Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Magic never seems the right word. In Cyngaleg, they call it
weaving.
Weavers.
Gwehydd.
For they weave the natural world along its course as adepts of
looms draw patterns from the air. Those I have met have a beautiful,
symbiotic relationship with the world. They are tenders, and menders,
able to heal the soil and sometimes even its people.
I truly believe we have a great deal to learn from them, and a
great deal that could be gained from a unity with these rare, caring
peoples.
Personal writings of Adair Arden,
then-future First King of Khaim
SIXTEEN
The rain held off long enough for Princess Aldreda to order them all into the gardens. It only made sense: they had to pretend to the rest of the court that everything was normal.
So Meilyr found himself on Prince Osian’s arm, Edeva holding his hand, dragging them along aisles of colourful opening buds: camelias and choisya, euphorbia and alliums, the first spring roses.
Thank the gods Aldreda’s daughter had not been at the hunt. No child should have to witness such horror.
After a while, Osian was subtly summoned to speak privately with the Heir Apparent, so Meilyr dropped back, content to breathe in the flora. It was reassuring to touch them: to run dark, waxy leaves through his fingers and feel their comfort. Their health.
‘Meilyr?’
The sound of his given name, in that unmistakeable voice, was so discordant with reality he started.
Haydn. In all the mess, he had almost forgotten. Haydn was here – coming around the end of the carefully tended aisle, radiating half disbelief, half awe. ‘Meilyr. I’d heard the news, but I still didn’t believe it could actually be you.’
‘Haydn… I had no idea you worked here now.’
The tools in Haydn’s gloved hands were forgotten. ‘Well, it has been some time. Gods, I never expected to see you here. It’s… good to see you, though.’ Fondness glimmered in his eyes. ‘Meilyr—’
‘You will address the prince consort as Highness Cadogan,’ Ser Pedr said, appearing at Meilyr’s shoulder. ‘Or not at all. It is improper to do otherwise.’
Haydn smiled, kindly: that smile that could afford him almost anything. ‘Forgive me. Highness Cadogan.’ He dipped a slightly exaggerated bow. ‘I will do my very best to remember it. However, may I humbly request that if His Highness requires any assistance, he should not hesitate to ask.’
Ser Pedr glanced between them.
‘Thank you, Haydn,’ Meilyr said. ‘It is… good to see you too.’
‘It has been too long, Highness. I hope your predicament finds you… well.’
Predicament. That was a word for it.
But Haydn’s coyness shielded concern, and it slipped through Meilyr’s worries like an oar through murky waters. Haydn did not feel angry, or resentful either, and he always wore his heart on his sleeve – even when that meant it could be easily harmed. So unlike Meilyr.
‘Thank you,’ Meilyr said, and meant it.
‘Of course.’
Meilyr swallowed. ‘What are you working on?’
Haydn gestured with a flourish. ‘Might I be permitted to show His Highness?’
Ser Pedr merely stared, so Meilyr followed Haydn further down the aisle of roses. The knight gave them a respectable distance but watched like a bird of prey.
They stopped beside flourishing sunset-cream flowers. ‘Cyngaleg golds,’ Meilyr said. ‘They are beautiful.’
Haydn’s expression was bright and proud. ‘They adore Cyngaleg soil, as all good things do.’
‘They are early, are they not?’
‘Slightly. There’s something in the earth here, I swear. Highness.’ He moved closer, carried by his pruning path, and lowered his voice. ‘It’s so good to see you, Meilyr. Are you all right?’
‘I am. You?’
‘Just a little surprised, I suppose.’ Haydn risked an incredulous glance. ‘The prince?’
Heat rose. Meilyr looked away and reached to trace the edges of a fresh bud. ‘I admit, I am a little surprised myself.’
‘He is excruciatingly handsome,’ Haydn conceded, ‘and no one can know you without falling in love with you.’
More shocked warmth spread through Meilyr’s cheeks. It bled into the rosebud, which began to open before he swiftly withdrew his hand.
‘I heard what happened on the hunt,’ Haydn said.
Meilyr froze, before he remembered everyone else thought it was an accident.
But Haydn’s gaze had darkened. ‘I’d seen him around.
Heard one of the staff say he’d been asking after you.
He had a reputation – if I was the prince, I wouldn’t have let him within a hundred miles of you.
’ Anger bristled. Protective, and familiar.
Haydn always cared with his whole chest. ‘Not a loss, if you ask me.’
‘Haydn,’ Meilyr warned, aware how that sounded.
‘I mean it. Just…’ He quelled some of the fire. ‘Tell me, are you really all right?’
Meilyr turned to the roses and pushed honesty into the quiet words. ‘I am. Please do not concern yourself with me.’
Haydn set the clippers to a rose close to Meilyr’s hand, his desire to bridge the gap palpable. ‘Do not ask for the impossible.’ He clipped the rose, caught it and offered it. ‘Should you ever need anything, Highness.’
Meilyr gingerly took the rose. Haydn dipped a bow and turned away.
The cream-and-grey uniform suited him. It was not quite the rolled-up shirtsleeves and earth-dirtied tunic of Meilyr’s memories, but…
He gave Ser Pedr an apologetic smile, and the knight made no comment.
Nothing had happened. It was not against his marriage oaths to speak to someone he had once known, and he was certainly not about to jeopardise his position at court. Haydn was merely – had always been a flirt, yes, but it was simply good to see him. Something familiar in all the unfamiliarity.
It was also a genuine relief to find he did not seem angry for how things had ended between them. More of a relief than Meilyr had expected.
He looked up to find Harlan trotting to speak with Prince Osian. The steward bowed low, and the prince stepped aside and spoke – looked directly at Meilyr.
Oh, gods—
The prince nodded. Harlan bowed out and marched towards him.
Had they seen him with Haydn?
‘Highness Cadogan.’ Harlan caught his elbow and turned him without slowing their stride, moving further from the others.
Meilyr’s panic was too tangled to protest. He stumbled like a lamb to slaughter.
Concealed beyond a large archway, Harlan halted and twisted Meilyr to face them, expression severe. ‘Can you dance?’
‘I… What?’
‘Can you dance? Court dances?’ They made a stiff show with their arms, as though miming might help. ‘Can you dance any court dances?’
Meilyr’s body spluttered out a laugh. ‘I – no, not really. Festival dances are the only—’
‘Gods preserve us.’ Harlan grabbed his arm and dragged him off again. ‘What was His Majesty thinking? Far be it for me to question him, but he was not thinking, and now here I am, picking up the pieces as usual.’
They continued expostulating as they escorted Meilyr through the inner bailey and inside to what was probably a small ballroom but could have housed the entirety of the apothecary’s ground floor, with space to spare.
The table and chairs had been cleared against the wall, where high windows cross-hatched the floor in gold.
Harlan ushered Ser Pedr inside and closed the door, then tugged Meilyr to the centre of the space.
‘Now,’ they said. ‘All you have to do is follow. The prince will lead.’ They moved Meilyr’s hands and feet as if he were a doll, then stepped into a mirrored position before him.
‘This is the opening stance for the most basic court dances – which, gods willing, you will be able to at least respond to by the end of this. Now, you make contact at the wrist.’
‘Forgive me, when is this for? I did not think—’
‘You did not think you would have to dance? At court?’
Meilyr had honestly not given it much thought.
Harlan exhaled primly. ‘A perfect pair, you two. You will be expected to dance in two nights, at the banquet celebrating the next stage of the coronation.’
Oh, dreigiau and all the gods—
‘I will suggest to His Majesty that only he be permitted to dance with you, but let me put it this way – neither of us are leaving this room until I am certain you will not embarrass him. Do you understand?’
It was an oath Harlan swore with all the severity of the blood promise with Prince Osian.
‘Yes,’ Meilyr said, stomping down nausea. ‘I do.’
Dance lessons took up the majority of that day and the next. Meilyr
was not hauled off to a cell, though the threat of it hounded him
constantly. He felt about as functional as damp straw as the evening of
the banquet descended and he found himself in another new set of clothes
– the finest yet – foisted onto the prince’s arm and thrust into the
heaving Throne Room.
It was huge: aisled rows of exquisitely carved stone pillars climbing to an intricate vaulted ceiling, strewn with Khaimlic banners and Osian’s golds and blues specifically: his oak-leaf crest interspersed with the White Dragon.
The western wall was made entirely of archways, opening onto balconies and terraces and the gardens, providing snatches of blessed fresh air.
At the far end, a marble dais rose to a tall, singular white throne.
The throne of the Prince of Cyngalon. Osian’s throne.
Guests had assembled on either side of the central aisle, and as he and the prince entered, the space erupted. Applause and cheering, shouts and bowing. Meilyr involuntarily gripped Osian’s arm, and the prince covered his hand with his own.
It helped Meilyr make it to the dais beside him, where they turned to face the hall as the Master of Ceremonies had instructed.
There, Meilyr dipped his head in supplication, glad to not have to risk catching the eyes that were not glad of his presence.
Eyes that questioned it, doubted or suspected him.
This was certainly not the statement Osian had hoped to make by marrying him. Did the prince regret it?