Chapter 11 #2
‘It is subtle enough.’ The prince tore his gaze from Meilyr’s to the place where his hand still rested on his arm.
Meilyr dropped the touch, and Prince Osian did the same. ‘Yes,’ the prince affirmed, ‘I believe that could work. Should there be a different signal, for anything that goes too far?’
Meilyr made himself return to the armchair, too conscious of his hands.
The prince folded himself onto the divan and flexed his fingers as though to loosen an ache.
‘Majesty,’ Meilyr began, ‘please assume that ordinary touch is fine. I expected more – not expected but assumed there would be more. You… do not really need to ask, but you can, if you need to. If it will make you more comfortable.’
The prince’s mouth curled in sardonic concern. ‘I started this conversation for your comfort, yet I feel you are being more attentive to my own.’
Perhaps that was true. ‘My comfort is less important than the necessity of the lie.’ For the prince’s ends, and for Celyn’s sake.
But Prince Osian’s face fell, and it was the closest to displeased Meilyr had seen him. Something ached through the bond as the prince said, ‘I do not wish for that to be the case. I would rather find a balance, if we can.’
Meilyr fidgeted, picked up his tea. ‘In that case, we can tap four times? If something is too much.’
‘Very well.’
The window boxes remained settled, ignoring Meilyr’s thudding heart. He forced himself to breathe slowly through his noise, sipping his tea as the prince did the same. Had Prince Osian needed something else from him? What mistake had he made to bring this tension into the air?
But as he tested towards their bond, the prince only seemed distracted. Troubled, not angry or aggrieved. He had been nothing but genuine through their talk, and perhaps it was only the weight of the lie that plagued him, or his own discomfort at having to pretend.
Meilyr had risen to refill the prince’s tea before he caught himself, those blue eyes refocusing in his, brimming with surprise. ‘Thank you,’ Prince Osian said.
‘Of course, Majesty.’ Meilyr sent another glance at the plants as he returned the kettle, then let his gaze slide to the shelves upon shelves of books.
‘You are welcome to them,’ the prince said, ‘if you would like something to read.’
Meilyr hesitated. ‘Thank you, Majesty. It is quite a collection.’
‘I believe Harlan showed you the castle reading rooms, though they are still in the process of being filled. Our Keeper of Books is rather determined, as you may have noticed.’
Faina. Meilyr smiled a little. ‘I had noticed, yes.’
The man on the divan, wavy fair hair drawn back from his temples by the small braids of their union, regarded him with undivided attention.
Yet again that night Meilyr reached instinctively towards him with his senses, and the threaded bond unfurled readily.
The prince was utterly commanding: power burned, but he held it tempered.
His calm was not a facade, but a storm broiled beneath the waves.
Meilyr could not truly put his finger on him, could not make sense of him.
Celyn’s warnings stirred through the thicket of his mind. Prince Osian was dangerous, even just from the power of his birthright. The flourishing window boxes had kept Meilyr’s secret for now, but he still had to be careful, even with their woven connection.
He dragged himself from the shadows of memory and said, ‘May I peruse the books, Majesty?’
‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘They are yours now, as much as mine.’
Oh. No, that was not right. Even with the rings on their fingers, with their braids and their oaths, this was all still a lie.
Meilyr went to the shelves; more books had been unpacked since his last visit, and the titles washed into one another. Breathe, he reminded himself. Choose a damn book.
There was an eclectic mix: histories and philosophies, bestiaries, scriptures and texts on natural phenomena, not only from Khaim.
Some focused upon places he had only heard of in relation to far-off trade routes, and he followed the edges of the shelves to see how far they might lead.
‘These…’ He remembered himself, but Prince Osian waited, open and interested.
Meilyr went on, ‘Some of these are very old, Majesty.’
‘And some very well travelled. They are but a small measure of the collections within Khaim’s libraries and institutions, but you are welcome to them.’
Khaim. The city itself, across the Splintered Sea and beyond miles and miles of land. The seat of power that made decisions over every single Cyngaleg life.
Meilyr had never wished to see it, but now wondered what its libraries looked like.
Cyngalon had once had three grand libraries, before Khaim had burned them all.
Another ache: a grief older than he was, without a name. It turned over inside his chest and curled up once more.
His hand came to rest near a rough-edged tome, the letters of the slightly mottled green spine a faded gold. He glanced, and the prince gestured readily. ‘Please.’
The book was heavy. Its wonderful scent filled him, bringing memories of home. He returned with it to the armchair and showed and recited the cover: ‘Unusual Flora of Western Raak: A Textbook of Botany.’
‘An interesting choice.’
Meilyr placed it carefully on his lap. ‘I tend – I tended my family’s apothecary. A knowledge of plants has always served me well.’
In so many ways.
Something entered the prince’s expression. He covered it by adjusting his seat, recrossing his long legs. ‘It was my mother’s book. Do you alone tend the apothecary, or do you have assistance from others in your family?’
Meilyr should have let that go, but could not. ‘I did not realise. I can choose another?’
‘No, no. I have simply not thought of it in some time.’
Meilyr’s hands hesitated on the cover. ‘If you are certain?’
‘Very much so. Please, it will be good to see it read again.’
Meilyr tentatively opened the book. Between his fingers spread a beautiful botanical inventory, structured by type and species, with exquisitely detailed sketches and even some presses of each plant. It was a book crafted from passion, and love.
‘Your apothecary,’ the prince said carefully. ‘Has it been in your family long?’
‘Yes,’ Meilyr replied slowly. ‘It was in my foster-aunt’s care before it came to me, and before that it was her father’s, and his mother’s before.’
‘A family business. Your bond-brother… You have no other siblings?’
‘None, Majesty. Celyn… focused upon other interests, whilst I was very glad to be apprenticed early. I owe my family a great deal, and I love the work…’
Too much. He was sharing too much.
Even more startling, it felt easy. The prince’s presence waited to be breathed into, and he had begun to empty his lungs. ‘Forgive me,’ he said again.
‘No, I wished to hear of it. Is there someone who could care for the apothecary in your absence?’
The question re-muddled his mind. ‘I beg your pardon, Majesty?’
‘Did you have an assistant, or is there another who could take care of your patients in your absence?’
Heulwen was the obvious choice, but was it safe to implicate her in whatever this was? ‘I had some assistance,’ he said.
But he would be gone for months. More, if the marriage needed to stand beyond the coronation – longer still if the prince was lying.
If all went to plan, in less than six months Osian would be crowned Prince of Cyngalon fully, and once the aftermath had settled, they would amicably annul their union and go their separate ways.
Between now and then stood a frankly ridiculous schedule of celebrations, religious ceremonies and reasons to be seen on each other’s arm.
It was also a very long time to be away from the people who needed him.
‘For the present,’ the prince said, ‘there are those who will suffer without you?’
Yes. It was not the first he had thought on them. ‘I believe so.’
The prince nodded. ‘If there is a means through which we can arrange the apothecary be tended, I would see it done. If there are tasks you feel only you can complete, ask for what you need and it will be provided, if possible.’
The words took a beat to unscramble. ‘Majesty…?’
‘It may assist the process if you can provide lists, for myself and any possible assistant. Will you require equipment from the apothecary?’
He meant every improbable word. At least, it felt like he did.
Could he be telling the truth? ‘Majesty, this is – most generous, thank you.’
Prince Osian set down his cup and rose.
Meilyr remained flabbergasted, even as papers and inks were laid out and the process began. He could almost hear Celyn’s voice: This is a trap. He is Khaimlic.
But what would be the reason for this particular trap? And if Meilyr could help the people he cared for, perhaps it was worth the risk. He found himself being honest with what he needed, and for whom.
‘Perhaps if you write the missive itself,’ the prince said, ‘it will be received more kindly. It could then be passed to your brother, to be delivered?’
‘Thank you, Majesty.’
They changed positions so Meilyr could sit at the grand desk, slipping past one another in the dimming candlelight.
The prince remained behind him, unobtrusive but present.
The desk was beautifully ornate, legs and edges carved with trees and beasts.
Meilyr picked up Prince Osian’s exquisite quill and allowed his fingertips to brush the thick, pleasant paper.
A breath from the lungs of trees far, far away.
He focused and penned a short missive to Heulwen. Hopefully it would be enough; hopefully Celyn would not give her too much additional cause to worry.
‘Thank you,’ he said when it was done.
The prince secured the missive with his royal seal in pale gold wax: the head of Khaim’s White Dragon in profile, before a crescent of oak leaves.
His body was close as he leaned forward, and Meilyr’s wine-dulled senses honed to fiercely focused awareness.
Those blue eyes met his, and he added a very belated, ‘Majesty.’
‘There is no need for the formality,’ Prince Osian said quietly, ‘unless it makes you more comfortable. Is there anything else you would like given to your brother?’
Meilyr hesitated.
‘I will have Pedr deliver this by hand, and it will not be tampered with in any way.’
The truth. Though, it had been what Meilyr could possibly say to Celyn that had given him pause. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I will write to him as well.’
Prince Osian drifted pointedly to the divan, giving Meilyr space to write what he needed.
But even if the prince and Ser Pedr were to be trusted, Meilyr had to imagine every word would be read by someone who meant Celyn or Heulwen or the prince harm.
As with Heulwen’s letter, he was unspecific, asking Celyn to remember what Meilyr had asked him to swear, and to think of Heulwen and the apothecary if Meilyr’s absence made him fret.
He sat back when it was done, and the prince carefully returned.
‘I will make certain these are seen to first thing in the morning.’
But why? The question pressed against Meilyr’s tongue, and he opened his mouth.
‘It is late,’ the prince continued. ‘You are free to retire for the night, unless there is something we have missed?’
Meilyr swallowed. ‘Thank you. I do not believe there is.’
‘Very well.’ Prince Osian moved from the desk, allowing Meilyr to rise.
By the time he reached the door, the prince was there to meet him, with the botany book. ‘You are free to take it with you.’
‘Are you certain, Majesty?’ The formality slipped back in; he could not help it.
‘I am,’ the prince replied. He set the book into Meilyr’s hands and turned for the door.
‘Majesty.’
Prince Osian stopped.
Meilyr went to him and offered back the book. ‘Perhaps it could stay here, for another night?’
Their fingers brushed, the slight raise of the healing cut stark in the base of the prince’s thumb.
Meilyr’s stung slightly.
‘As you wish,’ the prince said.