Chapter Thirty-Six: Betrothed, Pt I

It wasn’t—pain, exactly.

Cold flooded his veins, like a plunge into frigid water. Osmund gasped, eyes turned instinctively towards the light, but his vision was fading fast. Everything was going black, black.

He was sinking. His senses winked out one by one, candles extinguished in the dark. He couldn’t breathe. All he felt was his hand around the handle of the dagger, clenched tight like it was becoming one with his skin.

At last, that sensation went too. And then there was a great—nothing.

Slap.

Osmund’s shoulder hit the ground, hard.

Confused, he touched his hotly stinging cheek, and looked up at his father. The man’s hand was raised, and his face was angry. Which meant that he’d hit him on purpose.

But why? His eyes welled with tears.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” his father the king demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Osmund cried. He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he’d apologize for it until things were right! “I won’t do it again!”

It wasn’t enough. “A son of mine treating a princess in such a cold and indifferent manner!” the king ranted. Tiny drops of spit flew from his furious mouth. “Don’t you know how important this marriage alliance could be for us?!”

Things felt hazy and unreal, as if the slap had knocked the sense right out of him. Marriage alliance? That’s right—he was a prince of Valcrest, and all of six years old. A few months ago, before she’d died, Mother had explained that among nobles, and especially royals, getting married meant your parents would always be friends and help each other out, and maybe think twice about killing each other when they got mad, even if one of them did something really annoying. (Osmund couldn’t understand this reason at all! Why couldn’t adults just make their own friends and leave him out of it?!)

“I’m sorry,” Osmund wept again. The words came out as if someone else were speaking them—a memory reliving itself without his help. “I-I don’t know what to say to her! S-she doesn’t even speak any Tolmish!”

“Hmph.” His father was looking at him like he was a lowly dog. He’d had animals put down for disappointing him less. “Make it right. Or else, hope Alemşah has other daughters.”

But Osmund wasn’t actually a boy of six anymore, was he?

No. He was a grown man!

Armed with this knowledge, he opened his eyes again—and despaired.

The salty tang of seawater filled his lungs. The ache in his muscles returned. That’s right. There was no escaping their desolate situation, no matter how much he shrank into his childhood memories.

He’d been rowing for hours, forced to help with the tiny boat while they made for the shore, evading the notice of the harbor authorities. Osmund’s legs felt like petrified wood after so much sitting, and he knew that every stroke brought them further and further away from home.

He was embarking for new lands for the very first time—as an exile.

“Why do we tarry?!” Father exclaimed, brazenly pushing those who labored. “Put a little muscle into it!”

They reached Şebyan a few hours later, following Pravin’s contacts to the estate of the man himself. It was markedly different from the surrounding complexes, which were austere from the outside.

“Leave it to a Tolmishman to know how to take pride in his house,” Father said approvingly, and Osmund mumbled something in agreement. To be honest, he thought it looked a bit flashy next to its neighbors. If he was the one living here, he wouldn’t want to advertise so strongly that he didn’t understand the local tastes!

The man who had approached them in Saltbruck and conducted them across the sea went inside to prepare Pravin for their coming. “Osmund, son,” Father said, and Osmund rushed to straighten his back and puff out his chest and all the things he was supposed to do in company, even though he was sore all over, “remember, this so-called ‘Lord’ Pravin is nothing but a commoner who’s set his sights far above his station. We are the ones offering him an opportunity. Are you ready?”

“Yes Father,” Osmund said immediately. Where Father was concerned, there was only ever one answer.

The inside of the house was as grand as its exterior. Tolmish-style furniture lined the halls, polished oak surfaces crowded with souvenirs from across the Empire. Enshrined among these monuments sat Lord Pravin, a small-statured man in his forties or fifties, with thinning red hair and a little mustache. He wore a constant subservient look, and yet just at a glance you could tell he was a snake you’d be better off not stepping on. Osmund feared him immediately.

“You want to marry your daughter to my son?” Father repeated in an affronted boom. “You would make the price of your connections my one and only heir?!”

Pravin put up every appearance of meekness, but his eyes were steel. “I know the thing I ask is so crass, and I beg my king’s mercy in even suggesting it!” he cried. “Only you see, there are these rumors—entirely baseless, I’m sure—about your prince being rather…unmarriageable. Rumors that my Selenne has agreed to overlook.”

Osmund felt the full force of his father’s scathing reprove. “Baseless indeed,” Valen gritted out, no doubt cursing his son’s homosexual habits all the way to the next kingdom. “But your daughter is fair of face, even if her circumstances are wanting.”

The young woman in question, Lady Selenne, sat there placidly. Osmund couldn’t tell how she felt about being offered up to the world’s most disappointing royal prince—at least until she met his eye, and flashed him a smile. Osmund quickly looked away again.

“Then it’s settled,” Pravin said, bringing his hands together with a gesture of finality. “I look forward to our alliance—courtesy of the happy couple.”

Osmund tried to appeal to his father that night. Perhaps a marriage alliance wasn’t the only way! …A vain effort.

“You ruined your own prospects!” Father snapped at him, shoving a finger at his chest. “If not for your blundering and—unseemly behavior, we could’ve been making this appeal directly to the emperor, and you’d be calling him your father-in-law!”

Osmund flushed with shame. He knew Father and the Meskato Emperor had a very icy relationship, and that at some point some princess or another had been thrust in his direction. (And that he’d blown it, like always.) “I-I’m sorry.”

Father grunted in frustration, his temper cooling. Then, almost as an afterthought, he struck Osmund hard across the cheek.

The plush carpets absorbed the sound. The young prince took the rest. “We can only hope this base connection proves advantageous for us,” the king sighed, adjusting his gloves like they’d touched something dirty. “We mustn’t waste our time in this savage country, where Ocens’ light does not even reach.”

Osmund’s ears rang. He felt the secret twinge of annoyance, followed by guilt, that came whenever Father spoke the name of their holy savior. He said nothing.

Father disappeared to order a bath drawn. Osmund went to his borrowed room and flopped down on his borrowed bed, his muscles unspooling until he felt like worn string. He ran a hand over the unfamiliar sheets. The very fine linen reminded him of home. It was a beautiful room. The bedding was soft.

He hurt in places old and new.

In the burning candlelight, he recalled again the first time he’d read the scriptures as an adolescent and discovered, plain as day, the prohibition against a parent beating his children. The castle healer who treated Osmund’s bruises every week revered his earthly king as much as his heavenly one. Osmund asked him about it once, the discrepancy. How could Father claim to be favored by heaven and yet flaunt its edicts? For every passage in the holy book, however, there was another that contradicted it, and the counterpart always seemed to take precedence.

“A father is permitted to discipline his children,” the healer said wisely, even kindly. Osmund’s very existence, then, was a thing that required corrective discipline.

Sometimes, when he found himself on his back in a strange man’s bed, it was that loving face from the breviaries he saw above him. Every detail perfect. Sublime and merciful.

The fantasies from his novels did not make him feel half so vulgar.

Knock, knock.

“Prince Osmund?” It was a soft, feminine voice. “May I speak with you?”

He shot up on the mattress, making himself presentable. It had to be Lady Selenne. “C-come in.”

The lady bowed inside. She had voluminous wavy hair, which was red like her father’s. With her rich clothes in the Valcrest courtly style, she could have blended in seamlessly among his dead sister’s companions. “Thank you for accepting our proposal,” she said, seating herself next to him on the bed—most improper. But they weren’t on Tolmish lands now. “I wanted to say that I look forward to getting to know you. It’s not every day I meet a prince from my father’s homeland.”

Guilt churned. And still she went on:

“I know I’m not the most titled girl you’ve ever met, but I promise, I’ll do my best to be a good wife to you. I hope we’ll come to trust and rely upon each other…the way that a married couple should.”

“I need to tell you something important,” Osmund blurted.

This was mortifying, but he would be damned if he didn’t warn her. “You see, I…it’s true, whatever your father heard. I lie with men. Being the way I am, I…I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love you the way you deserve.”

He’d expected any of a fair number of reactions. Disgust, anger, maybe even relief. Instead—and this was so much worse—she hid her face and began to weep.

“I’m sorry,” Osmund yelped, horrified. “I never meant to upset you! I just…wanted you to know before we got married. If you even still want to.”

He weathered more of her tears, feeling like the loathsome gargoyle carved in stone beside a mournful angel on a church edifice. “Forgive me,” she hiccupped. “How selfish of me, thinking only of my own happiness. I’m sorry you’re stuck having to marry. And to a random common girl like me, at that.”

His heart melted at her display of humility. It wasn’t anything like the simpering shows of submission from her father. “Don’t worry about me,” he rushed to assure her. “Please! You’re definitely one of the nicest potential brides I’ve ever met.”

“How many have you met?”

“E-enough that I’ve lost count, I suppose.”

She giggled, which was a relief. He laughed too. An odd tinge of pain flared in his ribs, as if someone had given him a too-tight squeeze. All that rowing must’ve taken its toll in ways he was still finding out about. He decided to ignore it.

“Our arrangement isn’t final yet,” Osmund pointed out, desperate to make this better. “I’ve been rejected by marriage prospects my whole life. Your father surely couldn’t blame you if you did the same. We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” Though her voice quavered, there was something flinty in her eyes. Maybe she was determined to be queen, just like his poor sister Evanor. Or maybe it just runs in her family. “And you? You’ll marry me, even though your preferences lie elsewhere?”

He sagged. How he wished he could just say yes. “I…I guess so. I don’t know.”

“How about a compromise?” She pulled both legs up on the bed and turned to face him. It was like they were children, sharing a secret. “When we marry, you can continue your…activities…in peace. We will find you the handsomest and most discreet men in all the kingdom.”

“…Really?” He gaped at her. This had the feeling of a trick, but none of the usual tells. “You would allow that?!”

“If you’ll agree to some small conditions.”

She petted down his arm with the fingertips of one hand, sending a shiver down his spine as he gazed at her expectantly. “First, you must promise that my needs come before those of your lovers. If I want you to make an appearance somewhere, you shall drop everything and go. I think that is fair…don’t you?”

He nodded anxiously. That was indeed reasonable. “Second?”

“Second, you agree to give me as many children as I want, whenever I want them.”

This condition made him wince, but it was nothing he hadn’t anticipated all his life. “Is that it?”

“Third, and you won’t like this one I’m afraid,” she continued, still caressing him so sweetly, “I decide who gets to stay in your bed. It won’t do for you to keep a favorite.”

She’d been right—he didn’t like this one. In fact, he really didn’t like it. “But…what if I find someone I grow to love?” He could handle the occasional kingly excursions, whether to the stateroom or the marital bed—those were just motions the body could be made to go through. But this?

“Love?” Her innocent doe’s eyes looked amused. “You’ll have your children. You’ll have your horses. And of course, you’ll have me. Your heart won’t need anything else.”

That night, in the way of dreams, Osmund was six years old again, watching timidly from the shadows as the tall foreign princess—who he was supposed to be charming into wanting to marry him—paced the green courtyard alone. Her hands were balled in fists, arms by her sides like a little soldier, and her strange flowy clothes trailed as she moved. They were a lot like the clothes her male escorts wore—apparently boys and girls in her homeland wore the same styles until they were older. It gave her a rather boyish look, which he privately thought was very fetching. But according to the maidservants, that wasn’t the kind of compliment he was supposed to pay a lady.

Most of the time, visiting princesses (or their families) were obsessed with every detail of the castle and its wealth as they fantasized about becoming its queen. But not her. Since coming here she only walked determinedly from one destination to the next, barely glancing at her surroundings.

Gathering his courage, Osmund inched closer, keeping to the shade of the colonnade for cover. He couldn’t help being shy. Princesses never liked him. Often they were disappointed girls twice his age, who treated him like a little kid they’d been stuck with for the day, or the reverse: princesses who were barely out of diapers and prone to tantrums. It was rare he ever got to meet someone his own age, and just his luck that when he did, there’d be a language barrier!

Suddenly the pacing girl stopped, and he froze mid-step too, but she hadn’t noticed him. Her head was lowered; she was muttering to herself in a language he couldn’t understand.

Only—wait. That was weird. He did understand. He only spoke Tolmish, so how could he understand?

“Forgive me, Father,” she was saying, in a lonely voice. “Forgive me. Forgive me. I was not made for this.”