Chapter Fifty-Nine: Until Morning

Cemil was seated on a floor cushion at his low desk, rereading the letter from his father for what had to be the hundredth time. The glow from the oil lamp flickered insistently. It was late, and Osmund was trying to sleep. The light didn’t bother him, but Cemil’s thoughts were buzzing practically loud enough to hear.

“The words won’t change between now and the morning,” the Tolmishman pointed out with a yawn. “Come to bed.”

Cemil’s eyes didn’t leave the page. “Sleep. I’ll be a while still.”

Osmund schemed from his place in the sheets. “It’s chilly,” he complained. “Won’t you come warm me up?”

“I’ll light the brazier for you.”

“It’s not a fire I want.”

Cemil finally lowered the paper in his hands so slightly, turning his head to give Osmund a look. “My attention’s needed here,” he said, apologetic, but unmoved. “Please.”

Osmund sighed in surrender, propping himself up. Apparently, he wouldn’t be seducing Cemil into taking a break (hopefully followed by some postcoital sleep) tonight. “What are you worried about?” he asked, nodding at the letter. “I know it must be a lot of work, getting the manor and the city ready for an imperial procession, but why trouble over it right now?”

“I want to prepare myself for whatever’s coming.”

“For what? You never told me what it says.”

“It’s an official letter, so naturally it doesn’t say much of anything,” Cemil explained yet again. “I’m trying to see what’s not written.”

It still didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Osmund shimmied to the edge of the mattress and picked up the letter from Sakina. It had arrived alongside the emperor’s; Cemil had skimmed it twice, then given it to Osmund to read for himself. “She spends half of it asking after you, anyways,” he’d said. (Not true!) 

“It’s strange that Sakina doesn’t give us any hints as to why the emperor is visiting,” Osmund murmured, scanning the words again. “Only that she’ll say more in person. And then there’s the coy mention of this man she’s bringing along! Do you think it’s a new boyfriend?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

He reached the section of the letter addressed to himself rather than Cemil. (These were admittedly dense paragraphs—maybe the Meskato prince had a point.) A passage on book recommendations, and a recipe she’d transcribed in case he wanted to try his hand at cooking again: both useful, in their own way.

“I wonder how things went at the palace after she arrived,” Osmund mused aloud. “I’m glad we’ll get to ask her for ourselves. So, she’ll be riding in at the same time as the emperor’s caravan, then.”

“That’s right.”

“Will she stay here, at the house? There are extra rooms in the main wing, I’m sure.”

“She can stay in the house if she desires.”

“What about with Emre? They must know each other from your childhood at the palace. Oh, but I suppose that would be improper.”

Cemil lowered the emperor’s missive again. This time his straining patience seeped into his tone. “Osmund.”

“I’m sorry,” Osmund said quickly. He’d been yammering again. A bold bit of devilry took hold of him. “You know, if you want me to stop talking, I’m sure you could find a better use for my mouth.”

It was a winning gamble, he thought gleefully as Cemil stood and crossed to the bed. The Meskato prince straddled his midsection without a word, and Osmund’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip in anticipation. Before he could get his eager fingers on the man’s breeches, however, Cemil leaned down and trapped him in a vehement kiss.

Osmund made a few desperate noises from his throat, melting into the other’s hands. His skin was starting to heat, blood pumping, just before he felt Cemil’s tongue retreating. The rest of him followed, with one last squeeze to his inner thigh.

The Tolmishman wordlessly groaned his disbelief as his lover left him there alone. “Take care of the rest yourself,” Cemil said, the smallest smile conveying satisfaction with his own wicked deeds. “I’ll listen as I work.”

In a fit of pique, Osmund turned over to give him the cold shoulder. He didn’t mean to let Cemil win, but facing a wall did little to occupy his mind, and before long, the quiet of the peaceful room had lulled him to sleep at last.

His dreams started off sweeter than reality. He was back in the Meskato prince’s arms, the physical details of lovemaking replaced by the pleasant haze of imagination. They were in their room in the governor’s mansion, and simultaneously on the hilltop by the fairy pond, and still at the same moment they were beneath a natural rock formation during a rainstorm on the road to Kaliany, crossing that thrilling boundary for the first time. It was wonderful and exciting and new—it always was, with him.

Now he was at the stables. Osmund gave Banu a scrub while he waited for Cemil, Kemal, and Ayaz to arrive, and also Nuray, who would be joining them today. Still he only noticed something amiss when he looked down and found himself clad in blue velvet.

I can’t let Cemil see, he thought in a whirlwind of panic, covering himself with his hands like a bashful maiden. What was he doing wearing the royal family’s colors again? And the dreadfully familiar weight on his forehead—the small coronet that marked him as a prince of Valcrest—hadn’t he abandoned it at Pravin’s estate when he’d fled?

He tore off the headpiece and hastily stashed it in a bale of hay. Yes, that would do. Then he moved to unfasten the buttons on the velvet doublet before realizing he’d forgotten to wear anything underneath. It was either expose himself as a foreign prince, or expose himself—period!

What a nightmare.

That’s right, it’s a nightmare, he realized suddenly. The knowledge was freeing. It doesn’t matter what I do!

His hands moved back to the doublet’s collar—deciding he’d really rather be naked than wear this accursed thing again, if it was just a dream anyway—but soon discovered the garment was stuck fast to his body like a second skin. Panic rose in his throat. He started rubbing at the fabric on his arm, then scratching, until he was attempting to shred it apart with his blunt, useless fingernails.

He sensed Cemil beside him. The Meskato prince was wearing his own best finery, and with it, a distant, cold expression. Osmund rushed to explain. “No, no, it’s a mistake!” he despaired. “I’m not—please, don’t look at me!” There was nowhere to hide, no way to flee; the stables had vanished. He turned back to find he was alone again.

He wandered desperately, seeking anything familiar. Around him stretched an invisible battlefield; the howls of men, the chaos of galloping horses, the clatter of steel. Through the desolate darkness he stumbled blindly. “Cemil, please, where are you?”

Then, there he was again. Illuminated by a brilliant, impossible light, like the hero of a painting. The Meskato prince was seated on Anaya—beautiful Anaya, the last wild horse of the Anshan, dressed for war like her master. “Wait!” Osmund cried. Cemil was going to ascend his throne and leave him behind. If Osmund stayed quiet, he’d never get another chance. “Wait, please, don’t forget about me!”

But even as he fought his way forward, clawing fingers grasped at the leather of his riding boots, dragging him down into the writhing mud. Osmund’s deep blue doublet blossomed a brilliant red, and his fingers scuttled along the wet hilt of a bladed weapon protruding from his belly. When he tried to speak, his lungs produced nothing but a bubbling rasp.

And still Cemil rode away. Away, to the glowing gate of Inecalar, out of this nightmare of death and deception. To the empire that awaited him. Away, until his brilliance was gone, until only darkness remained. Away until Osmund was nothing.

“Osmund?”

He blinked awake. The oil lamp glowed by the desk, and by its light he saw Cemil leaning over him. Osmund twitched, instantly alert. “What—what’s wrong?” he asked the Meskato prince.

Cemil’s brows set. “You…were speaking in your sleep.”

He seemed reluctant to go on. Osmund struggled to recollect the dream he’d just been pulled out of. “What did I say?”

Cemil hesitated before answering. “‘No, no’, over and over.”

“Oh.” The temptation was strong to yank the blankets over his head. “I’m sorry I disturbed you again.”

“But you’re alright?”

“Fine. Just a nightmare. I don’t even remember it.” He attempted to get comfortable again. Cemil remained, watching him. “I used to have them all the time as a child,” Osmund confessed beneath the other’s gaze. “Thought they were gone for good. I understand if it’s…more than you bargained for, when you asked me to move in.”

“Nonsense,” Cemil said, frowning. “All I care about is that whatever it was, it isn’t troubling you anymore. If it happens again, I’ll be nearby to wake you. Understand?”

He’d clearly given the other man quite a fright. Through the guilt, Osmund couldn’t help but feel touched by his care. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He tugged the sheets back over his shoulder. “You can go back to your work, I’m alright.”

But when Cemil returned to his desk, it was only to extinguish the lamp. Osmund felt the mattress shifting as the Meskato prince crawled in beside him, pulling him close. “You were right,” he heard in the dark. “It can all wait until morning.”