17 - Rohan
R ohan pressed his back against the door and sank to the floor. The tile was cold beneath him, and the sun wasn’t as hot anymore as the day neared its end. His brother had been lying to his face the entire time. And Rohan, worst of all, had followed him without question.
Now that the truth was out, Jafar hadn’t even tried to apologize or explain, or to pretend. He’d spoken of their parents like someone would speak about glasses that had shattered or trinkets they’d bought in a shop full of a hundred others.
Rohan thought back to when the guard had praised Jafar for his application, and when Jafar had sent him to the section on Lore, saying he would look through the section on Artifacts. Right in front of the section titled Al-Kimiya.
Alchemy . The word transported him back to their house and their mother’s stories that spoke of alchemy. And then, another recollection: their father, yelling and shouting and the word al-kimiya .
Rohan couldn’t remember much of the conversation—up until he recalled the word now, he hadn’t even known of the memory. What he did remember was Jafar’s fascination with alchemy, even as it straddled the line of the dark arts. Was that what he had always intended to do? Come here and learn alchemy? Rohan should have realized it from the start. Jafar had never cared for their father. He wouldn’t want to bring him back to life.
Jafar hadn’t come here for the lamp.
Rohan ground his teeth. He didn’t need Jafar. He didn’t know if the genie could revive the dead, but it didn’t matter now.
He was going to find the lamp anyway.
If only he weren’t trapped in a palace. A strangled laugh tore out of him. Of all the problems to have. The room was spacious and luxurious. Rohan sank into a bed that was plusher than anything he’d ever felt before.
It made him feel lonely. Baba was gone, and he felt Mama’s absence even more now that he had not a single possession to his name. Jafar had all but crushed his trust, and the Sultana’s kindness was alarming. As alarming as the cavalier way in which she spoke of the prisoner kept somewhere in the palace.
But you’re not a prisoner.
That was a welcome thought. He might have been trapped in the palace, but the Sultana had given them free rein of said palace. Rohan could explore as he pleased, without Jafar. Or better yet, he could find a way to cross over to the House of Wisdom and continue his search for the golden scarab. It was still on the palace grounds, after all.
Rohan eased the door open, listening for any sound of his brother or the ruffle of a parrot’s feathers. He picked up one of the ghorayeba cookies from the platter the Sultana had brought them and bit down. The single pistachio in its center rolled between his teeth as buttery flakes melted on his tongue. The antechamber was quiet, and the door to Jafar’s room was ajar. He peeked inside at the untouched bed and still-full pitcher of water on the low table beside it.
Jafar wasn’t there.
Rohan opened the door to the palace hall, jumping at the sight of the guard standing beside it. The man stared down at him.
“Hello,” Rohan said.
The man said and did nothing. Well then.
“Do you happen to know where my brother went?”
The guard shuffled, readjusting the menacing spear in his fist. Rohan couldn’t tell if the spear was meant to protect him or keep him in line.
“The House of Wisdom,” the guard said.
Rohan bit back a growl. So much for that plan. He didn’t want to see Jafar’s face right now. He didn’t want to hear his voice. Nor did he want to be alone when Jafar was out doing something.
He looked down the corridors outside their rooms. Somewhere, a fountain gurgled. A group of women giggled. The breeze whistled through the latticed windows, evening sunlight slipping in with it.
“Explore it is,” Rohan said, with a nod at the guard.