42 - Yara
Y ara had known since she’d first met Jafar that anything between them would be impossible. She was betrothed to the prince of Maghriz, whom she thought was quite handsome if she could look past the boyishness of his features and personality.
She’d known all her life that she could only marry royalty. That a princess like her could never marry a House of Wisdom apprentice. And yet she’d gone and fallen in love with one.
When she’d seen Jafar in the library, sighing with a book in his hand, she hadn’t been able to resist. It was meant to be some harmless fun, a little bit of a thrill before she secured her life to another’s forever. But one word became another, then a laugh became a shy glance, and then she’d held his hand, and in the dark corridor of the palace, he’d kissed her soul into submission.
Oh, how she’d wished she could pull him into a room and memorize every inch of his skin.
Her face burned with the thought, her mind shielding her from reality with the impossible fantasy. The banquet hall was a cacophony, but Yara was secluded in the lush chambers of her mind, where she didn’t have to hear people eating and discussing her betrothal, conversing about the long-uncertain future of a united Maghriz and Hulum.
That should not have been Yara’s burden to bear, but it was one she was prepared to endure for her baba. Even if she wished she could walk through an endless bazaar beside Jafar, holding his hand and learning his secrets.
She hadn’t expected Prince Aman to be his friend. Close friend, judging by how quickly the prince had snapped at the Sultana and run to comfort him. Yara didn’t know what sort of leader that would make him, but she wasn’t too concerned. She was the daughter of King Qadir of Hulum; she knew how to wield both blade and power enough for two mighty kingdoms. It was her birthright.
At last, the doors at the end of the hall swung open again, and Prince Aman returned. He seemed…different, less like a passionate boy and more like an emotionless rag doll.
As she watched, he straightened, his spine sharpening and chin rising as if he’d been told to do just that. Jafar strode in behind him, dressed in black and crimson robes that would match her gown perfectly, and her heart lurched in excitement, but he didn’t even look at her. He didn’t appear upset or heartbroken in the slightest anymore. A veil she could only describe as sinister rested over his face, twisting his beautiful mouth into a wretched smile. Even his parrot looked a little vile.
The Sultana rose to her feet and rushed toward them. “Aman, my heart! You’ve returned!”
“Sit down,” said the prince.
She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. The hall fell silent at the striking command.
Prince Aman kept walking. His gaze flitted from the Sultana to her royal vizier, then drifted to Yara and her father and the guards surrounding the room. He appeared to be analyzing more than looking, like a hawk assessing its prey.
Behind him, Jafar was saying something only Aman could hear. Yara tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at her. It felt deliberate, somehow, as if he was angry at her now. As if he wanted to punish her.
Aman stopped at the front of the room, on the dais near the banquet throne, and every eye turned toward him. He lifted his chin a little higher and spoke, his voice crisp and clear, but empty. “My mother, the Sultana, who has prepared this grand feast for us”—he paused with a dry laugh—“did not intend for me to be here. She sent me on a voyage across the seas in the hopes that I might never return.”
Yara had not spoken to Aman much at all, but she’d thought him timid and soft-spoken, certainly not this .
Gasps rippled through the banquet crowd. They’d all heard of the voyage. Even Yara had known—this betrothal had been delayed several months because of it. But his insinuation was clear. Had the Sultana truly intended to kill off her son?
She and her royal vizier looked stricken.
“But here I am,” Prince Aman called. “Returned from the dead, safe and sound. King Qadir, you must know that she would rather go to war with you than see me married to your daughter.”
No. A cold sweat broke out along Yara’s brow. That was the wrong thing to say. Everything about it was wrong, as if it had been designed to vex Baba in the worst possible manner. Her father had been waiting for any excuse to end the treaty they’d agreed upon a decade ago.
He shot to his feet now, wrenching Yara up beside him. The Sultana looked pale.
“You think your armies are capable of defeating Hulum,” he snarled, his next words an oath. “I will send this kingdom back to the sands from whence it rose.”
The Sultana struggled to rise. “I—”
“There, there,” Aman continued, speaking over her. “No need to be so hasty, Qadir.” Yara flinched at the disrespect in his bold tone, but her father quieted and listened. He respected those who challenged him. “When I’m sultan, I’m certain we can work out a new treaty.”
The Sultana gasped. “You will do no such thing.”
“Then you will deny me my right, Mother ,” Aman countered. The way he spat the word mother made Yara flinch. The way he held the Sultana’s gaze with steel made her pity the woman. The Sultana regarded Aman like she could not believe his words and actions were his own, her gaze flitting between Aman and Jafar as if trying to work out a puzzle.
Yara understood one thing: power was shifting. Yielding. Aman drew closer to the front, Jafar behind him. He held a staff in one hand. It was beautiful, a wicked serpent with vibrant eyes of red that seemed to reflect in Aman’s.
“Guards!” Aman shouted. Spears snapped to attention. “Put my mother in a cell and put her royal vizier in another. Far apart—I don’t want them plotting against me again.”
The Sultana began to laugh. “They will not obey.”
But Yara had been here long enough to notice that the guards were new, and Aman’s words were moving— had the Sultana attempted to kill him? Still, the guards appeared torn, at first. Then one by one, like puppets slowly being brought to life, they moved. Several stormed toward the Sultana, and another group moved against the royal vizier, who put up more of a fight than she did. The guards were merciless as they restrained them both.
“How is all of this happening?” Yara whispered.
“A divided family can ruin the world, my daughter,” Qadir said, his hand a comfort on her shoulder. “Here we are witness, and we must leave.”
He turned to his own retinue while Yara watched as the Sultana and royal vizier were taken away. Prince Aman walked the remaining steps to her throne— his throne now—and sat down, Jafar just behind him with his parrot on his shoulder and staff in hand.
Aman’s eyes still glowed the same red as the rubies in Jafar’s staff, almost…Almost as though the two of them were connected by an invisible thread.
She drew her gaze to Jafar’s cold and angry one.
He was watching her. Reading her. That was what was wrong with Aman: he was acting like Jafar. She’d seen Jafar glued to the section on alchemy in the House of Wisdom, learning, studying. Was he controlling Aman? If he was controlling the prince, why had the Sultana looked so stricken by Aman’s claims, as if they were true? Why had the guards listened to him without hesitation?
Yara did not know, but she did know with a sickening feeling what was coming next: punishment.
“Guards!” she shouted, but they were slow to move. Something whizzed past her ear, flying into her father’s neck. She didn’t know what it was or where it had come from, but did it matter? It was the Maghrizi removing a threat in the most cowardly of ways.
Hurt my baba, and it’s as if you’ve hurt me.
The king of Hulum was sinking to his knees. Blood gurgled from his neck. He was fading fast. Unnaturally fast. No, no, no. People were yelling now, some of them trying to leave, others rushing to her aid.
“Baba, no. Don’t—”
“Hush, my honeybee,” Baba whispered, blood trickling from his mouth. “Rule well. Destroy admirably.”
She had to stay strong.
“I will, Baba,” she said softly, holding him tight as his blood darkened her crimson gown. Gripping him against her as the last of his life left his body.
She carefully set Baba on the stained cushions and rose to her feet, turning to face Aman and the real threat: Jafar.
And that is the cost of hurting me , he seemed to say. Was he…blaming Baba because they couldn’t be together? He was a fool, a monster.
And Yara would end this now.
She ran toward him, her vision burning the same red as the eyes on his staff, the same red as the plume in his headdress, as his blood begging to be spilled.
He curled a hand, and an invisible wall rose between them. He hadn’t even flinched from the effort.
“Tsk, tsk, princess,” his parrot snarked. It talked. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
Chaos had erupted throughout the banquet hall, but here, by the throne, it was just the four of them.
“You killed my father,” Yara breathed. She’d kissed him, held him, bared her soul to him.
“He said he’d kill us,” Jafar said, cavalier and uncaring. “I didn’t want to be second best.”
Yara’s heart shook. “I will end you, Jafar. I will destroy this kingdom, and then you.”
“Do as you wish,” Jafar drawled. “I’m getting tired of playing here. When I’m done, you can even have the prince. He’s not the real Aman, anyway. He’s my brother.”
Yara froze, staring at the boy on the throne. That was why the Sultana had said nothing. Why the betrothal feast had been delayed so many times. The real prince truly had died, and she’d hired an imposter to take his place. Yara looked at the mayhem around her, officials and diplomats from throughout the kingdom and beyond. She wanted to tell them the truth, but what could she say that the Sultana hadn’t thought of saying herself?
“Do you need help, moon girl?” Jafar asked, and Yara was surprised by the way the words stung. He rapped his staff on the dais. He looked handsome, powerful, horrible . “It seems the results were as catastrophic as we feared.”
“Guards!” the fake Prince Aman called. “Put her in a cell, too. This one just threatened to kill me.”
“Don’t worry,” Jafar said quietly. “I won’t keep you here long. I know how politics work, and you’ll soon be on your merry way back to Hulum, where you can plot my demise.”
He tightened his fingers, retracting the wall between them seconds before the guards grabbed her.
She seethed. “This is not over, Jafar.”