“To me neither, Zareena,” Dhom had said. “But we have had our lineage tracked and analyzed by the finest geneticists. In scientific terms, we are about as related as two people meeting on Tinder in a medium-sized American town. The chances of some recessive trait emerging are next to zero. Ya Allah, look at our cousins and siblings. Look at us! All of us strong and healthy, smart and capable. Our parents are not fools, Zareena. Neither were our ancestors. All the marriages, all the mixing of the bloodlines, all the lineages have been meticulously tracked for the last hundred years. And since the 1960s our rulers have employed geneticists to analyze the records and advise us as the marriages were arranged. The science is there, clear as day.”
“It is not all about science, Dhom,” Zareena had said quietly, her eyes narrowing, jawline going tight as she met the Sheikh’s gaze in the dark shadows of their private chambers, where they had slept on separate beds for the ten years of their unconsummated marriage.
“Ah, Zareena,” Dhom had said, blinking and looking down for a moment before looking back into her eyes. “Zareena, there are other options. There is artificial insemination. It can be done privately, with—”
“It is not just that!” Zareena had snapped, her sudden flare-up surprising Dhom. But she had calmed herself down and smiled quickly, placing her thin brown hands in his meaty paws. She had felt like a baby sister to him in that moment, and a strange sickness had risen up in Dhom as she spoke. “It is not just that, Dhom. It is something deeper that tells me this is not right. I cannot explain it. It is just a feeling I do not yet understand well enough to put into words. Eventually that feeling will bubble up to where I can understand what the universe wants me to do. I know it. But right now it is just a feeling. A nagging sense that our coupling is not part of destiny’s plan. That we are not destined to have a child. Some other solution will present itself. I am sure of it. We must wait, Dhom. We must wait and trust in the universe.”
Dhom had nodded, relieved in a way. But as time had gone on, as parents had passed on, as both Dhom and Zareena progressed into their thirties, it became clear that duty and practicality would have to take precedence over hunches and feelings. And so after the last of their parents had been put to rest and grieved for, Dhom brought up the topic that could not be put off any longer.
“That feeling is still there, Dhom,” Zareena had said. “But I am not so up in the clouds that I can ignore the practical matters. We need an heir. The country needs an heir. Time waits for no woman, and I do not have so many years left in which I can safely bear a child.” She had sighed and looked down at her hands. “Perhaps I am wrong about that feeling I cannot express in words. Perhaps this is in fact the path the universe wants me to walk down.” She had looked up and nodded, smiling gently at the tension that must have been obvious in Dhom’s expression. “Walk down with you, my cousin, my husband, my king, my fellow prisoner in this royal cage.”
Dhom had smiled and hugged his cousin, touching her hair as he held back the annoying emotion that made his words catch in his throat. “I will arrange for the finest doctors to perform the IVF. It will be done in the comfort of—”
“No IVF,” she had said, pulling back and shaking her head even as a chill rose in Dhom as he stared at his cousin, a woman who had never taken a man into her, never wanted a man in her. “If it is to happen, it must happen as nature intended. I am sorry if that is uncomfortable, Dhom.” Then she had shrugged, that humor finding its way back into her eyes as she winked. “But trust me, it will be more uncomfortable for me. You can bring a woman in to get you ready, and then just before you—”
“Ya Allah, I get it, Zareena,” Dhom had said, turning his face and placing a hand up between them as both of them broke into nervous laughter. “Of course it can be done, uncomfortable or not. But why put you through the unpleasantness? Millions of women have perfectly natural children through IVF, do they not? The science is—”
“Science! Ya Allah, Dhom! There are things about a woman’s body that science is not prepared to even understand, let alone control. There are ways in which a woman’s body opens up during sex, during climax, while being touched . . . things that cannot be duplicated by the cold precision of a doctor in a white coat and latex gloves, using semen poured into a goddamn cup. I truly believe there are secret pathways, ancient instincts, deep wisdom of the female body that perhaps are not activated during a clinical conception, a fake fertilization. I know millions of women have given birth to wonderful children, natural children, through IVF. But I am of the old world. I must follow my spirit. No, Dhom. If we are to do this, then it must be done as Allah intended. I cannot argue about this any more.”
Dhom had nodded in acceptance, steeling himself for crossing that line with a woman he had grown to love as a partner, for whom he had an affection not quite like that of a sibling but not like a lover’s either. Still, Dhom knew himself well. There would not be any functional issues with getting the job done—no matter how many times he needed to do it.
Over the next six months they tried, the Sheikh and the Sheikha, with Zareena tracking her cycle, Dhom doing his duty. Zareena’s private consort, her personal attendant who had committed to a life in the shadows of the Sheikha’s bedroom, often held the Queen in a loving embrace as Dhom finished as quickly and carefully as possible, minimizing how much he touched his cousin, withdrawing and quietly leaving her chambers after delivering his load.
In a way this felt as clinical and cold as anything, Dhom had thought to himself. And sure enough, in the seventh month of it Zareena came to him one day with that look of resignation on her face.
“Bring the doctors,” she had said finally. “Perhaps it is time for science after all.”
The doctors came, and the doctors went. They drew healthy eggs from the queen. They collected royal seed from the king. But the fertilization failed three times over the course of a year, and that was enough for Zareena.
“No more,” she had said defiantly when the trembling doctors assured her they had found the issue and this time it would work! “No more! I cannot ignore the signs. I will not ignore the omens. The universe has spoken, and I must listen to her silent whisper.”
“What bloody signs? What goddamn omens?” Dhom had shouted when he learned that Zareena had sent the doctors packing, all of them laden with riches and the golden handcuffs of a non-disclosure agreement. “Ya Allah, Zareena. The hormone injections have driven you mad. You are imagining things that are not real. Oh, my Zareena, I cannot imagine the stress this must have placed on you. The strain on your body and your mind. The burden of—”
“It is our duty to handle stress and strain for the sake of our nation, Dhom. And you know that as well as anyone,” she had snapped, folding her arms over her flat chest and rising up from the day-bed that faced the open verandah that looked east, towards the Great Oasis of Mizra. She walked past the Sheikh and onto the open balcony, placing her hands on the sandstone parapet and looking out at the date-palms that surrounded the waters of life. Now she turned, her eyes narrowed, jaw set. “But the signs are real, my Sheikh. Three months ago our surveyors reported that an oasis outside the city had turned brackish. They monitored the salt levels and found them rising over the next month. The oasis is now barren. This month another small oasis has suffered the same fate.” She turned back and faced the sweeping vista of the Great Oasis that lay beyond the palace walls, its water still blue and fresh, clean and sweet. Then she whipped around, her eyes misty in the way Dhom had seen before and never quite understood, almost like she was in a trance, it seemed sometimes. “Our land is going barren,” she said, touching her flat stomach and smiling wide, a strange glint in her eyes that made her seem mad for a moment. “How can there be a clearer sign that this is not the path of our destiny? That my feeling of something not right was indeed justified. That it is not in Allah’s plan for us to have a child. For me to have a child.”
Dhom had forc
ed a smile and tossed his head back in a laugh that he knew sounded as fake as it was. “So what would you have us do? What is the succession plan for our kingdom when we are gone? Which of our wandering nieces or nephews does the universe want us to bring back home and saddle with the news that he or she will have to give up their life of luxury in the French Riviera and spend their days administering a boring island kingdom that no one has heard of?”
“Not so boring, and not so unheard of,” Zareena had said sharply, that trancelike look quickly dissolving into the sharp focus that told Dhom she was back to being all business. “The Sheikh of Kalyan has heard of us.”
“What?” he had asked, frowning and cocking his head to the side as he folded his thick arms over his heavy chest. “What does the blind old Sheikh of Kalyan have to do with us? Or anything, really.” He snorted now. “He may be dead even as we speak! And besides, Kalyan is on its way to not even being a kingdom anymore, from what I hear. The Nawab of Kalyan is married to the sister of Sheikh Nasser, ruler of the great kingdom of Lihaal. And when the Nawab’s father, the blind old Sheikh of Kalyan dies, Kalyan itself will eventually become a province of Lihaal. So what does Kalyan have to do with—”
“That is exactly what it has to do with us,” Zareena had snapped. “That blind old Sheikh is looking death in the eye, and in his twilight he sees visions of one last conquest. All day he mutters out loud in his chambers. He wanted his son the Nawab to engineer a takeover of Lihaal, as mad as that sounds now. It did not come to be, and now, his rationality blinded by the rage of humiliation, the old Sheikh is looking elsewhere in his madness. And we are on top of the list. I have it from a source in the Royal Palace of Kalyan. A man loyal to my consort here in Mizra tells her how the old Sheikh Kalyan speaks out loud to anyone who will hear!”
Dhom had laughed, and the laugh was real, booming, loud and resonant. He roared as he shook his large head, thick black hair billowing in the desert breeze as he put his arm around his queen and drew her close even as she pushed him away in annoyance.
“Spies in our neighbors’ palaces? Rumors of an invasion? Our names on a blind old madman’s hit list? Zareena, where is this coming from? What are you suggesting?! A mad Sheikh loading his war-camels onto barges and landing on the shores of Mizra under a full moon, taking the palace by storm, beheading the two of us and planting his wrinkled old buttocks on our throne? Ya Allah, my Sheikha! If you believe it, then you are as mad as you say he is! Your paranoia is truly rising to an admirable level. It must be a world record, in fact. The new world record in paranoia. There. Summon the Guinness Book!”
Zareena had laughed for a moment, but that sharpness never left her eyes—nor her voice. “No war-camels or beach-landings,” she said with a quick smirk. “But the rest is possible.”
The Sheikh had exhaled and rolled his eyes before cocking his head as he focused on her. “What is possible? That the old man’s arse is wrinkled like a prune? I concur, great queen.”
Zareena scrunched up her nose and frowned away a smile. “Let me ask you this, Dhom. What would happen if the two of us were to drop dead right this moment.” She whirled around on the open verandah, her flowing black hijab opening up and making her look like a dervish of Arabian myth. “Taken down by snipers from the far minarets.”
The Sheikh squinted into the distance. “They would have to be very good shots. Military trained.”
“It is a serious question, Dhom,” Zareena said. “Plane crash. Heart attacks. Act of Allah’s will. Let us say we are both dead tomorrow. What happens to our kingdom?”
Now Dhom had held her gaze, his green eyes widening before narrowing down to slits when he realized what she was saying. “Well,” he began to say as his thoughts raced ahead, giving rise to a paranoia in him now. “Well, when our parents engineered those discussions with the rest of the royal family, they certainly mentioned that if the two of us were to pass without an heir, then indeed the burden would fall back to them. But our parents did not get so far as to specify which of the nieces or nephews would take over. They left it to the Royal Council to decide if the situation arose. After all, in thirty years who would know which niece or nephew would be most capable—and more importantly, most willing!” Now the truth of Zareena’s point made his eyes go wide again. “Ya Allah, there is no clear line of succession! The laws have been changed to make it clear that our heir will be the undisputed Sheikh. But without an heir, there is no clarity. In fact there could be chaos! Especially if we are to die suddenly! The Royal Council would have to summon those scattered cousins and work through the mess of who will rise to the throne! We could put that in motion now as a failsafe, but the problem is . . .” He shook his head as he stared at Zareena, a strange fear rising in him.
“The problem is none of our cousins want the throne!” Zareena said, her jaw clenching into a grim smile as she tightened her arms over her chest. “Their wealth is secured, and they are all living their lives in adopted countries, pursuing their dreams or fantasies. Being summoned back would be a nightmare to most of them!”
Dhom had swallowed hard before stepping to the edge of the sandstone parapet, looking down over the fountains of the palace grounds, then towards the distant palms that marked the grand circle of the Great Oasis. “Ya Allah, Zareena. If we are to die tomorrow without an heir, Mizra would be a land without a leader. Of course, the Royal Council will administer the government as it does today. But a rule by committee would make the gears of government grind slow. The kingdom would lack the decisive power of a supreme leader.”
“And it would also be destabilizing in a symbolic way that could add an air of uncertainty. In the old world such a situation would be ripe for an invasion,” said Zareena, almost triumphant as her eyes shone like dark gold. She laughed now, shaking her head. “In fact that is the very history of Mizra, Dhom! The two tribes of our ancestors joined together to take advantage of precisely such a situation!”
Dhom took a breath and shook his head. “But that is the old world, Zareena. The world of today is too interconnected for an invasion to happen. Look at what happened when Iraq took Kuwait. That lasted a week, and Iraq is in shambles while Kuwait still thrives.”
“This is still the old world,” Zareena hissed back at him. “We are not on the map of the new world, and neither is the small kingdom of Kalyan. The West does not care because our oil reserves are just a drop in the bucket. We are not even a part of OPEC, by Allah. The world will barely notice if some island no one has heard of is invaded by some other inconsequential desert kingdom. You do remember that the one asset Kalyan has is a coastline. They have direct access to the Gulf of Oman, and you can laugh all you want about war-camels under a full moon, but Kalyan has always maintained a small but well-trained naval force.”
Dhom had taken a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Zareena was getting to him, and for a moment he thought there might be something to her paranoia. Yes, the idea of an invasion in this day and age was ridiculous. But the blind old Sheikh of Kalyan was a ridiculous man! And Zareena was right: The United States and the West would not come charging in to save isolated little Mizra. The militaries of the West were already overcommitted, and small invasions were happening undisturbed and unnoticed every month in the shadows of Africa and the far reaches of the former Soviet Union.
“Remember, Dhom: Paranoia is the friend and ally of the great leader. All of this can happen. All of this perhaps is happening! So many coincidences, Dhom. Our inability to have a child. The warning from my consort’s contact in Kalyan. And now our oases are turning to salt! This is how the universe speaks to us, Dhom! In coincidences and omens! Whether you think I am a madwoman or a witch, you know what must happen. We must have an heir in place soon. The symbolism is important. Even if the child is an infant when we die, he or she will be a stabilizing force because the Royal Council will be able to calmly administer the country until the child is of age. Just the symbolism of a royal heir
could prevent this entire chain of events from ever happening!”
Dhom had rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms out wide, fists clenched tight as he looked up at the clear blue sky and then back at Zareena. “So you are saying what we already know, Zareena. We must have a child. So you must try the IVF again. Bring those quack doctors back or hire a new team. Whatever it takes. I will—”
But Zareena calmly shook her head, her eyes serene, her mind made up. “The blood of the two tribes runs in each of our veins. Either one of us carries the best of our ancestors, the blood of our forefathers and mothers. You will have the child, Dhom. That is what the universe is telling me. It is clear now. I am able to articulate that hunch now. Yes, this is what feels right to me. It must be your child, Dhom. You and a woman whom I believe destiny has already chosen and will be pulled into our sphere of experience as we proceed.”
“A woman . . .” Dhom had said, frowning as he rubbed his stubble. “So . . . what . . . a surrogate?” He waited for Zareena to answer, but she stayed silent, eyes still serene, the focus still clear in them. He nodded and shrugged. “Yes. Of course. So we will find a surrogate. An Arab woman of noble blood.”
Zareena snorted. “No Arab princess would agree to bear your child without becoming your wife, Dhom. And though I would agree to a divorce in a heartbeat if it secured the future of our nation, the laws bind us together until death.”
Dhom had blinked as he looked at his co-ruler, smiling and shaking his head before sighing. “You are right. A divorce would force us both off the throne. It would have the same effect as death.”
“Correct,” Zareena said excitedly, stepping forward as if the wheels were turning in her sharp mind. “And neither can you take a second wife. So that quite simply means we will never get an Arab princess to carry your child as a surrogate. Not a princess of any worth, anyway.”
Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7) Page 5
