“The plot thickens. At dinner last night he told me they were engaged.” Amahd lifted a brow. “Maybe she’s saving her virginity for marriage?”
A twinge of unease tightened Osman’s shoulders. “She’s an American and in her mid-twenties. I very much doubt she’s still a virgin. And if she is I shall be as gentle with her as she needs.”
“Your confidence is inspiring, brother.” Zadir leaned back, looking much amused. “At least we can hope to enjoy the footage they’ll be shooting.”
“I’ve arranged for one of the footmen to record footage of the festival, too. In case Samantha and whatshisname get distracted.”
“By you stealing whatshisname’s fiancée out from under him.”
Osman shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war.”
“What if she rejects you?”
“I anticipate and accept rejection as part of my path to true love.”
They both stared at him. “True love?” asked Zadir, finally. “I thought you just wanted to claim the throne.”
He threw back his shoulders, ready to meet the day. “I want it all, brother.”
CHAPTER SIX
The predawn drive to Nabattur took less than twenty minutes, and Sam managed to maintain businesslike chatter with their host, who drove. Allan sat in the backseat, futzing with the camera settings. She felt unreasonably nervous, like she was heading for the front lines of a war, not a picturesque regional festival. She’d worn her own clothes—khakis and a coral polo shirt—sure that dressing in Osman’s silky finery would throw Allan into a daylong funk.
As they approached the walled city the road filled with elderly Jeeps and Land Rovers, the occasional BMW or Mercedes and more than a handful of camels and donkeys, bearing both people and packs. Their progress slowed to a crawl by the time there was enough light to see that the road was also surrounded by people approaching the festival on foot.
“How far do people come for this event?” she asked Osman.
“Some have walked for a day or more: shepherds and farmers living in the foothills, goat herders from high in the mountains. Families who have little contact with society all year long bring their sons and daughters here to find their mates and increase their family.”
“I suppose it’s practical when you have a population that’s spread out. In a way the festival functions like a dating website, where everyone logs on and gets to peruse the offerings before going after their favorite.” Sam was quite pleased with herself for the analogy.
“Except that you can’t try them on for size here,” muttered Allan from the backseat. “You pick a dud and you’re stuck with them for life.”
“We Ubarites recognize the role of the hand of fate in governing our lives.” Osman held his chin high. “We are all bit players in a grand drama, and our individual freewill is subordinate to the will of the creator.”
Sam looked sideways at him. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
He lifted a brow, and she couldn’t be sure if that sparkle in his eye was humor or indignation. “Far greater men than myself have believed in the pull of destiny.”
“It’s a romantic idea, I suppose.” Sam tried to wrap her mind around the possibility that free will was an illusion. Her brain rejected it. “But rather oppressive. Why try to improve your lot or anyone else’s if it’s just destined to be a certain way?”
Osman smiled at her. “People come to this festival to embrace their destiny. They made the choice to journey here and choose a mate. That is their free will.”
“Or is it?” poked Allan cynically from the backseat. “Maybe we’re all just puppets on the fingers of some ancient god we’ve never even heard of.”
Sam quietly drew in a deep breath. She hoped Allan wasn’t going to be difficult today. He’d woken her up this morning as promised, but not with the kiss or caress she’d hoped for. His first words were: “Time to rise and do Sheikh Osman’s bidding.”
She turned to Allan. “Let’s hope it’s in our destiny to shoot some spectacular footage today. Is there anything else you need before we start shooting?”
“It would be nice to know what’s happened to our Land Rover overnight.” Allan shot a suspicious glance at their host. Which wasn’t really fair because he’d given them their phones back—charged but still useless due to no signal.
“As I promised, my men will retrieve it today.”
“If it’s still there.”
“If it isn’t, they’ll find it.” Osman flashed his teeth at Allan in something between a grin and a snarl. Sam wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or amused.
“We’re grateful that you’re going to so much trouble for us.” She shot a warning glance at Allan, who pressed his lips together as if he was trying to resist a retort.
The traffic ground to a halt, and Sam looked around in amazement at the sight of people abandoning their cars and trucks by the side of the road and continuing on foot. “What are they doing?”
“The city is too crowded for more traffic today. They’ll walk in.”
“Should we get out, too?”
“Not yet.” Osman took a right off the road and headed across the pale, grassy terrain. Sam grabbed the handle above her head as his Mercedes jumped and rolled over the bumpy ground.
“Where are we heading?” She couldn’t help asking.
“A different entrance.”
They rounded the high, sand-colored city walls with their crenellated tops. The smooth stucco surface was punctuated only by openings large enough to allow defensive artillery, but Sam assumed they must be heading for another gate. None of the other vehicles on the road followed them. By this time, the sun had risen almost fully above the horizon and hung in the east like a lit bulb just behind the mountains.
“How long will it take us to get in? I don’t want to miss the opening.”
“Nearly there.” Osman screeched to a halt near an opening in the wall covered by a heavy iron grating. As she watched, the grating lifted to reveal a studded wood door, which opened. Four men rushed out and bowed deeply.
Sam stared, as one of them hurried to open her door. “Is this some kind of royal entrance?”
“Exactly.” Osman climbed out and spoke rapidly to the men in the local dialect. They smiled and bowed to Sam and Allan. She nodded her head slightly, hoping she didn’t offend anyone, then helped Allan retrieve the rest of their equipment from the trunk. She was lifting the strap of the bag with the extra lenses over her head when one of the men tried to tug it away from her.
She resisted on instinct.
“Let him carry it for you.” Osman spoke softly. “He’ll be right with us.”
Sam glanced at Allan, whose slit-eyed gaze seemed to say, “I told you so.” She handed the bag to the strange man in his long robe. Allan was not asked to part with the camera, thank goodness, because that probably would to have led to a scuffle and who knows what else.
“We should hurry,” said Osman. “Once the sun fully clears the mountains, the festival begins.” They stepped through the wood door into a chamber with a high wood-beam ceiling and the walls and floor decorated in colorful mosaic tile patterns. A fountain sparkled in the center. Osman strode around it, toward a door on the other side. When she caught up with him, Sam discovered that it led to a balcony looking over the wide marketplace of the city.
“Allan, this is a good spot for some establishing shots.” She helped him set up the telescoping tripod. The open space below thronged with brightly dressed men and women of all ages. Donkeys and horses in brilliant tasseled finery mingled with the crowds, and music rose from the drums of strolling musicians.
A piercing trumpet blast announced the official start of the festivities, followed by an enthusiastic ululation from the crowd. Sam was tempted to join in with the whistling noise she’d perfected at baseball games with her dad, but she didn’t want to mess up the sound Allan was capturing.
The crowd’s excitement was palpable. Sam glanced at Osman to see if h
e could feel it, too, and she wanted to smile at the look of pride and joy she saw on his handsome face. This man clearly loved his people and traditions, despite all the years he’d spent abroad. As if he’d heard her thoughts, he leaned in and whispered, “We should go down among the crowd. That’s where you’ll find what this festival is all about.”
They packed the tripod and let one of the men carry it as they descended a set of stone steps down to ground level. It was initially hard to tell who were the hopeful men and women here for romance and who were the bystanders, but once Osman pointed out that those seeking love wore a green item somewhere on their person, she began to seek them out and gain pleasure in recognizing them.
She also observed that Osman himself had chosen a sash of mostly green fabric, but she refrained from voicing her observation.
The drumming continued, the pace increasingly fervent, as the men and women milled around the marketplace, weaving in and out of each other. The women looked so fresh and lovely in their colorful dresses and scarves with elaborate beading and gold and silver trim. Many of them wore thick bracelets and ornate rings and Osman confirmed that they were real gold and silver and worn to demonstrate the wealth of the girl’s family.
“I guess that’s the old-school equivalent of driving Daddy’s beamer,” murmured Allan. Sam could tell he was enjoying himself, though. He darted about the crowd with the camera, finding the quiet personal moments he had a knack for capturing.
Some of the boys looked young and awkward, with a thin line of beginner mustache across their upper lip and pride warring with terror on their handsome faces. Other more practiced charmers moved easily amongst the throng, kissing hands and exchanging loaded glances, building hope in the chests of eager young girls.
“When do they throw the garlands?” Sam asked Osman, as they took a break and ate crunchy candied nuts from a roving vendor.
“Right at the end of the day, just before sunrise. Once they’ve had a chance to talk and flirt with everyone who catches their eye, then they’re ready to make their choice.”
Osman attracted a significant amount of female attention, even though he was several years older than most of the grooms. None of the girls spoke with him, though. He smiled at them but didn’t engage. “Do they know who you are?”
“Absolutely.”
“How?”
“They’ve known me since I was tiny. Their parents watched me grow up. Their children always knew I’d be their king one day. I suppose to them I’m like one of those mountains in the distance, changing with the days but ever present.”
“And they’re too intimidated to talk to you.”
Osman held her gaze with a stare that made her insides turn to hot liquid. “Or maybe they’re just not interested.”
Hardly.
She cleared her throat. “What happens if a boy or girl is too shy to talk to the person they really want? Surely the most aggressive individuals have a distinct advantage.”
“Isn’t that always true in life?” Osman’s lifted brow dared her to argue.
She couldn’t. He was right.
“You’re not exactly a retiring wallflower yourself,” he continued, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Over the years I’ve learned to speak up for myself. I hope I’m not obnoxious.”
“I like that about you.” Was he flirting with her? He looked like he was about to say more but at that moment Allan returned, glowing with enthusiasm.
“I just got some great footage of a boy and girl whispering to each other. They were positively sparkling with would-be love. I’ve also got some nice filler stuff of the crowds, and the musicians and the food sellers. For the soundtrack I’m thinking we could buy some of the local drums and have one of the studio guys re-create some pieces for us to play under the narration. I’ve captured enough by now that they can pick up the rhythms.
Osman looked amused. “These drums are passed down from father to son over the centuries, along with the techniques and rhythms.”
Allan squinted in the sun. “I’m sure our studio musicians can tweak everything in postproduction so it sounds the same.”
“It might be a challenge to cram centuries of tradition and experience into a tight production schedule. Perhaps you could work with some of our local musicians to compose a soundtrack once the film is complete?”
Allan was fiddling with the camera settings. “That sounds too complicated. We’re on a budget.”
Osman smiled. “I’m sure we could come to some mutually acceptable arrangement. Our musicians are not exactly international pop stars used to raking in millions.”
Allan looked him dead in the eye. “I prefer to work with my usual team.”
Sam wished Allan would stop trying to lock horns with Osman. It made him look foolish. It was sort of cute that he seemed to be jealous. She’d never seen him act like this before. Usually he couldn’t care less if she went out to events without him, so he often had little idea who she was with or what she was doing. She’d assumed he trusted her completely, though sometimes she’d wondered sadly if he just didn’t care all that much. Now it amused her to see him bristling with indignation when Osman attempted to bestow his royal favor. Allan obviously didn’t like the idea of her being impressed by the sheikh.
“I think local musicians are a wonderful idea.” She couldn’t bring herself to call him Osman. “Your Majesty” seemed more appropriate now that she’d watched people kowtow to him all day. “We’ll figure out the details later.” She shot a warning glance at Allan. Since she was the producer, it was as much her job to secure the music as Allan’s, and she suspected that Osman’s traditional artists would be a budget buy compared with New York studio musicians.
“Excellent.” Osman said it with a rich dose of suggestion and a loaded glance.
Sam swallowed. Was he trying to unsettle her? Or was this his way of poking back at Allan. Either way, it worked. She was hyperaware of his every move. He had an adorable way of gesturing with his big hands to emphasize a point, and he sometimes pursed his lips after speaking, which was oddly exotic and intriguing. Sometimes he lifted his chin and looked down his aristocratic nose at things, as if he could see more clearly from that angle. The overall effect was intoxicating.
After the three-day festival was over, she’d never see Osman again. She already felt sad about it.
The first garland was thrown about an hour before sunset and took them by surprise. Allan wove through the crowds capturing subsequent pairs pledging themselves to each other. Excitement and romance filled the air along with the scent of the crushed rose petals scattered on the ground. By the time the sun began to sink below the mountains on the other side of the city, he announced that he had enough footage to make a Ken Burns-length epic about the festival. They decided to climb up to the balcony and watch the crowds while the sun set.
To Sam’s relief, the four men still accompanied them and had kept all their equipment safe. In the sanctuary above the crowds, one of them served a drink tasting of roses and another brought little cookies decorated with sliced almonds. They’d shed their equipment and started to relax when an unsettled feeling crept over her.
“Allan, don’t you think you should throw a garland over my head?”
“What?” He munched on one of the cookies.
“Since we’re engaged. It’ll be romantic. Something special to remember this trip by.”
“I don’t think I’ll forget this trip any time soon.” Allan cast a sideways glance at Osman, who gamely pretended not to notice.
“Come on.” She rose to her feet, adrenaline now pumping with excitement about the idea. There was probably another ten minutes before sunset. “Let’s find a garland.”
Osman spoke rapidly in the local dialect and two of the men darted down the stairs and returned only seconds later bearing a big garland of rose petals.
“Goodness, isn’t it lovely.” Sam stroked the fragrant pink and white petals. “How do they grow enough roses for
such romantic extravagance in this arid climate?”
“With love and care,” said Osman softly.
Allan looked at the garland like it might be toxic.
“Come on, Allan. Humor me.” It was embarrassing, and maybe even a little depressing, that she had to beg him to throw the garland over her head. Then again, if he wasn’t enthusiastic enough to claim her the way all the other men had done that day, maybe getting married to him wasn’t such a hot idea.
“Okay.” He shuffled over and lifted the garland with both hands. It was about the size of the garlands worn by racehorses and rather unwieldy. The two men had held it between them to keep it intact on the way up the stairs, and she began to worry that it would disintegrate before he could throw it over her head.
“You have to swing it,” said Osman quietly. “Give it some lift in the air so that it will clear her head.”
No one ever missed. They’d probably watched a hundred people do this, so it couldn’t be that hard. Then again maybe they’d all been practicing for years.
“Go on, Allan. The sun’s about to set.” Somehow it seemed important to get the ritual right. It wouldn’t be the same if the sun had already vanished behind the mountains.
Allan frowned, focusing like he was about to throw a big pitch in the local softball league. Then he lowered the garland, lifted it high as he took a step forward and flung it at her.
She staggered back as it hit her full in the face. She’d tried to duck and catch it with her head, but it was still too low and it crashed to the stones at her feet. “Oh. Gosh. I guess we should try again.” She tried not to show her disappointment as she rubbed her sore nose.
Osman lifted the wreath off the ground. Miraculously, it was still intact, though a few of its lovely petals now lay sprinkled at her feet. “You have to put your elbow into it. Like this.” Osman bent his elbow, then thrust the wreath at her. It cleared her head and settled neatly on her shoulders.
A look of triumph spread across Osman’s face.
Desert Kings Boxed Set: The Complete Series Books 1-6 Page 9