Osmund’s mood stayed low the next day. He had work to do, yet no matter how much he tried to forget, the encounter with the illusionist called Emre stayed fresh. Somehow, not getting laid had been the least of his problems.
He wasn’t even my type, Osmund thought morosely. If I’d just been a little more choosey, none of this would’ve happened! Then again, Emre had said he’d been waiting for an opportunity to get Osmund alone. Perhaps this meeting was inevitable. But why, oh why did it have to happen after he had his hands down my pants? Osmund thought sourly. Or my towel, that is…
The whole mess was none of Osmund’s business. He repeated it to himself like it was an important one of his lessons, even as he saddled up Banou for a ride at the end of his workday. Thankfully, one happy neigh from the good-natured horse chased his stormy thoughts away.
“Are you ready, princess?” Osmund cooed, putting extra sweetness into the words as if he could reassure even himself. Banou matched his enthusiasm tenfold, practically prancing in place as Osmund climbed up onto her back. “Let’s go! Time to run!”
Banou may not have turned heads like Anaya could, but only an inexperienced horseman would overlook her. The red-brown horse was dependable, and she was fast. They began their gallop down the wide road that opened up into the rolling hills, and Osmund could’ve been soaring.
He’d forgotten, somehow. After all these many months destitute and all but alone in the empire, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be on horseback. He knew he’d likely never see Bella or Minerva or Callista again, and though his heart would always be heavy with it, his delight in riding hadn’t died with their loss. In spite of everything, Osmund couldn’t have fought off the uncontrollable smile on his face if he’d tried. His neck craned back and he hollered from sheer joy.
Besides being a fine horse, Banou was as good a companion as any could hope for. She took commands readily and was eager to please. Osmund guided them towards long, easy stretches of grass where they’d notice any obstacle, and so he wouldn’t lose his way back if sunset caught up to them too quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be steering Banou through unfamiliar territory in the dark.
They rode and rode and rode, until Shebyan was no more – only grassy knolls dotted with specks of color. The world flew by, brilliant and bright: the pinks and blues of wildflowers, the unfurled arms of wild olive trees. Osmund felt light as a feather. It was just him and Banou and no one else, not a care in the world. The clouds were hanging low, and the hills below seemed to ask for rain. Not even getting drenched would bother Osmund now. This was all life was. Better than a warm bed, better than a hot bath, better than random encounters (the good kind) with men.
He closed his eyes and felt the air on his face. Valcrest seemed infinitely far away. This could be his home, he felt. As long as he had this.
They arrived back at the stables just before the downpour started, which was completely unlike Osmund’s usual luck. Maybe his fortunes were changing after all.
He made sure Banou and the other horses (Anaya snorted at him contemptuously, as if he personally had ruined the weather) were cozy and warm with no leaks in their pens to trouble them before he headed into the house, hoping to still make it in time for dinner before he grabbed a bath. He was falling into a routine here, he realized happily. As if this really were where he belonged.
But for the second time in as many days, a feeling of something off welled up inside him. Barely a couple steps through the door and Nuray scurried past, looking shaken, a pitcher of something grasped firmly in both hands. She didn’t even seem to notice him.
Osmund watched her go, flummoxed. Then he saw the other servants standing tensely in the hall, uncharacteristically still, as if they were all huddled in waiting for some terrible event to pass. He was at a loss. It was well after the workday, and only a few of the government workers remained. No one stayed at the house full-time except the servants, and Şehzade Cemil himself.
Cemil. His personal bedroom was somewhere in this grand house. Not being a domestic, Osmund didn’t know where, and he barely dared to even think about it. But the sick feeling in his stomach twisted further as Nuray returned, her brown skin almost ashen grey, looking even more rattled than before.
“It’s bad today,” she said to the others. She looked almost ready to cry, Osmund noted with astonishment. “There’s no helping him.”
“Who?” Osmund blurted, though he suspected he knew as every eye fell upon him.
Who else could she mean?
For a moment no one enlightened him, but he saw their eyes flicking back and forth, silent deliberations happening right in front of him. The feeling of being an outsider was back in full force. They still don’t trust me, Osmund realized. I’m not one of them. I don’t belong here.
But then. “The şehzade,” Nuray sniffled, breaking the wall of silence. Amazingly, Osmund must have passed muster after all. “He’s not well.”
“He’s sick?!” Cemil had always looked the picture of perfect health. “What happened?!”
They all exchanged another glance. “He has headaches,” one older gentleman explained. He was a clerk of some kind who Osmund often saw making marks on parchment as he inspected the larder. He tapped his forehead, perhaps not expecting Osmund to understand him. “Very very bad.”
Headaches? Osmund furrowed his brow. “Is there not… medicine? What have you tried?”
Unexpectedly, he had now become the center of attention. (They must truly be desperate if they were consulting a Tolmish stablehand for help, he recognized grimly.) A woman – possibly the pharmacist – started rattling off a list. Osmund was quickly overwhelmed; he didn’t recognize any of the Meskato words, no doubt various names for plants, trees, and herbs. “May I see?” He interjected. “I-I’m sorry.”
Nuray tapped at his arm, taking up the mantle as his go-to handler. “Come. We’ll show you.”
She guided him to an open room facing the rainy courtyard; this seemed to be where the pharmacist prepared the medicines. Osmund’s eyes scanned the little containers, where he recognized linden, jasmine, and what looked like violets. There were also various tools that looked like they might be used for administration of the cures produced here.
“Nothing has worked, and now he refuses everything but simple tea,” Nuray cried in frustration. “What do we do when our prince is in so much pain?”
This little pharmacy was well-stocked indeed. It was hard to imagine they lacked for anything here. Even the head physician in Valcrest castle, who hated with zealous nationalism all places and things and people that were not Tolmish, wouldn’t be able to muster a word of complaint.
Look closely, Osmund told himself, focusing with all his might. Isn’t there something missing?
Without another word, he sprinted right back out into the rain, leaving the assembled servants behind. Doubtless they were all staring after him, jaws agape, thinking they’d been wrong to trust this foreign madman.
And maybe they were right!
Osmund made a beeline for the courtyard and its gardens, where he’d recognized some of the plants on his first day here. It was a lovely sight in the evening shower, but there was no time for that.
He kneeled in the dirt (sullying his formerly dry clothing after all), and scanned the rows of blooms, which were bowing their heads as they were tapped by the heavy raindrops. He was sure he’d seen it, it had to still be here…
“What are you doing?!” he heard behind him – Nuray’s voice. She was going to be soaked and filthy just like he was. “These are the şehzade’s gardens! Are you mad?! You’ll be ████ for this!”
She grabbed at his arm again and tried to peel him away, but Osmund couldn’t afford to be distracted, and shook her off. Distantly, he hoped very much the word he hadn’t understood meant something like ‘lightly reprimanded’. “I’m going to try something!” he exclaimed. “It might help!” She didn’t stop him after that, even when he dug the beautiful flowers, roots and all, straight out of the earth.
Osmund made his way to the kitchens then, where he managed to pantomime a mortar and pestle well enough that someone eventually gave him a set. The servants only stood back and watched, likely with the fascination of seeing a condemned man seal his fate. If this didn’t work, Osmund thought glumly as he beat the plant matter into mush, he was going to be lightly reprimanded at the very least.
“That isn’t tea,” Nuray pointed out, not sounding critical so much as hopelessly confused. “Our medicines have had no effect.”
“I know,” Osmund assured her without taking his eyes off the work. “I-I really need to do it the way I’m used to. And I don’t know if it would work as a tea, anyways.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said at last.
On one level, mechanically, Osmund did. He’d done this very thing many times before.
And on another level – the level concerned with his own survival and with keeping his head down – he really, really didn’t!
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