38 - Rohan
I n the rooms that had once belonged to the real Prince Aman of Maghriz, Rohan smoothed out his robes and straightened the green plume in his headdress. The silken, featherlight fabric felt heavy over his head, like he already bore the weight of the kingdom.
The emotions churning through him were more fitted for an appointment at the gallows than an engagement banquet. It was all happening far too fast. He knew next to nothing about the prince he was posing as, and now he was expected to behave exactly like him while being betrothed to a princess.
The Sultana’s kind words and sure smiles extended as far as his obedience. The king of Hulum, his soon-to-be father-in-law, despised his very existence. If the princess was anything like her father, Rohan was in for a real treat.
And yet, despite it all, he was most anxious about seeing Jafar. Rohan splashed water on his face and stared at his reflection in the looking glass, aware of the empty space beside him. He didn’t want this. He wanted to go back to being at Jafar’s side. He wanted to curl up in Jafar’s shadow, where everything was safe.
Why had he ever wanted to leave? Was Jafar’s list of lies and questionable actions really so terrible if he’d done it all to help both of them? Maybe Jafar would be at the banquet tonight. Maybe Rohan could speak to him and mend things between them.
He thought of the Sultana and her vizier, and how Rohan could give Jafar that same power, that same control that Baba never allowed him to have.
And then his escort was knocking on the door, reminding him that dreams were often a sweet, sweet torment.
Rohan paused by the Sultana’s side as the doors swung open and a caller announced their names, and he reminded himself not to ogle the lavish furnishings or inhale the aroma of the food.
He was the prince now. Delectable dishes were nothing but a snap of his fingers away. He didn’t have to count dinars when he was hungry, nor did he have to wait until his father was hungry for food to be brought from the kitchens.
The banquet hall was beautifully built, with a pitched ceiling from which a large chandelier hung between a pair of smaller matching ones, all three set with a multitude of candles flickering in hypnotizing harmony.
The Sultana nudged him, and Rohan tore his gaze from the tiled ceiling. An older man with a gold-trimmed cloak and the thickest beard Rohan had ever seen was watching him expectantly. A small yellow parakeet sat on his shoulder, so unlike Iago that it was disappointing.
The man looked as though he was waiting for an answer, and Rohan wished someone would repeat what was said, but neither the Sultana nor the man cared to waste their breath.
Smile, Jafar would say to him. Make them feel good.
“Architecture!” Rohan said in amazement. “No reason to have your head in the clouds anymore when there’s so much to see inside, no?”
The man gave a stilted laugh. “Such is the danger of modern life, my prince. You are just as I remember you. Wit and hilarity abound.”
“You are too kind,” Rohan said.
Beside him, the Sultana was tense enough to snap.
“Shall we, Aman?” she asked, gesturing to the end of the low tables where the fanciest of cushions were laid out for them in hues of gold and cream that matched the rest of the hall’s decor.
Rohan gave the man one last smile and followed her to his seat, ignoring her glare.
“I don’t know who that was. I don’t know who any of these people are,” he said.
“Every person here was announced as we were,” the Sultana said. “If only you were paying attention, Aman . No—do not sit before the king’s arrival, you lout.”
Rohan froze. Jafar would never allow anyone to insult him in such a way. The Sultana didn’t look the least bit apologetic, and Rohan bit his tongue.
The caller’s next announcement cut her words short. “King Qadir of Hulum, and his daughter, the illustrious princess!”
Rohan looked past the sea of people and tables to the double doors as the king stepped through, as sour and dour as at their prior meeting, even dressed in finery.
But the princess—Rohan’s breath latched tight in his chest. Once, he had strongly believed there was nothing in existence more beautiful than the full moon. Until her.
Her skin was like amber, her hair like the depths of the forests he’d only read about in stories, the brown so dark it could almost be black, threaded with silver chains that shimmered like stars in the night. Her lips were lush, the same vermillion as Iago’s feathers.
Rohan was, to put it simply, infatuated.
But the princess of Hulum did not seem happy to see him. And not because she didn’t like how he looked. No, she seemed… sad .
She barely looked at him, her gaze downcast as she walked beside King Qadir.
The doors opened again, this time without an announcement attached. Several servants and attendants stepped through, amongst them a familiar figure.
Jafar. He paused, taking in the beauty of the space, the parade of people, and then his shrewd gaze reached Rohan and the Sultana, then King Qadir and the princess, who was looking at him, lips parted in breathless anguish.
And Rohan watched as the color bled from Jafar’s face.