Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Yew.
Symbolic of death and immortality.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
THIRTEEN
The feast tables in the main tent overflowed with food. Atop the central one, the prize of the day: Prince Osian’s buck, prepared and readied to be picked clean.
A Cyngaleg stag slaughtered for the pleasure of Khaim’s nobility. For no more than sport, to be devoured without the need for food.
The irony was not lost on Meilyr. He could not help glancing at its glassy, sightless eyes.
Oblivious, raucous frivolity stifled the air. Many sat in the arms of lovers or would-be lovers, shouting over games of talon beside their plates, or mingled and clapped shoulders and thighs of friends and brethren. Music and drums and song shivered, the braziers biting back the chill of the night.
Prince Osian had been the centre of much attention. His consort sat against him, demure and quiet, losing track of how many times they refilled his cup.
Celyn would hate this. Would be furious with Meilyr, simply sitting here.
‘Is there something else you would prefer?’ the prince asked quietly, in a break from other talk.
Meilyr’s appetite was a lost cause. He could not clear the metallic taste of death from his mouth and had nursed the bread and carrots on his plate for bells. The idea of attempting meat made his insides lurch.
‘Please do not concern yourself, My Prince.’
Prince Osian’s expression was that of concern. It levelled as his sister, on his other side – tangled up with Lady Faina in a way that mirrored the prince and Meilyr – jabbed him in the arm to point across the tent.
A thread of tension remained strung through the prince; a muscle worked in his jaw near constantly.
It had been like that since the hunt. His shoulders, too: subtle, only noticeable because the two of them were pressed against each other.
Only noticeable because the damn bond seemed to want to make it Meilyr’s problem as well.
Had something happened? Was it the hunt itself?
Meilyr told himself it did not matter and drank more wine.
But as the night drew on, that damn muscle – that damn jaw, and that damn thread between them – remained so tight. Meilyr could not stop noticing it. Surely any instant the rest of the tent would hear as it snapped.
Oh, let it. The prince’s troubles were his own.
He looked away, and met the waiting gaze of Lord Leighton.
Really?
Even as he averted his eyes, disgust and fear shoved aside everything else.
Being all over Prince Osian was one thing; for a start, the prince had never looked at him as though he was a meal, possessing as little autonomy as the deer on their plates.
Lord Leighton’s attention, the places his mind travelled, were awful even to catch the edges of.
It was one of the worst kinds of instinct. The primordial bite of danger, the vulnerable prey animal behind the niceties and costumes of humanity scenting the creature that meant them harm. Meilyr was no stranger to it, or the panic rising through his blood: Danger. Run.
But he could not run. Unlike other prey animals, he was expected to stay, and smile, and be polite.
Gods, he had to make this stop.
Prince Osian’s hand was clenched on his own thigh, knuckles white-ridged.
Oh. Oh, no…
There was one way to send Lord Leighton a clear signal. To rid Meilyr’s flesh of his uninvited gaze.
Oh, to the hells with it.
He slid his hand over the prince’s and leaned in more against him. Close to his ear, he said, ‘You seem troubled, My Prince. Shall we retire early to bed?’
Prince Osian stiffened.
A surprisingly smug thrill quickened Meilyr’s pulse. If the prince was allowed to make things convincing, so was Meilyr. Let him feel it, and let Lord Leighton see Meilyr’s interests were very much focused elsewhere.
But the prince only missed a beat. He moved an arm around Meilyr’s back and drew him in firmly. His other hand touched Meilyr’s chin – and for an absolutely devastating slam of heartbeats, Meilyr was certain he was going to kiss him.
He did, but only on his temple. ‘Soon,’ the prince said, as his breath ghosted Meilyr’s lips. He kept his arm around him but turned back to his cup and the table.
Meilyr’s heart continued to hammer.
Wine, wine was a good idea. He emptied his cup, hoping to drown.
It was an act. He only had to play the part and cursed himself with a mental lashing.
He should not be feeling anything, not even a bodily reaction.
It was only the proximity. Only how long it had been since someone had touched him like this.
Only the damnable bond, muddling everything.
His cup was refilled swiftly, and he waded in more slowly. All he needed was a little more numbness. A little less thinking, less feeling.
He was so focused on the wine he almost spat it across the table when a familiar drawl cut through all the liquid.
‘Your Majesties.’ Lord Leighton bowed, settling across from the heirs.
If only Demelza had not been at Princess Aldreda’s other side, leaving Meilyr exposed.
‘I trust you are having a most excellent night.’
‘We are, thank you, Lord Leighton.’ Princess Aldreda’s greeting did not quite reach her eyes. ‘I trust you are as well.’
‘I certainly am, Majesty.’ His eyes strayed to Meilyr.
Surely this had passed the point of inappropriateness, even for a Marcher Lord.
‘How are you finding Eascild, Lord Leighton?’ Prince Wystan asked. He was angled to the side, a young courtier on one arm, another feeding him grapes.
‘I am rather impressed. The Principality certainly benefits from its access to the bridge and being built around an already-established Denelands town, if it could be called that. Sanford is not nearly so awe-inspiring, though we do well enough. Actually, Majesty’ – he looked at Prince Osian – ‘I did wish to speak more about the requests you made of my Justice of the Council.’
‘No court business tonight,’ Princess Aldreda said. ‘Only drinking.’
‘What requests?’ Prince Wystan asked.
‘I assume this is what we discussed at dinner last night?’ Kenelm Radnor, being fed grapes by the same courtier, had an easy and disarming sort of smile.
The kind that probably made most people focus more on his mouth than what came out of it.
‘I was about to mention it to Wystan, actually – forgive me, His Majesty.’
Prince Wystan looked caught between embarrassment and disapproval. Apparently, he had been doing some thinking about Kenelm Radnor’s mouth as well.
‘The very same,’ Lord Leighton said.
‘Don’t make me repeat myself,’ Princess Aldreda enunciated.
‘Lord Leighton.’ Prince Osian set down his cup. ‘My sister speaks the right of it, but allow me to put the matter to rest again. The Crown will not interfere with the Marches unless given reason to do so. The documentation and access requested of you is for our peace of mind, nothing more.’
‘Majesty.’ Lord Leighton’s mouth twisted in frustration.
‘You must understand our concerns. The Marches have held the Denelands in the Crown’s name for generations.
We alone have forced back the Green Wastes, and King Uhtric himself saw fit for us to govern as we willed, so govern we have.
Such supervision has never been required of us before. ’
‘Times change, Lord Leighton. But you have always held the Marches under royal writ, so surely there is no problem.’
A twitch, not yet a sneer. ‘Times do change, Majesty, but you have only just arrived. Pray, allow things to work as they always have, and allow these lands to be governed by more seasoned men.’
‘What is this about, Osian?’ Prince Wystan asked.
‘You are all giving me a headache,’ Aldreda warned. But she had subtly sobered, intent and interested.
‘It is about concerns that the Marches will be forced to bend to impractical laws,’ Kenelm Radnor told Prince Wystan.
‘Royal writ does not work in the Marches, you see. Lord Leighton, as Earl of Sanford March, has gained fascinating experience stationed here, and I personally think a great deal could be gained from listening to him.’
‘You are too kind, My Lord. But it is true, we govern as needed. I commend His Majesty greatly for his youthful exuberance, and desire to rise to his title, but…’ Gods damn him, he looked at Meilyr again. ‘Some things are better left to those more experienced. The Marches are well tended, in fact—’
‘Lord Leighton,’ Prince Osian said. ‘Allow me to speak plainly. We have no desire to interfere with Sanford, or any other March, unless we have reason to. Grant access to your documentation and your towns, and if all is well, that will be the end of it. You only have reason for concern if there is reason the Crown should be concerned.’
Lord Leighton scoffed, arrogant. ‘What do you fear you will find, Majesty? Our populace lives comfortably, our exports aid the Crown.’
‘The entirety of your populace?’
‘Those that follow our laws, of course. As is the same in the Principality, and in Khaim. Naturally, there are those who refute progress, but Sanford certainly has the means to defend against unrest.’
‘And is self-defence the reason for Sanford’s growing crownsworn numbers, Lord Leighton?’ Prince Osian asked.
The air left the royal table. Lord Leighton’s expression hardened. ‘Sanford stands in defence of the Crown, Majesty, as it always has.’
‘Yes, but it also stands in defence of its people. All of its people, our people.’
Prince Osian meant it, with a banked fire unlike any Meilyr had felt in him.
Lord Leighton spat an incredulous laugh. ‘Majesty, they are not our people. Some have their uses, yes – you yourself have seen the right to claim one as your own, but beyond that—’
‘That is enough, Lord Leighton.’ Princess Aldreda barely raised her voice, but silence fell throughout the tent. ‘Prince Osian is the kings-sworn ruler of the Denelands, and the Marches fall under his command. His word is law. Let it go.’
For a terrible beat, no one moved.