered his head again, as if waiting for Malik to pass sentence.

      But there was no sentence for him, only for Malik. A life sentence, or lack of one. He was the only heir to the sultanate of Alazar, and he had no heir to succeed him. No way of getting an heir in the future. His engagement to Johara Behwar, a young woman of virtue and suitably elevated background, had just become a pointless sham. And the stability of his country, a country that had teetered on the edge of civil war for the last ten years, was once again in jeopardy.

      Underneath all those political concerns was a deeper, more personal sense of loss that he could not bring himself to probe. Malik turned away from the man to compose himself and gather his thoughts. ‘You are quite sure?’ he asked after a moment, the words clipped and terse.

      ‘Quite sure, Your Highness.’

      Briefly Malik closed his eyes. He’d spent two weeks with the Bedouin in the bleak and arid deserts of Alazar’s interior, trying to unify and encourage his people, and keep the peace that had threatened to topple into chaos and destruction. He had succeeded, but the cost had been high. Too high.

      In truth he barely remembered the fever that had stolen his future from him. He’d been delirious, kept in a rough tent and administered to by a Bedouin Hakim, whose knowledge of local herbs and natural medicine had not been enough to lower the fever. Eventually the Bedouin had moved him to a nearby settlement where his grandfather had arranged transport to a medical facility in Teruk. By then he’d had the fever for four days. Long enough, it seemed, to render him infertile.

      For a second, no more, Malik allowed himself to experience the grief of knowing he would have no children. No heirs. No children to follow him, no hearts and minds to shape.

      The second passed and Malik steeled himself. He had no space in either his life or heart for such useless sentiment. He hadn’t for a long, long time. Love was weakness, and he could not afford to be weak.

      ‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said with a nod of dismissal. The doctor left, and Malik strode from the room. He would have to tell his grandfather.

      He found Asad in one of the smaller throne rooms, dealing with some paperwork. For a moment Malik stood in the doorway, noting the many wrinkles in the old man’s weathered face, the way his hands shook a little as he handled some papers. Asad was eighty-six years old and he showed every year in his body and on his face.

      Over the last ten years Malik had assumed more and more responsibility for the running of Alazar; Asad had been unable to cope with the travel and diplomacy that the country’s wavering instability had required. Malik had spent much of the last decade on horseback or in a helicopter, travelling through arid deserts and unforgiving mountains, living in rough conditions and negotiating with people who had the power to cause major civil disruption. Slowly but surely he was dragging Alazar into the twenty-first century while still attempting to respect the old ways and traditions. His marriage to Johara, along with his future heirs, would have cemented his power and the security of the sultanate as well as the whole of the Arabian Peninsula.

      But now? How would the traditional Bedouin who controlled much of the country’s desert and mountain regions react to an infertile sultan, the line of succession passed to some distant relative who had no training or reputation? His stomach cramped just thinking about it.

      ‘Well?’ Asad demanded as Malik came into the room. ‘What did the doctor say? You have not been adversely affected by the fever?’

      Malik took a deep breath, steeling himself for a conversation he had no desire to have. ‘As it happens, I have been affected.’ He shoved his hands into the pockets of his Western-style trousers; unlike his grandfather, Malik saw the necessity of adopting Western ways and bringing Alazar into step with the rest of the world. He kept his voice even as he clarified, ‘I’m infertile.’

      Asad’s mouth worked for a moment, shock making his eyes bulge. ‘Infertile? But how...?’

      Malik stared at his grandfather’s pale face and felt nothing. But then he hadn’t felt anything in years. He’d been completely focused on his country and his duty; he’d had to be. There had been no room for entertainment or pleasure or relationships. He hadn’t wanted them. ‘Apparently a prolonged high fever can cause infertility.’ He shrugged, the movement negligent, as if it were of little consequence even though they both knew it was not. ‘The how does not matter so much, does it?’

      ‘I suppose not.’ Asad was silent and Malik wondered what the old man was thinking. Where did they go from here? Azim was dead; Malik was the only heir. If he had no son, СКАЧАТЬ