Chapter Seventy-Eight: Hopelessly Stubborn

Alone on the street, he went wandering, aimless. His lungs ached, and his foot cramped. Another moment and Sakina and Emre were upon him.

“I’m so sorry, Osmund,” Sakina was rambling. “We were going to follow you inside but—oh, I’m furious! She strictly forbade us! Are you hurt? How badly?”

Emre frowned. “How did you lose a boot?”

“Nevermind,” Osmund rasped. He let them grab him and help him along. “I’m…I want to sit down. I want something to drink.”

They found a table outside of a very small coffeehouse—frequented, it seemed, entirely by old Meskato men playing dominoes—and sat, likely making an interesting picture. Sakina thrust a handful of silver coins upon a passing lad and bade him to fetch a healer with haste. The local woman arrived barely five minutes later and gave Osmund a pass with her magic. The new bruises were gone faster than an exhale. He still tasted the tang of blood on his lip.

“My lungs,” he said urgently when she made to withdraw. They felt like they were convulsing in his chest. “I inhaled smoke. I—I can’t breathe.”

Sakina gave him a concerned look. “I think you might be panicking, Osmund,” she said gently. “You should…oh, I know. Why don’t you summarize The Flowering Maiden’s Court for me?”

It was too much like being asked to recite the ascension story. “Anything but that,” Osmund despaired with a shiver. His breathing was still coming hard and at great cost. He struggled to regain his wits; he could see they were worried about him. Frightened, even, and it rattled him in turn. He could not stand those expressions. “…Who forbade you to go in?” he asked, desperate to move on.

“Lieutenant Governor Taranuz, of course,” Sakina exploded. “We begged to head in after you. She held us back! Saying this was an official investigation, and that we could only move when we had her say. Though for all the flowers in Nasanda’s garden I cannot figure out the reason she would have us delay!”

“The acting governor was there?” Osmund said with surprise he did not have to fake. “I thought you said she wasn’t at her post. How did you send word?”

“She wasn’t at the governor’s mansion because she was here,” said Emre. “Back there, rather. Someone had already tipped her off!”

Who? Osmund might’ve asked. But he could tell the others didn’t know. And anyway, all he could think was: So, it was all pointless in the end. “And the fire?”

“That was my doing,” Emre admitted at a stern glance from Sakina. “…Unsanctioned by Taranuz. It was a move of desperation. I’m glad you didn’t get cooked.”

“I’m not sure what would’ve happened if Rylan hadn’t found me,” Osmund agreed. “But even so, I’m…I’m glad you did it.”

He was only beginning to accept this new reality as the happy truth. All was well again. He was with those who he could trust.

“It’ll be a while before we learn what’s become of…the people inside,” Emre said, with a cautious sideways glance at the third member of their group just before he would’ve dropped Pravin’s name. “It looks like the soldiers evacuated them. Taranuz made dozens of arrests, probably half the Guild. I can’t imagine this will go over well with the Tolmish. There’ll be unrest here in Şebyan, I’m afraid.”

In other words, more mess for Cemil to clean up. Oh, Cemil. What would he say when he learned what happened here tonight?

“When can we ride?” he asked the others abruptly. “To Elmaluk. To Cemil. He has to…” I want to see him. Heavens, I need to. “He has to know. About Safet and Nadir and…and the rest.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Sakina promised. “The preparations are already made. The most important thing we can do now is sleep.”

Sleep. That sounded lovely.

They guided him back to the house, and half an hour later, his head hit the pillow. Oblivion found him quickly.

That night brought a dreadful nightmare. Someone held down his arms as Baratte wielded a knife and removed Osmund’s skin, layer by layer. Blood never ran; there was always more flesh underneath, like peeling an onion. Behind the Chantelais was a dancing skeleton in his father’s clothes, booming his disapproval or roaring encouragement at turns: Yes, keep going. See what my royal heir really looks like under there!

Waking was almost worse. In the dream, he had been numb, curious even, watching the spectacle with a certain detachment. There might be something interesting at his center. Maybe even a worthy prince if one dug deep enough. But the real world was stark and cold. His heart raced, and his sweaty hair clung to his itching face.

The storm that had threatened them yesterday had broken on the mountains, and so had missed Şebyan entirely. Traces of it could be seen in the distant green of the trees and muddy smudge on the hills. Banu toed the ground at her feet, whinnying eagerly as Osmund attached the saddlebag with a pat on her side. They would be riding light on this mere two-day journey.

“We’ll figure out lodgings on the road,” said Emre somewhere behind him. “The letter from Cemil will have plenty of doors opening to us.”

Emre’s horse Adalet was as well-behaved as ever, though he seemed a little cowed by the larger, sturdier Banu. Taylan was Sakina’s steed. He was a proud thing, tall, beautiful, and golden, and welcomed his groomings as the lofty Anaya did not, even appeared to take pleasure in them, like a doted-on pet dog. You’d have made a better prince than me, Osmund thought of the horse with a sardonic smile.

He heard Sakina’s soft footfalls, and a remark: “I can’t decide which of you looks more ragged this morning.”  

Osmund glanced up distractedly, taking in Emre’s color for the first time. “Heavens, she’s right,” he said, forgetting his own gloom. “Are you ill?”

“Just tired, same as you.” No one missed the clumsy way Emre pushed himself off the wall, or how he struggled to get into the saddle, then sat rigidly straight as if challenging them to say something about it. Osmund and Sakina shared a look, in silent agreement about certain hopelessly stubborn men. It was futile to press the issue.

They rode at a trot in the very blue morning. Here beneath the sky, human troubles had no power. Osmund visualized himself pushing the last few days free and leaving them somewhere behind in the dirt. Instead, there was this: the smell of the wet plants, of freshly turned mud. Banu’s happy snort. As early as tomorrow, a Meskato hunting lodge, and the arms of the man he loved. Osmund found himself wondering what Cemil must have made of his last letter, which would likely arrive just before he did.

Their party was mostly quiet but for comments on the state of the road. He had just begun thinking about lunch when:

“Osmund, we need to stop.”

He turned in the saddle. It was Sakina who’d spoken, looking over her own shoulder at Emre.

“Oh,” Osmund breathed. Dismounting, he went to the black gelding, who had halted confused behind Sakina and Taylan. In the saddle, Emre sat half-slumped, sweat visible on his brow. “Come, let’s sit by the river. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Osmund extended an arm to help him down, and Emre seized it, first the sleeve and then the Tolmishman’s riding glove, discarding it with a careless gesture. “Let me pull from you,” Emre all but wheezed, and Osmund felt that sharp tug as their skin connected. “A little, and I’ll be able to continue.”

The taking of Osmund’s magic had been a neutral sensation before—like wearing a strangely-textured glove, if he had to put words to it—but now the glove was lined with stinging ants. Not expecting the pain, he jerked his hand away.

Sakina appeared by his side. “What is this, what are you doing?” she demanded. “Emre, Osmund isn’t a mage! Are you draining him?!”

“Not a lot.” Emre feebly fought off the accusation. “He has plenty.”

Sakina squinted in confusion. Without asking she took up Osmund’s arm, and this time he felt a touch of her own magic brushing up against him, seeking. After a few seconds, she dropped the arm and stared at him. “Oh,” she conceded, mystified by his unexpected affluence. Thankfully, her attention was quickly drawn back to their ailing comrade.

Together, they helped Emre from the saddle and walked him down to the watercourse beside the road. Osmund saw to the horses, then returned. In the short time of his absence, Sakina’s face had become incredibly dark.

“I don’t even think he meant to,” Emre was muttering.

“Then he should have been more careful,” Sakina snapped. “I can’t believe he—what a wicked thing to do.”

Osmund stopped some steps away, worried for who they were speaking of so animatedly.

“—had no choice. Even I could see that.”

“—should be outlawed as torture,” Sakina was ranting over him. “After all that’s been done to you—”

“Don’t,” Emre interrupted bitterly. “I know. I…I don’t need to hear it.”

Sakina bit her lip. She took up both of Emre’s hands in her own. Osmund almost looked away shyly, but soon realized they were sharing magic. If Sakina felt the same stinging sensation that Osmund had, she was careful not to show her discomfort.

He joined the scene then, dutifully filling their waterskins, more for something to do than for any pressing need. “So that seal on your hand drains your magic,” he guessed quietly. No other explanation made sense. “How do you feel?”

Emre breathed deeply. “Like being hungry,” he muttered. “The hungriest you’ve been—it hurts—but only because you’re choosing not to eat.”

“You’re made to obey the person who cast the seal on you.” Sakina simmered with a quiet fury. “Once you obey their commands, all is normal again. If you disobey, your body eats away at itself. It creates a—loop. A dependency, according to what I’ve read. Cemil may not have had a choice when his father made him bind you, but he should never have given you an actual order!”

“An order? What did he tell you to do?”

Emre shifted, reluctant to answer, which only made his companions all the more anxious. After a great deal of badgering, he solidified his position.

“Forget about it,” he growled. “It wasn’t important, and as you can see I failed at the task. Cemil didn’t mean to—compel me. I’m sure of it. My little brother may be poisoned in the head by the Empire, but he would not do this.”

“…The three of us must hold faith in that,” Sakina capitulated. “After all he’s used to giving you orders, knowing full well you have at best half a mind to obey them. You’ll both have to adjust to this new…complication.”

Osmund nudged Sakina aside and took over the task, gripping both Emre’s palms with his own.

“Osmund, please, you should let me do this, I’m a trained mage,” said Sakina unhappily.

“I have plenty, with small other use for it. You need yours—you’re our only defense on the road.”

“Even if that’s so, if you let him take too much too quickly, you’ll become as sick as he is. Or worse.”

As the magic flowed from his body into Emre’s, the pinpricks started in his fingers again, then traveled up his hands and wrists until his forearms were numb as if he’d lain asleep in an unwise position. Emre released him abruptly. “I’ve got enough,” he mumbled. “Thank you.”

His color did seem slightly improved, though Osmund was sure that was Sakina’s doing more than his own. Emre still needed help to stand in the form of a hand on Osmund’s shoulder. “I can ride a few more hours,” he insisted.

Stubborn man, Osmund thought, not to admit when he needs help.

They were able to beg shelter that night at the house of a cavalry soldier. The single gentleman professed his pleasure at hosting the favored prince’s personal companions, assuring them many times with the finest of manners that he did not require thanks or recognition from Şehzade Cemil, though he was sure to mention the fearlessness and pedigree of his own prized destrier, and how he himself sported for a good fight against rebel upstarts, perhaps beside his prince if such an opportunity arose. He praised Sakina’s beauty with the courtesy one paid to an honored guest’s wife, and seemed surprised when she leaned over her elbow and flashed him a coy smile. Despite her flirting, she bid him a goodnight at the end of the dinner; the three of them slept in one room, apart from their host.

All through the night, a pair of huge hounds, given full reign of their master’s house, pawed at the closed door and whimpered. And again, Osmund’s nightmares mocked his peace.

“They say her mother is a great beauty,” said his father of the eight-year-old Meskato “princess” who had just set foot onto the castle grounds. “Yes, she’ll be fine to look at when she gets a little older…”

It wasn’t just this stray memory of Father. He knew that somewhere in this dream was Baratte, too. And—Bayram, though he was dead and buried.

He found Cemil and held him tight. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, as if Cemil were the one who needed his protection. And he felt warmth bloom inside his own heart.