32 - Rohan
I n the dressmaker’s quarters, Rohan stood on a pedestal where he was spun around and poked and prodded. He had come to Maghriz to atone for—and rectify—killing his baba, not to be rewarded with luxury. He had come to Maghriz for a genie in a lamp, not a crown. He had come to Maghriz for his brother, not a courtship.
A life of grandeur. A crown. A courtship. A wife . Somehow that was more nerve-racking than inheriting a kingdom. He was only seventeen. He wasn’t ready to entrust his life to another and have her life entrusted to him.
After taking measurements, the dressmaker shooed him away and rushed to work, ignoring Rohan’s profuse thanks. He was then sent to another room, though “room” was putting it lightly.
If only you could see your penniless boys now, Baba, Rohan thought: the lush bed, the wide windows with a view of the gardens more colorful than the dressmaker’s textiles. The marble on the floor gleamed with polish, and the threads on the rug beneath his feet were so tightly woven, the piece would have taken weeks to complete.
It was exquisite. It was overwhelming.
He wasn’t a visitor running his fingers over the lacquered dresser. His clothes would soon sit in its drawers. He owned the dresser, the rug, the bed, and the gossamer curtains fluttering at the windows.
He would soon own this kingdom.
Rohan felt very sick, and very, very alone.
“You fit right in.”
The Sultana stepped through the door, regal in her obsidian gown. The fine lines across her brow deepened with her smile, though he could see the sorrow that was more pronounced now. As if she had given herself permission to grieve in his presence. Or because someone was swiftly taking the place of her son.
“What if neither of us looked like him?” Rohan asked. “What if you couldn’t find a replacement, and the king of Hulum needed to be told the truth?”
“I would have found a replacement regardless,” the Sultana said. She reached into her pocket and gave the slightest pause. “I was in the House of Wisdom the day I found you and your brother, preparing to buy myself more time. The king of Hulum last saw my son when he was three years of age.” She tilted her head. “What is this about?”
Coincidence never worked out well, did it? If one coincidence could be made in a matter of days, so could another. If she could so easily replace her son with a random stranger, how easy would it be to replace Rohan with someone else?
The Sultana seemed to guess his thoughts. “Do not mistake circumstance for coincidence. And do not devalue a gift simply because it was given to you and not someone else. You crossed the sands for a better life, and I was here to provide it to you.”
“I went from an orphan to a prince as if I’d called upon a genie,” Rohan said. It was too much too soon.
She smiled. “Being a prince isn’t as glamorous as one would assume. You may need more wishes than you think.”
Rohan found himself waiting for Jafar’s quip, waiting for him to answer her or scoff under his breath and whisper a response for Rohan alone, but he wasn’t here.
“He will come around,” the Sultana said.
Rohan looked away. “I wasn’t thinking about him.”
“Of course,” she replied with a look that made him feel like a little boy. “But worry not. He will be by your side at all times. I would not lead as well as I do without my vizier, and my hope is that Jafar will be that for you.”
Rohan did not see that happening, but he smiled nonetheless.
“Now come, your clothes will be ready shortly, but a boy needs more than fancy clothes to be a prince,” the Sultana said. “I need you to know the basics, at least, of Maghrizi history, and some etiquette. Like how to walk like you own a kingdom and not merely the baubles in your pocket.”
Rohan followed her away, knowing that no matter how much he learned, he would never be fit for a crown. Unlike Jafar.