2. Ehmet gives a speech.
two
Ehmet gives a speech.
E hmet adjusted the intricate golden robe draped over his shoulders. The weight of the crown, both literally and figuratively, seemed heavier today as he prepared to deliver the plenary address to open the annual Symposium of Prodigious Minds. Nervous energy pulsed from limb to limb and back again. To calm his apprehensions, he poured himself a glass of whiskey—a small one—as he contemplated the night ahead.
As he was wont to do, the pad of his thumb made its way to the knuckle of his pointer finger where he rubbed the textured skin. Tonight’s speech should be one of the easier events to get through. As king, he had every right to open the symposium, then dash away into some hidden corner of the public hall. He could even head back home to Hewran Hall or Kirce Palace for all anyone cared.
As long as I’ve done my duty.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, duty came in many shades. It wasn’t the speech that had Ehmet worked up, it was a promise he’d made to his mother to begin looking for a suitable wife. With a groan, he sipped his drink, grateful that the dowager queen was presently halfway across the kingdom.
Though happy for the respite, echoes of her words seemed to follow him wherever he went these days: “Ehmet, you’re nearing thirty. Time to find yourself a wife. I won’t be around forever, you know. ”
He’d thought quite a lot about the ideal qualities of a good match, someone who would make a decent queen. Ehmet figured he’d look for someone quiet and biddable, ideally pretty, and if the fates threaded their tapestry in his favor, maybe they’d even be friends. He was uninterested in seeking a love match. Silly things, those were.
As he downed the rest of his drink, the door to the private salon creaked open.
“Room’s filling up. Pour me one.” Nekash sauntered in with the rising din of crowds and conversations before a guard in the hall drew the door closed behind him.
His brother, the lecher, came along to present a united front following the death of their father the winter before. Ehmet rolled his eyes at the thought of Nekash wanting anything to do with running a country. As it was, the prince was also the Duke of Serkath, a role he had next to no interest in. The prince figured, since Ehmet lived there, too, and was the king and all, he could handle the Capital’s management alongside his other duties. Nekash told his brother this...many times.
Ehmet assumed Nekash was in it for the money, and probably the women too. The fact that his dukedom came with a splendid little manor opposite the palace was an added bonus for the seedy prince. He had the oddest brother. Good thing the man wasn’t interested in trying to be king, unlike Yusuf. The title? The power? Sure, Nekash would enjoy that. But the mundane day-to-day tasks that ensured the common people were provided for, that ensured morale remained high across their broad continent?
He nearly scoffed.
Instead, Ehmet sighed, a rare flash of vulnerability blinking out from beneath his composed exterior. He poured a healthy drink for his brother and a limited one for himself before joining the prince in the sitting area. Standing there, he took a contemplative sip and fiddled with his obnoxious golden robe. Nekash lounged on a settee, legs tossed carelessly over the arm and gulped his drink.
“Nervous, brother?”
Ehmet paced behind a set of chairs. “Not in the least. I quite like public speaking.”
“Scores of stunners out there tonight.” Nekash chuckled licentiously. “Wish I was you. All those ladies turning up for a chance to meet the king.”
No more. Ehmet finished his whiskey in a swift sip. His mother had been pestering him to take a wife. He couldn’t take it from his brother too, though Nekash certainly didn’t have marriage on his mind when he’d made the comments. The man kept a bevy of ladies in waiting—as in, ladies who were waiting to be made his wife, which wasn’t going to happen.
“Don’t fret, I’ll happily lap up your leftovers.”
A groan escaped him. His younger brother was...fine. But oddly, he wished for the steadying presence of his mother at that moment. Of course, he could never ever tell her he had the thought, or she wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. He had asked the dowager queen to remain at the palace in Serkath to conduct business in his absence. She was a bit overbearing, sure, but far more level-headed than his father ever was. He trusted her implicitly to hold down the kingdom.
“Who else is out there tonight?” Ehmet asked, hoping that his brother would take his meaning.
He did, kind of. “Uncle Yusuf’s still in Kirce.”
“I know that. What of his friends?” The Duke of Kashoorcih, their great-uncle, Lord Yusuf Hethtar, was literally the bane of Ehmet’s existence.
“Baron Turkhane’s around, and Baron Kashuvol.”
“Great.” His voice was flat. The night ahead would be long, but once he got through the opening address, he could avoid or attend events to his heart’s content. Perks of being king, he mused.
The beauty of the symposium was that, since it was funded by the crown, it was formally penned into his schedule as a standing appointment. These few days he got to spend in Rohilavol for the compendium, at the seat of his dukedom, were a precious escape from the constant press of work that awaited him back at the palace. No matter how many hours he put in, Ehmet never seemed to dig out from beneath the great steaming heap of duty. The hardest pill to swallow when it came to his ongoing exhaustion was that he hadn’t even been king for a year .
Already he was tired of the machinations of life at the Capital. To be fair, he’d tired of them long ago, somewhere around the age of fourteen, if not earlier. But the symposium...he tapped the side of his empty glass absentmindedly...it would provide a pleasant break from the obnoxious presence of Uncle Yusuf, who’d turned up at Kirce Palace immediately after the former King’s passing and hadn’t left since. Sure, Ehmet would see some friends and many subjects in Rohilavol during the event, but he could easily brush them off should they get too overbearing. It was not the case with Lord Yusuf Hethtar, who refused to be shaken free.
Probably why he popped out of the womb at the same time as Grandfather.
It wasn’t unheard of for nobility to take up residence in the Capital of Serkath for long swaths of time, but most kept their own homes...in the city. Yusuf insisted on staying in apartments within the palace proper. He could well afford his own residence, ten if he wanted, given the prosperity of his port city, Kashoorcih. But Ehmet knew his paternal great-uncle liked to be close to the action, to weasel his way in at any opportunity, always muttering about his claim to the throne. And weasel he did. The fucker was always around.
“Stop thinking about Yusuf.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“We should get out there.” Ehmet set his glass down on the bar as Nekash rolled to his feet.
“You look like Dad,” the prince quipped before downing the rest of his drink.
Ehmet ripped off the metallic mantle and tossed it over the back of a chair. He straightened his crown and threw open the door to the room. Flanked by their guards, the two brothers waltzed out into the large public hall and approached the podium. The space fell quiet.
Ehmet gave his speech, about eighty percent from memory, twenty percent from the words that floated before his face in curls of vaporous water. He thanked the gods for the prompts that saved him from forgetting the names of several of the symposium’s honored guests whom he needed to recognize. His childhood magic tutor, Hothan Tarisden, was honored for his contributions to the field of magical sciences. He went off script a bit during that part, as he had much to say about the phenomenal academic and most important mentor in his life.
Overall, it went well. The vast audience nodded and smiled at the right times, laughed on cue, and clapped loud and long when he wrapped up.
Stepping away from the podium, Ehmet snatched a shimmering glass of champagne from a waiting servant’s tray and positioned himself securely along the wall. The public hall buzzed with anticipation, and he braced himself for the sea of insipid women who would try to capture his attention. He wanted a new glass of champagne— no, something a bit stronger —and he wanted to be somewhere quieter. Firming his resolve, Ehmet told himself he would greet each and every one of his people who lined up before him. It’s what a good king would do.
“Chin up, brother,” Nekash clinked his glass. “Stunning assortment to choose from tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
The first of the guests were upon them before Ehmet could even roll his eyes at his brother’s philandering ways. Scholars, socialites, and simpering misses alike came through the receiving line to make the king’s acquaintance.
The prince, to Ehmet’s chagrin, was consistently afforded more leeway when it came to matters of public decorum. King Ehmet Hethtar pushed the limits as it was, by repealing age-old laws of sedition, preferring to travel with a small entourage, and handling his own meetings and matters of public address. So, in these situations, it was imperative he put his best foot forward in hopes of maintaining the public’s benevolence. He needed their support in his reign, fresh and new as it was. And now—stupidly, perhaps—they were also free to shout about his failings from the rooftops.
The next gaggle of insipid misses approached, and he greeted them with subtle disinterest wrapped in a layer of gratuitous formality. Nothing between their ears. Grasping intentions. Eventually, they got the hint and moved on to Nekash.
The prince proved much more to their liking anyway. Nekash filled his champagne flute with swirls of liquid flames that lapped over the edges of the fine crystal, earning titters and giggles from the small group before him. Then he urged threads of magical fire to nip out of the glass and tease the women in turn, flirting with them as he gave each one a languid once over.
Lapping up my leftovers, indeed.
That time, Ehmet did roll his eyes, unable to hold back. Unfortunately, his small lapse in decorum was perfectly timed; as he turned back to greet the next of his subjects, he made a most distasteful face at a very young, but very tall, boy who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. The child wilted, and Ehmet swore internally at his arsehole of a brother.
“Pardon me, please,” he murmured to the young man. “I was distracted.”
A creamy porcelain palm bedecked in silver rings came to rest on the boy’s shoulder, tugging him back a step as the protector stepped into the king’s periphery.
“Your Majesty,” she bit out, lips pursed in a thin line. The willowy beauty before him glowered from pale blue eyes while she looked him up and down, as if she alone determined his suitability to run the country. It wasn’t her stunning features that beguiled him as it was, it was her astonishing icy demeanor that froze him solid.
Heart stuttering like he was being scolded by his mother, Ehmet schooled his features, and then apologized to the pair before him. He, the king, bloody apologized to his subjects. His father better be rolling over in his grave at that one.
“I am terribly sorry Miss...” he trailed off, awaiting her name. A look of contrition, he hoped, was pasted upon his face.
Her pale brows shot up as she pulled the very young man to stand beside her. “ Lady ,” she drawled.
Shit.
“Lady Hevva Tilevir, Countess of Kabuvirib, and this is my brother, Lord Kas Kahoth.”
“Ah, another blunder on my behalf.” Anxiety prodded him into action, so he began to rub the knuckle of his forefinger with the pad of his thumb, a simple and discreet action that happened to have a calming effect on his person. “I hope you can excuse the impertinence. How are the Duke and Duchess of Stormhill faring? I hoped to see them here this year.”
He knew her, but somehow, he’d forgotten her in that single idiotic moment. Ehmet had seen Lady Hevva before, at various galas over the years at Kirce Palace, and who knew where else. He didn’t recall her very well, merely recognized her silvery-white hair, an uncommon trait in Selwas. He wasn’t sure he’d ever realized she was the daughter of Lord Kahoth of Stormhill. But he should have.
Some king. He made a mental note to study up on his nobility. The Selwassan custom of men maintaining their surnames, passing them down through sons, while women did the same with daughters would never fail to throw him off. It made families excruciatingly confusing. No one’s names matched.
The beauty across from him offered half a smirk, and the beginnings of a sparkle lit her eye. “Our parents are quite well, thank you. They are at home, treating their people with kindness and respect.”
He balked internally at the jab. Externally, the king smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been a very long day, please accept my apologies. I am pleased to see you both, Lady Hevva, Lord Akkas.” He chose his words with care, unsure whether he’d officially been introduced to the pair before. Ehmet didn’t want to imply it was the first official meeting and kick her ire up another notch after he’d so rudely dismissed her young brother. Though, she had called him out on it, impressively.
“Just Kas,” the bold woman spoke up on behalf of her brother.
“Lord Kas,” the king amended. “How about I make this unfortunate encounter up to the pair of you. Dinner, perhaps? Hewran Hall, tonight?”
“No.”
Beside him, Nekash choked on laughter. His gaggle of misses had moved on, it seemed. Ehmet wasn’t sure how long his brother had been watching this encounter.
The silver-haired vixen turned to her young companion. “Say what you’d like.”
The young man swallowed before he spoke, “King Hethtar, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Despite his exceptional height, the boy’s voice had not yet begun to change. He was younger than sixteen, it would seem. He’d be as tall as a ship’s mast when grown.
“I am pleased to make yours as well, Lord Kas. Are you looking forward to the symposium?” Who the fates says no to dinner with the king? His tired mind caught up to the countess’s previous comment.
“Very much. I am most interested in attending a talk tomorrow afternoon on the complexities of Domossan sensory magic, specifically the uses for taste abilities.”
The child talked like he was grown. Impressive. “That sounds enlightening, young man. I look forward to seeing what you do with that mind of yours in the future.” He smiled serenely at the lord who would one day become Earl of Kabuvirib when his elder sister assumed the title of Duchess of Stormhill, taking up the mantle her father currently held.
“Kas, let’s go. The king has other subjects to greet.” She tugged on her brother’s arm and eyed a passing servant who carried a tray of glittering glass flutes.
“Thank you for your time, Your Majesty.” Lord Kas Kahoth tipped into a bow before moving away.
“Any time, Lord Kas.” Ehmet called after the boy.
The sister lingered for a moment before dipping the most shallow and insignificant curtsy he’d ever seen in his life. It was more like she was eyeing a stain on his trousers than a gesture of respect. He almost laughed aloud. Apparently, Lady Hevva wasn’t as quick to change her opinion of him as her younger sibling.