24. Ehmet rides a horse.
twenty-four
Ehmet rides a horse.
K ing Hethtar rode hard, his destrier’s hooves pounding across the western sea road that would eventually deliver him to Appven. The sand-colored, salt-coated stone walls of Kashoorcih shimmered at him in the distance. They slid in and out of Ehmet’s line of sight as the road curved and undulated along Selwas’s southern shore. He’d be stopping in the trading city for the night, but he’d be damned if he would stay at his Uncle Yusuf’s estate. The king planned to grace a local establishment with his presence instead. He could have written to the Gulans, they had offered him a room at any time, but it felt unwise to impose on such short notice.
Each and every time he came across a spur in the road, he considered taking the turn and simply heading north.
To what end, Ehmet? He challenged himself.
Because there was someone up there, in the northeast, who he hadn’t really gotten the chance to say goodbye to. A friend.
A friend?
A friend.
The soldiers at the gates of the sprawling city waved him and his small retinue through. King Hethtar traveled with nought but Parosh and two soldiers of his own. He’d left his crown back in Kirce, but did pull on his many-caped cloak. The heavy thing was dyed and woven in the palace’s colors of forest green and honey gold. Ehmet figured it would signify who he was, even if it was a bit hot for the late-summer sun.
They rode to the Crown & Quill, a fine establishment in upper Kashoorcih, near the sea. Parosh hurried inside the establishment while the king and his soldiers stabled the horses. His manservant would interact with the innkeeper and staff while Ehmet saw to their steeds. It wasn’t the way things were officially done...but he was the king, the top official in the land. So, on reconsideration, he supposed it was , in fact, the way things were officially done.
Ehmet brushed down his stallion rhythmically while half-processing and half-avoiding his rampant thoughts. Each puff of filth that curled away from his great beast felt like a memory of her being scrubbed at and turned to dust beneath his fingers. Only, the dirt and grime of memories didn’t dissipate, it settled upon his travel-worn cloak, muddying the vibrant wool. King Hethtar was off to see his betrothed. Betrothed. Gods. He was to be married in three weeks—to Lady Tahereh.
She was a perfect fit. On paper.
Back at Kirce, they’d spoken over dinner once. It was the night of their betrothal announcement, and the dowager queen threw proper etiquette to the wind. She seated Lady Tahereh at Ehmet’s left hand, ahead of her own mother, Lady Nathari, who ended up beside Nekash at the far end of the table. Ehmet had tried to speak with his wife-to-be during the first course. He really, really tried. But all he could think was that she was a usurper, sitting in Hevva’s spot. It put a rather pinched expression on his face for the duration of the remove.
When the second course was brought out, the enormous peacock feathers still attached to a roasted bird inspired him. “Lady Tahereh.”
“Your Highness?” The woman beside him was all wrong. Her hair was the correct color, sure, but other than that: wrong.
“I have been meaning to seek your opinion on the matter of education.”
The lady gave him a blank stare.
All wrong. “As you know, historically, in Selwas, a formal education was something only attainable for families with wealth or titles.”
“I did not know that, Your Majesty,” she murmured while spearing a bite of pie.
“Oh, well, it was. And even then, it was limited to the male heirs. Around two hundred years ago, a shift occurred, with young women being deemed fit to inherit. This meant that women needed access to education as well as men.”
She nodded silently.
Hevva would have cut him off ages ago, to tell him she already knew of what he spoke, and probably to rail against the injustices done to women in the past...and present. He sighed at the thought.
“To this day, education through tutors and by attending the Institute in Rohilavol remains accessible only to those families with means or with wealthy patrons. I was wondering what your opinion might be on the matter. Should common young men and women have access to education so that they may learn to read and write?”
“Oh, that is a fine question, Your Majesty.” Lady Tahereh took a dainty nibble of salmon before setting down her fork. “What are you of a mind to do?”
So wrong. The lady had simply avoided the question. It baffled Ehmet. Hevva wouldn’t have held back. She’d have given him a clear and concise twelve-point plan on how to manage the situation. Then she’d have mocked him for asking her opinion in the first place.
Ehmet tried to solicit Tahereh’s opinion on a wide variety of matters, to no avail. Each and every time that he posited a question, or asked for her thoughts, she turned it back on him.
He began sharing his own perspectives first, then asking for hers, hoping it would get her to loosen up. But when offered an opinion, she seemed to accept it with zero reflection and a non-offensive murmur of agreement. It was ridiculous. Ehmet was certain he could have said his favorite food was rolled dung dusted in piss crystals, and Lady Tahereh would have called it delicious.
Had he said he wanted quiet? Biddable? He’d been horrendously wrong.
Their betrothal was announced at the ball that night, and Ehmet couldn’t help but wonder if he was perhaps making the most logically irresponsible decision of his entire life.
When he saw the announcement in the local papers the next morning, he knew it was well and truly done. Hevva would see it too.
For several minutes Ehmet stared at the print, trying to imagine Hevva’s reaction. Did she care at all? Had she burned the paper? Gone to the gymnasium to take out her frustration? Was she doing all right? Was Saka drunk in some cupboard, crying alone? His heart clenched. She’d claimed it was all fine, but he didn’t think she’d meant it. He wasn’t sure how she could have meant it, for he knew it wasn’t “fine” in the least. He should have told her his feelings out on the beach. He should have offered his emotional state up on a platter, and maybe she’d have offered him a bite in return. It was too late.
On that morning, as he sat there with his tea in hand, and his eyes glued to the cold black print of the daily paper, Ehmet shriveled up and vanished to hide inside the body of King Hethtar.
A scant week later, he was heading west, to visit his betrothed, the lackluster Lady Tahereh Nathari, all because his bloody great-uncle wanted the Crown.
Never had things felt so wrong.
“Let me take care of that for you, Your Majesty,” a squeaky voice interrupted the king’s dark thoughts.
He turned to find a young stablehand with his arm outstretched, hoping to take the brush from King Hethtar. He handed it over. “Thank you, young man. And what is your name?”
“Berim, Sir!” The boy grinned.
Ehmet’s already wilted heart withered. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Berim. With a name like that, you’re sure to go far.”
Confused, the stableboy smiled again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The king trudged around the front of the building to enter via the main door. The ground floor of the Crown & Quill was bustling with patrons, both guests and locals who wandered in for a bite to eat. Parosh was in the middle of accepting room keys from the innkeeper when King Hethtar came up behind him .
“Y— Your Majesty,” the innkeeper sputtered.
Shit. He’d meant to remove his cloak outside. It wasn’t that he was trying to travel undercover, he wasn’t. He would’ve taken a discreet mount and not his giant warhorse who stood a head above the rest if that was the case. He also wouldn’t have worn his hot and heavy woolen cloak if he was trying to remain mysterious. But he had intended to ditch it and enter the inn a bit more unassumingly, so as not to stress the staff and rile the other guests. King Hethtar pressed his lips into a thin smile and nodded to the innkeeper.
“Your Majesty! Is that you?” A small gray whirlwind spun to a stop in front of him.
“Mrs. Gulan, what a pleasant surprise!” The king was surprised, but pleasantly was debatable. Seeing the retired merchant woman, and her husband, who was waving excitedly from his table in the corner, brought on a cavalcade of memories from the symposium. Images of Saka, of Hevva, flashed through his mind again, though she was never far. King Hethtar ground his teeth.
“Why are you staying here?” She watched as the innkeeper handed a key to Parosh, then she swung her gaze up to meet her king's. “You know you have a standing invitation to stay at our home.”
The innkeeper balked at her forward nature.
“I didn’t want to impose. This was a last-minute trip,” he explained.
“It’s not an imposition. We’re friends, Your Highness. Are we not? Having you as a guest would feel far better on the soul than letting you stay at this foul establishment!”
The king snorted.
Catching onto the fact that they were, in fact, friends, and King Hethtar was no one to be afraid of, the innkeeper grumbled, “Foul?! Tell me then, why do you dine here four nights a week, Mrs. Gulan?”
He chuckled, and the two locals laughed as well, their banter clearly the norm for this crew in Kashoorcih. “Truly, Mrs. Gulan—”
“Shilan, please,” she corrected.
“Shilan, thank you for your hospitable offer, but I am happy to stay here for the one night. I wouldn’t want to impose with my traveling party .
“I understand,” she said with a smile. “Do you at least have the time to come sit with us for a catch up?”
“Of course,” he replied in an even tone, but inside, he was singing, belting out a happy chorus. Until Shilan spun to a stop in front of him, he hadn’t realized how much he craved friendship and a non-political conversation.
“Come.” She grabbed his giant hand. “You look like you could use a big drink and good conversation. Maybe, a good drink and a big conversation. Or a bit of both?”
He inclined his head, hiding a smile at how spot on she was, and let himself be led to their table.
“So glad to see you, Your Majesty,” Teymour greeted the king, eyes crinkling with glee.
“You as well, Mr. Gulan.”
“Please, call me Tey. We’ve stayed in your home, perhaps we could consider first names?”
“Don’t mind him. We’ve had a few drinks already.”
He chuckled. Many people stayed in his home. However, he couldn’t help but agree with the man’s sentiment. “It’s quite all right, Tey. Please, call me Ehmet.”
“Ehmet,” Shilan tested out his name.
King Hethtar smiled and accepted a glass of whiskey that a server delivered to the table.
“So, Ehmet, ” Teymour began. “What brings you to our fine seaside city from your own?”
He exhaled miserably through his nose. “Passing through on my way to Appven.”
“What’s in Appven?” Tey inquired.
“He’s the king , honey, it’s one of his cities.”
The king shrugged a shoulder. “I’m going to visit my betrothed.”
Tey stared at him, confused.
“Do you not read the news, dear? He’s engaged to Lady Tahereh of Appven.” The look she gave Ehmet was full of questions, loaded with empathy, and somehow mildly disapproving .
Ehmet shrunk down in his seat.
“I thought you’d be betrothed to Lady Hevva Tilevir by now,” Teymour stated boldly.
“My love, no ,” Shilan scolded, studying the look on Ehmet’s face. “He doesn’t want to talk about that.”
“I wouldn’t mind, actually,” he found himself admitting.
“Good,” Mrs. Gulan replied with a terse nod.
Had she done that on purpose?
Teymour waved over a barmaid and requested a full bottle of whiskey be brought out. They would be sticking around for a while.
In that moment, when the big whiskey was set upon the table, he felt like Ehmet, just Ehmet, a friend of the Gulans and not the king. He was simply a young man in dire need of advice.
“Tell us everything ,” Mrs. Gulan encouraged as she filled her glass to the brim.
So, he did, minus some of the more boring details about Yusuf’s scheming, and some of the more scandalous details about his time alone with Lady Hevva.
Teymour frowned empathetically when Ehmet wrapped up his sorry tale several drinks later. “Oh, my. You are in quite a pickle, aren’t you Your Majesty— I mean, Ehmet?”
With a downturned mouth, Shilan said, “You truly believe love has no place in a marriage?”
The Gulans shared a knowing glance, one that tightened the painful knot in his stomach and flooded his mouth with spit. He nodded. “I think so?”
Teymour huffed.
“You disagree?”
“Pardon my saying Ehmet, but I believe you are completely and utterly incorrect!” Shilan, now a few whiskeys in, scolded him across the table.
“But my father . . . he . . .”
“He was a piece of shit.” Mr. Gulan burped.
“Tey!” Mrs. Gulan elbowed her husband below the surface of the table, but Ehmet didn’t miss the man’s flinch .
“He changed the law!” Teymour pointed a wobbly finger at Ehmet, drink sloshing in the other hand.
“I did, and he was,” the king agreed. “But he said he loved my mother.”
“Eh. Saying and doing are two different things. I can say I’m the Queen of Domos, doesn’t make it true.” Shilan snorted at her own joke.
“Domos has a king, honey.”
“I know , dear.”
“So, you think love is important to marriage?”
His question set off Teymour that time. “Important?! There is no marriage without love. What would be the point? Draft up a business agreement if you aren’t in it for love.” He thunked his fist on the table as he spoke.
Ehmet’s gaze bounced back and forth between the older couple. They were certainly in love, and passionate about love. He could see it in their unconditional support of one another, in how they teased and called the other out for bad behavior while not tearing them down and making them feel worthless. Their marriage was based on love, but he wasn’t sure his could ever be. The king took a deep swallow of his whiskey followed by a frustrated chomp of bread.
“How did you know?” he finally asked, voice so small it was hard to believe it had come from the six-foot-tall beast of a man.
“Know what, my dear?”
“That you were in love.”
“Ahh,” both Gulans sighed together before looking at one another. They ran through the motions of a silent back and forth that Ehmet took to mean, “Should I tell it? No, you do it. No, me? All right.”
“We met thirty-seven years ago,” Tey began. “I was a young merchant then, and she was—”
“I was a barmaid!” Shilan beamed.
“She was. But her father—”
“He was a fisherman. And one day,” Shilan took over the story. “My older brother was sick, so I went out to help with the day’s catch. A squall blew in out of nowhere and I was tossed overboard!”
Ehmet’s eyes popped wide .
“It’s true!” Teymour helped himself to a small pastry and a sip of whiskey and talked through his chewing, “I was out on my ship, heading over to Westenmeer, you know, in Gramenia?”
Ehmet nodded. He knew Gramenia. What sort of king wouldn’t know the neighboring realm’s cities and principalities?
“Well, I saw that little sloop through the drizzle, bouncing up and disappearing behind the waves.” He moved his hand in a wave-like motion, spreading pastry crumbs across the wooden table. “I could see the fishermen standing on the decks, screaming at the fates, and waving at the skies, and I knew someone had gone over.”
“It was me! I went over,” Shilan chimed in, as if Ehmet had already forgotten the start of the tale.
The Gulans went on in this way for some time, and Ehmet was more than happy to sit back and wallow in his fourth or fifth, maybe sixth, large drink while hearing their big tale of tumbling into love. It was more than likely Shilan hadn’t been encircled by hungry sharks and pulled from the fathomless depths, precisely when the largest predator was attempting to bite at her ankle, but the key points were there. Teymour rescued Shilan, they fell in love, and they would adventure together for the rest of their lives.
“What made you choose to fall in love?”
“Choose?” Shilan chuckled. “We most certainly did not choose to be in love. Maybe to stay in love and stick it out?”
Teymour nodded. “Yes, that part is the choice, the making it work bit. But the love itself? That just is .”
“So how did you know when you’d found it?”
“We just knew, Ehmet. I am not sure exactly how to explain it. We knew.” Mrs. Gulan snuggled into her husband’s shoulder.
“That’s not the most helpful,” he grumbled into his glass.
“Let’s see...” Teymour scrunched up his face as he flicked through nearly-forty years of memories with his wife. “I would say we became the best of friends almost instantaneously.”
“Oh, yes. Without a doubt.” Shilan bobbed her head.
“We could—and still can—discuss anything and everything . . . ”
“Oh, yes. Without a doubt, from the mundane to the mystical.”
“What of jealousy?” Ehmet posed the question with a grimace.
“What of it? It’s a natural reaction to wanting what someone else has.” Shilan pinched her brows.
“Yes, but what do you do when you feel it? What about possessiveness? Fearing the person you care about is going to leave you for someone else?”
“Are you dealing with these feelings?”
“Well, no . . . but my parents did.”
Teymour sighed. “Jealousy, envy, possessiveness...these are all negative feelings and qualities we can fall into in our relationships, in any type of relationship.”
“They are not love,” Shilan added.
“That is true, they are not love.”
“But they go with love, they are part of the package, right? The good and the bad, the hugging and kissing, the screaming and slapping.”
Shilan scrunched her mouth to one side and narrowed her eyes at the king. “I do not believe so. Love, at least our love”—she squeezed her husband’s arm—“is not jealous or possessive. It is kind and understanding. Perhaps there is some jealousy and envy, from time to time...”
Ehmet wondered why she’d trailed off. He knew there was something to it, something about these negative emotions that had the ability to infiltrate and rot even the happiest sort of love, turning it to something dark and bitter.
“Yes, from time to time.” Tey chortled. “Take for example times when my lovely wife decides to stand before the windows in the nude! I find myself quite jealous then, of the birds on the other side of the glass.”
Shilan laughed heartily. “Oh yes, or when we were still working, and Teymour would bring home a delightfully gigantic new ruby or other gem, I found myself quite envious of the woman who would get to wear it...Except it always turned out to be a gift for me.”
“This is true!” Tey boomed, tears of joy leaking from the corners of his eyes.
“So, you’re saying when you know you’ve found your love out there in the world, those other negative feelings fade away? ”
“Yes, that’s precisely what we’re saying. And if they don’t, well, either you have some introspection to do, or it’s not love at all. This is all, of course, assuming you are able to court the one who has your heart.” Shilan frowned.
“Oh yes, yes. If you are not together for one reason or another, forget about trying to tamp down the jealousy and possessiveness, for it will not cease until you’ve closed that chapter in one way or another.”
“So, you don’t think there’s any point in marriage without love?”
“No!” the Gulans shouted.
“Oh.”
“A life without love is not a life worth living, my friend.” Teymour smiled sadly at the king.
“Don’t tell the boy that! He’s sad, dear.”
“Oh, yes, of course. A life without love is a difficult life, but every moment is worth living.”
Shilan tipped her head from side to side, considering her husband’s advice.
“I think I have to go.” Ehmet stood and nearly rushed from the room. Then he remembered it would likely be a while before he saw these friends again. So, he shuffled back over to the table to thank them for their time and hug them goodbye.
That night he did not sleep, instead spending the wee hours slogging through his thoughts on love, politics, and the future.
At first light, he was back on the road.