Chapter Fifty-Seven: Perfect Happiness

Osmund woke the next morning to two imposing figures rustling around his bedside, foisting his possessions into a trunk. He was being robbed—intruders had stolen into the royal bedchamber! Then he recognized the manservants from the house.

“Good morning, sir,” said the more genial of the pair of uncles, seeing Osmund’s groggily squinting face. “Up now! We’re to move you to the şehzade’s room.”

Clearly it would be hopeless to refuse their help. “Let me just—have a wash first,” Osmund bargained meekly.

Thirty minutes later, he found himself outside Cemil’s door with everything he owned in a small chest, which dangled by the handles between the two unnecessary porters. “Um, Cemil?” he called, knocking. “I’m here!”

The door swung open and Cemil greeted them all, standing aside to let the porters through. To Osmund, he smiled. “Welcome,” he said.

Osmund stepped through the threshold, one bare foot connecting with the soft carpet, then the other. He stood locked in place, taking in each detail as if for the first time. This would be home, then: these immacuately tiled walls, and everything within. The intricately iron-latticed windows overlooking the harbor, swollen with ships; the old texts and flowered vases on the inset shelves with their decorative panelling; the bed, wider than either man was tall, adorned with a decadent array of pillows below a towering baldachin.

The manservants withdrew into the hall, leaving behind the not even half-full trunk. Osmund knelt before it so that his nerves wouldn’t be obvious. “Alright, where should I put my…” He trailed off, holding up a handful of books.

Cemil shrugged. “Wherever you like.”

“But, your system.” Osmund indicated the artfully arranged contents of the storage nooks along the walls. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“Osmund.” Cemil rested a steadying hand upon his shoulder. “I invited you to live with me. You aren’t a guest. You have a say.”

“I’m trying to be considerate of your space.”

The Meskato prince paused, and Osmund wondered if he’d made too great a fuss over nothing and given him reason to regret this decision already. “What I want is to look around this room and see your influence,” admitted Cemil at last. “So please, don’t be afraid to make your mark.”

“Oh.” Osmund blushed. He hefted the books he was holding into the nearest nook beside some of Cemil’s. (He’d work out his own system later.) “That’s very sweet. Now I’m almost sorry for bringing so little.”

“You could go to the market and buy whatever makes this room feel more like home to you. In fact, I encourage it.”

The market. He could spend an afternoon browsing for a fancy rug or footstool or anything else that caught his eye…

Flashes of the dead man’s face assaulted his senses again. His similar stature, his blond hair. A coincidence. It had to be.

“I was just thinking of what I’d like to put in that empty corner there,” he chirped at Cemil’s questioning expression. “What about a chest of drawers?”

“You haven’t brought many clothes, whereas I have a feeling we may need space for more books rather soon.”

“A free-standing bookcase, then! Even better.”

The Meskato prince sat down at his low table. Osmund properly took in the other man’s appearance. He was still in his bedclothes, shirt dangling open, sleep-mussed black hair loosely tied back. It was a miracle that Osmund’s hungry gaze strayed long enough to notice the volumes laid out in front of him. “What were you reading?”

Cemil motioned for Osmund to join him, which he did, curling up on a floor cushion at his side. “Drangfel. The original Tolmish and a Meskato rendition by Faizan of Ajurayif, which was itself derived from a Sulamese volume in his library.” He showed Osmund the book’s battered cover. “I’ve long heard that his evocative prose was hindered by a poor understanding of the original idioms. I thought I’d attempt my own translation, especially since the established one is well over a hundred years old. It was a favorite from my youth.”

“One of mine too!” Osmund pressed against the other man’s warm (and, he couldn’t help noticing, thinly clothed) shoulder and peered down at his work. “I suppose children everywhere love tales of knights and heroes.”

Cemil hummed. “I grieved bitterly that my country did not share your heraldic traditions. There’s a certain romance to the practice. I was stuck in the palace, and wanted to see the world.”

“I can certainly relate to that sort of restlessness.” Osmund rubbed Cemil’s arm, imagining the supposed ‘princess’ who’d dreaded being yoked to some husband when she came of age. When Osmund was young, he’d wished for the very opposite: that a handsome stranger might appear one day to steal him away. “But you’re here, free of the palace now.”

“Until I succeed my father,” Cemil said evenly.

Osmund read on. Cemil’s handwriting was unextraordinary, almost startlingly so, but even in Osmund’s second language he could see the beauty lifting from the prose. “Cemil, it’s lovely,” he breathed. “You have a real talent for this.”

“It’s only a translation.”

“Don’t act modest. It’s a cut above the other. You’ve adapted Faizan’s artistry while restoring the spirit of the original work.”

Cemil didn’t respond, but Osmund could practically feel the glow of satisfaction off him. “I’ll grab one of my books, too,” Osmund decided, clearing a space around the table. “Let’s make a morning of it.”

“Mm. After lunch, how about a ride?”

“Assuming you mean with the horses. I’m not sure my poor thighs can handle another go-round on you just yet.”

“The horses, then,” Cemil confirmed. His voice dropped into a husky undertone. “And don’t worry. Tonight, I’ll treat you gently.”

Osmund shuddered at the barely veiled suggestion. “I’ll, ah, hold you to it.”

Lunch was a dish of stuffed grape leaves, very popular in the Atmaci region and which Osmund was growing to like, though eating raw greenery made him feel a bit like a horse. Afterwards, they saddled Banu and Anaya and took the north road towards the tree-lined bluffs overlooking the anchorage. Traders’ vessels flew banners of every stripe, including the Tolmish falcon, which was a forbidden sight on its native islands. Both mares were glad of the exercise. Even the testy Anaya was easily handled in Banu’s company. In fine weather they continued on until nearly nightfall.

Hanging their dirty coats up in the house, Cemil asked Osmund what he would eat given a choice of anything in the world. Osmund understood it to be a flight of fancy.

“An entire roast duck,” he said, nearly salivating with the thought. “Yes—with saffron and an almond milk stew. I think that would hit the spot. Oh—or a beef steak. I haven’t even dreamed of beef since I left the Isles.”

When the fresh roast and glistening steak were conveyed to Cemil’s rooms, Osmund nearly fainted. “But I—we can’t eat all of this.”

“Nothing goes to waste here,” Cemil assured him, entertained. “Even at grand feasts, the leftovers are conveyed first to the servants, then to the poor, and finally to the strays.”

In the Empire, it seemed even a dog could eat well if he turned up at the right place at the right time. Osmund was through resisting.

They ate like kings, then curled up for some more late-night reading. Occasionally Cemil sought his opinion about the nuances of the rare Tolmish word he wasn’t sure about, or whether Osmund preferred a certain phrasing.

“It occurred to me that you’d love the old troubadour tales from Chantel too,” Osmund said around an indulgent yawn. “I had—well, the noble I served had a beautiful collection of them translated by Hestan, one of our own lyric poets. Hand-copied and painted! I read it backwards and forwards.”

“Sounds like a treasure worthy of an emperor’s library. I’d like to see this relic from your youth.” Cemil stroked Osmund’s back. “Perhaps I’ll track down the exact copy and buy it.”

The book had probably gone up in smoke years ago, not that Cemil needed to know that. Osmund suppressed another yawn and the memory both.

“It’s getting late,” the Meskato prince observed. “Shall we go to bed?”

While Cemil washed, Osmund tentatively seated himself on the mattress under the diminishing light of the failing lamp. It had been a pleasant day, he thought: the unmemorable kind (minus the grand dinner) that most men were surely content to experience and forget. It had also been, he realized with absolute clarity, the happiest day of his entire life.

When Cemil joined him on the bed, Osmund felt absurdly like a shy bride on her wedding night, though he’d been lying with men since he was barely sixteen.

“I made you work hard yesterday,” Cemil murmured, his eyes turned an onyx black in the shadows as he smoothed his palms over Osmund’s still-aching thighs and then settled his body between them. “Now, let me take care of you.”

Osmund opened his mouth to voice something. A reminder that he wouldn’t break from a little rough treatment, perhaps.

“Oh,” he gasped. “Oh, yes.”

As the weeks unfolded—slow, solitary days followed by rapturous nights—Osmund decided it was the little things about their arrangement that he enjoyed most.

Cemil’s look of concentration as he read or worked, and the way he tightened his lip when he was deep into something. How he liked to be held at night. His incurable bedhead in the morning, and the sparse, but effective method by which he tamed it into its usual style. Those times when Osmund would look up from a book, having lost track of the hour, and discover a cup of his favorite tea sitting beside him.

This was the very picture of bliss. It was a happiness so complete, he nearly couldn’t trust it.

“Horses! Books! Şehzade Cemil! …There, you got his attention!”

Osmund sat upright, sensing several pairs of eyes aimed at him. “What?”

The maids giggled as they sipped at their soup. “You get such a faraway look on your face at times,” Aylin teased him. She was a little older than Osmund and Nuray, and enjoyed playing the role of a big sister. “I’d get bored of us common girls too if I had a handsome prince to roll in the sheets with.”

Their relationship had been a source of constant intrigue and gossip with the servants, and at the current rate, likely would continue to be long after everyone involved was dead and buried. Osmund was just glad they still felt comfortable enough to joke about it with him.

He picked up his bowl and took a determined slurp. “Haven’t you had your fill of my love life?” he complained, dragging a hand across his mouth. “I’m still waiting to hear about what’s happened at the house!”

“Oh, Osmund, it’s all so boring,” Nuray sighed. Aylin nudged her.

“Let’s see, while you were gone, Suna had her baby, of course.” She began listing items off on her fingers. “Deniz quarreled with his wife and stayed with Salman for a while, but they reconciled last week. Ahmet finally asked out that girl, the fruit seller, but now he’s off talking up some judge’s daughter and acting like he’s going to marry her. Thinks he’s a wild stallion.”

Nuray nodded along. “See? Just ordinary stuff,” she lamented. “Not some great romance like you have.”

“Well,” Osmund said with a little laugh, “you know how ‘great romances’ usually end.”

The two girls exchanged an uncertain look. “But surely he’ll take you to the palace in Inecalar with him when he becomes emperor,” Aylin declared. “You’ll get an honorary post and your own beautiful apartment in the Inner Gardens. I wish we could visit.”

“Osmund could invite us!” Nuray chirped, missing the attempt at ‘subtlety’. “Maybe we could come live at the palace too!”

“Don’t be silly, Nuray! An emperor’s favorite will be way too important to keep company with the likes of serving girls—see how he’s just too polite to say it.”

“Huh?” Osmund snapped back to attention again. “Oh—sorry. It’s just…I have a hard time even imagining life at the imperial palace.”

To this, the girls had no shortage of things to say about the empire’s capitol, and all its exotic foods and fashionable company. Osmund wished they had more to say about Suna and her baby.

Some time later, he descended the stairs from yet another leisurely afternoon nap and felt a troublesome emotion that was somewhat less than perfect happiness, though he didn’t understand why. What was this itch, and how might one scratch it? Perhaps he only missed Cemil, who was busy working as usual. Then he realized he could see him anytime he wanted.

One of his lover’s duties as governor involved hearing out the grievances of petitioners from the city, as well as those making the trek from surrounding villages. These concerns, as Osmund understood them, typically dealt with land disputes and complaints about local tax officials, as well as pleas for relief whenever crops failed or the soil began to falter.

The hearings took place in a special chamber with grand doors thrown perpetually wide to the public. The first time curiosity had compelled Osmund to attend, he’d only understood every other word, but now, here in the gallery, he was able to follow every tedious detail.

An established cavalry officer stood expectantly before Cemil, having just made his case. “I cannot compel a citizen who has abandoned the land to return, at least not in time to help you,” the Meskato prince ruled. “If you need hands for the upcoming harvest, I’ll arrange for it.” At his side, scribes busily recorded the proceedings in their ledgers.

Unnoticed in the wings, Osmund cast a glance at the rest of the petitioners. There appeared to be no end in sight to them, though it was by now early evening. “Who’s next?” barked a soldier managing the throng. “Step forward!”

Osmund tuned out the noise, drifting into a lull, until suddenly the dais was approached by a woman, brown-haired and hollow-cheeked. “Speak,” bade Cemil, his businesslike expression taking on some concern. “What is your grievance?”

The woman said nothing. She was trembling, feet bare and clothes dirty as if she’d walked a great distance to be here, without stopping to bathe or by the looks of things, to eat. In this crowd of finely dressed Meskato, she stood out like a stain. A wretch, like Osmund once had been. “Go ahead,” Cemil urged again, gentler, and still her body only shook.

It all burst forth at once. “Curse you, conqueror,” she spit in broken foreign tones, her voice rising to a shriek. “Curse you, curse you. May your Empire die! May your every joy poison you!”

She started forward, but did not make it another step. She writhed and howled, three soldiers twisting her frail body into submission. Osmund recoiled, even while those nearest to him leaned forward eagerly in their seats. A peasant from Videl, his neighbors whispered, here in the Empire to cause trouble. Isn’t that just like a Videlari?

Cemil’s expression was cold, but his voice did not waver. Nor did he intervene as the woman was dragged bodily from the hearing chamber. This vision was of a different prince than the one who took Osmund to bed at night. “Let’s adjourn for today. The rest of you, return tomorrow to be heard.”