Chapter 6
SIX
So much
has faded into the west.
With Khaim came
the ebbing of the Old World,
the dissonance of a land bereft
of the small magics
once natural as breath.
Blood in the Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year Slaughter,
H. M
SIX
Meilyr awoke with a start to a leaden morning sky, the secret in his blood rearing against danger.
The fox and the forest receded, dissipating like smoke into the hangings of the bed, the walls beyond.
Agony beat through him. He wiped his eyes roughly, and his hands came away damp. That was the past, not the present. Only a memory. He pushed his nails into his palms to ground himself and exhaled slowly.
That was the past.
After a while, he reluctantly got up.
If only there was something for him to do.
He flexed his hands uselessly. It was still very early, but he always rose before dawn, avoided every creaking floorboard on the landing and stairs, slipped down into the apothecary proper and got to work without waking Celyn.
There was always so much to be done – tisanes to boil, dried roots to crush, ointments to strain.
The work was soothing and methodical; the heavy scents and his connection to each plant made it seamless to lose himself somewhere far away. Work that gave him focus, and purpose.
Most of his patrons he had known for years, some since he had still been apprenticed to Lowri, Celyn’s aunt. The apothecary was open from dawn until dusk, rain or snow, and he treasured even the grumpier regulars.
His life had been a gift. One hard-won, through the sacrifice of others.
Would he ever get it back…?
He splashed and rubbed his sore face with the water from the basin and willed forth clarity. One day at a time: his headache had mostly ebbed, he had survived the night, and Celyn hopefully had too. They could make it through today.
The world beyond the windows was so utterly Cyngalon it sharpened the already present lump in his throat.
It had rained, and the rolling hills were vibrant green; dark forests melted into valleys and cross-hatched spring fields.
Closer, the walled town of Eascild bubbled, as did the keep.
He could hear it growling like a beast as it stirred beneath his feet, long awake, having slept less than him.
There was a thumping at the door. He startled and went, expecting the handle to bite his hand off.
It almost did. A stream of staff bustled in, helming breakfast: porridge, fruits, nuts, sweet and savoury pastries and tarts from Khaim, Cyngalon and further still.
‘His Majesty has said you may take breakfast here whilst we begin.’ Harlan was pristine, and very much awake. They supervised as he took several bites of porridge, then had him tugged out of his sleep-clothes.
Time shuddered into a discordant flurry. He was doused and scrubbed and robed, made to stand at the centre of the room whilst two tailors took every possible measurement and checked them twice, before he was dropped into the chair by the dressing table.
Amongst all the noise, his strained senses clung to the subtle accents of one or two of the staff. Most were Khaimfolc, but not all.
Some Cyngaleg had, over the years, found work in the castle.
Times were difficult, and coin was coin, so he had never begrudged the idea.
It was said some of mixed blood had even inherited lower-level positions at court, and clearly others had chosen to become crownsworn – even knights.
The very notion had left Celyn galled, but Meilyr was glad to find something familiar in the mess.
What must they think of him?
A myriad of conversations and choices happened around him.
He allowed himself to be tugged into clothes, another folly of fabric, with tuts from Harlan.
‘He needs feeding up, but at least he’s nice to look at.
Put him in that, the darker one. Hand me the pins.
’ The steward worked as well as giving orders, standing at the centre of the whirlwind without flinching.
‘These will do for now,’ they said at last. ‘Make sure he has another three sets prepared, along with one in the whites with His Majesty’s colours.
Another in this, and hunting clothes. Those boots, not these – Deryn, finish him off. ’
Meilyr was dropped into the chair once more.
Deryn, whose accent was almost indistinguishable even as her name gave her away, combed and dressed his hair.
‘At least you already have it long,’ someone commented.
‘And it’s lovely and thick,’ Deryn said. Her pale round face was splattered with freckles, and she smiled nervously at him in the mirror before dropping her gaze. Her hands were certain and firm.
She had woven his braids yesterday.
Harlan brandished a small notebook and stood behind his shoulder. ‘First, where were you born?’
‘Is… that important?’
A faraway glance. ‘Yes. You are prince consort, and yet a complete mystery. The Royal House of Arden-Draca needs to at least pretend we know something about you, so, where were you born?’
Meilyr swallowed. ‘Near Gorsedd Arian.’
A lie. He had been born near Caer Idris, just beyond the western borders of the Principality, in the unclaimed lands known to Khaim as the Green Wastes. He was habitually used to the falsehood, but kept his hands folded so as not to fidget.
Harlan wrote a short, disinterested note. ‘Where were you educated?’
The questions rattled on: What had his occupation been?
Where did his family hail from? What had their occupations been?
The information he offered referred to his adoptive family: generations of apothecaries, grown and raised between Gorsedd Arian, to the west, and what had been Caer Tarian – now Eascild.
He had been with them since he was seven, though he told Harlan it was longer; his education had been at their hands, save additional Khaimlic-language schooling from tutors in his teenage years.
Idwal – Celyn’s father, Meilyr’s adoptive father – had wanted both boys to pursue any path they wanted, undaunted by the words of the elite.
Surely, he had never imagined it would serve Meilyr like this.
Talking about the past stirred that old disquiet, nudged the already-raw, buried arrowhead.
‘Normally,’ Harlan said, ‘we would know all this as soon as a member of the royal family so much as glanced at the idea of courting someone, but…’ They left it in the air, turning to one of the tailors.
‘Rohese, another one – His Majesty’s dark cobalt tunic, with the oak embroidery. An exact match, or I do not want it.’
Meilyr’s face was readied next, his eyes lined in black, before he was fastened into new clothes: a long pale under-tunic skirting almost to his ankles and a form-fitting, long-sleeved over-tunic of incredibly fine deep-blue silk, embroidered in gold at the cuffs, hem, throat and shoulders.
It draped wonderfully but remained light: genuine silk once more, come to Khaim through trade along the Spine Road, no doubt.
It must have been worth a maddening fortune, fastened down the front with tiny pearlescent buttons – were they actually pearls? – with a wide belt, heaved tight.
‘I still cannot believe His Majesty is married,’ another of the staff, Parr, mused fondly as he dressed Meilyr. ‘And not to one of those awful, sycophantic Marcher heirs at the harvest ball last year. You’ll be the envy of the entire court, and most of us besides.’
‘At least your accent is barely there,’ Harlan said, as though they had not heard, ‘and your diction is flawless. I must corner His Majesty to work out the rest of your legend, but this is enough for now.’
‘My legend?’ Meilyr asked.
‘Yes. Royal consorts do not usually come from the populace, especially not… Well, for the court to accept it, certain details may need to be flavoured. You cannot simply be some commoner from the valleys; there has to be more to it, even if it is not exactly a lie. This union must stand up to foreign scrutiny as well, not that you need to know any of this.’ They seemed surprised they had told him so much, and cleared their throat.
‘You can be worked with – your situation can be worked with. Honestly, of all the ways for His Majesty to act out… These earrings.’ They gestured.
‘His Majesty selected them specifically.’
The gems woven into a teardrop setting caught the sun brilliantly. They could be nothing else: fire amber. Not amber at all but an incredibly rare form of emerald, the stone shone with flecks and striations between dark green and fierce orange.
‘They match your eyes,’ Deryn told him, her own a little wide.
There was a story about the creation of the gems, giving rise to their name in Cyngaleg. The closest translation in Khaimlic was dragon’s heart-breath.
The prince had chosen these for him…?
Before he could wrap his mind around that, Deryn went to remove the single other ring he wore – and he snatched his hand back.
The room stilled.
He lowered his hand, clenched bone-tight. ‘Forgive me. Might I be permitted to wear this? Or at least keep it. If His Majesty might be beseeched…’
All eyes turned to Harlan.
Harlan’s incredulity shifted to consideration. They came and raised Meilyr’s fingers, inspecting. ‘It is quite something. Cyngaleg gold. Yes, that should be fine.’ They let go of his hand and continued directing.
He should not have made any fuss, but had moved without thinking: Not that, his foolish and sentimental heart had begged. Please, not that.
It was one of only two things he had left of his parents. The other was stowed in the bedchamber.
‘You will be assigned staff,’ Harlan said. ‘Deryn, as your primary. Maitane and Parr, when they are rotated from attending His Majesty.’
All three of them beamed excitedly to each other, and to him.
‘As for the rest of the day—’
There was a knock on the door. It was one of the prince’s knights, Ser Pedr.
Pedr. Another Cyngaleg name in the confusion of Eascild.