8. Ehmet considers his duty.
eight
Ehmet considers his duty.
K ing Hethtar stood on the balcony of his study, gazing at the bustling town of Rohilavol below. The golden glow of the setting sun painted the Institute’s buildings and apartment blocks, the homes of his people, in shades of yolky yellow. The official portion of the symposium’s daily schedule would be drawing to a close soon, and the thousands of visiting citizens would be heading back to their lodgings for a bite to eat, or out into the streets to sample all that the vibrant town had to offer.
Festivities echoed up from the city, tugging at a sense of longing deep within his chest. This was meant to be a time of joy and celebration. Yet, the responsibilities of kingship weighed on him, especially after the night before...and the day he’d had. Ehmet longed to be young again, merely the Duke of Rohilavol, a student at the Institute when the sun was up, partying with titled and common friends alike by the light of the moon. Those days were long gone.
Exhaling a heavy breath of air, he swirled the glass. Empty.
Ehmet turned back to his study. The rich aroma of whiskey tickled his nose as he poured himself a generous finger. His work and the weight of his crown begged for it. He hadn’t gotten all that much done that day, to be honest. But Ehmet wasn’t about to admit that to anyone, let alone the woman who kept harping on him for “lying about.” The morning had been productive, arranging workers to repair and rebuild the Elk & Heron. But then he’d fallen asleep in the solarium sometime before midday, and the afternoon had been a bust. Not a bust. He’d spent time with the children, as was the plan. And he’d spent time with Lady Hevva Tilevir, a rather lovely turn of events.
Returning outdoors with his glass in hand, Ehmet ruffled his wavy hair. Parosh needed to give him a trim soon, it was getting unruly. His manservant never minded handling the menial task since Ehmet did, after all, shirk most of the common supports the position traditionally entailed. The king liked to do things himself: shaving his own face, dressing himself, scrubbing his own balls. Every now and again he needed someone to give him a hand with his hairdo. That’s when he called on Parosh.
With a sigh and a sip, Ehmet watched the streetlights flicker to life down below, firebearers making their nightly rounds to light the lamps. From this distance his people looked like ants. He wondered when his guests would retreat to the hall for bed.
While most of the inn’s residents had returned to rooms in Rohilavol earlier in the day—while he’d been sound asleep in the solar—a few were staying at Hewran Hall until the symposium came to a close. The Baron of Turkhane and his friend, Roza, would likely be out until the wee hours of the morning. To be honest, he wasn’t sure they’d actually been at the inn when the fire erupted the night before. The duo was rather soot-free in comparison to his other unexpected houseguests.
Then there was that older couple, the Gulans, whom he’d been looking forward to speaking with over breakfast, but then he’d gone and slept through the meal. Ehmet’s manservant informed him the retired merchant pair took the young Lord Kas Kahoth under their wing for the day, offering to entertain him so his sister could rest. According to Parosh, and what he’d gleaned from his network, Mr. and Mrs. Gulan planned to treat the young man to supper at their favorite establishment in town.
They’d be dining at an eclectic little place that specialized in Karovian Bison Clan delicacies. He wasn’t sure if there was any truth to that claim, or if the owners had made it up. But the food was delicious, the courses many, and the ambiance to die for. Kas would have the night of his life, especially if it was one of the nights when scantily clad bell-wearing dancers came out to prance about the place. Given the crowds drawn in for the symposium, it likely was.
The final guest hadn’t left for the day at all. Lady Hevva Tilevir, Countess of Kabuvirib. He groaned, softly, into his glass. Ehmet hadn’t realized how much he’d been banking on the return of his guests to liven up the night. The symposium was supposed to be riveting, and here he was, bored. He longed to be nineteen again, to take off his signet ring, head down into town, and grab himself a pint.
Perhaps a stroll in the solarium was in store, to relive those pleasant moments from his morning, or afternoon, or whatever time it had been. No. A walk around the grounds would have to do, instead. Already halfway down the balcony, Ehmet doubled back to his study, grabbing the decanter of liquor before heading out into the blooming night.
As he strolled the long porch that ran the rear of his home, a light breeze whispered against his broad back. Ehmet slid the bottom of his glass along the stone-hewn railing while he walked. It emitted a low scraping sound that paused only when he swung his arm up and around the pillars that sat every twenty-or-so feet. The king passed by the open doors to his library and inhaled.
The delicate scent of roses and something tantalizing danced through the air, wafting up the length of the balcony behind him. She’s here. He stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to head back toward the doorway. There was absolutely nothing wrong with seeking out conversation on a boring night. Right?
“What the fates are you doing!?” Lady Hevva Tilevir, with her silver-white locks cascading like a moonlit waterfall, stood at the threshold of his library. Even though she snapped at him, she looked like a bloody goddess with the evening breeze rippling through her soft hair.
A vision of ethereal beauty. “Sorry, what? You’re such a sausage,” he said drolly, sipping his drink.
“What are you doing?” She pursed her lips and swung her blue eyes to meet his. “And what does that mean? Is that a comment about my weight?”
“No. Am I not allowed to walk around my own home? ”
She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Are you stupid?”
“I don’t believe so.” He pushed into the library, and she jumped to the side. It was one thing to say “no” to the king, another to bodily block his path. There were some things he could still get away with in her presence.
“You sounded like the blasted Hook Hand out there.”
Ehmet paused on his path across the library to the hall’s front windows and turned back to face the strange countess. He pierced her with a questioning look: nose scrunched, brows drawn together.
“You don’t know about Hook Hand?”
He waved a hand across his confused expression. “Does it look like I know what you’re talking about?”
“The man, with a hook for a hand? The murderer?”
He shook his head. Not ringing a bell.
“Oh, my gods. What kind of king are you?!”
A laugh burst free of him, drawing a pretty blush to the woman’s cheeks. “Tell me, Lady Hevva, is this Hook Hand a real person?”
She perched a hand on her hip, and he suspected her saucy attitude was often a cover for nerves, but he wouldn’t say that. He didn’t want her to shout at him.
“That’s debatable. But he is said to sneak up on unsuspecting young couples in the throes of passion. Usually those who are ensconced within a parked carriage at the end of a desolate shady lane.” She began to bounce around a bit as she got into the tale. “He hides in the woods, a social reject, you see.”
“I see.” He sipped his drink.
“Once the unsuspecting couple is making enough noise of their own to mask his sounds...Hook Hand sneaks from the trees and BAM! He slices the horses’ necks.” She made two slashing motions through the air with her right hand, her pointer finger curved to represent the metal appendage. “The couple might hear this. They might not. If they don’t hear him, he scrapes the point of his hook slowwwwwwly”—she scratched her fingernail along the edge of a desk as she drifted away—“so slowly up the length of the carriage, until...”
She spun and leapt at the king, using her fake hook hand to scratch across his chest. “They’re dead.”
He burst into laughter, so much so that he had to take a moment to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Countess”—he grinned—“you are a treat.”
She blushed a deeper shade of rose beneath the flickering candlelight.
Ehmet couldn’t help the spark that lit within him at each and every encounter he had with the lady. She was unmistakably vibrant. It set her apart from so many others and the courtly conduct they displayed for their king. Lady Hevva was an altogether different creature than he’d gleaned at their first real meeting, but no less intriguing. Slightly ridiculous, a little sharp, and of course, exquisitely beautiful.
Terrible wife material, he reminded himself.
The king set his carafe down on the table and traipsed to the window, glass in hand. It wasn’t long before she drifted over to stand beside him at the pane. He glanced down. She was holding his full bottle of whiskey.
“Forgetting something?” She side-eyed him, swaying the carafe.
Shaking his head at her antics, he asked, “Would you like a glass?”
“Oh.” She feigned innocence. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He just laughed and used his magic to pull a snifter out of the air for her. Blue crystal, to match her eyes.
They stood in companionable silence for a while, enjoying their drinks and watching life down in the city of Rohilavol.
“You have a beautiful town,” Lady Hevva murmured, forehead practically pressed up against the panes.
“You, too. Both of them, Stormhill and Kabuvirib.”
“Ah, but they are yours too . . . in a way.”
“True. But you, and your family, manage the day-to-day of those towns. They are your people.” He spied the reflection of her smile in the windowpane. “You love them.” It wasn’t a question.
“I do.”
He nodded, understanding.
A few more minutes passed in silence and then the king sighed. It was one thing to care for these people, from his hall atop the hill. But he couldn’t ignore the yearning to break free from noble constraints and experience the city as the common folk did. It was a longing that whispered to him like the chaos of the world swirling around him—the very essence he manipulated to create objects at will.
“I used to revel in the streets during my Institute days,” Ehmet admitted, eyes lingering on the distant lights of town. “But now, when I should have the most freedom, I find myself confined to the halls of Hewran...or Kirce.”
“Except when you dash out and play hero on occasion?” She turned away from the window to face him.
“Except that.” He smirked.
Eyes sparkling with mischief, Hevva egged him on, “Why not revel again? It's magical walking among the people, leaving duty behind. It’s one of my favorite things to do in Kabuvirib...or anywhere, really. My mining town is casual, they know I expect no pomp or circumstance from them, so I can be myself.”
“Ah, I wish I could.”
“And why can’t you?”
King Hethtar chuckled. The idea of being Ehmet in the midst of the festival was enticing. Lady Hevva’s spirit resonated with him, and he found himself considering the possibility, toes wiggling in his boots. “The people will recognize their king.”
“Psh.” She dismissed his fears with a wave of the hand. “They recognize your crown, your fine clothing. Your face is not on any coins yet.”
“True.” He was still debating which of the two portraits he should use.
“Plus...” With a delicate fingertip, she trailed the line of his unshaven jaw. “You already have a disguise.”
Her touch, gone too soon, sent static shivers spreading across his skin. “A disguise? Do you not go out as yourself?”
Casually, she lifted a shoulder, then answered his question with a question, “How do you know what your people need?”
“What do you mean?” He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the cheekiness creeping back into her demeanor.
“Without walking among them as a common man, how can you possibly know what they are in need of?”
“They petition me at court, or by letter. ”
“Psh.” She waved him off again. “Of course, because the common fisherman from Kashuvol can easily shape letters to write to you, or make it to Serkath to go to court.”
“If they cannot, they can always petition their local baron, earl, or duke.”
Hevva raised her brows and nodded sarcastically. “Ah, yes. And you trust all your nobles to rule their towns fairly.”
“I obviously do not,” he ground out.
She cocked her head to the side as if to say, “Exactly.”
Ehmet sighed, recognizing that his protestations would be in vain.
As banter watered the dry space between them, an understanding bloomed there, a shared desire to escape the rigidity that defined their lives. Lady Hevva, it seemed, did this regularly, or at least far more often than he would have expected from a countess and future duchess, which was not at all.
“Fine. But I will not go alone. And we cannot venture near the finer parts of town,” Ehmet relented.
Her mouth quivered in anticipation.
“Tonight,” he declared, putting on his most kingly voice. “We shall become shadows amongst the people, unseen and unknown. ’Til the wee hours, let us be free of titles and expectations.”
“Here, here!” She clinked her glass against his and grinned, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “We need names...You can be Berim, and I will be Saka.”
The decision was made.