15 - Rohan
T hat eerie silence grew louder and louder as Rohan and Jafar neared the palace. That sense of mourning settled over him like rare, sticky heat. He remembered what Jafar had said: it felt as if someone was dead.
Rohan knew how that felt. He’d experienced it twice. Once when he’d found Mama’s body cold and unmoving on the kitchen floor, and again when he’d lost his house, his father, and his life in one fell swoop.
“You find it odd that I insist upon your visit,” the Sultana said, glancing back at them. The sunlight glinted off the lemon-drop jewels that dangled from her ears. Her azure gown was as bright as the sky, but it only served to make her look paler. Sadder, somehow.
Rohan stumbled on a reply.
“Admittedly, yes,” Jafar said. He possessed an innate charisma. Rohan thought again how his brother had been born to the wrong class, even if Baba’s later riches had eventually raised them higher. He wasn’t meant to be poor or even middle class. He was destined for greater things. He could call himself a prince in the streets, and no one would question it—the guard earlier had said as much.
The Sultana smiled. “It’s been long since we’ve had such young acolytes. The world is not as it used to be.”
Her gaze darkened, or perhaps that was the sun disappearing from view when they stepped under the shade of the palace entrance. They climbed the low, crescent-shaped staircase that led to a pair of wide, dark wooden doors that must have taken months and skillful talent to carve.
The guards pushed them open as the four of them neared. The Sultana didn’t even pause her stride as she entered, her royal vizier following her inside like a loyal tiger, Jafar and Rohan at their heels.
They passed an exquisite foyer, in the center of which was a large plant that looked as if it held a significance Rohan didn’t understand. The entirety of the palace oozed extravagance, and not in a lavish, overstated way. It was subtle, well done. Even the air here tasted different, like magic.
The Sultana and her vizier didn’t pause, carrying on to another pair of doors that guards leaped forward to open. Rohan felt important as he passed them, and tried not to gape as they entered the throne room. The floor lightened to polished alabaster, brilliant and bright. A massive bronze throne sat at the other end, bejeweled in rubies, pearls, and other gems Rohan had never seen before. He was in awe but also torn between wanting to give in to this unexpected adventure and wanting to return to his search for the golden scarab.
Notes of citrus and clove filled his lungs, a blend that reminded him of those first promising drops of rain on the sun-scorched sands, but the scent felt off. Wrong. As if they were trying to mask something with it.
“Here we are,” the Sultana said, sinking into her throne. There were others in the room, more advisors who didn’t seem to hold the same status at the royal vizier, and guards stationed by every elaborately carved window. “Welcome to my palace.”
Her tone was less queenly now, more battered and bruised. She looked at Jafar in a way that was almost yearning, and Rohan couldn’t fathom why. It was an odd expression, as if they were kin. As if she were his mother.
“You will be fed and led to your rooms, and—”
“Rooms?” Jafar asked, cutting her short.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath at the interruption. Rohan had heard one too many stories from Mama about royalty who had beheaded commoners for less, and a fresh sweat broke out along his brow.
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Jafar quickly added, “but I must say that we are not here to stay.”
The Sultana tilted her head. “You’ll turn down an offer to stay in a palace? To live as princes?”
Jafar had stiffened. Rohan knew that stance and expression well: he wanted to pull Rohan behind him, but the Sultana had just offered to let them live as princes, not threatened to kill them.
“The head librarian is expecting me,” Jafar said, his voice tight.
“And I’ll send word of your new arrangements. You will no longer be a traditional apprentice of the House of Wisdom.”
Jafar was still stiff, that dreaded darkness shrouding his gaze, his brows dropping low. “All of this at what cost?”
His pride could get them killed one day.
“What my brother means to say, Sultana,” Rohan started, “is that we can’t understand why such a generous offer would be presented to us, a pair of village boys.” He smiled. “And a parrot.”
“Ah, he speaks,” the Sultana said, turning her scrutiny to Rohan. “You sound like a boy accustomed to being a diplomat.”
Mama had always been the diplomat. Rohan had never considered that after her death, he had taken her place. He was the one who would step between Baba and Jafar, persuading Jafar to relent, begging Baba to forgive. He had only a moment to dwell on that fact before the weight of the eyes in the room threatened to crush him. Now would have been a good time to disappear into the stone beneath his feet. Was he supposed to respond? He didn’t know. Expectations were rarely ever placed on him.
The Sultana clucked her tongue and waved to the royal vizier, sparing him the trouble, and Rohan realized he was getting a glimpse of what she was like as queen. “Harun, take them away. I have other matters to attend to.”