Page 66 of The Reluctant Queen
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 whohe 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 itwas, in fact, the way things wereofficiallydone.
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 ofherbeing 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 abite 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 logicallyirresponsible 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.
