“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 ofhisport 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 wasalwaysaround.
“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 neededto 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 ofhispeople 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 ofthe 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, bloodyapologizedto 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 Dukeand Duchess of Stormhill faring? I hoped to see them here this year.”
