18 - Jafar
“C an I talk now?” Iago asked as he and Jafar crossed the open sands to the House of Wisdom. Jafar was certain they were being watched in the palace, by Harun most likely, and he hadn’t wanted Iago squawking about. Keeping the parrot in line was akin to trying to keep a child from a bag of dates. Endlessly futile.
Jafar turned his gaze to the sun, breathing in the warm sands and the fresh breeze. Before them, the House of Wisdom was still as breathtaking as the first time he’d seen it. Immense and vast, sheer power to behold.
“Go ahead,” Jafar said.
“You sounded a little breathless there,” Iago said with a tilt of his head.
Jafar glared at him. “Is that what you wanted to say? I’m going to start carrying around crackers to shove down your throat.”
Iago scowled as the guard let them through with a nod, and Jafar paused to breathe it all in. That smell . Jafar wished he could inject it into his veins. He would kill for the smell of ink, for the preservation of the written word, for books. Rolls of papyrus were layered as delicately and beautifully as baklava beside books in every size and shape, worn covers humming a tune, enticing him to part their covers and hear their songs.
“I thought we already established that the Sultana has the rubies,” Iago eventually said.
“We did,” Jafar said. It was a struggle to keep his excitement from bubbling into his voice. “But who knows where she’s keeping them now.”
“Exactly,” Iago said haltingly, not following his logic.
He couldn’t waste time dawdling at the palace, especially with the Sultana being cagey and strange. Jafar didn’t know what she wanted from him and Rohan, but he didn’t intend to stick around long to find out.
“First, I want to take a look at something,” Jafar said. “Then, we’ll whip up a finder’s spell.”
He strode past the shelves to the western wing of the library, separated by a wide, ornate arch that led to something he had been as eager to see as the library itself: the laboratory.
The House of Wisdom was funded by the Maghrizi palace, and though much of their resources were clearly dedicated to the preservation of the many books and scrolls in the library, they did not scrimp here, either.
There were complex distillation sets and vials storing a multitude of gases, elixirs, and potions. Well-made tools hung from the walls, neat and orderly, above sheets of metal that could be sculpted however one required. Jafar suspected he’d be spending a good amount of time in here when he began dabbling in alchemy.
He almost laughed at the idea that was once so far out of reach.
“And where will you find your finder’s spell?” Iago asked, grounding him.
Jafar made his way through the shelves. “In Alchemy.”
“I see,” Iago said with a note of trepidation. Jafar realized then that whatever had made Iago the way he was had to be related to alchemy. The study was innocent enough, but it was a narrow path, easy to veer off into the dark arts. And create something like a bird who spoke and acted like a man.
Jafar couldn’t keep looking with Iago here. That would be disrespectful, dismissive. He opened his mouth to tell him to embark on his search.
Iago spoke first. “Well, get on with it, then! I guess I’ll hunt around for answers of my own.”
The parrot hopped off his shoulder and flew to the shadows above the shelves with a whistle, leaving Jafar before the section he’d only ever dreamed of seeing with his own two eyes. He drew a careful breath to steady himself and the rush of emotions flooding through him. If only Mama were here to see him now. To see this —the House of Wisdom and the artifacts she’d spoken of; to feel the air that shimmered with the same mystical magic of her tales.
He didn’t know where to start. He stepped closer, awestruck and ecstatic, perusing the spines and scrolls and an endless string of words listing out ways to evoke and persuade and alter. There were infinite uses for elements like brimstone and quicksilver, even for water. Then there were other, more obscure elements he’d never heard of, like bloodstones and tin salts, and the strange, eerie symbols used to represent them. He hadn’t realized the magnitude of what alchemy had to offer. All he’d ever known were Mama’s stories and the handful of books she’d once owned. This was tenfold. This was more than he could ever ask for.
But he could barely concentrate.
Every time he blinked, he saw the hurt crushing Rohan’s features. He dragged a hand down his face. Why do I care so much? Rohan was acting more childish than ever, slowly becoming a hindrance as Baba had been.
Jafar set a bundle of scrolls aside and sighed, leaning back against the bookshelf. He would make things right with Rohan first and return with a clear mind.
“That’s quite the sigh,” someone said. “Whatever you’re worried about might just not be worth the trouble.”
Jafar started, nearly toppling the scrolls piled precariously on the shelf as someone rounded the aisle to stand before him.
It was her. The girl he’d seen walking to the gardens.
She was even more tantalizing up close. The picture of beauty, with doe eyes encased by lashes as lush as her curves, irises a lovely shade darker than her silken hair, and a smile that could only be described as wickedly sweet. Her gown clung to her as keenly as a lover, exuding opulence with faceted garnets dazzling in gold-threaded florals, vibrant against a landscape of black gossamer.
The potted plants scattered amongst the shelves leaned toward her, and the featherlight curtains rustled for her attention from the library’s windows.
“It’s bad manners to stare,” she mock-whispered. Her gaze was alight with mischief under the library’s many candlelit sconces.
“As it is to take someone by surprise,” Jafar replied just as quickly. Her grin widened.
She hummed. “You got me there.”
Her eyes were like ink, eager to tell a story, drawing him into their depths. She was curious, he could tell. He wondered if she was one of the scholarship students the House of Wisdom had taken in this year. No, she was dressed too finely for that, and the Sultana didn’t have a daughter, as far as he knew. Then again, very few even knew of the prince’s current situation.
“I see we’re one and the same,” the girl said, and Jafar blinked at her, eyebrows lifting in question.
“Are we?” he asked.
She nodded. “You want to know who I am, and I want to know who you are. Though there’s something thrilling about meeting a person wholly unaware of who you are, no? To be a stranger is often a gift.”
That, Jafar could agree on. It was refreshing. It was freeing . His entire existence had been associated with his father’s for so long that it sometimes felt as if he was only ever a son and never his own person.
For a moment, Jafar thought that meant the girl was a secret Maghrizi princess, but a girl who was kept hidden wouldn’t find it thrilling to meet someone who didn’t know of her. Jafar imagined she would feel quite the opposite.
“And I see no reason why that must change,” Jafar replied, because he knew it was what she wanted him to say.
She was distracting him from his task, but Jafar was as intrigued by her as she appeared to be by him. Did she wear kohl for beauty or protection? Was her sun-kissed skin an indicator of a girl who preferred the outdoors? What are you doing, Jafar? Why did any of this matter?
Please don’t come back yet, Iago.
“And I see no reason why we can’t have both,” she announced and lifted her head with a flourish. The fine silver chains threaded through her hair swayed, tiny pearls dotted throughout shimmering. “Tell me something about you that won’t give you away.”
Jafar didn’t have to think long. “I adore the scent of ink.”
“You’re fast,” the girl said with a surprised laugh. “Hmm, I adore the sight of a black moon.”
Both ink and a black moon were the same: dark and full of possibility, promising something new. And she was quick as a viper. He liked that. Her laugh made his heart quiver, a feeling not too different from when Baba would snap at him, or when Mama had been on the floor, gasping her last breaths. He’d never felt the same quiver for something nice , and he liked that, too.
“Careful,” Jafar said. “I’ll start to think we’re the same person.”
The girl studied him a long moment, something like remorse flickering in her eyes.
“No,” she said, tilting her head. The light glazed down the side of her neck, and warmth washed down Jafar’s body. “We’re too different for that.”
And then she was sauntering away.
“I’ll leave you to your scrolls, then,” she called, “but do steer clear of the forbidden, hmm? Until next time, ink boy.”
He watched her leave, her walk as proud as her words. She hadn’t even told him her name. The village of Ghurub had its fair share of pretty faces, but none of them had ever sparked Jafar’s interest. It was hard to find someone alluring when they were dull, their minds as small as their town. This girl was different. She walked as though she’d seen the cruelty of the world and remained headstrong regardless.
Jafar started to follow her, but he… couldn’t . He didn’t make it far from the section on alchemy before invisible hands gripped his arms and a fog drifted over his thoughts. The books hummed and beckoned until he couldn’t remember the girl. The scrolls held him in place. We understand you, the shelves seemed to say. Unlike everyone else. Unlike Baba. Unlike Rohan. His brother could wait—he wasn’t ready to listen.
And Jafar needed to find those rubies.
Light spilled from the windowpanes, casting the shelves in a blood-like hue. Strange. Jafar might not always heed the commands of people, but when the written word spoke to him, he listened. Always. He turned back to the pyramid of scrolls and plucked the first one.