Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (34 page)

“It is agreed, then.” The emir indicates the audience is over.

Cara

As soon as the massive golden doors clang shut behind me I swing around knocking on them, hitting and thumping, getting more and more desperate until my hands become bruised and raw, and my screams and shouts make my throat sore. When I realise the doors are so thick that no one will be able to hear me from outside, and that my feeble attempts to gain attention are futile, I let myself slide to the floor, burying my head in my battered hands, and cry. Cry as I’ve never done before, until I’m howling and wailing like a banshee. I’m in shock. Once again, in less than a twenty-four-hour period, my life has taken a complete U-turn, and this time I think it might finish me.

I don’t know how long I sit there, letting my emotions flood out of me in torrents of tears but finally reaching a point where I’m all cried out. Leaning my back against the doors, which remain firmly shut, I look up and take in my surroundings. It doesn’t take long to realise Nijad brought me to what must be a harem. At first glance it’s a desolate, forgotten place, unoccupied for decades, smelling of dust and neglect. The harem of the Palace of Amahad hasn’t undergone the transformation into a modern dungeon like that of the desert city but, instead, it resembles an elaborate gaol from the Middle Ages. Except for the one chamber, which has apparently been prepared especially for me, the rooms and open areas are unfurnished and visibly decaying.

My body is still shaking from my emotional outburst as I try to work through the ramifications of why he left me in this place. Tears threaten once more, but I don’t let them fall, fighting hard to stop them. I learned early on that crying never helps; crying never stopped my mother wrenching me from my childhood companions to move somewhere new. Tears never stopped the bullying. In fact, they made it worse. Tears didn’t bring my mother back when she died. Tears weren’t going to help me now, but I have never felt such desolation as I do at this moment. It seems one minute I was basking in the afterglow of the most incredible experience of my life, and the next the man who’d loved me so amazingly the previous night turned on me. My stomach clenches. Nijad, oh Nijad. Why didn’t you let me explain? Curled into a ball in front of the golden doors I hiccup for air, the aftermath of crying so hard. My whole body throbs with pain, as if a broken heart is a physical ailment. Even that night when my father destroyed me with his words doesn’t compare to Nijad’s rejection. I can’t understand why he didn’t give me a chance to explain. Why did he want to put me away from him so quickly, without listening? Why did he want me out of his sight?

Eventually exhausted, I stagger across to the only point of colour in the large open area, the fancy bed encircled by sheer drapes, at this point not caring about the furnishings. Swiping my hand across my raw, red eyes, I think about the man who’s abandoned me here. How can he do this to me? Why wouldn’t he listen? Has he ever really cared about me at all, or was it all lies? Have I just been used? I smooth my palm over my stomach and the familiar ache down below tells me I’ll soon have definite proof I didn’t get pregnant on our wedding night, which is a source of both relief and sadness. What I wouldn’t give to have something of Nijad to keep if I have lost him, but at least a child won’t have to suffer whatever is in store for me.

Will they execute me now?
I just feel numb at the thought. Losing Nijad is killing me all by itself.

Traumatised by the dramatic turn in my fortunes, I do nothing but lie on the bed, staring up blankly at the vaulted ceiling. I’m so shocked; I can’t summon up any thoughts on how to fight my fate. Why am I being treated like this?

Hours later, as the skies darken, a dour old woman enters the harem. I don’t see her arrive, but she brings me a meal that I know I won’t be able to eat. I plead with her to take me to Nijad. I beg, but she’s short and rude, saying just enough to show me she does understand some English, although it is difficult to ascertain the extent of her vocabulary because she refuses to enter into conversation. She frightens me a little, giving me the impression she likes neither me nor the job she’s been tasked with. When she leaves me alone to eat I look at the food she’s left and push it away untouched. Someone must come for me soon. Hopefully, Nijad will come back for me. He won’t simply leave me here. He can’t. I sit and wait, but no one comes. Eventually, exhaustion and an emotional shutdown induce an unconsciousness that acts as sleep.

When I wake the next day, my eyes feel gritty and swollen, my hands still bruised. Ignoring my physical discomfort, I try to be optimistic. Today I’ll find out where exactly they are keeping me, and get out of here. If Nijad doesn't appear, I’ll find some way to go to him and force him to listen, to hear my side of the story. With determination, I get out of bed. I’m still fully dressed in the clothes I wore the day before, so I’m ready to start my exploration of the harem, the place where, historically, women were forced to live against their will.
Am I destined to become another such victim?

I’m in a sort of chamber with an arched entrance with no door. There were several other cubicles, all opening out on to a vast communal area that must have once been quite beautiful. Although the rooms offer some privacy, the partition walls do not ascend to the high ceiling. I try to estimate how many women the harem would have housed and think it’s probably only about fifty; a small harem, as I understand it. I’m pleased to find that there is, at least, some rudimentary plumbing; there are several Victorian-style bathrooms. Checking the water supply, I discover it still works in at least one of them.

My exploration shows me the central area is laid out around what was once a beautiful pool, whether for bathing or where ornamental fish swam I can’t tell, and a crack in the base means any water has long since soaked away. Large arches beyond the pool area lead out into an extensive garden, surrounded in its entirety by walls which must be at least twenty feet high. There is the shape of a gateway in the wall, but it’s long been sealed up with stone. I search every inch, looking for a way to gain my freedom. Back to examining the interior of my prison, I see any flowers or shrubbery have long since died. Raised flower beds, which were probably once beautiful, are enclosed now by crumbling brick walls and hold only dead, rotten, twisted branches. A few palm trees still struggle to survive, but even they look likely to submit shortly to the inevitable and die. I think the current state of the landscape suits my mood far better than if it was well maintained and filled with blossoming, scented blooms. Like the garden, I feel something has died inside me.
Why doesn’t Nijad come for me?

I try to shake off my depression, knowing I have to stay determined and fight. And finding a way out of here is imperative. I can’t just wait for my sentence, whatever that may be, to be carried out. Yesterday’s tears are gone; today I’ll fight to live. Fight to prove my innocence. How dare they just shut me up in here without giving me a chance to explain? As my sadness morphs into anger, I continue my exploration. The main doors are bolted and shut, so where did the old servant woman come from? I search the walls of the harem, looking behind the tapestries that decay and fall to dust when I touch them, but so far any ingress remains hidden.

Damping down a sudden wave of claustrophobia, I return to the one cubicle that is habitable. In my absence a breakfast tray has arrived, along with new clothes for the day.
How the bloody hell has the woman managed to do that without me seeing or hearing her?
Resolving to keep my eyes and ears better peeled, I try to force myself to eat, but even the delicious fruits and pastries taste like straw in my mouth, and my stomach revolts at the thought of the digestive process. If I swallow anything, I know it won’t stay down long.

For the rest of the day I sit and wait, keeping my eyes open, not wanting to miss the entrance of the maid. I wait for Nijad, one of the other princes, or anyone to come to get me, to talk to me, to question me, interrogate me. Anything, anything at all …

The darkening skies tell me it must be evening when the maid appears again, as if by magic, with yet another tray of food. When she puts it down, I pick it up and throw it at the wall in frustration at not having heard her approach. My action enrages her and she shouts loudly at me in her language. I try to be forceful, insisting she takes me to someone I can plead my case with, but she refuses adamantly.

Her face sneers with disgust, as she points a gnarled finger towards me.

“You prisoner. Punished here. You stay.”

Her words and the vehemence in her voice shock me, but I remained focused on my primary objective and dog her heels as she makes to leave the harem. This time, I see her disappear through a doorway so well hidden and camouflaged I missed it in all my searches. Despite the slowness of her advanced years, she slips through before I can follow her. The door has no visible handle or way to open it from this side. I beat my hands on it in desperation, reopening yesterday’s grazes, but no one heeds my pleas.

The day sets the pattern for those that follow. Being alone shouldn’t bother me. I’ve been alone all my life, but here the solitude is different: oppressing, weighing down heavily on me because I have nothing to do but think.

I realise that the evidence against me would seem damning. Particularly if presented by the thief. Although the process was already in place to steal tens of thousands of pounds each month from the Amahad treasury, another forensic accountant, or maybe even Basheer himself, must have found my footprint there maybe as I’d diverted those funds to a different place. Basheer, or someone working for him, had to have some hacking skills to set up the back door in the first place. I hadn’t banked on Basheer exposing himself by reporting the crime. But then,
he
is the trusted minister of finance, and who am I? The daughter of a con man.

Basheer became my adversary when his additional income stream had disappeared, and I’d underestimated him. He had nothing to gain other than satisfaction by exposing me, he could hardly recommence his theft. He had to have done it purely for revenge. It’s to his advantage that I’ve been incarcerated here, given no chance to clear my name. He must know I’ll never be given the opportunity to speak.

Shit! Just how much power does that man hold? How much influence? A cold shiver runs down my spine as I realise how dangerous I’d be to a senior member of their government if I ever saw the light of day outside of the harem again.
Would there be a plot to kill me?
The next time she comes, I eye the servant woman suspiciously. She has no liking for me; she’s made that clear. Slipping poison into my food would be easy. But if I don’t eat what she delivers, I’ll starve to death. It hits me just how vulnerable I am.

Of course, I regret not speaking to Nijad and telling him what I’d set up, but I’d become a new person, content to bury the old Cara deep inside in a grave along with her secrets. But boy, am I paying for that mistake now.

Days pass, and my expectation of being released fades. I live in a state of fear and regret, and slip into the only routine I can. New clothes are exchanged for old each morning. The servant woman called Maysa, as I eventually manage to extract her name from her, silently brings my meals, and removes the used dishes, mostly laden with uneaten food. Of course I try to make my escape. To exit through the hidden door, Maysa knocks on it to be let out. One day I forcibly hold her back as it’s opened, but there is a guard on the other side who immediately moves to block my way. He is stout and formidable, and I know it will be useless to try to get past him. I beg and plead for him to step aside, but he simply gestures for me to move back inside, his stance indicating he wouldn’t hesitate to use force if necessary. But it doesn’t stop me checking the door a dozen times a day in the futile hope that sometime it might be left unlocked. I even bend forks and knives, trying to force them into the almost imperceptible gap, trying to ease the door open. It beats me every time.

Despite my fears that she might be working for Basheer, I try to make friends with the only other human being I see, but if she talks at all it’s only to rant about my crimes and tell me to accept my punishment. Maysa refuses my requests to bring me anything that would help me pass my time; no books, not even a magazine. The only things she does bring are the sanitary items I have to ask her for at the right time. Having to request them is embarrassing.

With nothing to do but think, at some point my despair turns to rage, and I rail against my unfair treatment. Any criminal should have the chance to be heard and, if imprisoned, told the likely length of their sentence. My emotions are all over the place; up one day, down the next, as I start to fear that everyone has forgotten about me. Despite its size, the harem walls feel like they are closing in on me, and my panic attacks return. My anger turns back to desolation, which infuriates me all over again. It isn’t fair to be sentenced without trial! I start to lose it, screaming for extended periods of time until my voice is hoarse, knocking against the doors, making my knuckles bleed. But nothing works. Days pass. Despite my determination, slowly I have to accept that this is my fate.

****

The first indication I find that tonight is going to be different from every other I’ve spent in this harem is when I rise from my customary evening bath to discover not the regular nightgown laid out on my bed, but a diaphanous robe and no undergarments. It is a beautiful dress, in shimmering purple, but almost entirely transparent. Standing by my bed, I finger the light material, wondering why I’m apparently supposed to wear this tonight. I shiver with anticipation tinged with an equal amount of fear. Something is going to happen; I know it.