Chapter Twenty-Two: Minor Details

The roads were still muddy the next morning, but the storm was no more. The horses were eager to be back in the open air; they hadn’t much liked passing the night in what had been basically a cave. Anaya was especially testy. It was a lucky thing she hadn’t broken free and stomped them all to death while they slept.

Using rainwater collected the previous night, Osmund washed his face alongside the groggy soldiers, then re-donned his dried shirt, had a nibble of some cheese and fruit, and saw to the horses. The motions were automatic and familiar, which meant space, at last, to think.

He’d been intimate in countless ways with as many men—and a few women, just to be sure—over the sorry course of his young life, and never once, until now, had someone prioritized Osmund’s pleasure above their own.

The extraordinary thing was that he’d never questioned it before. He’d gone into every liaison with a certain expectation of what would follow. His body existed to be used; pleasure was a debt to be repaid. Yet Cemil hadn’t sought any release at all. He’d only coaxed out Osmund’s reactions with his voice and his warm, wandering hands. The encounter belonged in a class of its own. Just glancing thoughts of it made his skin heat all over again.

Osmund ached for more. He would’ve gladly been used by him.

“Hey little Tolmish!” He jumped, turning to see a row of sly grins. Nienos was approaching with several of his mercenary buddies in tow. One of them, a little man absolutely bedecked in knives (who was named something unbelievable like “Ratface”), did something crass with his hands that made a sort of fleshy slap, slap, slap sound. Osmund realized the insinuation and turned bright red.

“Heard you two last night,” Gudrun with the braid said, shooting him a devilish wink. She punched him in the shoulder in a fashion that was probably meant to be “companionable”.

“That wasn’t us!” Osmund stammered as he rubbed his sore arm, terrified of fouling the memory. “We weren’t the ones who—heavens.”

“Hm, no, definitely heard you,” Nienos contended in that conspicuously unassuming manner. Then he heightened the pitch of his voice, attempting to land near “wanton maiden”. “Cemil! Oh! Oh!”

“I don’t sound like that!” Osmund cried in protest, to raucous laughter. He cast a frantic look around the rest of the camp to see if anyone was listening. “I—we only—never mind, it’s none of your business!”

The cackling died down all at once. The mercenaries sauntered away innocently as Cemil himself approached in their place. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have heard any of that mortifying conversation. “Would you spend time with Anaya before we leave?” he requested, stroking Banu on the neck as she swung her tail happily. “She didn’t handle the night well.”

“O-of course,” Osmund said. Ever since that awful morning at the house, he’d remained wary of the topic of Cemil’s mount. He reminded himself that everything was fine, and that the other man liked and trusted him. “I’ll see to her right away.”

The Meskato prince caught his wrist before he could slip away. Osmund’s gaze traveled from the point of contact to follow Cemil’s other hand as it curled in Osmund’s blond hair, tucking a few loose strands behind his ears.

“You have a nice color in your cheeks this morning,” Cemil remarked, unsubtle about his flirtation. Osmund turned even redder and nervously scanned their surroundings again. It was a reflex.

The other just laughed. “Do you fear people knowing?”

“W-well…don’t you?” he couldn’t help but ask. “You’re a prince, and I’m…” To finish that sentence would mean lying outright.

“I’m free to do as I like,” Cemil declared. “It’s no one’s concern who I keep company with, even if they privately form their own opinions.”

Osmund was really coming to understand that being a prince who liked men was a very different affair in the Empire than it was on the Tolmish Isles. Perhaps Cemil had lived a life not being constantly reminded of his royal duty to father children and avoid embarrassing his future wife. He was still dazzling over this when the other’s gaze meandered again. “A saber,” he observed. (Osmund had remembered to strap it to his hip today.) “I thought you had no use for weapons?”

Osmund colored again, embarrassed. “The others gave it to me and I was hoping it might, um, make me appear more threatening, at least.”

He had to assume the answer was no, because Cemil didn’t comment further. “I hope this isn’t all too much for you,” the Meskato prince said, lowering his voice privately. “There’s still time for you to turn back. Remember there’s no power keeping you here.”

Whether this was about the events of last night, or purely about their adventure ahead, the answer was the same. The Tolmishman shook his head. “I want to be here,” he resolved. “I’m not leaving.”

For a moment, Cemil only studied him. Then he nodded. “Alright. Go to Anaya, then be ready to march. You’ll be riding in the center of the company today.”

They stopped to resupply at a town bazaar after a couple hours’ ride, a necessity of traveling so light on horseback. Street vendors hawked aromatic breads and colorful skewers of meat and vegetables and called out enticements to their passing company. Osmund had never browsed a Meskato market with a pocket full of coins before, and his stomach roared in anticipation.

He was so distracted ogling the fried foods at one particular stall that he nearly missed Banu leaning over to try and pluck an apple out of a nearby fruit stand. The woman minding it had some nasty words for him, and he quickly scuttled away in embarrassment, horse and all.

Some of the soldiers had left their mounts tied to posts in the middle of a wide lane. Osmund decided this wasn’t a half-bad idea. He said an apology to Banu as he handed her over to the man standing guard; for once, it would be nice to go about on his own two legs.

Up ahead, Cemil was in debate with his mentor, Lala Muharrem, and a few of his trusted cavalrymen. Not to be put off, Osmund peered around for other familiar faces, but Nienos and his buddies were nowhere in sight. (He couldn’t even settle for the one called Ratface.) Apparently, he’d be doing his shopping alone.

Osmund wandered from stall to stall, overwhelmed by choice. The overlapping smells battled for prominence, and unwittingly, his mind returned to those bygone days of hunger on the streets of Şebyan. Just a memory, but his heart thumped with an echo of fear. Back then, market stalls so laden with fresh fruits and meat represented temptation and a war of attrition against his own self-control. Maybe he’d have ended up before Cemil eventually one way or another—as a thief. He was grateful fate had had other designs.

He got himself a lovely textured bread in the shape of a ring, then a skewer of lamb (Osmund couldn’t fight it. He loved meat!), then finally, a sweet pastry whose aroma he simply couldn’t ignore. At the rate he was going, he’d make himself sick, but he didn’t care. Once the last morsel was gone, he decided to find a quiet place to relieve himself before heading back to the group.

In this unfamiliar town, he couldn’t find the public latrine, and settled for a bush on a little street out of the way of the bustle. He was just lacing himself up and preparing to walk away when he heard:

“Hello.” Osmund whipped around and came face-to-face with a man he hadn’t expected to ever see again—or at least, certainly not in a random town in the middle of nowhere. “Sorry to come calling like this.”

It was that illusionist, Emre, hailing him neutrally in Tolmish like they were old chums. Osmund reeled back. “Wha—” he blathered, then “How did—” and finally, “Were you watching me?!”

“Relax, I’m not interested in you like that.”

“You’re the one who groped me at the bathhouse!”

Emre held up a hand. Minor details, the gesture seemed to say.

He was wearing an unassuming cloak around his shoulders, but the visible hints of his collar suggested something finer worn beneath. The cut of his clothes screamed imperial mage, which was rare and noteworthy in a little town like this. Maybe he’d approached him while invisible? Or he just had a very creepy knack for skulking about unnoticed.

“Wh-why are you even here?!” Osmund demanded, recovering. “How did you find me?”

“I’ve been following your group,” Emre said, as if stalking a military caravan for days on end were a perfectly ordinary thing to do. “I need to know if you’ve had any change of heart about our conversation.”

Osmund hardened his expression. “Sorry,” he managed tightly, preparing to make a brisk exit, “But as I told you before, I don’t have any business with you, sir! So i-if you don’t mind—”

Emre chortled. Something about it stopped Osmund in his tracks. “It’s good you’ve been putting up a fight,” the man said. “I might’ve had to kill you if you seemed too eager to betray my brother.”

Wait.

Osmund studied that rather bookish face again, looking for some hint of a family resemblance. Emre was smaller than Cemil, and the way he carried himself was completely different, though he supposed they had the same nose. (Which was a nice nose.)

“I take after my father,” Emre said dryly, clearly reading the direction of his thoughts.

His father—did he mean the emperor? “Who are you?” Osmund asked dazedly. “You’re…a prince?”

Emre shocked him by spitting into the dirt. “I’m not part of the Meskato imperial system. Fucking rabid dogs.” His resentment was bare. “Cemil and I share the same mother.”

That’s right. Osmund remembered Cemil mentioning not only an entire slate of half-brothers on his father’s side, but a maternal half-brother as well. One that he didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye with.

“If you’re here for the sword,” Osmund began, forcing himself to stand straight, “I’m still not going to steal it for you. Frankly, I-I don’t trust you! And we’ve found something that manages the pain. We’ll figure the rest out on our own.”

“You fool. He needs the pain to tell him something’s wrong. You must’ve seen by now that it’s a cursed artefact, and you still don’t realize what danger he’s in?”

Osmund went silent. And so Emre went on.

“Let me put it to you very simply,” the man said, with exaggerated patience. “The sword is eating him alive from the inside out. He can’t part with it under his own power—no human being is strong enough. Unless someone takes it from him, Cemil will die.”