Chapter Forty-Three: Some Unknown Part

A tidy cluster of buildings, shops, and other comforts for travelers on the road made up the outskirts of the town proper, but what caught the eye were the tents. Even without the advantage of gossip, one would know that an imperial army had made their camp here.

Somewhere to Osmund’s left, tension was coming in waves off of Cemil. The Meskato prince said sharply, “Osmund, ride back with the others.”

“Oh, um—right! Sorry.”

With a tug on Banu’s reins, he dallied by the side of the road until he could blend in with the rest of the company. Nienos and the other mercs welcomed him. Judging by their manner, they were unconcerned with anything except putting their feet up at the end of the day.

“Haven’t seen much of you these last few, lover boy,” Gudrun sang with a salacious wink. Her red braid was pinned back in a more secure style. “How’s the ride been? Hard on the hips?”

Osmund blushed, but he couldn’t work up the energy to get indignant or flustered. “I’m ready to eat and rest a while,” he muttered instead. “Maybe take a bath.” What he really wanted was to enjoy those things back home in Şebyan.

The others shared his sentiments. “Gonna be proper packed with all those stinking soldiers,” Ratface groused. Nienos chimed in, saying something about how bigger gatherings always made for better stories. Osmund tuned out the ensuing debate.

His eyes were trained on the other camp’s soldiers as they began to react to their approach. One man among them stood out, in stature, bearing, and appearance. At the front of his scattered company he stood, in a place of prominence.

“Brother!” exclaimed the man in loud, enunciated Meskato as he strode towards Cemil, who had drawn still. “My eyes open and so you appear!”

Cemil, normally nothing but courteous, stayed high atop his horse. “Bayram,” he greeted coldly. Anaya shook her head and huffed in agitation. “We’re passing through for the night. Pardon us the intrusion.”

So this is Bayram, Osmund thought with a worried pang. It was his first time seeing one of Cemil’s imperial brothers in the flesh. The older prince was a very tall man, which gave him a lean appearance in spite of his muscular build, and shared none of Cemil’s features or dark coloring, and yet there was an unshakeable resemblance. That unknown quality must be whatever they’d inherited from their father, the unseen Meskato Emperor.

“Won’t you come down and embrace your brother?” Bayram called. “We’re family! Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten?”

The tall man’s stance was wide and friendly, but even from behind, the lines of Cemil’s body were abnormally tense and drawn. It was in that very moment that from his gut Osmund viciously disliked Bayram, in a way he hadn’t instantly distrusted anyone since meeting Lord Pravin.

“We’ve had a long ride. I won’t keep my soldiers waiting while we exchange pleasantries,” declared Cemil, recovering from a noticeable hesitation. His demeanor was still so markedly impersonal. “Better we discuss matters at dinner, if you travel on our father’s business.”

The hostility in the air was palpable, but Bayram seemed unbothered. The affable smile on his handsome face hadn’t budged one inch. “Welcome, then,” he bid to his brother and the rest. “We share food and company tonight.”

And that was that. Osmund nearly crumpled with relief as the whole party set to work establishing tents and the two companies of soldiers began to mingle, settling in for an evening’s repose.

All they had to do now was make it to morning.

Tafkan Crossing was a bit different than the grand caravansaries from the rest of their journey. Once a small town by the looks of things, the only locals who remained were those enterprising shopkeepers and tradesmen hawking their services for travelers passing through. There weren’t enough accommodations—that is to say, proper lodgings—where an army (or two) was concerned, but they had the three basics, according to Gudrun: baths, bread, and booze.

First things first. Osmund made sure the horses were well-situated, then looked around the camp to get his bearings. Though most of the tents were rudimentary affairs, designed to provide simple protection from the elements, there was one larger—of ornate silk, more befitting a prince—that could double as a war room for discussing strategy. Cemil had never bothered with it on the campaign before, but Osmund watched as it went up at the hands of an efficient detachment of pages. He was just walking past the flaps of the finished structure when he heard,

“Come in, quickly.”

It was Cemil’s voice. Scrambling to comply, Osmund stole inside. The Meskato prince was just by the entrance, standing so close. Osmund let out a breath, but before he could ask any of his many questions:

“Osmund, I’d like it if you didn’t approach me outside tonight,” Cemil began, his expression serious.

Osmund’s open mouth slowly closed again. It was a perfectly reasonable demand—Cemil had to act a proper prince in front of his elder brother—but he could admit, it stung.

Cemil seemed to realize how his request had landed. “It’s for your own protection,” he added. A hand came up to Osmund’s hair, brushing a few stray strands out of his face. “I don’t want Bayram taking any interest in you.”

“Interest in me?” Osmund blinked, forgetting everything else in his confusion. He’d never been the type to turn heads, and Bayram surely had his pick of rare beauties. “You think he has a thing for, um, Tolmishmen? Or blonds?”

Cemil’s expression darkened. “His interest is in whatever doesn’t belong to him,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want to offer you up as something he can use against me.”

Osmund shivered, though whether it was from imagining Bayram’s eyes on him, or Cemil’s use of the phrase “belong to”, he wasn’t sure. He decided not to point out that it was surely a little late for that—everyone in their company already knew, and gossip was bound to be traveling fast with the two hosts intermingling. “Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” Cemil sighed, relief livening his features. He pressed forward and kissed Osmund slowly on the mouth. Osmund leaned into it, letting out a soft involuntary hum, both arms winding forward around Cemil until the Meskato prince laid hands upon his shoulders and gently parted their bodies again. “Later,” Cemil promised, with a tiny smile. “You’re welcome to sleep here in my tent, if you like. I’ll post guards and make sure they know to allow you passage.”

The thought sent an excited tingle down Osmund’s spine. Later. “I’ll stay with Nienos and the others until dark, then,” he decided. “What about you? Are you going to be alright?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Cemil answered briskly. He seemed agitated by the question, or by some unknown part of what Osmund had said. “Just remember what we talked about. If we have to interact outside, I’ll treat you as I would any other servant, and you should use my full title.”

Osmund pursed his lips, absorbing the instructions. “How about we have a system just in case?” he suggested, striking on an idea. “If I really have to speak to you privately, I’ll use a certain phrase. Like…‘Anaya’s pen needs cleaning’!”

Cemil looked at him. And then he chortled. “That won’t be necessary,” he assured him. “Just that look in your eyes would be enough. You’re easy to read.”

“You are too, you know.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” Osmund leaned in and gave him a soft nudge. “You may not think so, but you are.”

The beginnings of a pout appeared on Cemil’s face, his chin wrinkling just so. In spite of the situation, Osmund fought back a fond laugh. “Perhaps we’ve both gotten good at reading the other,” he corrected himself shyly.

The Meskato prince seemed appeased by this. “That must be true,” he conceded. “It’s not a bad thing, then, having someone by my side who knows me so well.”

Osmund’s thoughts drifted, weightless and untethered. “I love you,” he said.

Cemil gave him an odd look, the corner of his mouth turned up in a grin. “What’s this all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know,” Osmund admitted, simultaneously embarrassed, and yet somehow wholly unashamed. “I suppose I just like saying the words. Assuming you’re not tired of hearing them.”

“Sometimes I remember we’ve only just met.”

“I’m sure of how I feel.”

Cemil didn’t say anything for a time. He just stood there, touching Osmund’s upper arms, his shoulders, and studying him with an unreadable expression on his face. For once, the Meskato prince was a closed book, but Osmund could hazard a guess what he wanted to say. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his own part.

And then Cemil was stepping away. Reality seeped back in, filling the space left by his absence. “I’ll see you tonight,” the Meskato prince assured him. And he stepped out of the tent, leaving Osmund alone again.