Page 36 of The Wishless Ones
They passed an exquisite foyer, in the center of which was a large plant that looked as if it held a significance Rohan didn’t understand. The entirety of the palace oozed extravagance, and not in a lavish, overstated way. It was subtle, well done. Even the air here tasted different, like magic.
The Sultana and her vizier didn’t pause, carrying on to another pair of doors that guards leaped forward to open. Rohan felt important as he passed them, and tried not to gape as they entered the throne room. The floor lightened to polished alabaster, brilliant and bright. A massive bronze throne sat at the other end, bejeweled in rubies, pearls, and other gems Rohan had never seen before. He was in awe but also torn between wanting to give in to this unexpected adventure and wanting to return to his search for the golden scarab.
Notes of citrus and clove filled his lungs, a blend that reminded him of those first promising drops of rain on the sun-scorched sands, but the scent felt off. Wrong. As if they were trying to mask something with it.
“Here we are,” the Sultana said, sinking into her throne. There were others in the room, more advisors who didn’t seem to hold the same status at the royal vizier, and guards stationed by every elaborately carved window. “Welcome to my palace.”
Her tone was less queenly now, more battered and bruised. She looked at Jafar in a way that was almost yearning, and Rohan couldn’t fathom why. It was an odd expression, as if they were kin. As if she were his mother.
“You will be fed and led to your rooms, and—”
“Rooms?” Jafar asked, cutting her short.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath at the interruption. Rohan had heard one too many stories from Mama about royalty who had beheaded commoners for less, and a fresh sweat broke out along his brow.
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Jafar quickly added, “but I must say that we are not here to stay.”
The Sultana tilted her head. “You’ll turn down an offer to stay in a palace? To live as princes?”
Jafar had stiffened. Rohan knew that stance and expression well: he wanted to pull Rohan behind him, but the Sultana had just offered to let them live as princes, not threatened to kill them.
“The head librarian is expecting me,” Jafar said, his voice tight.
“And I’ll send word of your new arrangements. You will no longer be a traditional apprentice of the House of Wisdom.”
Jafar was still stiff, that dreaded darkness shrouding his gaze, his brows dropping low. “All of this at what cost?”
His pride could get them killed one day.
“What my brother means to say, Sultana,” Rohan started, “is that we can’t understand why such a generous offer would be presented to us, a pair of village boys.” He smiled. “And a parrot.”
“Ah, he speaks,” the Sultana said, turning her scrutiny to Rohan. “You sound like a boy accustomed to being a diplomat.”
Mama had always been the diplomat. Rohan had never considered that after her death, he had taken her place. He was the one who would step between Baba and Jafar, persuading Jafar to relent, begging Baba to forgive. He had only a moment to dwell on that fact before the weight of the eyes in the room threatened to crush him. Now would have been a good time to disappear into the stone beneath his feet. Was he supposed to respond? He didn’t know. Expectations were rarely ever placed on him.
The Sultana clucked her tongue and waved to the royal vizier, sparing him the trouble, and Rohan realized he was getting a glimpse of what she was like as queen. “Harun, take them away. I have other matters to attend to.”
The royal vizier took Jafar and Rohan to a hall lit with sconces secured at intervals, each flicker illuminating the rich carvings along the stone walls. In the room’s center was a table with ornate legs and a wide surface, and it was full of food. Columns formed a sort of perimeter around the central part of the hall, darkening it and giving the illusion of a more intimate setting, but light from the hall’s windows found its way between the columns, dousing the food in golden warmth.
The smells were rich and layered, spices balanced just right with the bases they accentuated. There were lamb ribs slathered in the seven-spice blend known as baharat, hummus bejeweled with tart sumac, rice bright with saffron. Jafar, unfortunately, knew food. He’d been there in Mama’s kitchen, helping her cook, knowing what spice complemented what vegetable or meat.
“Our cuisine is unlike what you’re used to,” Harun said, as if he could read Jafar’s thoughts. The man eyed them with disgust and curiosity, a strange combination.
Curiosity was fine, but Jafar wouldn’t allow him to think of them as lesser. He gave Harun a tight smile. “A bribe is a bribe and food is food.”
With another pinched look in Jafar’s direction, Harun turned and glided out of the room.
“He wears those robes so they don’t need a maid to dust the place,” Iago snarked.
Jafar snorted. They did look like they needed hemming.
“Why would you say that to him?” Rohan hissed.
Jafar gestured to the array of food that had been spreadjustfor them. “Are you not seeing what I’m seeing? I’d be less concerned if the food were poisoned.”
Iago dropped a falafel midchew.
Rohan stiffened. “Could it—”
