Chapter 8
EIGHT
There is an ancient power in names.
Once, we marked ourselves by those who came before.
Descended from.
They took our names and bent them,
bowed them to their brittle tongues so even in
our own naming – our final bastion of identity –
we would be forced to live without power.
Without home.
Blood in the Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year Slaughter,
H. M.
EIGHT
Meilyr would have classed himself already ready, but it seemed he was wrong.
An air of intense urgency and yet more new clothes greeted him in his rooms. Again, finely woven silks were tugged flush to his frame, his hair freshly combed and bound, his eyes freshly outlined. Deryn and Parr saw to him, pushing aside his attempts to assist.
Meilyr caught Deryn’s gaze. ‘I do not suppose you have any advice?’
‘I’m afraid not, Highness. The Royal Majesties…’
‘His Majesty Prince Osian has never so much as taken a concubine,’ Harlan stated.
‘Neither has he named a lover, or made any inclination towards any union offered him. The questions his kin will throw your way are likely to make mine seem a light rain to their torrent of arrows. Remember yourself, and your position.’
How could he forget. His position was crumpled at their feet, hoping they merely stepped on him. ‘Thank you,’ he managed tiredly.
Harlan hesitated, then said, ‘You mistake my meaning, Highness Cadogan. You are prince consort. His Majesty chose you, and he is not a man who chooses anything lightly. Be humble, but remember that. And stand up straight; anyone would think you were trying to hide in your collar.’
As the storm of preparation rolled around him, Meilyr turned that new information over in his mind a few times. Filed it away with the scant little else he knew about the prince.
He was trotted from his rooms and down the tower, out into the main courtyard overlooked by the inner bailey. There was already a large gathering of assembled staff, courtiers and crownsworn, which Harlan led him sternly through.
Was Lord Leighton there? Meilyr hoped he would not have to stand close to him.
He was thrust out in front of the group; it was a relief to catch sight of Prince Osian, whose gaze found his instantly. He was resplendent in whites and blues so dark they were almost black, the exact shades Meilyr was dressed in.
Prince consort.
Riders were entering the sprawling north gate. Trumpets peeled and drums beat, white banners streaming, eye-wateringly bright in the shafts of sun. Harlan deposited him at the prince’s shoulder, then melted into the lines of staff.
Meilyr was absolutely not meant for this. Give him his apothecary, a quiet field, anything but this.
At the helm of riders was a warrior clad in silver and white.
Her radiant dark skin was brilliantly offset by the white of her standards, her cloak and the banners behind her, igniting her into incandescence.
Her copper-chestnut horse towered as she approached, and she slid from the saddle with the confidence of a lifelong rider.
Upon her head was a band of gold, a match to Prince Osian’s, resting naturally amidst the falls of her ink-black hair.
Prince Osian stepped forward, and they clasped one another’s shoulders, fierce and fond.
‘Little brother.’ The Heir Apparent of Khaim’s voice was rich and deep. ‘Gods, I actually missed you.’
‘You too, Aldreda.’
‘Yes,’ she hissed in relief. ‘Thank you for not calling me something awfully formal. I’d be very cross, you know.’
‘Naturally, Your Majesty.’
‘Oh, I’ll get you for that later.’ It was a believable threat.
Crowned Princess Aldreda was of a height with her brother, a confident tilt to her sharp chin and the bow of her strong shoulders.
But beyond physical prowess, innate noble bearing and a similar straightness to their noses, they looked little alike.
Different mothers, Meilyr reminded himself. Everyone knew that.
‘But first,’ the Heir Apparent jabbed, ‘I’ll get you for something else – where is he? I had to hear about it on the road like some Denelands farmer! Utterly unacceptable.’
Her eyes landed on Meilyr as Prince Osian stepped aside to introduce him.
Meilyr bowed as low as he could.
‘Well,’ she exhaled. ‘He certainly is pretty, possibly too pretty for you, Osian, but you saw him first. Meilyr Cadogan, was it?’ Her accent was very much Khaimlic, though not as pronounced as Lord Leighton’s. ‘Please, do stand up.’
He straightened.
‘Pretty eyes, too. A consort from the populace, Osian? How very like you to think outside the fold.’ She clapped her brother firmly on the back and swept past. ‘Demelza!’ She and Demelza embraced warmly. ‘Now you I definitely missed, more than him.’
Demelza’s expression was utterly loving. ‘It is not a competition. Welcome to Eascild, Your—’
‘Do not,’ the Heir Apparent warned, with a grin.
‘I’m already sick of the pomp from the ride here, as you can probably tell from the fact I’m bells early.
Wystan may be here by nightfall, if he does not change his mind and ride back home to Father.
Osian, come along, I look forward to hearing all about this entire mess, from both of you.
Come, everyone, enough of the show! I’m absolutely ravenous. ’
Her white cloak brushed the steps of the keep as she ascended, Prince Osian behind. Demelza took Meilyr’s arm firmly and swept him seamlessly into the procession. Leaning subtly towards him, she said, ‘I have you, worry not.’
Meilyr was genuinely thankful for Demelza’s guidance. She saw him
through a frenzied lunch with a lot of people greeting the Heir
Apparent, as she demolished two piled-high plates with both aggression
and, somehow, poise. As the highest-ranking member of court in
attendance, she sat in the central seat atop the dais, Prince Osian
beside her, and Meilyr beside him.
He had assumed Demelza would sit at the Heir Apparent’s other side, but she sat beside Meilyr, offering quiet words of information and assurance.
The reason for this confusing bit of table politics became apparent when the rest of the royal party arrived several bells later.
The heralds trumpeted sharply, and everyone rose.
‘Majesty—’
‘Uncle!’ A child’s jubilant shout cut through the herald’s call as a small form tore – curly-haired, wobbling and reckless – through the central aisle of the hall.
To Meilyr’s surprise, Prince Osian strode around the table and stepped from the dais, catching the child as they careened into his arms, swinging them into the air in one fluid motion.
‘Always the favourite,’ the Heir Apparent said to a round of chuckles as the child in her brother’s arms laughed and chattered in glee.
The absolute devotion in the prince’s eyes as he returned with the child to his seat moved something unexpected in Meilyr’s chest.
‘Did you not miss your mama?’ Princess Aldreda asked as the two sat, Prince Osian adjusting the child onto his knee with practised ease.
‘Mama only went away for a bit,’ the child said reasonably, plucking a piece of carrot from the prince’s plate. ‘Uncle Osian went away for a long time.’
‘My daughter,’ the Heir Apparent told Meilyr, leaning around her child and her brother. ‘Edeva.’
Edeva’s big green eyes fixed Meilyr with the burning focus only children can summon. She had her mother’s dark hair and tanned skin but a small button nose, and those eyes – traits of Aldreda’s consort, perhaps?
Her heart-shaped face glowed. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she stated.
‘Edeva,’ Prince Osian said. ‘This is—’
‘His Majesty Prince Wystan Bastiaan Arden-Draca,’ the herald reattempted. ‘Duke of the Middle Counties.’
The hall’s relaxed air stiffened.
The youngest royal heir was an altogether different creature to Princess Aldreda and Prince Osian.
Somewhat shorter than them, he was paler-skinned than Prince Osian – than Meilyr – his hair the colour of damp wood, artfully curled.
The confident jut of his chin and cheekbones was more that of a petulant child than a regal prince.
He was in his later teenage years, if Meilyr remembered correctly, and carried himself with a self-affirmed air not present in either of his siblings’ effortless presence.
Though Meilyr was rather biased against the Khaimlic royal family in general, he knew instantly that every negative word he had heard about Prince Wystan had been true.
But he bowed as required as Prince Osian’s younger brother approached the dais.
‘I almost expected you all to be out on the hunt already. Osian.’
‘Wystan,’ the prince greeted, imposing regardless of the child perched on his hip. ‘You look well.’
‘I may start to feel it once I’m back home, but not here. Dreary place.’
‘I like it,’ the Heir Apparent said. ‘Much fresher than home, and I hear there are still honest-to-the-gods monsters in the deep woods bordering the Green Wastes. Now that would make for good sport – even you’d agree, Wystan.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Come on, smallest sibling, leave that attitude on the road. Have some food, it’s very good, and you can drink until you feel better.’
The youngest prince went to reply, then spotted Meilyr. ‘Is this him?’
The note of resentment was palpable.
‘Prince Wystan,’ Prince Osian began. Was it Meilyr’s imagination that made the words slightly edged? ‘Allow me to introduce my consort—’
‘Meilyr Cadogan,’ Prince Wystan supplied. It was the harshest pronunciation yet, delivered like a crossbow quarrel. ‘Yes, I heard about him on the road.’
The youngest prince had entered with the captain of the crownsworn, Captain Radnor. No doubt he had heard all about Meilyr.
‘Oh, come and eat, Wystan.’ Princess Aldreda sat with finality and picked up another chunk of bread. ‘We can tease our brother about his rather stunning conquest when we all have full stomachs and a good deal more wine in our blood, not before.’
Prince Wystan rolled his eyes, but sat. The other nobles and courtiers who had entered behind him began to do the same, conversation regrowing.