The Resolute Prince

by Nana Prah

  “That’s Zareb. You can do this. Think about the pride you’ll bring to your mother’s memory when you qualify to compete in the Olympics.”

  It was as if the queen had read her mind and heart. She took in a deep breath before slouching on the couch with her legs open.

  Show time.

  ***

  Zareb bowed to the High Queen of Bagumi.

  Seated on a gold-maroon loveseat in her suite, she offered her cheek for his kiss. He obliged before stepping back to have a more detailed look at the person he’d initially taken to be a female sharing the couch with his mother.

  Delicate features of high cheekbones and a narrow-bridged nose which widened gently at the nostrils, in the middle of a slim face with no hint of stubble, had deceived him. He now looked directly at the stranger who had stood and bowed. The traditional male-style smock, a close-cut fade, and the flat chest indicated that their visitor was a young man, albeit an effeminate-looking one.

  “Good evening,” Zareb greeted.

  “Dear heart, won’t you have a seat,” his mother said with a wave towards an armchair closer to her than her guest.

  He struggled to maintain an indiscernible expression. The use of anything but his name meant she wanted something from him that he wouldn’t readily give.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  He chose to sit in the centre of the couch across from the duo to best observe them.

  His mother turned to the young man and touched his shoulder. “This is Maliq Sule Ahvanti. Everyone calls him Sule. Meet Prince Zareb Aamori Saene, my third child. Son of the King of Bagumi and head of security here at the palace.”

  Zareb’s ears sharpened with interest at the pride in his mother’s voice.

  Sule’s angled dark brown eyes stayed on him. A brush of heat licked at the back of Zareb’s neck, and he raised his hand to rub it as his muscles tensed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

  The young man’s voice held minimal huskiness as if he hadn’t yet gone through puberty. Perhaps he’d overestimated the boy’s age.

  Instead of responding in a like manner, Zareb tipped his head.

  Sule’s mouth tightened into as straight a line as a person with such full lips could achieve. His gaze never wavered as Zareb studied those feminine features. The boy’s insolence intrigued him. A strong individual. Most people would be fidgeting or have looked away from his concentrated perusal.

  “Sule is the child of a close friend. A sister.”

  He yielded to his mother’s control of the stare-off by allowing himself to focus on her.

  “We attended the same boarding school and had maintained our friendship ever since. Do you recall Eshe’s visits here and us to her?”

  “I do,” he replied, remembering how happy she’d been with her friend. “You two giggled and gossiped the whole time you were together.”

  To his horror, his mother’s eyes watered. She plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table and dabbed the tears away before they could slide too far down her cheeks. “She was a wonderful woman.”

  His mother’s grief when she’d heard of her friend’s death had placed a pall of sorrow over the palace. Zawadi, Amira, their half-brother Zik, and his stepmother had escorted her to the funeral. The crushing empathy Zareb had felt at his mother’s anguish had made it impossible for him to travel with the delegation.

  He clawed fingers into a fist to keep from rubbing his chest at the lingering hurt on behalf of his mother’s loss.

  The grim smile she shared with Sule emphasized her heartbreak. “Four months gone, and I miss her terribly.”

  Sule’s smooth throat bobbed with his hard swallow as his eyes glistened before he bowed his head. “She spoke highly and often of you, Your Majesty.”

  The heft of mourning lifted when the queen cleared her throat before clapping her hands once.

  “My sweet son, my guest would like to be trained in fencing. It would give me great pleasure if you were to guide him as his personal coach.”

  Now she was spreading it on a little too thick. Rather than deny his mother’s request outright, which would turn into a battle of wills, he decided to influence the young man to change his mind. “How old are you?”

  His narrow, slumped shoulders straightened. “Eighteen.”

  Zareb scoffed. “What happened to your voice? You sound like a girl.”

  He lamented his comment at his mother’s chastising gasp. She’d taught him to be dignified. It didn’t do to insult her deceased friend’s son.

  Sule’s nostrils flared for a brief moment.

  “It hasn’t changed yet. I’ve been tested, and there isn’t anything medically wrong with me. I’m producing male hormones, just not enough to have me develop at the rate of my mates.” He shrugged. “My father told me that his voice didn’t deepen—” he touched his cheek, “—or his facial hair grow until he was a few months past eighteen. I resemble my father in many ways. This is one of them.”

  For the boy’s sake, Zareb hoped the pre-pubescent face would harden. Unless he knew how to fight, he’d doubtlessly been teased without mercy at school for his slight frame and effeminate looks. Facial hair and broadened jaw muscles would go a long way to distinguish him as a male.

  Rather than apologise for his rudeness, Zareb went on with his line of questioning. “How long have you studied fencing?”

  “Four years.”

  “Fencing isn’t a popular sport in Africa. Where did you train?”

  Sule maintained eye contact. “I attended a boarding school in Spain for my education. My establishment had a club, and I joined. I topped in the competitions I participated in. When my mother became ill a year before my graduation, I returned home to be with her.”

  The queen patted the boy’s knee.

  This wasn’t the time for more sentiment. “Did you finish secondary school?”

  “I completed it in Loras.”

  “Have you started university?” Zareb asked.

  Sule’s gaze went to his mother for a flash before returning to him. “I don’t know if I want to at this point.”

  Interesting manner of answering what should’ve been a yes or no question. After his earlier rudeness, Zareb couldn’t call the young man out on whatever he was hiding. It didn’t matter what secrets Sule kept—he doubted he’d be good enough to be coached directly by him to competitive stages. No matter how close the young man was to the queen, few possessed that level of skill in the sport. If the teenager wanted to join the Bagumi Fencing Team, then his other coaches could handle him; he’d wash his hands.

  “Why should I train you?”

  Sule shrugged as if he could care less one way or the other. A characteristic that Zareb could do without.

  “I’ve placed in two international competitions. My last coach had high hopes of me going to the Olympics before I discontinued my training.”

  One of his toughest competitors throughout his career had been from Spain. “When was this?”

  “A little over ten months ago.”

  He wouldn’t have to worry about his mother’s wrath when he declined to coach Sule. The request was ridiculous. “The next Olympics is two years away. You would expect me to train you within this time after you’ve taken all of those months off? Do you think I’m some kind of sorcerer?”

  The twitch of Sule’s eye proved the only indication of annoyance as his voice came out smooth and controlled.

  “Knowing how much I loved and missed the sport, at my mother’s request, my father built me a small training facility.” He clasped then unclasped his hands, resting them on his knees. “As you may or may not know, Loras is a beautiful coastal territory, and we get many foreigners visiting. I never lacked a sparring partner. This allowed me to maintain my skills.”

  “Why not go back to Madrid to train with the coach that thinks you have such great potential?”

  The queen glared at Zareb. “Watch your tone, young man. This isn’t an int
errogation. Sule is my guest. Accord him some respect.”

  At twenty-eight, he should be able to stand up to his mother. Maybe he’d develop the skill when he turned fifty.

  “I apologise if I offended you,” he grit out. Keeping the peace with his mother was worth relinquishing that small bit of his pride.

  Sule dipped his chin. “It’s all right. I trained in Barcelona, not Madrid. I don’t want to venture too far away from my home again. If I work with you here in Bagumi, I can easily return to visit my family, or they can come here. My father feels better knowing that I’m accessible. And besides …” His cheeks rose in a smile, revealing bright, straight teeth which made him appear even more feminine. “You’re an Olympic individual bronze medallist in épée, which happens to be the style I prefer.”

  Zareb’s brow lifted a fraction, but he remained quiet. Appeasing his curiosity over why Sule had chosen épée over foil or sabre wouldn’t help get rid of the young man any faster.

  Sule’s voice was filled with awe as he continued. “You’re the first African to ever earn the distinction of winning an Olympic medal in fencing at the Olympics. I aim to be the second. It would be an honour to be coached by you.”

  Zareb’s chest puffed out, but the boy’s flattery wouldn’t get him into his gym.

  His mother held up a hand. “Before you make a decision, will you please do this old woman a favour and spin with him?”

  “I believe you mean spar,” he corrected.

  His mother’s light giggle had him blinking to ensure the source.

  “It was on the tip of my tongue. Now that it’s settled, Sule, go to your room and get your gear. My son will take you to the gym and put you through your paces. I’m sure you’ll impress him with your skills. If you can take his ego down a notch or two by scoring, I would be grateful.”

  Once again, the master strategist had won this battle, but he wouldn’t allow her to defeat him. He’d end up sending this young pup back to Loras, where he belonged.

  Zareb shot off a text message. “One of my guards will escort you to the gym.”

  “Thank you.” Sule stood and bowed before leaving the room.

  He was about to go, too, when his mother held up a hand to stop him.

  She got to her feet and approached to sit at his side. “I made a vow to Sule’s mother before she died that I would do whatever I could to help her family. I won’t let good talent go to waste, not when you can groom it.”

  “I can’t make any promises just because you did.”

  “I know, Zareb. I’m just asking you to give Sule a chance. After all the gloating that Eshe has done about Sule’s talents over the years, I believe we might have another Olympic champion in our midst.”

  The enthusiasm with which his mother spoke lit a spark of excitement. Could Sule be the one he’d been looking to mentor? He wouldn’t hold his breath. It took a whole lot more than a mother’s pride in their child’s ability and accomplishment to make it into the Olympics. Sacrifice, discipline, dedication, strength, and a genuine love for performing and living the sport.

  “If I find him lacking, I won’t train him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be surprised at the talent you discover.”

  Zareb got to his feet, ready to leave.

  “Darling?”

  One side of his nose flared before he turned to give her his attention. “Yes, Mama?”

  A sweet smile graced her face. “Do your best to not be difficult to Sule.”

  He held in a grunt at her request, knowing how it would go down.

  Chapter Three

  Malika had held onto her temper with all the restraint her athletic five-foot-six frame could muster. Zareb had turned out to be an arrogant, insolent, stubborn man. How unlike the sweet, quiet boy she’d met when she’d been seven and him ten. The memory of him helping her to her feet and dusting off her knobby knees when she’d tripped in her attempt to keep up with the older boys had been embedded.

  She winced as she tightened the specialized plastic chest protector with more force than necessary. The equipment had been designed to flatten her chest like a man’s while providing her with both comfort, agility, and protection.

  For the hundredth time, she questioned if the guilt-inducing ruse of posing as a teenage boy was necessary. Or even safe. Queen Zulekha thought so. But then again, the woman was also under the far-fetched impression that Malika would wed her youngest son one day. The queen had brought up the time her seven-year-old self had announced that she wanted to marry Zareb when they grew up.

  It brought back the memories of when Malika had returned home during her mother’s illness. There had been several occasions when she’d mentioned conversations with the queen. The two women had concluded that it would be great to merge their families through marriage. She’d grinned at the nostalgia in her mother’s voice but had seen it as just a fancy on their part.

  It wasn’t until the queen brought up the potential of her getting to know Zareb on a more personal level as they’d discussed ‘Operation Sule’ that she’d realized the older women had been serious.

  Her lips vibrated at the force of the air she blew out. That was never going to happen, especially after meeting the prince as an adult. He was much too cold to be a good husband to her. Her list of qualities included caring, affection, and most of all, respect in communication.

  To his credit, he’d listened, even if she could see the doubt in his eyes. He was no fool. She’d been shocked that he hadn’t seen right through her male costume to the woman beneath. But then again, people had often confused her and her younger brother Maliq when they’d been teenagers, so maybe her playing a young man wasn’t as far-fetched as she’d thought.

  She knew for a fact that she wouldn’t be falling into any kind of long-term relationship with Prince Zareb that didn’t involve a sword. Going off into fling territory didn’t sound so bad, though. The man knew how to wear his confidence to the point of making her knees weak. Considering that she was sitting down when it had happened, he exuded some potent sex appeal.

  She’d always been a glutton for a tall man who possessed the stunning gorgeousness of a muscular warrior statue. When he’d walked into the queen’s apartment, her mouth had gone dry at the combination of sharp cheekbones, full firm lips, and piercing brown eyes. Adding in that thick head of gorgeous locs had snatched the breath right out of her.

  She could handle ogling him, but getting involved was out of the question.

  The singular goal of training under a coach who could get her to the Olympics without moving far from her family sat firmly in her grasp. She hadn’t lied to him about her objective, although there’d been a major deviation when it came to the timeframe of her past. She’d initiated her training while in boarding school in Barcelona. Her skills had earned her a full scholarship to The University of Notre Dame in the United States, where she’d won her way through competitions on the path to the Olympics.

  A month after graduation, her mother had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer. She’d dropped everything and gone back home, losing her spot with the coach when she hadn’t returned after six months. She’d chosen her priority. Being at her mother’s side when she’d most needed her had been the best choice. The only one.

  Would the distress of her heart being crushed at the loss of her mother ever go away? She blinked back the burn from her eyes. This wasn’t the time. She had a hard-headed man to impress.

  His misogynistic philosophy of not training women was unacceptable. The queen had motivated her to return to fencing and to do so with Zareb as her coach. She’d decided to prove that women were just as good as men in the sport. He had no right to abstain from working with women. The glitch being that she wouldn’t be able to reveal it until later.

  The niggling thought that he had a valid reason for his decision pulsed.

  The feminist in her shut down the rational thought. It didn’t make it right to exclude a whole gender from his trainin
g regime.

  Dressed in white high-tech fencing regalia from neck to feet, Malika felt much more comfortable than she had sitting in the queen’s large, ornate living room in her costume of trousers and a thick black and white, flaring traditional smock over a white T-shirt.

  Thank goodness the prince hadn’t been in the same locker room with her. She would’ve had to come up with an excuse for why she’d changed in the shower stall.

  She smoothed a hand over the hair she’d had cut a few millimetres shy of looking shaved on the sides and back. The top left slightly longer.

  The loss of hair had been a welcome change. She’d always preferred it short. As she’d grown older, she’d worn it longer to fit in with her friends and make her boyfriends happy. At twenty-five, she was once again free to display it as short as she wanted. It didn’t make up for how wretched she felt about being a liar, but at least, it wasn’t all bad.

  She adjusted the cup in her pants which created the slight bulge that gave credence to her persona. How could men stand having something so uncomfortable between their legs?

  She smirked as the silly thought eased a bit of her anxiety.

  But procrastinating wouldn’t get her a coach. Taking in a deep inhale to boost her courage, she picked up her mask and gloves from the bench. Collecting her épée with her free hand, she kissed the sword for good luck as she’d done in the past before competitions.

  I don’t have to beat him. Just exhibit my potential to be a champion.

  Ensuring that her stride lacked any sway, she left the locker room to face down The Lion of Bagumi.

  ***

  As Zareb warmed up, the training space buzzed. The busybodies were focused on him and who he’d be fencing with rather than on their own practice.

  He didn’t blame them for their interest. As a spectacular fighter, he impressed even himself when he watched the videos of his matches. With the combination of height, speed, and the ability to foresee his opponent’s moves, he’d been unstoppable. Then he’d injured his hamstring during a practice session. Rather than let it heal for the proper amount of time, he’d competed in a match that he’d been scheduled for.