Chapter 8 #2
Meilyr lowered himself back into his chair.
Demelza touched the back of his arm. ‘You did very well. Remember to breathe.’
He went through the motions and tried to force himself to eat. But his stomach had twisted, senses pinching everything his tongue touched into jarring sharpness. The hall became stifling. His collar was too tight, the silk of his tunic too thick. He could feel every stare, every murmur.
‘Were you born here?’ Edeva’s brilliant green eyes tugged him in.
‘Edeva,’ Prince Osian said softly, ‘remember politeness.’
She nodded thoughtfully, staring at Meilyr, a thick crust of bread in her hands.
‘I was,’ he managed, hurriedly re-stringing himself. ‘I was born in the Denelands, yes.’ It was safest to use the common Khaimlic name, though it stung as always.
‘Your eyes are very pretty,’ Edeva told him.
‘So are yours.’ Painfully like his mother’s. ‘Is this your first time here?’
She nodded enthusiastically, hair bobbing.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes! It’s all green. I like green, and Uncle Osian’s here, and I like this castle – it’s scary.’
Meilyr’s smile came easier. He could feel the prince’s gaze on him more acutely than Edeva’s. ‘It is a little scary,’ he admitted. ‘They say the old castle here was built upon the bones of a giant.’
Her face lit up in awe. ‘A giant?’
‘Yes. That was a very long time ago, though. I imagine there are still lots of fun places to run around, and the gardens are very big.’
She was utterly enamoured. ‘Will you show me?’
He opened his mouth to say, Of course, but the words caught.
‘Edeva,’ Prince Osian said. ‘There is apple tart and custard. Would you like some?’
‘Yes, please.’ She slid from his knee and ran eagerly to the waiting hands of the attendant who had brought her into the hall.
Meilyr’s plate blurred. This was the Khaimlic royal family. Playing the part was growing increasingly difficult.
Wine would help. He downed his glass, winced at the bitter bite and the images that came with it, and set his hands firmly in his lap, bowing into himself beneath the weight of the crowded hall like a sapling under snow.
Prince Osian leaned in, touching the arm of Meilyr’s chair. His shoulder covered part of the room beyond, grounding Meilyr’s mind. ‘Do you need some air?’
He was quiet and steady, incredibly present through their bond. Incredibly close. To anyone else in the hall, it would look…
Like lovers, his mind supplied.
Lovers. He had never been very good at that, even in the short time he had tried. But he could pretend. That was all they wanted from him.
Taking a breath, he firmed himself with perilous, alcohol-aided abandon on the certainty of Prince Osian’s presence, touched his arm and leaned closer. ‘I am all right, thank you, Majesty.’ It was barely more than a whisper, nearly against the prince’s jaw.
Prince Osian did not move. Even quieter than before, he said, ‘Are you certain?’
The depth of his voice stirred something not entirely unpleasant. Meilyr shoved it aside – then snatched at the ends of it. Play the part.
Oh, to the hells with it.
Meilyr pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the prince’s jaw. Just enough to look like something to anyone who would be looking, and they were looking.
The prince’s well-trimmed stubble was slightly prickly. The scent of his skin was one of warmth and salt and the barest breath of smoky incense. ‘I am fine, My Prince. Return your attentions to your family. I will be here.’
The prince had gone very still. Had Meilyr crossed a line? They had not fully discussed what their relationship would look like, but—
Prince Osian leaned back, drawing Meilyr’s hand to his lips. Overtly, and letting his gaze linger, he kissed the back of his knuckles.
Meilyr’s heart stumbled. The prince let him go, returning to a more proper seated position and the words of the Heir Apparent, who snatched him over to whisper excitedly in his ear.
People had definitely seen that.
Good. Let them believe it was real.
Demelza waited until he glanced over. ‘You have some colour in your cheeks now, at least.’
He felt the flush increase. ‘Thank you for your guidance today, Highness.’
‘You have nothing to thank me for. I liked you at once, as undoubtedly many do. You have a good heart; it’s there in your eyes.
Such a thing…’ She looked across the hall, then picked at her plate.
‘Such a thing is rare, here, and rarer still is the keeping of it. I know this will be a difficult change, but do not forget who you were, outside these walls.’ Something kind and a little pained entered her expression.
‘Here,’ she said, carving him a thick slice of pie from her plate.
‘Mushroom and leek. I have it made specially – meat sometimes troubles my digestion.’
It was delicious, Cyngaleg in both feeling and taste. He managed several uncomplicated mouthfuls.
‘It is all right if you do not take my word for this,’ Demelza said, ‘but I all but raised Osian, and Aldreda, from their first decade onwards. He is a good man, even if sometimes he has to hide it. Being a good man and a good prince rarely go hand-in-hand.’
She was the king’s consort. Not yet his queen, of which there had been three. How had she come to be on his arm? She clearly and dearly cared for Prince Osian and the Heir Apparent, but there was something strained in her.
He looked across the assembled nobles, courtiers and others. Most remained in heavy conversation, or heavy drinking, content with only occasional glances at the dais.
Except for Lord Leighton, who stared at him despite being in deep conversation with a newly arrived young noble. The newcomer was objectively rather handsome but looked too much like a younger, dandier version of Captain Radnor, who had met them with a surprisingly affectionate embrace.
Catching Meilyr’s gaze, Lord Leighton’s leer increased.
Meilyr looked away. Took another drag of wine.
‘He is good to look at, I’ll grant you. But consort, Osian?’
Prince Wystan spoke rather loudly from his sister’s other side, voice thick from drink.
‘Could you not simply have bedded him and been done with it? I know you’re the Prince of Cyngalon, but just name him a concubine if you want no one else to have him.
Do you know the situation we’re in now? My father will be absolutely livid if you’ve married a useless match.
Honestly, you spend a few weeks in this backwater place, and what? Consort?’
‘You’re only jealous,’ Princess Aldreda said with a tired, amused edge. ‘You wish our father had given you the Denelands, so you could roll about with all the pretty daffodils you wanted.’
Prince Wystan scoffed. ‘Jealous? Of this bog?’
‘You practically told me so yourself on the road, with all the complaining you did about how you would run things. So, yes, jealous. And you’re going to dip your sleeve in my stew if you keep leaning over me like that, so sit back and act like a prince.’
‘Fine.’ Prince Wystan sat back. ‘But you know how bad this looks, given everything else. The Denelands only go to the second-born heir because of that stupid law to protect the firstborn from being slaughtered in the night by Deneland peasants. You’re supposed to bring the Marches to heel, Osian, and prevent an uprising, make sure the populace knows they’re quashed, not snatch one up because you want to get your co—’
‘Wystan.’ Prince Osian’s voice was unflinchingly calm. ‘You are raising your voice. If you take issue with my choice, bring that to me in private. Not here.’
With extreme effort, Prince Wystan exhaled through his nose and took another deep, slow drink. ‘I’m only saying it’s a waste. All of it.’
‘Jealous,’ Princess Aldreda said.
‘I am not—’
‘But I want to get to know him better.’ The Heir Apparent leaned around Osian, catching Meilyr’s gaze.
‘I want to know exactly what enraptured our dear brother so, and snatched him from all the nobles and courtiers who will be weeping alone in their beds each night. Highness Cadogan, have breakfast with us tomorrow – actually, lunch. I plan to have several very good reasons to sleep in.’ She glanced towards one of the high tables too quickly for Meilyr to follow her gaze.
‘Demelza, dearest, you as well. It’s been too long since I saw you. ’
‘And I you, darling.’