My emir

Chapter 1

Mahmud Yilmaz sat in a wide, carved chair in his private chambers, staring into the fire. He stroked his short beard, and the flickering light danced ominously in his eyes — cold as diamonds. His gray hair was slicked back, and his pale face, though that of a dying sheikh, still looked majestic.

The ancient door creaked, admitting a tall man with a rugged face. He wore a travel‑stained suit, and over his broad shoulders rested a heavy cloak trimmed with silver braid and the family crest — black embroidery on the outer side. On his right ring finger gleamed a signet ring bearing the Yilmaz emblem: a rhombus with an eagle, its powerful talons sharp and ready. He was one of the few allowed to carry a weapon within the palace walls.

The sheikh turned. The shoulders of the ruler of all the Maghreb Emirates were draped in a warm shawl, woven by artisans with fine wool — thick enough to shield a man from the bitterest desert night. Yet despite the heat of the room, a chill ran through him, and even the coffee failed to warm his bones.

The air was stale, thick with the scent of flames and smoldering logs, something roasted, and the rich aroma of coffee. The fragrance of the local coffeehouses and teahouses was unmistakable — a heady floral note laced with the sharp tang of bitter herbs and the sweetness of dates.

The man bowed.

— Father.

— Son, — the sheikh said patronizingly, turning back to the fire.

The prince removed his gloves, stepped to the table, tossed them carelessly aside, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

— Will Rashid Maktoum’s embassy arrive tomorrow?

The sheikh nodded.

— The scouts report they’re amassing troops, buying weapons.

— That’s not why I called you.

The man took a sip and looked expectantly. He had assumed his father might want news of the neighboring emirates, stirring up war. But the sheikh stared into the flames, as if in those searing tongues he saw something sinister.

— Many years ago, when I ascended the throne, the previous sheikh’s daughter was born.

The words surprised the prince. Kareem sipped his coffee, pondering. He hadn’t known the Huseyn family had any living children.

— I thought the previous dynasty had no heirs.

He knew every child born had been stillborn. Rumors swirled of how the sheikh’s wife had fled to London, seeking asylum and claiming her life was in mortal danger. Such scandalous episodes of escape and forced return were usually hushed up — but this one had been forgotten instead.

— Your mother tried to take the child, but she failed, — the sheikh said, sinking back into thought.

— Why?

— We meant to raise her as a bride for you or Adam.

— She’s still alive?!

The sheikh chuckled, nodded, lost in memory. Kareem waited. Everyone knew their mother’s sister was barren. It was said to be a curse upon the bloodline — and only their mother had managed to conceive and bear him and Adam. Kareem suspected it hadn’t been without medical aid. In truth, the inability to produce an heir had led to their father’s divorce from his first wife — their mother’s own sister.

Today, a report of the old sheikh Maktoum’s murder had landed on his desk. Of course, the press knew nothing yet — and likely never would. Officially, the cause of death would be far more dignified and discreet. A heart attack, or something similar, the media would report. And Rashid, his eldest son, would ascend the throne.

But for them, for his emirate, all this spelled disaster. No longer was there a guarantor of their power’s inviolability — one provided by the old sheikh. For Sheikh Maktoum had been more than a mere guarantor. He had been the father’s friend. Unlike his sons.

This meant the next possible heir to the throne, through the Huseyn bloodline, would be the former sheikh’s daughter and her husband. Would be — but only if Kareem himself did not ascend the throne, and if he had no heirs. Adam didn’t count. The father had long stripped him of his right of succession for unbecoming conduct. All in all, the threat loomed ominously.

— Does she know?

— No, unlikely. When she was born, Miriam signed papers vowing to keep everything secret — even who her daughter truly was by birthright. And then they vanished. For years I searched for them across the world. And I found them. Rashid Maktoum must wage war against us, but if he presents the world with the daughter of the Huseyn house, the other emirates are unlikely to refuse him their support.

The father cast a meaningful look at his son. The prince of the Maghreb Emirates, thirty years of age, was both cunning and shrewd. His advisors reported there might not be a more ruthless or capable intelligence officer anywhere in the Middle East.

— Do you want me to kill her?

Kareem frankly had no desire to chase across continents, hunting down the Huseyn heir. Other matters pressed — preparing for war, fortifying the borders, stockpiling supplies. The prince sighed heavily. The sheikh nodded.

— Kareem, my son, she is not in the East, — he said, studying his son’s displeasure — his heir, his future sheikh.

— Oh, Allah, — Kareem set down his glass and poured more coffee. — And where is she?

— In Siberia.

— What? In Russia?

The prince stroked his beard. So the heir was most likely unaware. Miriam had kept her word. Any Arab who found themselves in such an Orthodox world would, after a time, forget their native ways. The Russians had a saying: to Russify. A man would grow loyal, forget tradition, and sometimes even lose all ties to his homeland. (Except for planted spies — they knew how to preserve the wisdom of their ancestors, their faith, having learned it from childhood in the order back home.) Rumors swirled that even a drop of Slavic blood could overpower any other.

— Why did you let her live?

— It was the core condition in the agreement between me and Huseyn at his abdication. I could not break it so soon. His people loved him. And Maktoum vouched for it.

Kareem was even more surprised. He had never before seen mercy in his father. Perhaps the old man was growing old.

— But why?

To keep the Huseyn heir alive — even in another country, another culture — was, at the very least, unwise. Kareem was lost in thought.

— Five years ago, my man returned. According to his reports, she is a simple thirty‑six‑year‑old woman. Eliminating her would be no challenge. She knows nothing, can do nothing. An ordinary person.

— Assign it to the assassins, to your man, to the spies. To anyone!

— No. Not the Huseyn house, — the sheikh frowned. He did not like to be contradicted. And those who dared to object often ended their days swiftly, by execution. — Besides, they cannot act quickly enough. You know yourself: diplomatic immunity is needed, should anything go wrong.

Kareem sighed, not fully grasping why his father needed to send him away from the emirates. The enemies outmatched them in military strength many times over. They had already broken the truce months ago. What good would come from killing one heir — a former sheikh’s heir, untrained, unaware of the way of life of her class? If the Maktoums won the war, they would destroy the Maghreb Emirate themselves — the hatred and bloodlust for vengeance ran too deep.

— I could help here.

— I command you to do this. You’ll lose a few days, you’ll be quick. It won’t affect the situation in any way.

Kareem nodded, setting his glass down beside the coffee pot. The order was not to be discussed. The sheikh continued:

— Today. Take the intel from Abdullah, go to Russia, and kill her.

Sheikh Mahmud Yilmaz of the Maghreb Emirates accepted his son’s bow, turned to the flames, and sank once more into cold thoughts.