Chapter Sixty-Three: Interesting People

Three days had passed since his birthday. Osmund rose alone on this fated morning and sat awhile at the mirror, brushing his hair. Even a single strand out of place would reflect poorly on the entire house.

In just a matter of hours, the imperial procession would arrive.

Just as he’d feared, Cemil had thrown himself back into his work with total abandon. He only returned to their room to sleep, and he slept very little. There was nothing Osmund could do about it except hold him through the night and hope that things would return to normal after the emperor’s visit. Maybe the emperor would live to be a hundred, and by the time he finally died Cemil—who would by then be an old man himself, though no doubt a very distinguished one—simply wouldn’t be interested in the job anymore.

Osmund helped the servants with the housework, a comforting routine that left him no time for anxiety or, less fortunately, for furthering his acquaintance with “Mylo’s men”. In the evenings, exhausted, he took Banu to the hills, spurring her faster and faster, ignorant of all else but the wind whipping his hair.

Presently he emerged into the hall leading to the kitchens, where he was spotted by a passing Nuray. “You’re looking fancy!” she declared, eyeing him over.

“Look at you!” Osmund returned. Her clothes were spotless—the fabric newly bought and sewn—and she wore colorful ribbons in her sensible black braids. “Careful, you’ll be turning heads!” he teased.

She blushed, pleased by the flattery. “You mustn’t try and charm me, I’m too clever to be taken in by a man, you know!”

Auntie Damla suddenly appeared behind them with the stealth of a specter, upbraiding them for their idleness as if they were both her charges. It was actually a relief to be treated like anyone else, regardless of who he was sleeping with. “Let me just grab my breakfast,” he said. “I’ll help. Come, Nuray!”

Shortly after lunch, the entire household gathered before the gates to await the procession. Osmund loitered near the servants. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, or with whom he should be waiting. Alone at the front stood Cemil. Osmund took an unconscious step towards him.

“Over here,” came a hiss. He turned. Emre stood beside his mother, beckoning that he should stand with them. Osmund scrambled to comply.

The air felt like a held breath. The clouds loomed dark and grey, yet the sun shone brightly upon the waiting crowd and the expansive city streets. It gave the scene a strange sense of unreality, like the whimsically-colored world inside a Meskato miniature painting.  

A dot appeared on the horizon. That single dot multiplied like spreading ink, until the shapes of countless horses could be seen, and among them the bold red banner of the Empire with its billowing emblem of the blossoming branch. Osmund watched, spellbound, as those cantering shapes drew closer and closer. Tensely scanning the procession, a certain familiar sight—robed in a long coat, shimmering like a sunbeam—made him forget all the rest.

Sakina!

Before he could do something foolish, like wave to get her attention, there was a whispering shuffle of cotton and linen. Everyone waiting by the gate had kneeled, head bowed. Emre reached out to smack his leg, but Osmund was already following suit.

A single man rode to the front of the procession. He dismounted, and finally Cemil went to his knee as well. “Welcome, Father,” Osmund heard him say.

Emperor Alemşah was tall, though not taller than his fourth son. He had grey hair and a bit of a gut, and wore practical riding clothes whose minute patternwork went easily overlooked. “Up now Cemil,” the emperor said briskly, before giving his progeny a firm pat on the arm. “Let me look at you.”

Cemil seemed careful not to appear too eager as he reached his full height and met his father’s eye. “Ah, still a handsome man, I see,” the emperor recognized with pride. Then he turned, his gaze brushing over the rest of the house. “And your beautiful mother. Danvarra! Come.”

As bid, Lady Danvarra went to join her son’s side. The emperor raised her hand aloft and kissed her slender knuckles. “Lovely as when I last saw you,” he said. “You’ve raised a fine prince and kept a good house.”

Danvarra bowed her head in response. “Thank you, exalted husband,” she replied in accented Meskato.

Clack, clack. Osmund’s heard tilted in the direction of the noise. The small family was being approached by a second newcomer: a stout fellow, tall like the rest, with wavy mid-length black hair and a magnificent beard, who walked with a cane, favoring one foot in a way that suggested a lifetime of experience.

Cemil took him in with barely-masked surprise. “Yücel,” he said. “I didn’t expect you, brother.”

Another brother? Osmund wondered, noting the resemblance to the emperor in both men. The two exchanged greetings; there was evidently no bad blood between them. “The smell of the sea is everywhere in Şebyan,” Yücel observed, eyes crinkling. He had a very pleasant smile. “Such a beautiful city. Thank you for your hospitality.”

The emperor shuffled between them, interrupting. “This old man’s back complains. We continue this inside.” He faced the rows of horses briefly and made a gesture. Line by line, his escorts began to dismount behind him. He and his two sons swept away into the house, Lady Danvarra in tow.

Watching those regal backs as they retreated, Osmund was entirely unprepared for the warm arms flung around his shoulders.

“Osmund!” Sakina nearly knocked him off his feet, pressing her full weight against him. She kissed his cheek eagerly. “I nearly didn’t know you! My, how well you look! Your hair!”

“Oh, thank heavens you’re here, Sakina!” Osmund exclaimed, giving her a tight squeeze as his nose filled with the scent of her floral perfume. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you! And oh—what there is to tell!”

“I want to hear it all! But we must be brief for now, we’ll be expected in the house,” she said. Then she stood to the side to introduce the man beside her.

This had to be the mysterious fellow alluded to in her letter! Sakina’s—friend? Beau?—companion was soft-jawed and ordinary, almost feminine in appearance, but he had a ready grin and devious brows. “Mirhan,” he said to announce himself, heading her off. His attention was somehow disarming and disorienting. “You don’t know how much I’ve anticipated our meeting. I’ve heard endless stories about you.”

“Mirhan,” Osmund repeated aloud, committing it to memory next to the image of that fluffy, coffee-dark hair. “I’m Osmund, as you’ve apparently heard. It’s good to meet you. Um, I can’t imagine what Sakina has told you.”

“All very interesting things,” Mirhan said, foxlike smile unchanging. “I like interesting people.”

“Don’t you start already,” Sakina scolded him with a laugh, seeing the Tolmishman’s discomposure. “Now come, Osmund, hurry. We must join Cemil and his father.”

“What, me too?!”

“Yes, you!” she urged, grabbing at his wrist gently. “With us!”

“And try not to look so terrified,” Mirhan put in cheerfully. “Palace folk can smell fear.”

They gathered in the divan with its plush couches lining every inch of the square room. The servants had laid out an aromatic spread, with treats both savory and sweet. Osmund was stunned to discover it really was only the family, plus Sakina and Mirhan, and incredibly—inexplicably—himself.

Emperor Alemşah gestured between Cemil and Mirhan before anyone could sit down. “I understand you’ve met,” he said to his son.

Cemil cleared his throat and took the other’s hand. “It’s been a long time, Mirhan.”

“Far too long,” Mirhan agreed. “I thanked my good fortune when dear Sakina appeared at the palace gates. With recent news of your exploits, no less.”

“All exaggerated,” Cemil replied with a grin that boasted the opposite.

Osmund was busy scrutinizing this interaction, and so hadn’t any time to compose himself when he noticed with shock and horror that he’d become the new object of the emperor’s wandering attention. His shoulders hunched defensively. “You are Cemil’s friend and ally from the Isles,” Emperor Alemşah deduced. “The one who helped us avoid embarrassment at the hands of my eldest son.” It wasn’t a question.

What was the proper response to this? And if he guessed wrong, would there be consequences? “Y-yes, um, my sovereign,” Osmund managed as he lowered his head abruptly. He sensed that the emperor was a man who hated to waste his own time.

“Cemil swears you are loyal,” said He. “Let a single word travel outside this room, and the punishment is death. Will you stay?”

Osmund nodded furiously. When a king—or an emperor—asked if you were loyal, the only possible reply was yes. “Yes, my sovereign,” he repeated, conquering his stammer this time.

The emperor gave a very slight smile. Osmund swallowed; even from the corner of his eye, that smile was so much like Cemil’s. “Good.”

The sovereign eased himself down onto the center of one couch, meaning that the rest were free to follow. His son Yücel sat close beside him, his walking stick at his hip. Cemil and his mother took up positions nearby. On an adjacent wall at a respectful distance, Osmund joined Sakina and Mirhan meekly.

The emperor nodded towards Sakina. No further prompting was needed. “When I arrived in Inecalar after parting from you, Cemil, I took the shattered dagger we pulled from the gryphon and brought it to one of the head magisters,” she recounted in a loud and clear voice. “My esteemed mother has decided to term them ‘undying weapons’. Contrary to what we all believed, it is determined that they weren’t made using necromancy.”

Cemil straightened in his seat. “What besides necromancy is able to inflict the suffering we saw?”

Osmund wanted that same answer. He remembered the gryphon in the cave: its ghastly appearance, its whistling breaths, the visible lattices of its skeletal structure.

“As a girl, Lalezar served one of the teachers of the College, before her own magic was discovered,” Sakina said. Her voice was grave. “She isn’t a necromancer. She’s a healer.”

Osmund turned to gawp. From the corner of his vision, he noticed Cemil’s face screwing up in confusion. “Then, you’re implying these abominations were made with healing magic?”

“It’s certain. My mother doesn’t make mistakes.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

The emperor cut in before Sakina could explain. “She’s an aberrant,” said He, “and a threat to the Empire. Must we know anything else? I have issued a writ for her immediate execution if discovered, and that the body be delivered to the palace intact so we can confirm her death.”

“Should we not hold a trial?”

“You know the law, Cemil. There is no justice for traitors.”

“But she’s bound to be hiding her identity, and few know her face.” Cemil had forgotten decorum, confronting his father directly. “What if an innocent woman traveling alone is executed in her place?”

“It is a grim business,” the emperor confirmed. His tone was mild, almost unaffected.

An eerie quiet went among them. No one dared to argue with their sovereign—not even his family.

“If I might, Father,” said Yücel. The large man’s voice was gentle, as unobtrusive as a breeze. “Cemil, you and your companion have seen Lalezar recently. By your description, Lady Sakina can produce a sketch, and I can have it disseminated throughout the provinces. It is no perfect measure, but it may help prevent a tragic outcome such as you imagine.”

Osmund looked to the emperor anxiously, but the man was back in good cheer. “A fine idea,” said He fondly. “You shall all see to it.”

The tension defused; Cemil settled back. “Yes, Yücel, thank you, brother. Of course, we’ll cooperate.” He nodded in Osmund and Sakina’s direction.

The emperor hummed. He reached for a handful of cheese and nuts from the plate in front of him, savoring it in the ensuing tense silence.

“Cemil, best of my sons, I am sure I have left you in suspense, wondering why I have come,” said the emperor. “All arms of my government are in a flurry over my flight from the capital; it was a struggle to disentangle myself. You see, few of those learned men have guessed at the truth, which I have shared only with your sweet brother Yücel, and with my most trusted physicians. It is thanks to their efforts that I am before you, appearing healthy as an ox. Unfortunately, it is but an illusion.”

Cemil’s brow furrowed. “Father? You’re unwell?”

“An affliction of the blood. The surgeons have done all they can, but my time in this realm is coming to an end.” The emperor gave a little sigh, as if he were only commenting on the weather. “Even with the best of care, in less than a year I will certainly leave you all.”

Danvarra’s hand went to her mouth. Cemil had gone speechless. Osmund felt the weight of the world crashing down.

“I have come here because the Empire requires a firm hand in the years to come,” said He. “An agile sword and mind, an accomplished horseman, and above all, fair judgment. You know by our laws I cannot designate an heir, but the heavens themselves know it must be you who succeeds me. And while I am among you, I intend to secure my legacy. I wish to leave you an empire that is stronger than anything known by our mighty forefathers.”