11. Ehmet steeples his fingers.
eleven
Ehmet steeples his fingers.
E hmet rode alone on his return trip to Kirce Palace, with the exception of his guards, of course. His belongings, his manservant, and the carriages would follow eventually. After his unexpected guests departed, there was nothing worth sticking around for. So, he fled—essentially.
With an earthshaper soldier on one side, and a windshifter on the other, the trio made decent time on the road southwest. He had two good men with him, the quiet sort, who did their duty well and stayed out of his personal life. They didn’t mind at all when their king spent a solid day and a half grumbling and grousing unintelligibly at whatever was going on inside of his head.
Feeling rather morose, his thoughts pinged around, reflecting on the strange turn the symposium had taken. There hadn’t been as much relaxation as anticipated, but he’d come away with surprising new friends from his gaggle of houseguests. The retired merchants, Teymour and Shilan Gulan from Kashoorcih, were quite jovial and wonderfully sensible after he broke through their reservations. It hadn’t come to fruition until breakfast that final morning, but he got them there. He’d hosted a meal for his guests and invited his old tutor to join. Despite sitting with seven others to draw his attention, Ehmet couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting to Lady Hevva as he conversed with the rest.
Mr. Gulan made an offhand comment about how well Rohilavol was cared for compared with his hometown, prompting both he and his wife to widen their eyes in terror. Ehmet asked where they were from again, and when they replied, “Kashoorcih,” he wasn’t surprised. Fucking Yusuf . Apparently, the king’s consistent oversight still wasn’t enough to keep things running smoothly.
Ehmet ensured they knew he had repealed sedition laws for a reason, they were free to speak about him and fellow nobles as they wished. “And,” he tacked on, to soften them up a bit more, “I am not particularly fond of that duke, either.”
Lord Kas laughed at his comment, Lady Hevva grinned, and Ehmet’s heart skipped a beat. She likely knew of Yusuf’s underhanded remarks and not-so-subtle ranting about deserving the crown: He was a twin , born at the “exact same moment” as his brother who’d been handed the crown. So dreadfully unfair, the Duke of Kashoorcih had certainly been slighted, and needed the kingdom to know it.
By the end of breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Gulan made him promise to respond when they wrote, and Ehmet promised to tell his staff their letters should be placed directly on his desk. When Shilan hugged him goodbye, he felt a bit like he’d added an aunt to his family. She urged him to visit and made him swear by the gods that he would stay with them when next in town. Chuckling, he agreed.
Then he had to say goodbye to the young lord and lady from Stormhill. The countess wore the strangest look on her face when she said farewell, almost like she was trying to peer through his eyes, seeking a different pair. Berim’s . He’d sighed then, and he sighed again at the memory of it. Berim and Saka’s wild adventure had his insides twisted into knots, and he couldn’t make sense of the tumbling emotions.
It had been easy-ish to separate Saka from the countess when they’d been dressed in common clothing for their night on the town. But then, the night before...in that stunning violet gown with an overdress of white lace, with her hair styled like a queen’s? He felt slightly poorly about having torn the thing to shreds, but only slightly.
Ehmet shifted in his saddle and inhaled, the scent of sunbaked pine needles heavy in the air.
She’d been magnificent at the gala. She always was, but the lingering kisses from their evening in lower Rohilavol had plagued him like pox all day leading up to the event. Saka gave Berim an itch that couldn’t be scratched by anyone else, and unfortunately neither of them had been around. By the time he departed the ball and invited Berim to attend in his stead—and she did the same with Saka—he couldn’t keep his hands off of her.
It seemed as though she felt the same. But who was to say?
He had toyed with the idea of inviting her to stay a few days longer at Hewran Hall. But it would have been idiotic and desperate, not to mention scandalous. So, he’d held back on asking her at breakfast. Instead, while stirring a bit of honey into his tea, Ehmet asked the lady of her plans—a casual, yet proper line of conversation.
“I am quite looking forward to returning to Stormhill, to my people. It’s lovely there this time of year,” the countess replied before taking a tiny bite of toast. “And then, I will travel to Kabuvirib for a week’s visit, to see my people. I’ve been away too long.”
He chuckled. “It seems you have quite a lot of people.”
“You have more.” She had pressed her lips into a sad smile with that comment.
And he nodded, because he, too, understood the pressing weight of duty.
Her look when leaving, it was so strange. Hothan had long left, and Turkhane, too. Then the Gulans departed, Aylin bustled Lord Kas out to their carriage, and before Ehmet had a chance to say anything at all to Lady Hevva, she smiled serenely, lifted her chin, and said, “Thank you for your hospitality.” Then she slipped away.
Before the door swung closed, he could have sworn she looked over her shoulder at him and winked.
Everyone was...gone. Even Berim seemed to have wandered off down the shady lane. As Ehmet stood alone in the silent foyer, hands clasped behind his back while he rocked back and forth on his heels, he had a terrifying, comprehensive realization :
Lady Hevva Tilevir was far from the stuffy snappish countess he’d anticipated. She was precisely the kind of woman he had been trying to find, and then some. A partner who understood yearning for freedom. Someone who desired to experience life beyond the confines of titles and expectations, while still somehow finding joy in the duty that tied her to her people. She was a woman he could connect with enough to rule with, side by side, but not someone to whom he’d risk losing his heart...Right? Love would be a problem.
Shit.
E hmet arrived home the following afternoon to a bustle of activity and the desire to do nothing more than take a nap, but his mother insisted he come to dine with her and his brother. He did need to catch up on the goings on of the kingdom, so he accepted her invitation. Plus, Yusuf was hovering a few yards down the corridor, and he knew if he didn’t disappear with the dowager queen, his great-uncle would follow him through the palace and claim his ear for the next hour or more. Ehmet nearly shouted at him to “go back to Kashoorcih, and take care of your not-so-thriving city! Fool!”
Instead, he swallowed his frustration at the gentleman and nodded to his mother, offering his arm as they walked away. Dowager Queen Alva Adellon was a spry woman of some fifty-ish years with graying hair that was once the same golden brown as her younger son’s. Always dressed to the nines, tonight she wore a corseted gown in the royal line’s colors of deep green and honey gold. Not one for the latest fashion of rather high waisted dresses, the dowager often wore new gowns in an older style, but always wore them well.
“Why does he insist on clinging to an ancient tale?” Nekash whined over a steaming plate of honey-glazed ham.
Ehmet managed to shake the odious presence of Uncle Yusuf, only to spend the entire dinner discussing him.
“Tale though it may be, it holds some truth.” The dowager queen sipped her wine with one pinky poking out.
“Do we think he’s serious, or just kicking up shit?” The prince popped a spear of asparagus into his mouth.
Ehmet huffed and focused on his plate.
“Trying to claim he should be king as the son of your great-grandmother has its merits. And—don’t give me that look Ehmet. You know I support you wholly.”
His mother was on one of her rampages, the type where she had to humor the opposition’s point of view in order to pick it apart. It was frustrating but useful. So, he let her ramble on.
“As I was saying, since Queen Rahna had the twins cut out of her simultaneously, killing her, the succession was up for debate. Your grandfather, Rayan, was selected by his parents to wear the Crown of Selwas. He was chosen! Not Yusuf.” Annoyed, she sucked down her wine, refilling the glass herself as she continued, “And sure, Yusuf also gave your father hell while he was alive. But Vahit, he squashed it immediately, as you should do. He removed Yusuf’s princely title but allowed him to remain Duke of Kashoorcih. You know how it is, the crown changing heads brings this sort of thing to the surface again.” With a huff, she spooned herself a second helping of vegetables.
It had taken a few months for the dowager queen to get passably used to Ehmet’s insistence that they dine without staff in the room. She was used to decades upon decades of extreme formality in the palace. It’s how she’d done things as queen. But she wasn’t queen, not any longer. At least his mother hit a point where she didn’t mention it every time she was forced to do something for herself.
The choice to keep staff out of spaces wasn’t because he was paranoid, it was simply his preference. And now, he was king, so he could live the way he preferred. Perks.
In spite or perhaps because of being raised surrounded by a bevy of staff and servants, as soon as the crown was set atop his head, Ehmet began making changes. First, he reduced the servant’s work hours to match the other retainers. He’d made sure everyone had several weeks of holiday each year, along with sufficient raises to ensure they could save and spend and travel as they saw fit. This helped in his quest to blur the line between servant and staff, a separation his father intentionally reaffirmed time and again. The kingdom had enough class differences, the palace staff didn’t need more.
None of these choices came without thought, but Ehmet had been the Duke of Rohilavol for eight years by the time he became king, and he had already implemented his changes on a smaller scale there. They’d been a resounding success.
After getting things in order at home in Serkath, he’d moved on to win the love of the kingdom at large. And after that, he would need to ensure the long-standing treaties with Gramenia, Domos, and Karova remained intact. It was odd to him, knowing the fate of the world—or at least one slice of the pie—lay in his hands. How had all of this become his responsibility?
“He’s nearly seventy,” Nekash whined. “Can’t he just die already?”
Ehmet said, “I think he's already seventy.”
“Either way, he’s not dead yet, and he’s been rallying friends to his side,” their mother bemoaned. “If he gathers enough votes...”
“The crown needs to stay in this family.”
“He is part of the family.” Ehmet was intent on needling his brother for no reason other than because it was fun.
“You know what I mean, Dad.”
Their late father had also enjoyed poking the bear by playing dumb. Either that or slicing the bear’s head off in an obnoxious show of power. Ehmet didn’t have much in common with the man, except their shared love of pestering Nekash.
“Your point is well taken, son.” The dowager queen picked at her chicken.
Both Ehmet and Nekash looked to her, to see which son she referred to, but she wasn’t paying them any attention. “Yusuf’s claim is weak, but with enough money, which he has, he may be able to buy or blackmail himself additional support. ”
“This is true.” Ehmet steepled his fingers, having finished his supper moments before.
“I have my spies watching the issue. You need some of your own, you know.”
“Issues?”
Nekash sputtered.
His mother’s mouth grew thin. “Spies, Ehmet. You’re the bloody king. I have mine from my time on the throne.”
“Do they not also work for me?” He cocked a brow.
She sighed. “They do. However , when I die, which will happen eventually, you’ll want your own team, cultivated, handpicked by you .”
He dipped his chin. She wasn’t wrong.
“It’s time to solidify your reign, your line. You need a wife.”
There it is. “Yes, I know, Mum.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Across the table, Nekash chuckled into his drink. The prince didn’t have to endure these sorts of conversations, not yet and perhaps not ever, depending on the needs of their realm. As such, he found them endlessly entertaining.
“I know you know, Ehmet. But I don’t mean at some far distant date. I mean now. Put a stop to Yusuf, take a bride and make a child. You’ve come back empty handed from the symposium—”
“It was three days.”
She shrugged. “Your brother’s birthday is in a month’s time, the perfect occasion for a house party. Perhaps...a week-long affair?” Their mother pushed on as Ehmet topped up his glass of wine. “We will extend invitations to all eligible ladies in the realm...for both of you to choose from, of course.” She clarified this after seeing the melodramatic pout on Nekash’s face.
Ehmet rolled his eyes.
“You’re the birthday boy. You think I would leave you out of this?”
Nekash shrugged petulantly.
“Your present is that you don’t have to choose a wife by the end of things,” she replied dryly .
“You mean to tell me you’re not interested in finding a bride?” Ehmet asked his brother with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Bride, no. Bedmate? Yes. That’s why I keep my ladies in waiting.”
The dowager rolled her eyes.
Ehmet groaned and drank down his wine. He’d be married before the winter, there were no two ways about it if he hoped to stop the obnoxious meddling of Uncle Yusuf. A silver-haired beauty with irises the color of stormy skies danced through his mind’s eye.
The king stood from the table. He was done and didn’t care whether his mother and brother stayed to talk or cleared out as well. “Fine, send the invitations.”