The Wishless Ones (Dark Ascension #3)

1 - Before - Jafar

T here were days when Jafar thought his wishes would destroy him. He might have been only eight years of age, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he was destined for more.

And yet today, he was zigzagging through the bustling bazaar, a sack of fresh vegetables clutched in one hand, his little brother’s fist sticky in the other. Shouts from angry merchants nipped at their heels because they hadn’t brought a single coin in their tattered pockets. But this was their routine: sneaking from the house at the cusp of dawn, darting through the stalls, snatching what they could when the merchants looked elsewhere.

Rohan was sobbing and falling behind. Jafar sighed. He had to do all the work, and it was starting to annoy him as he turned a sharp right and squeezed between two massive carts, doubling back to pull Rohan into the shadows with him. And now there was sand in his sandals. While Rohan was trying hard not to cry out of fear, Jafar was trying hard not to cry out of frustration.

Being the eldest son of parents who were poor in more ways than one gave a child little time to be a child.

“Are we going to be safe?” Rohan asked, his tears drenching the small leather pouch he had been tasked with carrying.

They were chased every other day. This was nothing new.

Rohan was just weak. He was six years of age and behaved like a baby, but he was also Jafar’s brother, and Jafar would do anything for him.

“Of course we are,” Jafar said, pulling him tight against his side and kissing his forehead just as Mama would do to ease him. He tapped the pouch in Rohan’s hands. “I’ll keep us safe, but you need to keep this safe for Mama, understand?”

Rohan looked down at the pouch and nodded, successfully distracted.

From the gap between the worn wood of the carts where they hid, Jafar watched with bated breath as the merchants ran past their hiding spot. He waited until the sand settled in the lonely street. Far above, a falcon cried as its shadow swooped over him. In the distance, someone strummed a sitar, children laughed with their father, and a camel protested against its owner.

“Now let’s get you home, eh?” Jafar asked, rising with caution. Rohan nodded solemnly, picking up the neatly wrapped, painfully sweet malban that had slipped from the pouch to the dusty ground.

The walk back home was quiet, the streets outside of the bazaar still shaking off the dregs of last night’s slumber. A rare sandstorm had just swept through, and villagers were either scrambling for provisions or huddling in their homes and counting blessings.

Jafar and Rohan’s parents were doing neither of those things.

He heard the yelling before he even reached the house, but Rohan was oblivious, throwing open the door before Jafar could stop him. Sound ceased with the creaking hinges. Jafar should have been used to it by now, but his parents’ fighting still sparked his nerves like lightning in one of the few thunderstorms he’d witnessed. He looked from Mama to Baba and, unsure of what to do, set the vegetables on the table between them.

“This is what I mean,” Baba spat. “He is a thieving street rat yet struts around like a peacock.”

Jafar said nothing, though he took a step forward to put his brother behind him.

“And now we will have something to fill our bellies,” Mama said, before a series of horrible coughs racked through her. Concern flashed across Baba’s face, there and gone. It should have relieved Jafar that Baba loved Mama, even when they fought, but Jafar couldn’t deny the truth of what that meant: Baba didn’t like him . His eldest child, his son who was doing more for their family than he was himself. And as much as Baba loved Mama, it sometimes appeared as though Mama loved her boys more.

She pulled Jafar close while Rohan slipped under her other arm, and Baba stormed past the curtain to his room.

Rohan swallowed. Jafar bit the inside of his already raw cheek.

Mama looked between the two of them, a thousand and one emotions swimming in her eyes the color of smothered embers. Her skin was a little duller than it had been yesterday, her hair thinner. She finally settled her expression in a pained smile and picked up a pot, the hem of her gown flaring with her spry movements. “Did I ever tell you the story of the golden scarab?”

So began a new tale, Mama’s usual method for distracting her boys from the world and its troubles. Jafar had found comfort in the stories, once. But they did nothing to change their reality, only made it go away for a while, and Jafar didn’t think he was a little boy anymore.

And he might have stolen the food they would eat tonight, and had eaten every night for the past however long, but it was still more than his father had done.

Jafar was worth more than the disgust curling Baba’s lips. If only he could make Baba see that. If only he could control Baba the way Baba tried to control everything.

“It is said that an ancient enchanter created the golden scarab as a compass,” Mama said, slicing through his angry thoughts.

“A bug?” Rohan asked, making a face. “That’s not a compass.”

“It was made to find something that didn’t want to be found,” Mama said, “and so, its creation required years and years of studying, scouring accounts on history, lore, and”—she leaned closer to Jafar, sensing his disinterest—“alchemy.”

Jafar felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the word alchemy . Alchemy, Mama had once told him, was the study of something as close to magic as reality allowed. And because Jafar wasn’t fond of his reality, it fascinated him.

“Did he study alchemy in the House of Wisdom?” Jafar asked.

“Oh, but, Jafar, all great men do,” Mama replied with a smile. “He was, however, unaware of the powerful treasure the scarab could lead its owner toward, of the genie that could grant his master three wishes. When he learned of the potential power, which no one person should ever possess, he split the scarab in two and hid each half far, far away from the other.”

Rohan gasped. Jafar’s gaze had strayed to the curtain at the end of the hall that led to Baba’s bedroom.

“And then what happened, Mama?” Rohan asked. He was still full of wonder, still rife with the awe that only a younger child could keep alive.

“The two halves remain divided, and for whoever gathers both pieces and joins them together once more, a great reward awaits. Do you see, Jafar?” Mama asked, slicing an eggplant into neat circles.

“What?” Jafar asked, only to indulge her. He gathered the slices in a bowl before pulling out her basket of spices.

Mama smiled. “My little helper. They are two halves of a whole—”

“Like me and Jafar!” Rohan exclaimed.

Mama laughed. “Indeed. Good catch, my daffodil. Together, you are both as powerful as the golden scarab. You can do anything and stand up to anyone, remain strong against adversity.”

“And summon a genie?” Rohan asked. “I already know what I’d wish for.” He was looking at the small pile of sweets on the counter.

Mama’s laugh grew. “Yes, even summon a genie who will grant wishes beyond your wildest dreams.”

Jafar wished he could dream. Jafar wished he could control the world around him. He wished he had clung to his mother’s stories more. Appreciated the distractions for what they were: little morsels of escape from the reality of life in this village. He wished he had better shown her how much he loved her.

Because it wasn’t even three days later when her body was cold and the sands were smoothed over her grave.