36 - Rohan
R ohan had just finished memorizing far too many details he wished he didn’t need to know about the deceased Maghrizi prince when the door flew open. It wasn’t Sharif with wooden swords, but the dressmaker and a servant boy, both red-faced and white-robed. The dressmaker dropped a pile of clothes on the large table in the center of the room.
“What is the meaning of this?” the royal vizier asked.
“You could have called us to your quarters,” the Sultana agreed, eyeing the intruders.
“The Hulumi king has been sighted. His arrival is imminent,” the dressmaker said, gesturing for Rohan to rise. The king of Hulum was here. Here . “Arms spread. Basim, disrobe him.”
“I had hoped he would have time to bathe and dress more comfortably,” the Sultana said, closing the doors. Rohan held back a sigh of relief when she turned away.
Why were they all panicking? He was the only one allowed to panic. If they panicked, his panic would amplify tenfold.
The servant boy stripped him to his underclothes, and the dressmaker looked like he wanted to set them on fire.
“Dress the boy,” the royal vizier snapped, and the dressmaker and his servant leaped to attention, dragging a washcloth along his body first before dressing him in layer after layer. When they took a step back, Rohan wriggled his shoulders and straightened the cuffs. The threads were immaculate, the linen spun so finely that the almost white, barely there green of his shirt had a sheen the deeper green of his robes wanted to swallow whole.
The dressmaker had worked quickly, and well. They wrapped and secured a headdress in bright white with a plume of green that matched his robes. His entire ensemble was astounding, and he wished Jafar were here to approve of it. He wished this moment didn’t feel as though he were preparing for his beheading.
“Perfect,” the Sultana said with approval just as the door flew open again.
A messenger darted inside this time, panting. “The Hulumi, Your Highness. The king is here.”
Rohan’s heart leaped to his throat. It felt like an army was at their door, rather than a peaceful convoy.
The Sultana squared her shoulders, relieving the messenger and the others before she and Harun turned back to Rohan.
“Remember, these people are the enemy,” Harun said. “You’re—”
“I’m marrying the enemy,” Rohan said, a flustered laugh breaking out of him. He no longer felt like he’d been promoted from pauper to prince. He felt like a free man suddenly caged. His future was suddenly controlled by a woman he barely knew but would now call Mother.
“Yes and no,” the Sultana said. “In this particular situation, neither of us is at war yet—this will be no different from your interrogating the Maghrizi prisoner.”
Rohan snapped his head up to look at her. She knows. She winked and led him out of the room and through several halls. He didn’t want this. He could barely breathe. He wanted Jafar. He needed Jafar.
But Rohan was the prince now. He would one day lead an entire kingdom of people. He trailed after her. The emerald cloak over her gown undulated in the light, mocking him, almost. What are you doing here? it seemed to ask.
He didn’t know.
What if the princess was rude? What if she saw straight through his ruse and knew he was nothing but a villager? Rohan paused as another thought suddenly rose from the chaos of his mind: What if she’s ugly?
The Sultana laughed, and he realized he had asked the question out loud. He chewed his lip. Vain was the last thing he wanted to be seen as.
“That is always a concern, isn’t it?” the Sultana asked. “We royalty have power over much, but the freedom to choose upon looks isn’t one of them.”
That was infinitely unhelpful, and it must have been clear on his face, for she pondered him for a moment.
She gestured to the archway leading to the meeting hall up ahead. “Worry not, you’ll be meeting her father first.”
His heart sank to his knees, and before he could formulate a response, they turned the corner and Rohan saw the king for himself.
The king of Hulum stood by the window overlooking the courtyard. He was tall and built as though he could crush Rohan’s skull between his palms without breaking a sweat. A black cloak edged in gold shrouded his robes. His beard was thick and dark as the pits of his eyes, which scrutinized Rohan as he entered the room with the Sultana.
Make sure you walk beside me, not behind me, she had said.
He couldn’t read people like Jafar could, but he knew immediately that the king of Hulum disliked him. Contempt tightened his mouth as he swept a look down Rohan and turned away. The dismissal was worse than his distaste.
He had failed as a prince already.
“Marhaba, Qadir,” the Sultana said, inclining her head. “Please, be seated.”
He was an older man, with streaks of white in his dark hair and fine lines drawn across his austere features.
“It has been long,” the king said to her, smiling like it pained him to do so. His gaze was cold and shrewd. “The years have treated you well.”
The comment made Rohan uncomfortable, and it wasn’t even directed at him.
“As they have you,” the Sultana said with a smile that told Rohan she didn’t actually think so.
Rohan knew that the king of Hulum was searching for a reason to nullify their agreement. What kind of king would be on the lookout for war? It promised death not only for the Maghrizi, but the Hulumi as well.
Rohan thought of the duckling that he was still uncertain if he or Jafar had killed, or if it had simply been a runt on its last days. Still, there was something powerful in knowing he could control what might be something’s last breath. And sometimes, he’d felt powerful knowing he’d caused Baba’s death; someone with that much status in their village was gone because of him. Was that how it felt when one was king?
“I take it your journey here was uneventful?” the Sultana asked.
“Only the usual suspects,” the king said. His eyes tracked her as she sat down and patted the spot beside her for Rohan. “Bandits hiding in the dunes, ruffians underestimating a modest caravan.”
“A boon, then, that you sent your daughter ahead of time,” the Sultana said, her voice hard. It seemed as though his daughter wasn’t a welcome guest. But wait —that meant the princess was here in the palace. Had been in the palace, likely before Rohan and Jafar had even arrived. It was a wonder Rohan hadn’t already met her.
“Your tone suggests I sent her here with ulterior motives,” the king said. “Are you implying that she is a spy?”
“Do not mistake a sore throat for an insinuating tone, Qadir,” the Sultana said. “I allowed her free rein of the palace while heeding your wishes. I did not allow my son to meet her without your being present.”
Rohan was going to need lessons on how to speak to royalty by severing heads with words. This back-and-forth was brutal.
The Sultana smiled. “And now my son looks forward to being reacquainted with her at tonight’s banquet.”
Rohan had to remind himself that the son in question was him. Tonight? Disappointment flooded through him. He hadn’t realized he had been hoping to see her now. Listen to yourself. Already an entitled brat.
Jafar’s voice in his head was very loud.
The king continued to scrutinize Rohan, his gaze frigid and relentless as a servant appeared in the room, gripping the antique gold handles of a tray with white-knuckled fingers. Everyone was strung tight.
She set the tray on the ottoman and stepped back.
“Please,” the Sultana said to the king. “There is nothing finer than Maghrizi tea.”
King Qadir all but sneered. “Only because the rest of us have acquired the taste for qahwa.”
It was a slight, Rohan realized, a subtle attack on the Sultana that she took like a slap to the face. Red bloomed in her cheeks. The royal vizier looked ready to summon the guards. Rohan’s fingers closed into fists, anxiety coiling them tight.
“I’ll have a cup, please,” he said, breaking the tension in one clear cut. The Sultana smiled, relief in her eyes. King Qadir worked his jaw. “Not all of us can stomach qahwa, unfortunately.”
“I can attest to that,” the Sultana said with a hearty laugh.
Rohan moved to pour himself a cup before the Sultana held him back with a subtle squeeze on his elbow. A servant moved to serve him. Right. He had completely forgotten. And he was the only one with a cup of tea now. He wished he could retract his words along with this wretched crown. He sipped, and it took everything in him not to spit the mouthful right back out. It was beyond scalding.
“Will that be all, then?” the king asked. The Sultana looked taken aback. “Until tonight.”
“I was under the impression you wanted to meet with me and my son,” she said.
He stared at Rohan. “I am tired. I only wanted to meet now because I’d heard rumors of your son’s demise, and after a week of traveling in the desert sun, I was beginning to believe them. I see now that they were unfounded.”
It seemed he was done being subtle.
“Indeed they were,” the Sultana said with a brittle laugh. She patted Rohan’s hand. “Here he is.”
The king of Hulum did not smile or laugh or say a word, only stared at Rohan as if he could see every lie.