Page 68 of The Wishless Ones
“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.Hadbeen 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.
Jafar and Yara returned to the palace in record time and stumbled into a flurry of movement: servants marching to and fro, some hefting furniture, others carrying oil for lanterns and chandeliers. Iago hopped off his shoulder and disappeared with a grumble, leaving Jafar alone with Yara at last. The two of them ducked into a corridor away from the ruckus, and Yara turned to him with her signature wicked grin. She had a way of making him feel like the only person in the world.
He wanted to know why fear had crossed her face when she’d seen that caravan, and why she was in such a rush.
“One last trade?” she asked.
Last?Was she leaving after the banquet? Jafar wanted to ask her, but that wasn’t how the rules of their game worked.
