Chapter Eighty-Nine: All-Seeing Gaze

A night’s restless tossing did little to reassure him. Mirhan’s advice loomed large in his mind. A smiling, stupid lover. That was what he would become—for Cemil’s sake, and for his own survival.

The sky outside his window lightened again. Osmund dressed himself with mechanical habit. Then he descended the dark steps and pushed open the first door that yielded to him, sending a gaggle of croaking ravens irritably scattering. He was surprised to find himself on the battlements high upon the wall. Above shone the first hints of the midmorning sun, while the stones below his feet glistened wetly.

His stomach grumbled, but he walked to soothe his mind. The wall was very wide, with ample space for amblers, and provided a panoramic view of the surrounding slopes. From on high, the fields and tiny peasant cottages sat like primitive marks on a map.

In his promenade, he passed a handful of guardsmen manning the wall, and then an old woman, stout and shabbily dressed, looking more than a little out of place. It was impolite to guess a woman’s age, but if pushed, he’d hazard she was about a thousand. From her voluminous pockets she tossed a handful of seeds and corn kernels onto the stones at her feet, and the ravens swarmed her like greedy children, the offerings disappearing into their black beaks.

“Good morning,” Osmund greeted her in his stumbling, ugly Videlari, one of eight or so basic phrases he’d learned on the journey. Better to be polite. The old woman said something incomprehensible while still looking down at her ravens. Whether she was talking to him or to them, he wasn’t certain.

Down in the baileys, the castle was coming to life. There was activity: soldiers, servants, hostlers. Osmund watched. Passively first, from his spot on the wall, then he found a stair that led to the courtyard below. Halfway down he spied Cemil and Nicoleta, trailed by her royal guard, those intimidating knights in a dark, sea-green plate and swallowing cloaks. The Meskato prince and Videlari princess were deep in conversation with the aid of the faithful young attendant. None of the three noticed him.

With heaviness in his heart, he forced his gaze away. No matter how close he appeared, Cemil was beyond his reach here.

Osmund took a small breakfast in the great hall’s mess. His feet led him next to the castle chapel, where the Videlari practiced their Ocentine beliefs freely. Here among the faithful was Kasri. Osmund couldn’t decide if he was more startled to encounter her here in an Ocentine chapel, or to see her alone without her twin.

“I like this one,” said Kasri. “He’s got a kind face.”

Standing beside her, Osmund glanced up. Looming nearly to the vaulted, cobwebbed ceiling, Saint Ocens, bearing aloft his Numinous Relics, looked as untouchable as ever. The cast bronze statue was a little worse for wear, rusted green at the fingers, but the expression was gentle. Serene.

“Are you a follower?” Osmund asked, pulling the coat tighter over his body as if he could protect himself from that all-seeing gaze.

“I dunno.” Kasri was still staring up at it. “Our da was Tolmish. Is religion inherited?”

She sensed the unasked questions in his ensuing silence. “He abandoned our family when we were small,” she explained. “Never got to ask him much.”

“…I’m sorry. Not that it’s any consolation, but my Tolmish father was a scoundrel, too.”

A little motion of her shoulders shrugging. “Florence and Munir at the Wood Falcon look after us. Have since our mum died. It’s not bad. They’re a Tolmish and a Meskato like our parents, but without any little ones of their own. It’s like destiny, I guess.”

“Destiny,” Osmund repeated. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?”

“D’you?”

He considered it a long time. All around them, the press of the solemn faithful shuffled past.

“I believe we have choices,” he said at last. “Florence and Munir took you in because they chose it. Chose kindness. Chose you.”

“They’re good,” Kasri agreed. They stood together awhile longer.

Osmund looked around, restless. Facing the tall bronze statue, there were conspicuous gaps in the wooden pews to suggest there had once been twice as many. Sold, perhaps. Or burned in a desperate winter. The smell of the rose-infused tallow was was like being transported away again across the sea.

“I’m going to go,” he said. Fortunately Kasri didn’t ask where, because Osmund had no notion of the answer.

He left the chapel again in a rush. Surely it was his nose that directed him to the castle mews. Horse manure wasn’t the sweetest scent, but it was more welcome than that of baking bread. He gave Banu a brushing, saddled her up, and they rode downhill through the citadel gates towards the town.

This land in the shadow of Castle Vide was called Orestin. Now apart from the imperial procession, Osmund and Banu passed mostly without notice. A few strangers on the street hailed him in unknown words. Beggars, perhaps, but he didn’t want to give offense by assuming. And anyway, he hadn’t brought any money.

Osmund gave his mind as much license to wander as he did Banu, who carried him from one unpaved road to the next. Beneath the open air, he tried to conjure up some happy future. Nicoleta and Cemil would be married, yes, but they’d all become good friends with a sense of humor over the fact that she and Osmund shared one man—perhaps eventually with other women, too. Osmund pictured himself looking after a gaggle of beautiful children who were half Cemil, half a stranger, and the resulting wave of sick was almost overwhelming. One day it will all feel ordinary, he repeated.

A scrappy youngster darted into the road directly in front of Banu’s hooves, giving her a minor scare. “Careful!” Osmund cried in exasperation as the youth scampered off again.

He scowled, looking about for some negligent parents to glare at. The nearest peasant just trudged on, sunken eyes staring dully past. His garments hung too loose. Osmund’s brows drew further. He looked abruptly to the next man and found him much the same.

Banu continued on down the road, oblivious, but Osmund did not retreat back into his thoughts. Everywhere he looked, the inhabitants of the town seemingly shared that haggard leanness, yet Osmund had scarcely seen so many fat, bleating sheep in his life. These people did not lack for arable lands or for sturdy beasts. So why, he wondered with mounting disquiet, were they so poor?

On his arrival back to the citadel, he hadn’t yet puzzled out an answer. That was when Sakina found him.

“I thought I was prepared for the cold, but it is biting,” she complained. Her tone carried more of a plea than any of the beggars he’d encountered in Orestin.

Osmund lacked the energy to maintain his one-sided grudge. He missed her companionship too. “You’ll get used to it soon.”

“I’m a creature of the southen coast,” Sakina replied, latching on eagerly to the opening he’d given her. “You will like Inecalar much better, I think. The weather is so fine. It’s the most beautiful city.”

They sat together by the inner gate. A ways distant, the emperor went by with Lord Sebry, his hand-chosen imperial puppet. A certain someone appeared to be absent from his sovereign’s company, which was rare indeed.

“Mirhan came to offer me peace last night,” Osmund added. “I think.”

“Oh.” Sakina inhaled. “I didn’t tell him that you knew…”

“I’m sure he figured it out from how we were acting.” In truth, Osmund should have thought of that. Should have pretended to Sakina like nothing was wrong, for his own sake. Stupid. “He thinks I’ll be best served by cozying up to the Videlari. But I don’t speak their language, and we won’t be here long enough to learn. I’m sure all the interpreters are spoken for.”

“You don’t have to cozy up with anyone,” Sakina said with a handwave. “Leave that all to Cemil and to his negotiators. The Videlari are so hot-tempered. You don’t want to offend them.”

“‘Hot-tempered’?” Osmund echoed. “What, all of them?”

“It’s their national character.”

“Then, what’s the national character of the Meskato?”

Sakina considered. “Dignified,” she decided after a moment. “And curious.”

Osmund narrowly held back a laugh. “I’m sure the fact that you run in Meskato noble circles, with all their time for leisure, has no bearing on that assessment.”

Sakina seemed to bristle a little, unused to his criticism. “We Meskato don’t have a noble class like the Tolmish, as you know by this point. We may be the only society in the world that values merit.”

“I don’t know what else to call the fact that the children of high-ranking officials enjoy special privileges,” Osmund pointed out, feeling it was rather like splitting hairs. “Maybe it’s the difference between one or two generations getting preferential treatment, versus a family getting it in perpetuity like on the Isles.” 

“Seems no small difference to me,” said Sakina. “Greatness dilutes from a family with every generation. Even members of the imperial line must constantly prove their worth.”

Yes, prove their worth, or die. Osmund didn’t say it. He couldn’t deny that the Tolmish system had produced a prince like him, while the Meskato one had produced Cemil.

That night, Osmund learned the answer to his question. The Meskato sat down to feast with their hosts, and in marched servants carrying the biggest cuts of mutton he’d ever seen.

Robust, hearty animals. The kind that might feed a single family for a week.

Cemil, Sakina, and the rest of the imperial party at the other end of the hall ate without a single care. Only Mirhan made eye contact with Osmund as they prepared to dig in.

Osmund shuddered at that look, and at the knowing in it.

“Ahh, finally, meat!” Nienos sighed happily. Gudrun beside him was busy putting it away as well.

“You sick, Halwyn?” asked Kasri across the table, apparently capable of remembering a name that wasn’t his real one.

“Halwyn?” Gudrun echoed as she swallowed around an impressive mouthful of mutton. “Who’v vat? Valcrest, your name was…damn…Edmund, wasn’t it?”

Osmund smiled weakly, and didn’t say a word. He took up his utensils and ate.

He remembered what Sebry had said the previous day. “Obligations”, was it?

Tribute, he’d meant. The Videlari were poor because what they produced went towards keeping the Empire fed.

Perhaps he could be glad that Cemil would soon be succeeding his father. He would put an end to this injustice. Surely he would.

The feast was still ongoing when he excused himself. This time the others were laughing at some tale, and no one noted his departure.

The castle in the near darkness was an intimidating maze, and he did not know his way. Anyway, in his state of mind an early sleep was destined to fail. Instead Osmund flagged down a passing servant and descriptively made his hands into the pages of the book. The savvy woman led him to the library.

It wasn’t as if he expected a wealth of tomes in Tolmish and Meskato, or—as luck had granted him on his arrival in Şebyan—the discovery of a convenient dictionary. But even with these caveats, the tiny library (if it could be properly called that) was a disappointment. There was a strong smell of mildew, evidence of some past misfortune, and the damaged books sat in state like monuments. It was a sad sight.

He didn’t realize the reason for the guard outside until he had already availed himself to some charcoal sticks and paper, which were sitting on a table by the fire, and only then noticed Prince Luca. The boy was quiet and unobtrusive as a mouse, kneeling in plain sight with his back to the fireplace. He’d been drawing.

Osmund thought of leaving the poor boy alone. He’d probably come here to escape the bustle of the feast. Exactly as I have, Osmund thought. “Excuse me,” he said meekly in unpracticed Videlari, attempting a smile. But though Luca was skittish, he also seemed a little curious, too. He reminded Osmund of a certain shy colt he’d once known in Valcrest Castle. Untrusting, until Osmund had spent time cleaning his pen and ignoring the little horse until he’d proven himself not to be a villain.

With this in mind, he sat apart from Luca, pretending not to take notice of him. Osmund drew a horse.

Recently he’d started paying attention to details whenever he was patting Banu’s nose or securing her bridle. Details like the look of her gums, of her teeth, of the shape of the muscles around her eyes. It was strange, remembering the world and putting a layer of his own interpretation on top of it. His horses weren’t getting any better, per se, but they were starting to look a bit less juvenile.

He got so lost in the attempt that he genuinely didn’t notice Luca getting up and coming round to stand behind him. There was an abrupt sound at his shoulder, and Osmund startled, believing the boy had hurt himself somehow. But it was a laugh. Prince Luca had laughed.

He gave the child a gently chiding look. “Is it so bad?” he said in Meskato, in case the young prince knew a few basic words of that tongue.

To his surprise, Luca sat down at Osmund’s side and resumed drawing. The Tolmishman finally got a look at the sheet of paper in front of him.

Dragons. Gryphons. Horses, birds, and many-headed snakes. All of them running, flying, or slithering freely beneath the open skies.