Page 67 of The Wishless Ones
“The Hulumi king has been sighted. His arrival is imminent,” the dressmaker said, gesturing for Rohan to rise. The king of Hulum was here.Here. “Arms spread. Basim, disrobe him.”
“I had hoped he would have time to bathe and dress more comfortably,” the Sultana said, closing the doors. Rohan held back a sigh of relief when she turned away.
Why were they all panicking? He was the only one allowed to panic. Iftheypanicked, his panic would amplify tenfold.
The servant boy stripped him to his underclothes, and the dressmaker looked like he wanted to set them on fire.
“Dress the boy,” the royal vizier snapped, and the dressmaker and his servant leaped to attention, dragging a washcloth along his body first before dressing him in layer after layer. When they took a step back, Rohan wriggled his shoulders and straightened the cuffs. The threads were immaculate, the linen spun so finely that the almost white, barely there green of his shirt had a sheen the deeper green of his robes wanted to swallow whole.
The dressmaker had worked quickly, and well. They wrapped and secured a headdress in bright white with a plume of green that matched his robes. His entire ensemble was astounding, and he wished Jafar were here to approve of it. He wished this moment didn’t feel as though he were preparing for his beheading.
“Perfect,” the Sultana said with approval just as the door flew open again.
A messenger darted inside this time, panting. “The Hulumi, Your Highness. The king is here.”
Rohan’s heart leaped to his throat. It felt like an army was at their door, rather than a peaceful convoy.
The Sultana squared her shoulders, relieving the messenger and the others before she and Harun turned back to Rohan.
“Remember, these people are the enemy,” Harun said. “You’re—”
“I’m marrying the enemy,” Rohan said, a flustered laugh breaking out of him. He no longer felt like he’d been promoted from pauper to prince. He felt like a free man suddenly caged. His future was suddenly controlled by a woman he barely knew but would now call Mother.
“Yes and no,” the Sultana said. “In this particular situation, neither of us is at war yet—this will be no different from your interrogating the Maghrizi prisoner.”
Rohan snapped his head up to look at her.She knows.She winked and led him out of the room and through several halls. He didn’t want this. He could barely breathe. He wanted Jafar. He needed Jafar.
But Rohan was the prince now. He would one day lead an entire kingdom of people. He trailed after her. The emerald cloak over her gown undulated in the light, mocking him, almost.Whatareyou doing here?it seemed to ask.
He didn’t know.
What if the princess was rude? What if she saw straight through his ruse and knew he was nothing but a villager? Rohan paused as another thought suddenly rose from the chaos of his mind:What if she’s ugly?
The Sultana laughed, and he realized he had asked the question out loud. He chewed his lip. Vain was the last thing he wanted to be seen as.
“That is always a concern, isn’t it?” the Sultana asked. “We royalty have power over much, but the freedom to choose upon looks isn’t one of them.”
That was infinitely unhelpful, and it must have been clear on his face, for she pondered him for a moment.
She gestured to the archway leading to the meeting hall up ahead. “Worry not, you’ll be meeting her father first.”
His heart sank to his knees, and before he could formulate a response, they turned the corner and Rohan saw the king for himself.
The king of Hulum stood by the window overlooking the courtyard. He was tall and built as though he could crush Rohan’s skull between his palms without breaking a sweat. A black cloak edged in gold shrouded his robes. His beard was thick and dark as the pits of his eyes, which scrutinized Rohan as he entered the room with the Sultana.
Make sure you walk beside me, not behind me,she had said.
He couldn’t read people like Jafar could, but he knew immediately that the king of Hulum disliked him. Contempt tightened his mouth as he swept a look down Rohan and turned away. The dismissal was worse than his distaste.
He had failed as a prince already.
“Marhaba, Qadir,” the Sultana said, inclining her head. “Please, be seated.”
He was an older man, with streaks of white in his dark hair and fine lines drawn across his austere features.
“It has been long,” the king said to her, smiling like it pained him to do so. His gaze was cold and shrewd. “The years have treated you well.”
The comment made Rohan uncomfortable, and it wasn’t even directed at him.
