Osmund was ready to admit it: he’d developed feelings for Cemil. Real, precious feelings that were definitely more than simply wanting to admire his lovely face, or kiss him, or see him naked.

More than those things, he’d said! He still very much wanted to do all three. Preferably at the same time, if he was fortunate.

Since it now seemed actually imminently probable (Was this really his life?!) that they might sleep together, he’d taken to checking his appearance more carefully whenever he left his room or the bathhouse. He even tried occasionally tying back his unruly blond hair the way he’d seen the Meskato prince do. Osmund knew he wasn’t exceptionally good-looking, especially next to such a man, but he couldn’t be considered ugly either. He was technically in the prime of his life, and in the best shape he’d ever been in to boot.

Maybe he’d perform well, and they’d share a passionate night together. Maybe Cemil wouldn’t even lose interest in him right away. And maybe, just maybe, Osmund wouldn’t allow himself to fall deeper into this mire of feelings, and have to deal with the inevitable end of…whatever this was.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Of the many romance novels he’d stashed away in the castle during his youth, he’d always had one particular favorite. It was an exuberantly graphic tale about a nobleman’s son who’d rejected courtly life and run away into the forest, where he’d met a humble woodcutter and lived out the rest of his scintillating days beneath the other man’s generously-sized “wood”. Osmund used to read it cover to cover, over and over again. Stories about two men were already rare enough treasures, but this one was a fantasy so dear, it ached. Two people, who belonged wholly to one another. Two people who had chosen the life they had built together.

Put another way, on the list of men he might’ve wanted to fall in love with, “the prince of a neighboring kingdom, who would eventually have to take a wife and sire children and swap out his servants when they weren’t useful anymore” would not have topped it.

Sure, Cemil went out of his way to greet him, and invited him to share meals and gossip, and stopped Osmund in the hall to recommend books he might enjoy once his Meskato reading ability was up to task— but, none of that changed the facts of their situation!

A prince giving his love away freely was the stuff of daydreams—it could never be real the way Osmund craved. And he needed to give himself a stern reminder of that.

But how?

On this particular morning, the source of his temptations was away from the house. He learned at the breakfast table that Cemil had headed out with an armed riding party at first light. As Şebyan’s governor, the Meskato prince was still determined to find out from which cave that gigantic beast had emerged from, and whether there were more aberrants like it. It seemed he’d let Osmund sleep in; another “sorry you were nearly eaten by a wyrm” gift, perhaps.

The stables were strangely lonely with so many horses gone. Empty pens lined the yard, but faithful Banu was there. Osmund gave her the spoiling of her life, with a long bath and a good brushing. Then he sat with her in her pen and hand-fed her apples from the kitchen, laughing when she skimmed his arm with her nose and lips as if she’d find more treats stashed up his sleeve. “You devil!” he chastised, grinning ear to ear as her rancid breath fluttered his hair all about. “Are you never satisfied, you greedy creature!” This, he said like the world’s most affectionate pet name.

The weather was fine and cool. Osmund sat beside the stables for a breather and allowed in some indulgent thoughts, because he couldn’t let his inconvenient feelings spoil all the fun of waiting to be ravished. How would Cemil want him, he wondered with an erotic thrill. On my back, so I can see his face? In front? On top, like a rider? Or maybe he’ll want me to…

A worrying thought occurred. (Osmund was good at conjuring those, especially when things were going well.) What if he was so out of practice that he reached the finish line too early? Or couldn’t handle the sheer proportions of the larger man? It had been so long. Perhaps I should try my luck again at the bathhouse. But that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t exactly go and get bedded now, by some stranger—it would be like spoiling a magnificent dinner by scavenging stale peanuts an hour before.

Osmund was so wrapped up in his alternately titillating and anxious thoughts that at first, his mind ignored the odd, insistent fluttering sound. It was just another part of nature’s ambiance. Until, it wasn’t.

A blur dropped out of the sky before he could so much as twitch in surprise, landing in the dirt between the stables and the house. It was only a bird, he saw, rushing to calm his nerves—a wounded pigeon, now that he stepped closer, in an interesting pattern of burnt red and ashen grey. Its feathers ruffled wildly as it struggled to get back in the air.

Osmund had never much liked birds: the falcon was the symbol of the royal family of Valcrest, emblazoned on all their clothes, shields, and banners, and from the way Father went on, Osmund often had the impression he might’ve preferred a good hunting hawk over his failure of a son. He hated it. But seeing the dove flailing about on its injured wing made his heart ache all the same. 

“You poor thing,” Osmund cooed as he approached. He tried to get a look at its leg—maybe it was a courier. Its rare coloration suggested it wasn’t wild-born. “What beast attacked you on your way here? Let me take a look at you.”

He didn’t particularly like the idea of touching the wounded animal—birds had always seemed vaguely filthy, even to a man used to mucking around in manure—but he fought down his discomfort and scooped up the pitiful creature. It fought in his grasp, and Osmund very valiantly didn’t drop it.

The injury was fresh and bloody. It had indeed been attacked, perhaps by a hawk or a falcon, and that gave him a fresh wave of sympathy. (It meant they shared a dislike for the creatures.) He spied a rolled-up message on its leg. “Let’s get you to the aviary,” Osmund said, rather bravely for someone who was imagining getting his eye pecked out or contracting an avian disease. And away they went.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a far walk from the stables. The birdkeeper took one look at the wounded creature, and even in the low light of the noisy, foul-smelling room it was impossible to miss the way his eyes sharpened. He exclaimed something in Meskato.

“Will it heal?” Osmund asked, but the man had eyes only for the little parcel affixed to the animal’s leg, which he extracted from its fastenings with surprisingly delicate fingers. Osmund saw nothing extraordinary about it: a plain piece of paper sealed up by magic, nothing more. Curiously, there wasn’t even a stamp to mark the sender.

“When the şehzade rides back today,” the birdkeeper began, his eyes never straying from the paper in his hand, “send him by at once. Tell him, ‘the little lost bird has returned’.”

Cemil returned by midday with the party he’d taken out before dawn. Osmund saw their shapes steadily growing on the horizon and waited by the gate, wringing his hands impatiently.

The tired slouch in the shoulders of the returning group communicated one thing: it had been another fruitless investigation. Cemil was in quiet conversation with his fellows, and didn’t notice Osmund until Anaya snorted at the approaching stablehand, sending his hair flying for the second time that day.

The instant Osmund had the prince’s attention, he blurted, “‘The little lost bird has returned!’”

Cemil’s brow furrowed. “…What?”

Osmund had to admit, having a secret code phrase to transmit felt a bit daft when the receiver clearly had no idea what you were on about. “The birdkeeper told me to tell you,” he continued, even as he wondered whether he’d been pranked. “A letter arrived. He said it was important you knew about it at once.”

“A letter?” Cemil shook his head, visibly distracted. All around them, the other riders were filtering through the gate, dismounting their horses as they approached the stables. “From what sender? Never mind. I’ll be by as soon as I’m able. Please take care of Anaya and the others. They’ve had a difficult ride.”

I must be remembering the message wrong. Osmund kept rambling instead. “It came by pigeon. It was injured. The keeper at the aviary looked surprised to see it. It had red and grey plumage.”

This time, Cemil did react. A change came over his eyes, something tremendous and wild. Osmund barely moved out of the way in time as the Meskato prince swung out of the saddle, pushing Anaya’s reins into his groom’s hands and walking to the house like a man possessed.

For a moment, all the former prince of Valcrest could do was stare after him, dumbfounded. By the time he remembered the other soldiers, waiting for him to mind their horses, he couldn’t even stammer an apology. In his past experience during his time here, a rider returning from action was eager for one thing: a good lounge in the steam rooms. But instead of glaring a hole into Osmund, every eye was trained on Cemil. They were all just as stunned as he was.

His curiosity unsatisfied, Osmund threw himself into the work, which was easy enough: there was plenty of it to go around.

Nearly fifteen horses needed to be checked over for nicks and scrapes, and scrubbed up for their next outing. One mare had a worn shoe and had to be sent down to the farrier, which was a whole thing, because the irate old man seemed to enjoy wasting the time of whoever dared bother him. By the time someone came to collect Osmund for dinner, he was completely and utterly worn out.  

Diving into the plate of food in front of him, he half-listened to the chatter of the other servants:

“That can’t be right. That’s all the way in Anshan Territory, nothing to do with us in this province.”

“It’s what I’ve heard. Şehzade Bayram can’t be bothered.”

“Farid’s packing his things. I wish he weren’t going.”

“Oh, you like that Sulamese soldier too much, Aylin! Be careful.”

“I am careful! If anyone ought to be careful, it’s our footman here, with that girl from the imperial mages. Don’t you have a wife at home?”

“Hey!”

“This much haste is unlike Şehzade Cemil. It must be serious.”

Osmund’s ears finally pricked up. He’d been busy shoving chunks of bread in his mouth. “Humph?” he grunted, forgetting to swallow.

“They’re saying our prince is taking a mounted force southeast the day after next, a hundred men or more,” one of the older women recounted to him, clearly enjoying the chance to repeat the day’s gossip anew. “The soldiers are telling everyone who will listen. It’ll be quiet at the house for a while.”

“What?!” The plate of food was now fully forgotten. “Where are they going? Why?” A hundred soldiers was no small thing for a provincial governor. That was the sort of thing that might even be called a campaign.

“Little village called Kaliany, but who knows why,” one of the men everyone called uncle grumbled. “The şehzade got an important message, they say. Must be trouble in the new territories.”

“Magical creatures again, I bet.”

“Or rebels.”

The others kept speculating amongst themselves, but Osmund’s mind had already ground to a halt. “I-I saw the letter. I think.” There was immediate interest in his admission.

“And?!”

“Who was it from?!”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t stamped,” he rushed to explain. “A pigeon arrived. It had a unique pattern, red and grey all over. As soon as I described it, Cemil ran off without another word to see the note it was carrying.”

Curiously, he saw them all react to this much the same as Cemil had. Their mouths dipped open in amazement. “You know the bird I’m talking about?” he pressed.

The other servants all looked at each other. Naturally it wasn’t the bird itself they were interested in, but still, it was mystifying. The fact, that is, that they all apparently knew who had sent it.

“Do you think it’s true?” one woman asked, locking eyes with another.

“Oh, but it’s been years.”

“What a relief to the şehzade it must be just to know that he’s alive!”

“Who?” he begged, and this time it was Nuray who answered him. Her tone said everything long before she’d gotten all the words out.

“There was a man who lived here at the house before,” she said slowly, cautiously, as if Osmund had a broken wing himself. “He and the şehzade grew up together, back at the imperial palace. They were great friends. Well…they were partners in everything.”

“You are too shy, Nuray,” another woman said. To Osmund she continued, “They were lovers, you see.”

“Lovers,” Osmund repeated, numb. His own voice sounded unnervingly normal to his own ears.   

The servant named Aylin randomly stood up, her face illuminated. “I have a portrait!” she declared as she spun and darted from the room. “Wait here!”

The others were laughing at her maidenly wiles. From their chatter, Osmund gathered that the man—the lover, the partner in everything—had kindly allowed Aylin to sketch him. She apparently wished to be a painter on manuscripts, but settled for collecting likenesses of beautiful men. She returned to Osmund and thrust out the ink-covered paper. “Everyone says it captures his spirit,” she said proudly.

The Meskato illustration style focused much less on the accuracy of facial details, so there was little to be gained except that the man had short, curly black hair. But the eyes, Osmund thought. Even with so little to go on, he was sure he could pick this man—a stranger—out of a crowd of people. They struck him as the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

“I don’t know anyone else who could convince our prince to drop everything and run off to the east with a hundred soldiers.” The first woman sighed, but it was a maiden’s sigh, and there was wistfulness giving her lined face the appearance of a bright-eyed youth. “Everyone who saw them knew exactly what to call it. They all used that word beloved of the poets. Soulmates.”