Chapter Ninety: Purposeful Slowness

The sun rose high, and the snow melted. Osmund ducked into Anaya’s stable. The towering mare was in a restless temper and eyed him with suspicion. He greeted her as if nothing were amiss, as if his own hands weren’t shaking with nerves, calming her with one palm as he set about brushing her coat and checking her hooves. She was in top condition, but Osmund was leaving no room for error.

When the fourth son falls, the last wild horse of the Anshan will bear him to paradise, and a new emperor will ascend to the throne. So long as this prophecy awaited fruition, Cemil would ride Anaya instead of faithful, reliable Banu.

“I’ll help.” Osmund was surprised to hear Cemil’s voice at his back.

“I’ve got her,” he said without turning around. “Don’t worry.”

“Yes, but accept the hint and let me join you.”

There was no arguing with that. They worked in tandem to sling Anaya’s heavy saddle across her back. It was certainly easier with two. Osmund cast a glance behind, but the bailey was a mindless flurry of activity as men prepared their own horses for departure. Castle Vide had received word of the voivode’s forces mobilizing, laying seige to a nearby stronghold. Together with the princess’s own army, Cemil was leading a force to relieve the royalists.

Osmund worried his lip. He nearly asked Cemil how he liked his bride-to-be now that he’d met her, but this wasn’t the right place for that conversation, and Osmund wasn’t sure he was ready to have it, anyway.

“You and Princess Nicoleta have had a lot to talk about,” he observed neutrally. He’d caught many glimpses of the two of them debating some point or another, ignorant of their surroundings.

“She asks me ceaseless questions,” said Cemil, standing back to watch as Osmund attached the bridle. “She wants my opinion on everything.” It didn’t sound like a complaint.

Osmund kept his eyes on his task, which he did with purposeful slowness. “Do you think your responses have pleased her?”

“If only I knew. It’s like an interrogation.”

“You are interviewing to be her future husband, in fairness.”

Cemil made a resigned sort of sound. “Neither of us is in a position to refuse the other.”

“Still, you want to be happy with the person you’re to marry.” It was skirting dangerously close to invoking the conversation with Yücel. Osmund changed tacks. “What have you talked about?”

“Philosophy. Religion.” Cemil made a vague gesture. “State and local affairs.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Osmund hesitated before continuing, “that the Videlari seem rather poor. And yet, their harvests are rich…” He left the question unvoiced.

“Unrest in the countryside has led to distribution issues,” Cemil asserted. “That’s all.”

“So, it’ll be fixed once the entire principality is back under imperial control?”

“Times are lean, but no one is going to starve. Let us who rule worry about such things.” It was certainly tempting advice.

Anaya snorted her rancid breath directly into Osmund’s face. He continued his work undeterred. “The princess is concerned too,” admitted Cemil. He gave a small, unhappy laugh. “I’ve spoken with her for many hours, but I believe she still doesn’t take me at my word.”

“Perhaps she finds it hard to trust a handsome face,” Osmund attempted to joke. “She’s thinking there must be some horrible fault with you.”

“Then she hasn’t asked the right question yet. But she’ll find out after the wedding, once she sees me.”

Osmund realized what he meant, and wanted to shake him. “Nonsense,” he grumbled, and lowered his voice even further. “There’s nothing wrong with your body. And I’ll duel anyone who suggests otherwise, including you. So please don’t, because I don’t favor my odds.”

That made Cemil chuckle in earnest. Osmund savored the victory, which was short-lived. He had just finished with Anaya when he felt a presence slipping inside his coat and brushing over the front of his trousers. “Cemil—” He cast a hurried look over his shoulder to confirm that the bailey behind them was still swarming with people.

“No one’s looking, and no one can see,” Cemil murmured. His now-gloveless hand caressed him over the fabric before pausing. “Should I stop?”

Osmund looked around again, more furtively. They were alone in Anaya’s stall, with enclosing walls on three sides, but only a fence separated them from the rest of the bailey behind. There were probably hundreds of men in this courtyard. A few were close enough that Osmund could pick out individual words of their conversation. Still, with the two of them standing side by side facing the wall in their coats, it wasn’t like anyone could see what Cemil’s hand was doing. Osmund felt a rush of heat. “No,” he muttered boldly. “Don’t stop.”

It felt more than a little perverse to be doing this in front of Anaya (her annoyed stares now seemed almost judgmental), but Osmund resumed making brushing motions over her coat to give the illusion of busyness. “…Are you settling in well here?” the Meskato prince asked.

Osmund felt a tug at his laces. He sucked in a breath. “Well enough. Don’t worry about me.”

“If you’re ever unhappy…” Cemil began, as deliberate as the movement of his fingers against Osmund’s suddenly bared and sensitive skin, “…you can take an escort and return home.”

They had been together long enough for Osmund to know that the offer was only a courtesy. He was meant to reassure Cemil that he wasn’t going anywhere. That there was nowhere he’d rather be. Even if it meant eventually having to watch the man he loved marry someone else.

“I’m not going home,” Osmund gritted out, swallowing back some incriminating sound. He forced a smile. “I’m in an interesting new place. I mean to make the most of it.” That much was all true.

Cemil rewarded him with a long slow stroke, the tight squeeze of his callused fist drawing out a moan that Osmund only barely suppressed. “You adapt well to the new,” the Meskato prince mused. “You make friends of all kinds easily.”

Osmund wanted to dispute it, but was startled to realize he couldn’t. “I-it seems to just happen.”

“It’s no mystery. You bring people in. You have a power in you.”

The motions of his hand accelerated, intent on driving out a fast climax. Osmund felt his knees failing and longed desperately for something to lean his weight against that wasn’t a huge, temperamental horse. He clung like a vise to Cemil’s coat sleeve. “I promised I would respect Videlari custom while under my future wife’s roof, and spend my nights alone in that massive bedchamber in her castle,” Cemil muttered into his ear, his own voice coming ragged. “When I return, I’m going to lay you down onto that bed and fuck you into it.”

Osmund shuddered apart with a gasp. Cemil’s cupped palm caught half his release. The rest splattered audibly onto the stone floor, and Cemil lazily kicked some straw over it. Osmund panted out a disbelieving, hoarse laugh. With a thrill of fear, he looked behind them again. The bustle of men continued unimpeded. No one had noticed anything. He looked back to Cemil in time to see him surreptitiously wiping his hand on the inside of his own coat.

Osmund made a face. “Oh, that’s filthy,” he panted.

“I’m bringing a part of you with me.”

“Vile.”

He finished tucking himself back into his trousers, re-doing the laces and buttoning the coat to be safe. If his cheeks were flushed, hopefully the cold would appear the culprit.

Cemil leered in appreciation. His own face was flushed, his eyes dark. “You look good after you’ve just come apart for me. I almost hate that others should get to see it.”

“You should have knelt down and let me come across your lovely mouth,” Osmund blurted before he could think better of it. “I’d like to see what your future wife thinks of that.”

Cemil’s lips fell open with surprise, which was gratifying. Osmund reached out and straightened the other’s coat (and tried not to think of what was currently lining it). “Now you had better be careful out there,” Osmund advised him softly. “Do not let those be my last words to you, for heaven’s sake.”

“I’d meet death as a fulfilled man.”

“Then I will find some way to enact my vengeance on your ghost. Don’t try me, Cemil.”

Cemil laughed again. That fond expression started to falter, turning strange. Nearly fearful. “Osmund…”

Osmund gave him a moment before prompting, “…Yes?”

Cemil swore. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “I’m sorry that I can’t…”

He trailed off, and Osmund knew there would be nothing more, no matter how long he waited. “It’s alright,” he said, even though the truth was that he would have given a very great deal to hear the rest of the sentence. Even if they were only words. Even if they wouldn’t make a difference in whatever happened next. “I know. It’s alright.”

Cemil closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again, they were almost normal. “Be safe, Osmund.”

“You too,” Osmund said. “I love you. Be safe.”

Out in the courtyard, beneath the public eye, Nicoleta bid her fiancé a stolid goodbye. Osmund stood to the side with all the others and watched. Watched, impassive, until all the company had ridden away.

When Osmund visited the library on a whim that night, the young prince was there again. Osmund sat at a distance, as before, but after about five minutes Luca got up to join him.

Amusing the child was a fun pastime, certainly better than drawing alone. Little did he suspect the effect this little recreation would have.

In the days to come, Prince Luca became his silent shadow. The boy followed him everywhere like an impressionable duckling, always at a distance, but close enough that Osmund felt constantly watched. And the jokes were equally incessant.

“Slow down, Valcrest,” called Gudrun, noticing Osmund walking at a brisk clip and checking over his shoulder. “Better keep him close until he’s properly weaned.”

Osmund made a rude gesture and scowled, which only made her laugh harder. He wished she and the others had gone with Cemil. Their talents were wasted here on guard duty, and he knew they felt the same. At least they weren’t only here for his sake.

Sakina had joined the campaign, but the emperor had stayed behind. The old man claimed a touch of fatigue, and Osmund thought little of it—until the day he came across a sweaty Mirhan lugging two buckets of water up the winding stair.

Mirhan saw him, and didn’t hide his irritation. Osmund found that honest expression much more welcome than his dangerous fox’s smile.

“Need help?” Osmund offered, eager for a physical distraction.

The other considered only a moment before lowering one of the buckets at his feet. “All yours,” he said with a flourish.

They reached the stop of the steps, which overlooked an open door. “Leave it there,” Mirhan instructed, trying to shoo him away, but Osmund had already made eye contact with the bedbound man inside.

“You.” The emperor’s voice was gruff and low, but it carried over the stones. “Come here.”

Mirhan clearly wasn’t pleased about this turn of events, but an imperial order was sacrosanct. Together they walked into the emperor’s bedchamber. Mirhan shut the door, and Osmund felt his nerves sparking to life anew.

The old man heaved himself up against the headboard, grimacing. The Emperor of the Meskato was a poor color, and mostly bare to the waist, clad only in a open robe and his undergarments. The effect was staggeringly mundane. Osmund managed to control his expression, in spite of his shock. “Leave that here,” ordered He, gesturing to Mirhan. “You, come and sit.” This was directed at Osmund.

There was an unfriendly wooden chair by the emperor’s bedside. Osmund sat and fearfully waited while the old man scratched himself. What’s this about? he wondered. Were Cemil and I observed after all? That was too dire (and mortifying) to contemplate.

“That Tolmish prince of yours,” began Emperor Alemşah. He gave Osmund an assessing look. “Do you keep company with him?”

“Um.” Osmund floundered at the question. “Ah. Keep company, my sovereign?”

The emperor waved impatiently. “I’m not asking if you’re bedmates. Do you speak, as fellow countrymen? As intimates?”

“N-no, my sovereign. I mean. Casually, at times. Not beyond that.” His heart hammered. “…Is there some problem?”

The emperor gave him a wary eye. His silvering hair reflected the steady blue light from the quatrefoil window, where the skies were cloudless. “You don’t know where to find him?”

Osmund’s brows scrunched further. This was becoming stranger and stranger still. “If it’s a matter of finding his rooms, I-I can ask around, my sovereign. I can bring him to you.”

“He’s not in his rooms,” Mirhan said, cutting right to the point. “He’s missing. He hasn’t been seen since two days ago.”