39 - Jafar
J afar remembered, acutely, the pain he’d felt when Mama died. He had thought his heart would split in two, that his soul would separate from his body. That pain did not compare to what he felt now.
It couldn’t be true. The princess of Hulum could not be his moon girl, his boisterous girl. It couldn’t be Yara, the woman he had fallen in love with. How could this be? How could she have allowed that?
Jafar had stomached his brother taking credit for his work. He had stomached his brother being crowned prince of a kingdom unlike any other. He would not be able to handle this.
She lowered her chin. She had been expecting him and had worn her best for him, a wondrous, sweeping dress in a shade of scarlet as wicked as her grins and lightning-fast raillery. She was a work of art, her gown an illustrious frame worthy of holding her.
Jafar’s heart ached.
Say no, he begged of her. Refuse him. He wanted her to throw out her hands and proclaim her love for him, a boy who was nothing and no one with barely a handful of dinars and a pair of rubies to his name. But he knew that she wouldn’t.
She was here for her kingdom, for marriage. She had love for her father, even if she’d said she was falling in love with Jafar. He remembered, then, the sorrow that had crossed her features, the regret, the reluctance to get close.
He watched, heart sinking, falling, breaking, as she did and said nothing.
I’ve been known to give in too easily.
Royal weddings to fulfill treaties happened regularly. Love didn’t need to exist between the two parties. If her father wanted her wed to an imposter prince who wasn’t Jafar, his moon girl would accept. He was sure of it.
There were scores of people in the room, yet in that moment, it was only the three of them: clueless Rohan; obedient Yara; and then Jafar, numb and cold and hurting.
A burst of red rushed through the doors and landed on his shoulder.
“There you are,” Iago panted. “I thought I couldn’t come in here, but some of these bozos have pets, and I was coming to tell you that— oh . You already know.”
Yara had arrived days before Jafar and Rohan had set foot in Maghriz. She had known all along that nothing between them could work out. She’d told him as much: There’s something thrilling about meeting a person wholly unaware of who you are, no?
He didn’t know why he hadn’t made the connection sooner. She moved with practiced grace and a sense of innate pride. She exuded riches and splendor. Every inch of her had screamed royalty, and he had ignored every hint.
And so, Jafar came to a horrifying conclusion: she had used him.
Their tryst was as catastrophic as she’d promised it would be.
Jafar could not stand to see her, or his brother, or the Sultana and her dinner party. He fled the room, slamming into more than one servant in his rush. Iago said nothing, just hopped off his shoulder and kept pace beside him.
Jafar sat on the edge of his bed, the night nipping chilled teeth along his skin. The room was dark, but he didn’t bother with the lanterns, and the moon didn’t offer anything more than the thinnest of smiles.
The rubies looked sinister in his palm.
“Whatever you’re thinking, slow it down,” Iago warned. “Don’t be hasty.”
Jafar turned the stones over and likened each facet to a different part of his life:
There was Baba, who had locked him in the broom closet on that fateful day, forcing him to befriend his demons and listen to their whispers. And when Jafar learned of what Baba had done to his scholarship and his dreams, he’d snapped. He had listened with a keen ear as his father screamed, gasped, and begged his way to death.
He turned the rubies again.
Then there was his brother, who looked up to him like he was more than a boy who couldn’t stop opening his mouth, even when his words earned him a slap. At first, Rohan was a nuisance, but then he became the only one who appreciated Jafar’s ideas, valued and respected his opinions. Jafar had sought his brother’s adoration because it meant someone was giving him the recognition he deserved—until he lost it. No, until his brother stopped , because he’d discovered the fortitude to step out from Jafar’s shadow.
Rohan’s bravery would have been admirable, if it hadn’t come at Jafar’s expense.
Jafar turned the rubies over again.
Yara. Sweet, sweet Yara. She had loved him for a flicker of smoke. No, he reminded himself. She had used him.
Jafar rose and pulled his headdress back over his head. He clutched the rubies tight, the sharp edges digging into his skin.
“Jafar, what are you doing?” Iago asked shakily.
“We’re going to show every last one of them who truly holds power here,” Jafar replied.
An important oath.
For what? Jafar thought. He had tried helping his father, he had done everything for his brother, he had obeyed his mother.
What had any of that done for him? He was beginning to hate the person he was, though he was all he had. It was time to choose himself, thoroughly and wholly. He could have had the rubies the day they’d arrived in Maghriz, but he’d chosen to protect Rohan. He could have used the rubies the moment Iago had dropped them in his hand, but he’d chosen to entertain Yara.
He had trusted Yara; he had trusted Rohan.
Now he was through—with choosing others, with trusting others, with allowing anyone to think they were his equal.
Power could not be shared.