Page 72 of The Wishless Ones
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 brotherstopped, 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.
Dread and confusion had a way of filling one up quite well, for Rohan wasn’t the slightest bit hungry anymore. He didn’t know why his brother had fled or the princess looked so miserable.
“Eat,” the Sultana commanded. “Stop being so sullen.”
But the image of Jafar’s face was seared behind his eyelids, and the myriad of dishes the servants had spread before them faded to dust.
“She’s beautiful, and you know it,” the Sultana said, seething. “Sit up before you ruin this for me.”
For me.She was always concerned with herself before anyone and anything else. She had made Rohan a prince and done worse to Jafar—she had stripped him of purpose and abandoned him.
The princess appeared beside him.
The Sultana looked surprised. “Is something the matter, princess?”
“I only wished to introduce myself to Prince Aman,” the princess said, and then added, “if I may.”
“Of course,” the Sultana said with far more enthusiasm than was warranted, and the princess glared until the Sultana finally turned to the emir on her other side.
Rohan immediately liked her, and he could only stare as she sat down beside him, the warm folds of her gown brushing his side. Rohan had never been the focus of someone so beautiful before.
Watch yourself,he chided. Here and now, he was the prince. The Sultana’s son.
“You are doleful,” he said to her.
Doleful? Ridiculous. Rohan saw that her eyes were much like her father’s: astute. She missed nothing. She had seen him spot and recognize Jafar. She knew the two were acquainted.
But how didsheknowhis brother?
