Chapter Eighty-Five: Crooked Place

Dawn. Soon the escort would arrive, and then it was marching orders to Videl. Cemil sought out Osmund while the latter was packing his bags, and feeling so choked with secrets that the effort of swallowing them threatened to make him ill. “Will you join me, Osmund?” the Meskato prince asked.

Osmund couldn’t even look at him without a throb of heartache and guilt. “What is it?”

He followed Cemil into a little room letting in the eastern sun. Along the walls leaned wood-panel paintings in various stages of completion. In the center of it all sat Yücel.

“Ah, you’ve come, both of you,” he said faintly. His color was wrong, and his features were pained, but he made a little gesture in the direction of the floor cushions opposite him. “I would have liked to see you yesterday, Osmund, though now it’s a great relief that you were out riding. Join me. I’m sorry I won’t be standing to greet you.”

They sat. “Brother, how are you feeling?” Cemil asked as Osmund’s gaze was drawn to the half-finished paintings. “Will you be alright here?”

Yücel’s shoulders hunched and fell dismally, as if the gesture itself could convey it all. “The journey to Videl would’ve tested my limits, even prior to yesterday,” he acknowledged, staring out the window to the slope of the waiting hills, “but I still grieve it. I did want to see that country, very much.”

“I know,” said Cemil gently.

So Yücel would be remaining behind while the rest continued their journey to snowy Videl, past the mountains. It didn’t seem Osmund’s place to comment, but he still attempted a polite, “I’m very sorry you won’t be joining us.” And then, seeing the big man’s kind eyes, “A-are these paintings yours, by chance?”

“They are. I’m but an amateur, as you can see.”

“Oh! But they’re marvelous. You’re very talented.” Osmund pointed out one in particular. “I remember that view from the journey here. These are from memory, then? Not direct observation?”

“If the heavens withheld certain abilities from me at birth, they blessed me with a fine memory,” Yücel conceded with a smile. “Thank you for flattering me. I’ve spent countless hours in this room, conserving my strength for the next leg of our journey. They say Prince Luca of Videl is a lonely child who enjoys drawing. I thought I might give him some impressions of our travels as a gift, as I know but a little of his language. It will be terrifying for a young boy, meeting so many foreign strangers at once.”

“We can bring a few with us,” Cemil offered. “I’ll make sure he knows they come courtesy of his new uncle.”

Yücel inclined his head in thanks. “I hope they interest him.”

This particular imperial brother of Cemil’s seemed a humble, pleasant man, but Osmund still wasn’t quite sure why he had asked him here by name. “You seem to have an interest in the craft,” noted Yücel, striking up more idle talk. “Are you an artist yourself?”

“Oh, hardly.” Osmund laughed nervously. “I used to doodle here and there. A child’s scribblings. Horses, mostly. My father said it wasn’t a worthy hobby for a—nobleman’s servant. Eventually I gave it up rather than endure his, um, scoldings.” The other’s expectant look had kept him babbling.

“I didn’t know that,” Cemil said, turning to him with lively eyes. “Why don’t you take it up once more? We’ll have time on the road.”

“Cemil, really, I’ve no skill!”

“You’ll have your pick of horses when we camp.” The Meskato prince went on teasing him. “Or I’ll sit for you, if you like.”

Osmund tried not to imagine how his unsteady hand would mangle Cemil’s good looks. His lover was a muse that far more accomplished artists could only dream of. “Perhaps I will, if you ever decide to try your hand at some of the epic poems you’re so fond of reading,” he bantered back.

“That’s a bit different.” Cemil became quickly flustered. “Poetry—it’s not just the writing of words. It takes a certain kind of eye. A way of seeing the world. I grew up with tools like the sword. I lack the eye.”

“You’re afraid to write bad poems,” Yücel observed, looking between them with a strange, soft smile, and Osmund laughed. (Cemil went a bit red-faced.) “Did the Emissary himself not write that each of us carries a spark of the divine? Every man, no matter his calling, needs a creative pastime.”

Cemil gave a short, neutral hum, less a concession than an I’m through talking about it. He was such a silly man, in his way. “Did you need anything else, brother? Any business in Videl we might attend to for you?” It was a diplomatic reminder that they were wasting daylight.

In front of them sat porcelain teacups, still wafting with steam. Yücel took one up and sipped. “Not to worry,” the prince reassured him, noticing Osmund’s reticence. “I have a taster now.” Osmund drank some of the hot tea. The burn going down was welcome. He was sick to death of coffee.

“Cemil, you’ve absorbed a great deal in the last few weeks,” continued the fifth prince after a weighty pause. “Our father’s very impressed with your progress.”

Cemil accepted the praise in stride. “I’ve learned much at your side, brother,” he returned courteously. “When we first arrived, and I was subjected to his tests, Father often scolded me for thinking like a provincial governor. You know the Empire’s inner workings like a mother tongue. Your help has been invaluable.”

“Ah,” Yücel said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, I remember your enthusiasm. Saying you would, for instance, investigate crop failures and unrest across the empire in person instead of delegating as an emperor does.”

Cemil cleared his throat, plainly embarrassed. “It’s what I knew.”

“No, I admired it. I worry I’ve trained you to become a lesser man.”

Yücel set down his cup.

“There was a matter I had hoped to raise with you yesterday before the interruption,” he said. And Osmund knew at once they’d reached the purpose of this meeting. But why am I here?

As if wondering the same thing, Cemil met his eye, just for a moment. “What is it?” he asked his brother.

“How do you feel about the role of the Eminent Eye, and whether our Empire might benefit from having one?”

Silence.

Osmund was unfamiliar with the term. He couldn’t help himself from asking, as he cradled his tea, “…Who holds that position now?”

“No one,” said Cemil. He was watching Yücel as he spoke. “It’s been vacant for years. Traditionally, the eye goes among the people as the emperor’s surrogate. They are the link between the two spheres.”

“A good eye is charismatic and well-liked,” said Yücel. “A natural negotiator, from a respected family, but also a warrior to inspire the people. An emblem of the Empire’s strength, who can be called upon to lead armies.”

“It sounds like you have someone in mind.”

“I do.”

If this was anyone but Yücel, one would think he was angling for the position himself. “A charismatic, well-liked negotiator from a respected family, but also a warrior and a leader,” Osmund recounted. With a small laugh he joked, “Personally I can’t think of anyone who matches such a description except Cemil himself!”

“It’s also a non-hereditary position,” Yücel added. “Meaning, the man in the role would be free to marry who he liked.”

The air in the room shifted. Osmund’s heart missed a beat. He marked this dangerous turn as clearly as Cemil did.

“Who would be emperor, then?” Cemil gave a derogatory snort, gesturing at Yücel loosely. “You?”

“Cemil!” Osmund gasped.

Yücel didn’t acknowledge the insult. Nor did he deny the charge. “You haven’t lived in the palace since you were twelve,” he said with unflappable calm. “I’ve been observing our father all my life.”

Cemil sneered, “You cannot seriously think he intends for you to replace him.” The words dripped with disdain.

“He doesn’t. Does it matter? The emperor cannot name a successor, much as he might try.” Yücel’s tone remained constant. “My mind is perfectly capable. I have friends and allies in important places, and I understand court politics, as you’ve seen yourself.”

“The people would not accept a cripple as their emperor.”

“They currently have an ailing old man. For all that requires charm and strength, I shall have you, my brother.”

Cemil wasn’t charming now. Even before Yucel’s placating coolness, he was hot with anger. “I have worked towards this all my life,” Cemil spat. “I was born for this role. Changed for it. A prophecy was spun to foresee it!”

“You are unfit,” Yücel said simply.

This statement was so shocking, even Cemil’s anger seemed momentarily cowed. “Life in the palace is nothing like you imagine, even after all I’ve done to prepare you,” Yücel went on, blunt and merciless. “It is dull, cruel, deceptive work. It is destroying lives with one stroke and sparing them with another. It is dancing through snakes without offending them. It would ruin you. This past month, I have seen that for myself.”

Cemil huffed. “And yet, you are eager for it?!”

“Our father is a cold man, without deeper feeling.” Yücel didn’t back down. “It is how he was cultivated; he has grown into the shape the garden bent him into. And so I have grown, too. The emperor must be so unattached if he is to survive.”

“Say what you mean!”

“You’re a man in love, Cemil,” said Yücel. “And everyone sees it.”

Osmund’s breath went still.

For a few tense moments, Cemil had no reply. Osmund was afraid to look at him. Was afraid to even breathe. “Nicoleta is said to be a practical girl, who puts her people first. She may not take offense,” Yücel resumed, “but her people will, when they hear how she’s slighted for another. And you would take your lover with you into her ancestral castle.”

“I plan to do my duty by her,” Cemil gritted out. “Everyone understands this is a political marriage.”

“Foolish.” Yücel’s temper snapped at last. “You think what people say about you doesn’t matter. I’m telling you it does. Yes, everyone expects emperors and princes to sample beautiful boys like wine, before they go home and fuck their wives. Your Osmund is more than a ‘favorite’. Everyone here has seen enough to understand the difference. And it is a dangerous understanding, Cemil.”

Abruptly he tapered off, coughing vigorously. Cemil was trembling. With what emotion, Osmund didn’t know. He wanted to ask after Yücel, but no words came. His voice had gone.

At last, the fifth prince’s breath evened again. “If he doesn’t turn up with a cut throat in the first year, a generous assumption, he’ll be badgered endlessly by courtiers angling for position. He doesn’t want to sit about in the Inner Gardens. You’ve told me so yourself! He wants to ride horses and roll around at night with someone he loves. This will not end without heartbreak. Cut him loose now, for both your sakes, or accept my offer. You can’t have both, and you will regret trying.”

Cemil stood. “Come, Osmund.”

Osmund’s legs were made of wet sand. He realized he was still holding the teacup. His fingers were warm. The rest of him felt chilled.

“Osmund.”

This time, Osmund set down the cup, and rose. He didn’t know what to say to Yücel. The two of them locked eyes for a long moment.

“Goodbye,” he said. And he turned to Cemil, and followed.

Outside, the weather was cool and fine. Cemil seemed to wander aimlessly for a little while. His footfalls stopped after Osmund’s behind him did.

“What a joke.” Cemil laughed. As his laughs went, it was a very unpretty one. “I never would have thought Yücel capable of such conceit. A man who cannot even stand up to greet his guests!”

Osmund was silent. “Don’t mind anything he said,” Cemil went on, touching Osmund’s arm assuredly as if only just remembering he were there. “Perhaps the capital is a crooked place under my father, but when I assume power, I’ll make it a government worthy of our empire. Yücel doesn’t know me as he thinks he does. He’s spinning stories, nothing more.”

“Are you in love with me?” Osmund asked.

Cemil did not respond for the space of a long, terrible breath. “We don’t have to assign words to it,” he said at last. “Words are dangerous.”

“I like words a lot,” Osmund said faintly.

Cemil smiled at him. As his smiles went, it was a very unhappy one.

“Pack your things,” he said. “I’ll see you on the road.”