Chapter Ninety-Six: Ethwren

Caw. Caw.

The very old woman was singing tunelessly, her croaking ravens adding their voices to the racket when Osmund emerged onto the wall the next morning. He bid her a greeting that she, as usual, ignored.

The snow had begun in earnest, but it was a short ride to the peasant farmer’s cottage—and to the barn in which they had stowed for safekeeping the drunkenly babbling impostor. Twenty minutes perhaps, if he left now. Osmund donned his coat and fur-lined gloves, and a hat for good measure. He was descending to the courtyard when he heard the swing of a door on the upper floor, followed by the heatedly rising tones of Sakina’s voice. He waited, and heard Cemil next.

“I know you don’t believe it yourself,” Cemil was saying. Their voices echoed down the stairwell. “Why would you take her side? Claiming the Empire can afford to lose Videl—”

“If we cannot afford to lose it, then we are in a precarious situation indeed!” Sakina retorted. “Why should our own people be so reliant on the output of these peasants who so hate us? And you are going to be stuck to their princess the rest of your life!”

Osmund listened as their voices faded down an unseen hall. True to her word, then, Sakina was making the case for Videl’s independence. Though her passion seemed to stem from a dislike of its princess. 

At the castle mews, he gave Banu a treat from the kitchens and saddled her up. “Just a short one today, my darling,” he promised her softly. “We’ll be back in the warm soon.”

The rustic barn was capped with a loose layer of snow, like dandruff. Osmund led Banu inside and was gratified to find the man—the impostor—the stranger greatly sobered up. “I’m forever in your debt,” said the other bleakly. His fake highborn accent had partially slid off. He looked like hell. “Afraid I’ve nothing left to repay you with.”

“I’ll have your name, then,” Osmund said. “The real one.”

Slow acceptance curled over the man’s face; he knew the game was up. “Ethwren,” he said at last. “Well-met. I knew you saw through me from the start. I’m sorry for the deception.”

Osmund sat himself on a barrel by the door. Though it looked solid, the old wood flexed threateningly underneath his weight. “Why did you become Lord Pravin’s puppet?” he asked, shaking his head. “Apart from—”

“Apart from the good food, the soft beds, and Selenne?”

Not a word about the castle. Or about the crown, and the grand (if illusory) privileges it conferred. Only common things. Security. Companionship.

Ethwren gave a mirthless laugh. “Can I have a drink?” He didn’t mean the waterskin they’d given him.

“No.”

“Damn.”

Osmund cast a look about the barn, lit by a single pale window and a sorry little lamp. It was preferable to freezing one’s stones off outdoors, but probably only just. The structure stank like animal droppings mingled with old straw that had soaked, frozen, and thawed in cycles, and it was poorly tended. (Osmund felt the urge to take up the broom.) “Far from the worst place I’ve rested my head,” Ethwren said. “Did you come for my life story?”

“All I want to talk about is your sponsor,” Osmund said. “Or should I say your master. I don’t need anything else from you.”

Ethwren took a sip of water and weighed the skin thoughtfully, gesturing with it at the bleating sheep and goats milling about by one wall. “Think you could get me a new horse?”

“Really, you think you’re in a position to bargain?”

“I was thinking you had a bleeding heart and wanted to do good by your fellow countryman.”

Osmund glared at him. Where did he get off, making such a request without a hint of shame? “You might consider working.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I would,” Ethwren said wistfully, “but I doubt these hungry people have use for a singing wastrel like me.”

So, he’d been some kind of musician before Pravin had got hold of him. A tavern singer, perhaps. Or a theatrical performer, the kind with a bold exciting life. Osmund masked his feelings of envy. “You’ve got arms and legs,” he decided to remind him. “I’m sure there’s always a need for honest work.”

“Coming from Prince Cemil’s imperial bedwarmer,” rejoined Ethwren. His expression grew sharper. “I’ve been wondering how a Tolmish aristocrat ended up in a place like this. Your accent’s the real thing. I’ve known plenty of noblemen’s servants, and none of them spoke like you.”

Osmund considered his options. The lies he could tell on top of lies. With his long experience it would’ve been entirely effortless.

“I’m the Prince of Valcrest,” he said flatly.

“Hah.” A snort. “Good one.”

Ethwren took up the waterskin again, which did not quite make it to his lips. Osmund could see the pieces falling into place, and said nothing, waiting for the consequences of his own moment of insanity.

“My god,” the man breathed, eyes wide. “It is you, isn’t it? You’ve got the look, the highborn speech…and the way you talk to that horse! I’ve played Prince Osmund on the stage more than once. Who else could he be but you?! Lord Pravin said you were dead, but he lied!”

Even if this was a mistake, there was no taking it back now. Osmund nodded and hoped it looked more certain than he felt. “He lied,” he agreed simply.

“You ran away,” Ethwren said, “and now you’re fucking the Meskato prince? And he doesn’t even realize who you are?”

Osmund’s cheeks heated, but he nodded again.

Ethwren stared. Then he laughed. Haltingly at first, then louder. And louder. Louder still, until he was shrieking with it.

“Our royal prince!” Osmund heard him wheeze between fits. “Our stick-rider prince on his knees for the emperor’s son!”

The laughter tore at something already hanging by threads. Osmund was on his feet. “Shut up,” he barked, unheard over the other’s mirth. The mockery, the scorn: he could not bear it, not again, not now. But that imbecilic laughter didn’t cease.

Osmund lunged at the other man, pressing him choking and gasping into the layers of refuse and straw. “You think you have the right to laugh?!” he said savagely. “After wearing my past like a masquerade costume?! Do you know what it was like, being King Valen’s heir?!”

Ethwren’s eyes ballooned. He struggled in vain. “My father thought I should be beaten for the crime of being a timid son who enjoyed fucking men,” Osmund went on, lips curling around every word. “Is that what you think?”

“No,” Ethwren wheezed. “No, Your Highness! I understand why you ran off. I’d do the same!”

The tall, dashing man looked so withered and pathetic and afraid, their resemblance made suddenly complete. Osmund wondered what it would be like to raise his palm and strike his defenseless cheek. Pretend to be Father, and see if he could work out the appeal.

This was exactly the dousing of cold water he needed. Osmund climbed off of Ethwren and backed away.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” croaked Ethwren. He groveled in the muck. “I forgot myself. I only laughed because—it reminded me of a vulgar satire I saw once. With your father and the emperor as stand-ins for their respective countries. But that isn’t you and Prince Cemil. You’re really devoted to him.”

He was completely unrecognizable as the preening royal peacock he’d been just a week prior. “I’ve regretted this farce for some time,” Ethwren confessed to the wet straw beneath him. “It isn’t the easy life I traded my old one for. I don’t know how you endured it so long.” He sounded on the verge of tears.

Osmund swallowed. “Sit,” he commanded. “Or stand. Don’t…grovel.”

Ethwren sat back on his heels. Osmund tried to soothe the last ripples of his anger. “I’m sorry,” he forced himself to say.

“A prince must never apologize. He has to be willing to stand behind his actions.”

Osmund stared. “Rule two,” recited Ethwren sardonically. “According to Lord Pravin. Apparently apologies make one look weak.”

Had Father ever had a rule like that? At some point it had become merely a foregone conclusion that Osmund would disappoint Father, and Father would beat him. “What was rule one?” he asked.

“That I should shut up and do as he tells me.”

Osmund smiled bitterly. “That one’s the same.”

Ethwren leaned against the hay bale where he’d been propped before. Osmund sat on his untrustworthy barrel. They sized each other up awhile. “I really never meant to make trouble,” Ethwren said. For all his shrinking demeanor, his eyes were alert. “How many are in on the…well, the charade?”

“Princess Nicoleta,” said Osmund wearily. “And Cemil’s brother Emre. Other than them, not a soul.”

“And you told me because…” Ethwren wavered, then guessed, “because I’m the only one who understands how miserable life as the Prince of Valcrest is.”

“Because I was tired of lying,” Osmund snapped. Again, the words seemed to burst forth unbidden. “And because after you leave us, you’re going to go back to your old life. You won’t make contact with Lord Pravin or Cemil or the others ever again.”

“That sounds almost like a threat.”

“It is. What in the heavens’ name was keeping you trapped in my life if you hated it so much?”

Ethwren’s face took on a mournful air. “You should understand my reason,” he said. “Love.”

It was Osmund’s turn to laugh in his face. “Love?” he repeated, incredulous. “For Lady Selenne? It hasn’t stopped you dallying with other women.”

“‘The heart is true, but the body is fickle.’ Aren’t you a man yourself?”

“Not one who strays,” Osmund spat. “Forget you ever met her and you’ll both be better off.”

“We have newborn sons. No matter how I approach it, those boys are my blood, aren’t they?” Ethwren’s misery was perfectly matched to his wretched appearance. “And Selenne…I do feel as though she loved me, too.”

Osmund just shook his head. “All she cares about is that throne!”

“And your precious prince is the same.”

That drew him short. Osmund couldn’t even muster his outrage. For Ethwren to compare their situations…it wasn’t just offensive, it was preposterous! “They aren’t the same. Cemil’s a good man.”

“Is a ‘good man’ one who drains a country dry for his own benefit?”

“That’s his father’s doing,” said Osmund less confidently.

“He plans to give Videl its independence, then?” Ethwren made an impatient gesture. “For god’s sake, man, look around! The Meskato may have built a few roads and schools and baths, but only so they can point to them and claim it’s a fair exchange. They let the Videlari keep their faith—our faith—because they truly don’t care about these people beyond what they can produce. They’d do the same to the Isles if they thought they could. Yes, Cemil too. He joked about it to me while we were sporting.”

The world spun. “You’re a plaything,” Ethwren said. “I am too, but at least I know it.”

Osmund’s hands flexed. He didn’t know with what urge. He kept his palms flat at his sides, fingers outstretched. Cemil would be the inheritor of a great empire. But a conqueror? “You’re wrong,” Osmund said, voice calm.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“That’s all. I don’t have to explain myself—or him—to you.”

Ethwren wilted. With their tussling, his pretty blond hair had become matted with grime, and his formerly clean-shaven face bore several days’ unkempt growth on his chin. The picture it made was revolting. Beside him, Osmund truly felt a prince.

“You don’t have any money, do you?” Osmund reached into his pocket and held out a shiny coin, one of his very last after yesterday’s charity. “Tell me all you know about Pravin’s plans, and I’ll help you get out of this town.”

Ethwren fixed his gaze intently upon the single gold piece, and Osmund could see his desperation and his shame at war. “…Have you got another?” the man prodded, chewing his lip.

“Maybe. Let’s see how good your information is.”

Osmund sat with his arms crossed and stared him down until he started talking. “He’s got inroads with some rebels in Chantel, Lord Pravin, through an associate of his called Baratte,” Ethwren relented. The name was a shudder in Osmund’s spine. “The common Chantelais—from the peasants to the wealthy burghers—have been angry at their king for a long time, is what I hear. Pravin’s funnelling money to the effort, and he’s going to use those ships he’s got from the Meskato Emperor to threaten the Chantelais capital city of Lordenne. His aim is to strongarm the king into declaring him part of a new supreme council that governs all countries of the Ocentine faith. Even if he never takes the Isles, he’s fixed to become richer than a saint, and more powerful, too.”

“Do you think he can be stopped?” Osmund asked. “It seems he’s halfway across the sea to Chantel as we speak.”

“Let him have what he wants.” The other’s voice was tired. “What’s it to you or me?”

“Will he return? He’s got a business empire of his own, in Şebyan. I can’t see him giving that up easily.”

“He’d need a big ally on the Meskato side,” Ethwren said. “I met Prince Safet and he doesn’t have the guts. He really is just a kid.”

Osmund fished a second coin from his pocket and flicked them both onto the ground in the muck. “For your trouble,” he said. Ethwren sat looking at them, and didn’t move to scoop them up right away. Osmund knew that look: a cruel reckoning with one’s own dignity.

“Lord Pravin’s allies from the Isles all knew.” This time Ethwren barely seemed to be talking to Osmund at all. His blue-green eyes alone were untouched by the squalor around him. “They’d ask me if I’d gotten taller and wink like we were all in on a joke. They didn’t care at all that I was a fraud.”

Osmund turned. Ethwren added, “If I were you, I’d get on that horse for someplace far away and never look back.”

But the Tolmish prince held his head high, and walked with Banu into the gently falling snow. He had already made his choice.

While he mounted his horse, he allowed himself a single gaze over the white mountains. There, beyond, lay Elmaluk, and somewhere beyond that, home.

He turned back towards the castle. Towards Cemil. Man and horse disappeared into the snow.