Chapter Ninety-Five: Oh, Mercy

Osmund was a coward, through and through. Any time he grasped for the words, the panic rose in his chest, sharp and all-consuming. The truth was a poison that needed expelling, but was determined to kill him on its way out.

Opportunities mocked him at every turn. Here was Cemil on another afternoon, curling beside him on the bed (for they had abandoned their scruples about respecting propriety), asking Osmund in a stolen moment of intimacy to share something, anything, of the man he’d been before they’d met.

I have to tell him. I have to tell him.

Osmund told Cemil what little he remembered of his mother. Nothing as specific as her eyes, mouth, brows. Those were all forgotten, supplanted by the portrait in the castle. Her voice too was gone. Only sensations remained. A glimpse of her, sitting and brushing out his sister’s hair. The distinct pressure on his armpits when she buttoned the top button of his tunic, a little too tight. The way her breath always smelled of rosewater, like her favorite biscuits, when she bent down to kiss his cheek. These memories were treasures he’d never shared with anyone, and yet they were only a compromise, an offering. Scraps of the full cloth.

There came no news of treachery by Lord Pravin. He seemed to be sailing to Chantel, as expected. Troubling accounts circulated of Felklanders in Videl’s northern reaches, but that was nothing new—Gudrun’s countrymen were always restless, never content in their own territory. And anyway, they had their own heathen religions and weren’t part of some dreaded Ocentine alliance.

Tension was born at home, and its locus was the training of Prince Luca.

“You want him to condemn men to their death?!” Osmund said in disbelief the second the door was shut. Cemil immediately set about wearing a hole in the floor with his pacing.

“He’ll say a few words,” Cemil returned, no less agitated. “No one is putting a sword in his hand to enforce the ruling himself.”

“In all the hours I have spent with him, I have never heard him say more than a word at a time, and only in small company,” Osmund argued. “He isn’t ready to address a crowd.”

“One sentence,” Cemil threw back, “in his own language. That cannot be asking too much.”

They seemed to have found their way into the armory. Blue glints of cold steel reflected on the walls. “Nicoleta can’t do it?” Osmund challenged. “If you think the people need to hear from the royal family—”

“She’s too indulgent of her cousin, as you are. She’d say yes just to spare him the discomfort, even when her actions will do him harm in the long run.”

“He is ten, Cemil!”

“And he is a prince!”

Osmund flinched at that. The next thing he knew, Cemil was running hands over his shoulders in a conciliatory fashion.

“I know you’re fond of the boy,” said Cemil gently. “You have his best interests at heart, same as I.” Through the open window came friendly shouts of men sparring in the yard below. Cemil considered a moment, and added, “We will push Luca to deliver the judgment himself. If he isn’t ready when the day arrives, it is better after all if his cousin does it. But he must be given every chance to prove himself.”

Osmund found himself nodding. “Alright,” he said reluctantly. “Yes. But we mustn’t push him too hard. He should be allowed to learn at his own pace.”

Cemil raised Osmund’s arm and kissed the back of his hand, which meant the argument was over. “I hate fighting with you,” said Osmund with a sigh.

“The great poet Soli says that fighting with a lover is like plucking up a rusted dagger, dipping it in a slow poison, and driving it into one’s own heart,” Cemil agreed.

“Goodness. Maybe it’s not that bad.”

“I disagree.”

In a week, barring his son’s surrender, the voivode would be sentenced to death. Osmund shuddered to imagine what torments the prisoner was being subjected to even as they spoke, and feared to ask. Perhaps execution would come as a mercy.

Cemil parted from him. “I should get back,” he said regretfully.

“You’re really overseeing all of his training yourself?” Osmund might not have approved of putting the boy through the rigors, but the Meskato prince couldn’t be accused of doing it unfeelingly.

“For a time,” Cemil clarified. “While we wait for reports.”

Ah yes. Reports. Scouts were sending birds every day as they tracked the rebels’ movements. These were slippery men, though perhaps not for long. There was chatter in the castle about a storm on its way. Snow, and a lot of it. Anyone not currently holed up would be seeking shelter soon.

Osmund wondered about Şebyan. It was a harbor city, never truly touched by winter as the mountains were. Nonetheless the dock workers were at the mercy of the seasons, and the favorable winds they might bring. Was the arrest of half the Merchants’ Guild still making waves through the lives of the Tolmish population? How were his friends faring? Was Mylo walking free? Was Rylan still working for him?

Rylan. Another tremor of guilt went through his gut.

Cemil seemed to guess the homeward direction of his thoughts. “I wonder what Nuray and the other servants will make of your stories once we’ve returned,” he teased.

Truthfully, Osmund doubted they would be interested in much of anything except the royal wedding. “I’ll be describing the food and fashions for days,” he said instead, putting on a good-humored smile. “They’ll never let me rest.”

Satisfied, Cemil left him, and Osmund was alone. Well, nothing for it. He could sulk indoors, or out in the sun. He chose the latter.

He took Banu down to the village, this time with a pocketful of coins, in case beggars waylaid him again. A mistake. The desperate got a whiff of his generosity and swarmed him like the ravens around that strange old woman who he saw in his walks of the castle. Soon he was stone broke again. At least until he could ask Cemil for more money.

Osmund weaved through the streets once the needy understood that they’d mined him to depletion. As before, he didn’t have an aim in mind. The sight of a certain horse stopped him. It was a noble beast, tall and white as a snowdrift, and he recognized it at once. The impostor had ridden it in on the journey here.

His hackles rose, but the man leading the horse had a certain unassuming look about him, not like a dangerous thief. Osmund flagged down the fellow and learned through a game of gestures that the fine horse had been acquired in a trade. One outstanding horse in exchange for a plain one, and some food and liquor. As for the other party, the man pointed at Osmund’s own hair, which betrayed its natural color in the sunlight. Blond.

The dead horse they had seen had belonged to the impostor. If the man wasn’t dead himself, then he was out there on the slopes. Presumably alone.

Osmund rode back to the castle at a gallop. He meant to go straight to Cemil, but midway down the hall something stopped him. If Cemil learned the man was a fake, he might be left questioning where the real one was.

I have to tell him. I have to tell him. God dammit, I have to tell him!

“Something wrong, Valcrest?”

Osmund whirled to find Gudrun, leaning against the entrance, idly twirling a knife in her lethal hand. Fresh inspiration seized him. “Are you busy, Felklands?” he asked, plainly seeing that she wasn’t. “I have a job.”

They were three hours out from the castle. Osmund remembered well the location where they’d seen the fallen horse. That had been days ago, but the man was now on foot. And Osmund suspected he hadn’t gone far.

Nicoleta’s search party had probably operated under the presumption that the missing rider wanted to be found. Snow had begun to fall. Instead of checking the main road, Osmund directed them to search for caves.

“I’ve a nose for caves,” offered Ratface brightly. “I can sniff one out a mile off.”

“I’m sorry, you can smell caves?” Osmund said dubiously.

“He can do it,” attested Kasri. “I’ve seen him.”

Osmund looked to Nienos and Gudrun to try and judge if the others were pulling his leg, but the two senior mercenaries were looking bored stiff on their mounts. Clearly they’d been hoping for a bit more adventure. He wanted to remind them that it was a good thing they hadn’t come across any raiders out here.

“What are we doing with him when we find him?” asked Ratface. “Tie him up?”

“No,” said Osmund.

“Bring him back to the castle?”

Osmund considered the question and decided, “If it’s what he wants.” Though he doubted that fact.

“If he’s been out here for days, he’ll be half-mad,” said Kasri. “He’s a prince. He’ll be crying and missing his feather pillow.”

Ratface seemed to strike upon an idea. “Say, should we rob him?”

“For heaven’s sake,” Osmund growled. “We’ll decide what to do when we find him, and not before.”

“Wasn’t a ‘no’,” he heard Ratface mumble to Kasri behind him. 

It was Gudrun who spotted the cave. It was well-hidden, looking much smaller from the outside than it really was. The impostor was inside, huddling. He was delirious, possibly from hunger. But also, he was drunk.

“Oh, mercy,” moaned the man. It wasn’t clear whether he was giving thanks to the heavens for his rescue, or if he believed they were about to gut him.

Osmund slid out of the saddle and propped him up. The man stank dizzyingly, and his eyes were unfocused. “Get up,” Osmund ordered, not particularly kindly. “You’re coming back with us.”