27. Ehmet rides a horse, again.
twenty-seven
Ehmet rides a horse, again.
F or three full days Ehmet traveled north toward Stormhill. The first day he was fueled by the roaring hope his mother had brought to life within him. The second day those flames began to dim and flicker as his anxious mind reminded him he’d been denied by her once before.
Yes, because you were a fool about love. What a dunce he’d been. Despite questioning every other piece of advice and information that had ever come out of the late king’s mouth, Ehmet never once considered his father may have been wrong when he claimed to love the dowager. His father was a bit of a villain in everyone’s lives, not just his own.
The fear of turning out that way, of becoming abusive and cruel because of the love he held for a woman, had turned Ehmet off to the idea entirely, and he’d never stopped to realize love wasn’t the reason his father behaved the way he did. King Vahit Hethtar was a possessive, objectifying, selfish man who loved no one but himself. And Ehmet was nothing like his father.
He would never lose his temper in such a fashion. He would never hit a child, or a woman, or anyone unprovoked. He would never lose himself to paranoia. He would never be like Dad.
On the third day, he was consumed by questions of adoration, vulnerability, and trust. Anxiety spread beneath his skin and pooled in the tips of his fingers and toes. With twenty tiny pulses beating in tandem, his thoughts spiraled. What if she didn’t love him in return? What if that’s why she had said “no” when he first proposed? Had she moved on already? Was the engagement to Lady Tahereh the last straw? Could the engagement be broken? Was this entire journey a lost cause? What if Hevva didn’t want him at all? What if Hevva did, and he still couldn’t marry her? Panicked and in need of grounding, Ehmet retrieved the ring from his pocket. He wore it upon the tip of his little finger the rest of that day, twisting it ’round as he rode onward.
At his inn that third night, somewhere southeast of Stormhill, Ehmet checked in under a false name. The innkeeper studied him far too intently as she upgraded the king to a room with a larger bed.
“For your height.” The sturdy woman studied his face.
Pursing his lips, he dipped his chin. He didn’t think inns were in the business of upgrading farm laborers to finer accommodations, but if she wasn’t going to say who he was, he’d allow the minor luxury.
“Two letters have arrived for you . . . Mister.”
Oh, she definitely knew who he was. He could tell by the fleeting grimace on the woman’s face. She did not want to call him something so lowly as “Mister." He appreciated the support in keeping his cover, though.
Ehmet accepted the correspondence from the innkeeper and retreated to his chamber. He was traveling without Parosh, or any guards, which meant he could remain anonymous...ish. His unshaven face, unadorned fingers, and simple attire helped. Leaving his destrier in Serkath and opting for more nondescript mounts along the route was also working in his favor, but the sub-par beasts and lack of earthshaping travel companions slowed him substantially.
Perhaps traveling alone wasn’t the smartest choice for a king without any heirs. But he was somehow both unassuming and large. If he were set upon by bandits or the like, he’d conjure up a sword, or maybe a battle ax, and the ruffians would be gone before they could breathe word of his presence to anyone.
Ehmet trudged up to his room with the two missives in hand. Tomorrow was to be the day , and his heart thundered in accordance with the importance of the conversation he hoped to have with Hevva. As long as the dowager’s plans had gone accordingly, he’d be free to propose to the woman he should have held onto in the first place.
With shaking hands, Ehmet tore at the seal on the first note, having recognized his mother’s writing and deeming that one of utmost importance. Her letter was deceptively perfunctory, illuminating, and further kindled that burning hope in his chest.
A log of the healer who had attended the births of Ehmet’s grandfather and great-uncle was located beneath an old bookcase in the palace archives. Yusuf, with his distinctive birthmark, was confirmed to have been born second. The issue of the crown’s succession had finally been laid to rest.
His heart sang.
Furthermore, the Baron of Kashuvol, it seemed, had ridden west out of Serkath at the same time that Lady Tahereh had ridden east out of Appven. Whether pre-planned by the parties or felicitous, no one could say. But the lord and lady were discovered by some locals in a scandalously compromising situation at the Crown & Quill in Kashoorcih. Thus, the young lady would be calling off the wedding to the king. Ehmet was once again on the market.
His mother had cleverly worded the fate-shifting news as though it were the most mundane information she had to share.
Ehmet let the letter flutter to the floor as a grin split his face. Free . He was free.
The second missive confirmed it. It was a long but hastily scrawled note from Lady Tahereh apologizing for the unfortunate manner in which their engagement had come to an end. She went on to shine a peculiar light on the situation at Kirce during the house party:
. . . Let me express my most sincere apologies for the game of billiards. Please, do not fault your brother too harshly, as my mother was also key in arranging the charade. I should have told them I did not want to play. For, as it turns out, I find that I am quite taken by my Lord K, and hold hope he might make me his baroness. A step down from queen, to be sure, but much more to my liking, I assure you.
Please, Your Majesty, I beg that you express my deepest apologies to the friend of yours with whom I share snowy locks. I wish you all the best.
Your loyal subject, Lady T.N.
Ehmet traced his finger over the page as he furrowed his brow. “. . . do not fault your brother too harshly...”
“That fucking bastard!” Ehmet threw the note as if it would hit the ground with force and stomped it to the floor when it floated down too slowly. He’d burn the damn thing, but Ehmet wanted to give Hevva the opportunity to read it.
Rage at Nekash boiled his blood as Ehmet leapt to his feet and began stomping around the room. That smarmy arsehole knew Hevva hadn’t sent him that note, encouraged Ehmet to attend the meeting, and then brought the countess by to walk in on him and Lady Tahereh. He’d bet anything, his brother made a move on Lady Hevva the moment she’d fled the room.
Bile rose up his throat and he swallowed it down with a growl. Nekash thrived on chaos and always wanted what he couldn’t have, be it the pomp of the crown that belonged to Ehmet, the wife of a traveling merchant, an uninterested lady, or apparently the happiness that Ehmet and Hevva had the potential to create.
“Gods! Fuck!” He clenched his hands into fists as he roared up at the ceiling.
It wasn’t long before a series of rather loud knocks sounded on his door. “Sir?”
Ehmet recognized the innkeeper’s voice. Shame at his unfettered outburst bloomed red upon his cheeks as he pulled open the panel .
She held out a glass and a carafe of clear liquor. “Thought you could use this...” The innkeeper glanced up and down the hall to ensure they were alone. Satisfied, she added in a whisper: “Your Majesty.”
There it is. He accepted the alcohol with a grateful nod. Someone exited their room down the hall and walked past.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, what direction are you headed?”
“Stormhill,” he ground out.
She nodded slowly. “Ah, I have it on good authority that the duke and duchess are currently in residence.”
“Good.”
“However,” the innkeeper lowered her voice, “if you’re looking for the young Lord Akkas, or perhaps Lady Hevva Tilevir, I have it on very good authority that they are not currently in residence.”
His heart dropped to the floor with such a resounding thunk , he half expected the woman to look down at his feet. “On whose good authority do you have this information?”
“Why, Lady Hevva’s, of course!”
“Is she here?!” Ehmet hadn’t meant to shout the question, but his heart had decided to leap from the floor up to his throat after the innkeeper answered him, shoving his words forth with a great burst of momentum. His eyes snapped from the carafe in his hand to the innkeeper’s face. The cunning woman knew how she was torturing him. Privy to all passing gossip, in her establishment on the great north road, she’d seen Hevva herself, possibly more than once in the past few weeks.
She frowned in apology. “She is not here.”
He shrank back at the blow.
“I do love that family. Wonderful people, excellent overseers of this land. The lady passed through a few days ago, traveling with the young lord, for a stay at their summer cottage.”
“Just the two of them? Where is the cottage? Do you know?”
Chortling, the woman replied, “Three of them, if you include the lady’s maid. The cottage is slightly south and to the west of here, and I will draw you a map. See me at first light. We’ll send you off with your directions and something to eat on the way. ”
He nodded, thanked the woman, and closed the door. Then Ehmet helped himself to a swig straight out of the bottle and grinned maniacally from the insanity of it all. The heat of the liquid merged with his fiery desire for Hevva and his simmering rage at Nekash, exploding into something awesome and passion filled.
Ehmet Hethtar took another long drink. Fear raced through him, nipping at the heels of hope. But hope spun on the spot and socked fear right in the face, knocking it out cold.
Tomorrow he would finally get to speak with Hevva. And when he got back to Kirce, whenever that may be, he would be beating the shit out of his rapacious younger brother for meddling in his already tumultuous affairs.