Chapter Eighty-One: Mortal Rhythms

Osmund tried his best to master his embarrassment, but all he could think was: Heavens, our exit wasn’t exactly subtle.

Cemil stopped at a pair of double doors and stepped through alone. “Wait a moment,” he said as he shut himself inside.

Seconds passed. Osmund waited dutifully in the hall, feeling increasingly silly. Finally Cemil reappeared. “What fruit did I name just now?” he prompted.

“Fruit? Is this a test, Cemil? I didn’t hear you say anything.”

“Good.”

Cemil stepped back and beckoned for Osmund to join him inside. The Tolmishman followed, taking in the tall, narrow room at a glance. A window against one white wall sported a red crêpe curtain, and at the room’s center lay a round floor mattress dressed with a rough wool blanket. There lingered traces of a—particular smell.

Before he could comment, Cemil had pulled him in. Osmund intended to speak, but soon lost himself in the frenetic kiss. Oh, the relief, immediate. He felt all the lost parts of himself drifting back into place.

At last he drew back. “Wait,” he managed in an exhale. “Cemil, there’s something important you have to hear at once.”

Cemil’s expression darkened. “Emre believes my little brother Safet is harboring Lalezar and General Nadir.”

“I—well, yes, that’s the long and short of it.” The Tolmishman deflated. “You’ve already heard.”

“Only a little. Tell me your version of events at the Guild. All of it. Here, sit down.”

“Sit with me.”

They reclined against the large cushion, body to body, and Osmund laid everything bare, or as much as he dared. The ledgers. The seal. What he remembered from the Guild house, including the conversations between Lord Pravin and Baratte, much of which he hadn’t understood. Unfortunately, when recounting his run-in with Baratte, a bit of context was required.

Cemil intently listened, and said, visibly upset as he paused his hand tracing Osmund’s hip, “They held you against your will?!”

They almost did more than just that, Osmund thought. “Yes, but I’m alright.”

“Osmund.”

“It was awful, Cemil, to be sure, but I’m really alright now that you’re here,” he repeated, ardently believing it himself. “Honest. Please. I just want to forget.”

Cemil’s face was drawn, evidently torn between wanting to respect his wishes and itching to press further. “Did they try to hurt you because of me?”

“No. Not because of you. But Cemil, I’m afraid I did give up your name.”

“My lieutenant apparently just raided their building, so my involvement can’t come as a surprise.”

“You don’t think they’ll try and enact revenge?”

“I’ve been dealing with would-be assassins for years, as you’re aware. The Merchants’ Guild presents no threat to me. Whenever you might use my name as a shield, I want you to do it without worry.”

Osmund had ridden here thinking of nothing but this reunion, but a part of him, he suddenly acknowledged, had feared he would find himself changed somehow in Cemil’s presence, a stranger in that familiar embrace, and forced under scrutiny to give up the full truth of that dreadful night—including his real purpose for being there. All unfounded. He was whole, and he was utterly himself, the same man Cemil had known.

He burrowed in closer to the other’s chest, feeling an onset of almost drowsiness, and asked, “What do you think they meant, implying they had secret dealings with someone connected to the imperial family?”

“The most apparent answer is Safet, since Guild-contracted ships are securing those magical creatures for him, but I wouldn’t think he could afford to betray his allies,” said Cemil after a considering pause.

“That’s what I was thinking, too. But who else would they be working with?” A thought occurred to Osmund, and he shivered. “Likely it was someone here.”

“It might be easier to guess who’s involved if we first deduce what the Guild is up to. I’ve heard rumors, though I don’t know how much weight to give them.” Cemil sounded grim. “There’s talk that the Tolmish might try and raise a fleet to seize land in Chantel, if they can’t defeat the usurper queen and reclaim control of the Isles.”

Osmund’s eyes blinked wide. “Go about conquering other lands when they’re only refugees with no army?! They’re mad!”

“It would seem. And your namesake the prince is tight-lipped about it, though I’ve been trying to open him up.”

Mention of that—impostor gave Osmund another twinge of that roiling discomfort. “Alright, so who in your family benefits from a group of rich Tolmish invading an independent country?” he wondered.

There was a long silence. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions yet,” Cemil said tensely.

“You have an idea.”

“My father.”

This time, Osmund nearly choked on his own spit. “You think the emperor himself could be conspiring with the Tolmish Merchants’ Guild?!”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Cemil warned. “Don’t repeat a word of this. Not even to Sakina. Or Emre.”

“Darling, I won’t, of course. You know you have my confidence.”

Cemil peered down his dark lashes at him, his lips tugging briefly upwards as he caressed Osmund’s hand with his own warm, sword-callused palm. His face grew serious again with his next words. “My father wants to expand our territory. He speaks of marching into the Felklands, Old Sulam, all our neighbors. Redrawing the old borders.”

“That’s—!”

“I don’t have the same ambitions,” Cemil said firmly, cutting him off. “Those plans die with him. We don’t need a war.”

Osmund settled back, trying to banish the thought altogether. The Meskato prince continued, “Chantel across the sea has a defense pact with a few of our terrestrial neighbors. Offering a few ships to experienced seamen like the Tolmish to take care of the problem seems like the kind of indirect solution my father would prefer. Perhaps he even hopes the two will wipe each other out.”

 “…But if it is the emperor, why even bother trying to hide it?”

“Working with the Tolmish would be very unpopular. They might have an implicit agreement rather than a formal one. It would help explain why he’s invited their prince to join us here.”

Osmund thought it over a long time. “That all makes sense to me,” he admitted. “Mostly. Heavens, Cemil…does that mean he didn’t actually want us to succeed in catching the counterfeiters? Was it all a distraction? A test? Or some faction of the Guild acting independently?”

“I hope it isn’t true. Though if it isn’t…it puts us back to guessing in the dark.”

“And we don’t know why the Guild suspects a double cross.”

“No. But the ‘traitor’ undermining this effort could be anyone who works closely with my father. A disgruntled minister, perhaps. Someone who doesn’t trust the Tolmish. Or who simply doesn’t want war.”

The Isles and Chantel both felt very far off. Almost fictional. Osmund realized he didn’t really care what happened on those boats. Though it might all happen in my name.

“So Safet potentially has access to those ‘undying weapons’, or at least the means to make one,” he said numbly.

“Mm.” They’d reached the ugliest topic, now.

A sword that could suck the lives out of people just by being drawn… “How dangerous is a thing like that in his hands?” Osmund dared to ask. “Safet’s, in particular?”

“All we know is that Safet might be harboring Nadir,” cautioned Cemil. “Even if this isn’t all a ruse, he may be ignorant of the whole scheme, as Bayram was.”

“Then, would he shelter imperial fugitives at no apparent benefit to himself?”

Cemil hummed. “Safet’s difficult to predict. He’s gullible and passionate.”

“Those seem concerning qualities in a prince,” Osmund couldn’t help but note, frowning. “At least together.”

“And worse ones in an emperor,” agreed Cemil, “unless you’re looking for one to control.”

It was a bleak consideration. Cemil shifted on the cushion, jostling the both of them. “Are you hungry?” he said suddenly. “You’ve had a long journey. I should have asked before.”

“A little.” Osmund waved off the question. “Never mind. Cemil, what will you do?”

“I’ll have someone bring you something.”

Osmund pulled him right back down when the other made to rise. “I meant about Safet,” he huffed. His grip tightened. “…Please. Don’t get up.”

His tone must have moved the stubborn man, because Cemil settled back beside him on the cushion. “We’ll be seeing plenty of each other here,” the Meskato prince teased him anyway.

“Well, I want to see plenty of you now.”

Cemil kissed the side of Osmund’s brow before leaning his jaw against it. “This matter requires the utmost urgency, but we must not be reckless,” he murmured. “Not when one sword could level an army. Better we investigate in secret, and take them by surprise before they know we’re coming. I’ll discuss it privately with my father tonight.”

Osmund petted down his arm in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. The gesture felt woefully inadequate. “I know you’ll figure something out.”

“What happened to the gryphon and the wyrm will never happen to another living creature after these fugitives are found. I mean to ensure it.”

The moments ticked by, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath, both of their mortal rhythms mingling together. It was quiet in here, Osmund realized, though he knew the house was very full and very loud. There must be a charm with a silencing enchantment preventing sounds from leaking in or out.

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Cemil for the second time that day. He let out a deep sigh. “It’s a strange thing. Even when you arrive with dark news, I feel steady on my feet knowing you shoulder it with me.”

Osmund raised a hand to twine it through the other’s tussled black hair. “The Empire is lucky to have you,” he said in earnest.

Cemil hummed, eyes half-lidded and gazing at Osmund’s mouth. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You’re going to be a different kind of ruler than what they’ve known.” Osmund was confident, at least in this. “You’ll prevent this war. All of them. The ones your father, and the Guild, are planning. The one the barons in Videl seem to want. And whatever ghastly thing Safet is cooking up.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“Oh, it won’t be, I’m sure.”

Cemil wound a cradling hand behind Osmund’s neck and said softly, “But you will stand with me?”

Again, that question. Osmund gave him his answer in the form of another kiss. And another.

Cemil breathily asked, after they’d been at it awhile, “Would you be willing to become intimate in here?”

Osmund blinked at the direct (and oddly serious) question. He wouldn’t have thought it possible one could get aroused knowing Emperor Alemşah and his advisors were just down the hall, but Cemil made him a simple man in this regard. “…I’m sure you can feel that I’m not opposed, but why do you ask like that?”

“I’d prefer if my father’s men thought you summoned here purely for…amorous reasons. I believe you’ll be safer that way, than if they know the truth of how much I rely upon you.”

“Oh.”

“And as you can see…or smell, it’s apparent when this room has been recently in use.”

Osmund made a face, trying not to ponder how many men and their consorts and entertainments had been here previously. Privacy in this old building must be in short supply. “I suppose that’s the reason for the enchantm—mmm.”

The rest was forgotten as Cemil kissed his mouth, then down the front of his throat, guiding him onto the cushion below. In no time at all, Osmund was staring hazy-eyed at the ceiling, his hair splayed beneath in a golden brown halo, waiting for Cemil over him to dip in for another hungry kiss or tug at the hems of his clothes, but the Meskato prince’s eyes were doing the roaming, and did not stop. Osmund gave a breathy chuckle. “Did you forget the look of me?”

Cemil’s voice was low. “It wasn’t the real thing.”

A featherlight touch ghosted up his side (When had Cemil rucked up his shirt?) and he stifled an embarrassing giggle. “That’s certainly—ahah, stop! It’s sensitive.”

“I see…”

“Cemil—” Osmund gasped. His boots and trousers had come swiftly off at the other’s experienced hands. Cemil seized one leg and began mouthing the inside of his thigh. Something inside Osmund recoiled. He was back in the dark, on a table. Without warning, he kicked Cemil in the ribs with all his strength.

The Meskato prince curled up, coughing. Osmund blanched. His heart was racing, breath coming shallow and quick. “I’m sorry,” he babbled. “I didn’t mean to—”

“My fault,” Cemil wheezed, attempting to smile through the pain. “You—ahuff—did warn me…”

The mood required a few minutes to recover from this setback. Soon enough however, Osmund had his legs open and was breathing normally. He trusted the other man. Could trust him. With his heart, his body, with everything but his past, and of what importance was that? “What do you make of the Tolmish prince?” Cemil asked as he worked.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You dealt with nobles in your homeland. I’d hear your judgment. What’s your impression of him? Do you find him honest? …Osmund, you must relax.”

“I am, I’m relaxed.”

“You’re very tight.”

“You won’t complain, surely.”

Cemil gave him a dry look clearly meant to say “Don’t joke”, though the corner of his lip twitched with suppressed humor.

Osmund studied the ceiling again. Beveled, orderly, ornamented tiles. Inhale. “I-it’s too early to say.”

“You don’t like him.”

“I don’t like the nobles of my homeland in general,” Osmund agreed, which was no falsehood. Though he didn’t mention his suspicion that this particular noble had been born a commoner (and subsequently very ably trained). “Can we, ah, talk about something else while we’re preparing to make love, please?”

“We don’t have to talk about anything.”

Osmund opened his mouth to say something inane—no, keep talking, I just want to hear your voice—but lost it in a gasp that gave way to a moan. That feeling of fullness, it had been so long. “I missed you,” he whined.

“Yes?” Cemil grinned in earnest now. “All of me, or just my—”

Osmund yanked him down for a kiss, forever ignorant of whatever euphemism he had just swallowed.

Chapter Eighty-One: Mortal Rhythms

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