Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Fox’s Tears.
Incredibly rare. Fascinating, fussy thing. Named for the old story.
Hurts as much as it heals, which is all hells of a lot.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
NINETEEN
Some days, Meilyr took lessons with Harlan or other tutors: histories and etiquette, dance and politics. These occurred mostly in the castle reading rooms, Ser Pedr always close by.
One such morning, his lessons finished, he slipped around an aisle of historical and religious texts, into Lady Faina’s small office.
The walls and large desk were crammed with books, scrolls and all manner of papers, the scent instantly welcoming.
She had left not long ago, hopefully to lunch, so this was his best chance.
As he set the stoppered bottle down, he caught the word Cyngaleg on one of the tomes on her desk. There were books here not just on history but on folklore as well. Forbidden stories collected by Khaimlic scholars, to be studied and dissected.
Why was Faina reading these…?
Ser Pedr cleared their throat – the only warning before Faina’s voice came from the doorway.
‘Pedr, what…’ She trailed off. ‘Highness, what can I do for you?’
‘Nothing.’ Meilyr stepped back from the desk and gestured to the dark bottle.
‘I wanted to give you this. For your cough. You do not have to drink it, but if you do, it’s best heated first. I take mine with a little honey, half before you sleep, half the next morning.
’ He kept his gaze lowered and moved towards the door, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.
‘My apologies for being presumptuous. Good day, Lady Faina.’
‘Wait.’ She caught his wrist, then took his hand with both of hers.
‘I’m sorry I’ve avoided you – there’s no excuse and I’ve felt awful, and had no idea how to tell you.
I…’ Her lovely dark eyes glimmered. ‘I’m sorry.
I was so terrified I would be accused, but I know you have to be innocent.
Everything you’ve done for everyone – Deryn’s hand, Freda’s ankle, everything.
’ She closed her mouth and cleared her sore throat.
‘I really am sorry. And I understand if you’re more than cross. ’
He was anything but. She was utterly honest: relief spread through the squeeze of her hands. ‘Not at all,’ he told her. ‘I completely understand.’ He really did.
Faina beamed, slightly teary. ‘Oh, thank the gods – could we take lunch together? On the terraces? I missed you.’
He had missed her, too.
Some nights were spent in his own bed, most in the prince’s. He lost
the fight for the divan every time, and wondered when Osian might
develop a crick in his neck.
It was easier, being with him. At least he knew Meilyr had something to hide.
They took breakfast together when they could, talking of the day or of plants, before the prince took his morning reports and Meilyr drifted downstairs to be readied for the day.
Even amidst his lessons and Osian’s councils, each day they walked the gardens arm-in-arm, Pedr and Blythe or Macsen or Garrick ambling at a respectful distance.
Osian would ask about the flora they passed, his eyes bright and touches attentive, even when they were not overtly watched.
They had appearances to uphold, and went even when a spring downpour burst across Eascild, much to Harlan and Deryn’s chagrin, and Aldreda’s amusement.
‘You two are going to rot my teeth.’
They had run to the covered awnings of the upper terrace, where she and Demelza and a handful of nobles and courtiers had already taken shelter.
Meilyr and Osian dripped all over the stones. It was easy to let half-embarrassed laughter bubble up at the state of the prince, shockingly human with his hair plastered to his cheeks.
‘We were just saying how you have to have a proper wedding,’ Aldreda informed them. ‘You didn’t even invite Demelza, Osian? It won’t do. You’ll suffer as I did, and have a ridiculous ceremony in Khaim.’
Murmurs of agreement. Excitement.
Osian hesitated.
Meilyr covered: put his hand on the prince’s chest and leaned in against him. ‘I rather enjoyed our more intimate ceremony.’
His heart pounded at his own forwardness, at all the people watching.
Osian firmed his arm around him and laced their fingers. ‘You know I feel the same,’ he said, seemingly recovered.
Lunch was often taken in the solar, with Demelza and Faina always,
Aldreda and Edeva usually, Wystan occasionally.
Osian came when he could, which was thankfully most of the time.
After the initial panic wore into regularity, it became…
bearable. Sometimes, almost agreeable. Enough easy talk to be wrapped up in, Osian’s closeness on the divan and Demelza’s assuring smiles.
Aldreda’s and Faina’s animated expostulations and allergy to silence.
Edeva’s laughter and fondness for clinging to everyone, including Meilyr.
After lunch, Meilyr often returned to the gardens. Sometimes, he saw Haydn. A snatched conversation about the progress of a herb, with Pedr nearby. A question about a small issue in the leaves of a fruit tree, or a well-concealed tease about how dashing he and the prince looked together.
Other days, especially when it rained, afternoons were whiled away in the solar, reading or playing talon. Muddling through Aldreda’s extensive explanations of the complex board game, before Osian gently took over.
Dinner was almost always taken in the Great Hall: the part of the day most taxing for his nerves.
Lord Gelens was always present, like a rash that refused to heal.
Meilyr had no choice but to master how to smile and clap through entertainment.
The court was fond of music and song, and the hall often broke into dance and raucous singing.
As though one of their nobles had not been murdered by Cyngaleg sorcery.
Well, if they wanted to pretend, that was certainly better than the alternative.
After dinner, Aldreda often corralled them back to the solar: drinks and talk and talon, Osian’s arm across the back of the divan behind him. At first, with pointed distance. Then, when Meilyr settled closer, gentle fingers in his hair, or tracing the embroidery at his shoulder.
Little intimacies to sell the lie.
Osian would excuse them eventually. They would descend the keep and ascend his tower, where a tension would fall from Meilyr’s bones as the door closed behind them.
‘I wonder, might I read more of that book tonight?’
‘Of course,’ the prince said.
It was soothing to feel its weight in his lap, the inked petals under his fingers. They sat in comfortable silence as Osian glanced through a history book. Occasionally his eyes rose, to Meilyr. To his mother’s cherished tome.
Meilyr felt strangely bold. ‘Some of these are truly fascinating.’
The prince focused on him immediately, alert and interested.
‘This one,’ Meilyr said, ‘only grows in the southernmost reaches of Raak.’
‘The blue one, with the veins?’
‘Yes.’
‘My mother…’ A catch. An emotion, glimpsed like a vast dark shape under water. ‘I often asked her to show it to me. I do not remember most of the names, but…’
The history book sat forgotten.
Meilyr followed the gentle pull of the tide: rose and approached the divan. ‘May I?’
Osian gestured beside him, and Meilyr sat carefully. ‘This one,’ he said. ‘Translated, it means midnight spear.’
‘You speak Raakic?’
‘Only enough for the names of plants. May I…?’
‘Please,’ Osian said. A pause. ‘It would mean a great deal, to see the pages again.’
Meilyr swallowed the slight fumble in his chest and turned the page, feeling the prince’s warmth more intensely than the hearth.
Before he left that night, Osian placed two keys into his palm. ‘So you may traverse all three floors, however you wish.’
‘All three…?’
A narrow set of steps in the prince’s parlour led to the Eagle Tower’s flat roof: encircled by a high, crenellated wall, it was dizzying, but lined with plant boxes stuffed with fresh, waiting soil.
‘It is perhaps not the best place to grow anything,’ the prince admitted, watching Meilyr take in the space, the wind whipping through them both. ‘But it is yours.’
‘It is perfect,’ Meilyr told him. ‘Thank you, Majesty. I love it.’
The admission shivered through him, the blood rising in his cheeks.
There was a sharp crack of thunder and the rain returned. They hurried below, but not quite fast enough to escape the downpour.
The flora in the gardens and on the tower-top shifted gradually,
giving Meilyr new ingredients. New remedies, new experiments. He gained
a steady slew of patrons: mostly staff, though some younger
courtiers also approached him. Perhaps they were all encouraged by the
lack of charge, or the ease of having an apothecary onsite.
His hands shook less. Purpose carried him through every demanding dinner, every new set of court dances, every eerily patient glance from Lord Gelens.
They had not made any attempt to touch him since their initial arrival.
Meilyr remained constantly vigilant and on edge, yet it felt as though the king’s adviser was content to wait.
They had likely surmised Osian had told him of their abilities, and certainly knew him for what he was: a bird in a cage, a rabbit in a snare.
Still, he came to know almost every inch of the gardens and found respite in knowing he could be there with good reason.
Days like this where his lessons were complete, the tournament grounds were readied and Osian was busy with councils and duties.
Bathed in birdsong, he plucked more nettle and ever-useful golden henbane, all laid in Haydn’s battered kerchief, the skirt-hems of his tunics brushed dark with damp.
‘Here you are, Highness.’ Kenelm Radnor, too meticulously dressed for a stroll in the rain-threatening grounds, sauntered towards him down the path. He bowed with a flourish and offered his hand. ‘Assuming you are finished with the staff, might I walk with you a while?’
Haydn had helped earlier. Meilyr had sent him to gather firethorn. A slight turn to Kenelm Radnor’s mouth suggested he had observed for some time, and Meilyr fought down a wave of panic.
‘Thank you, Lord Radnor.’ He had no choice but to accept the offer, and let the captain’s son pull him onto the path and take his offered arm, though it left a sour taste in Meilyr’s mouth.
‘An interesting hobby.’ The Marcher heir referred to the bundled kerchief. ‘Poisons?’
Asked like a joke, without being one. Meilyr laughed, from tension and the need to match the tone. ‘Goodness, no. Supplies for a tea.’
‘Oh? Might I try it?’
It was some relief to have Pedr keeping pace behind. To not be fully alone with this man, whose very presence exuded falsehood. ‘I am afraid it might not be ready for some time. Lord Radnor, might I ask why you approached me?’
‘Ah, to the point, I suppose. I actually wished to apologise, for how my father and everyone has treated you of late. The suspicion placed on you is simply dreadful, and I can only imagine how awful it has been.’ He slowed beside a flourishing alder, as though to admire it.
‘What interesting petals. I’ve heard you know a thing or two about plants – what is this one? ’
‘Alder, Lord Radnor.’ Bran’s alder, to be precise. The only alder to truly flower, its namesake was found in a forbidden Cyngaleg story Kenelm Radnor had certainly never heard. Meilyr held the secret close, silent and safe.
‘Please,’ the young lord said, ‘call me Kenelm.’
Meilyr could think of few things worse. ‘My Lord.’ He retrieved his arm under the pretence of adjusting the kerchief. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I am perfectly fine.’
‘Of course. Still, you should know not everyone believes you are…’ He lowered his voice as an excuse to lean in. ‘…the killer. I certainly do not, and I hope His Majesty, too, knows of your innocence?’
There it was. Phrased sympathetically, like a balm.
Faina’s words at lunch the other day surfaced: He’s obsessed with secrets. Feigns being a flirt with an eye for pretty, wispy boys he can coax into bed or against a wall with pretty, wispy words.
But it was all an act. ‘I’m sure he’s epicurean enough to enjoy it,’ she had told him, ‘but secrets are his currency, and he’s an expert at making people comfortable, making them trust him, even as his aunt pulls the strings.
He’s ambitious – would do anything for his family, to elevate their March and their position at court.
He was one of the potential marriage options for Prince Osian, did you know?
His Majesty saw right through him though, barely let him say three words at him.
Bit of a delicious slight on the family when you came along. ’
Kenelm Radnor smelled like lies and ulterior motives. It emanated from him like corpse flower bloom.
‘Even if the prince did harbour doubt,’ he told Meilyr compassionately, ‘he might need to conceal it from you. I hope that does not trouble you too terribly. He has his duty to uphold, and sometimes duty comes before the heart.’ He laid his hand to his own, gaze coy.
But Meilyr had attuned himself to toxins well enough to know this one by scent.
‘Oh, no, His Majesty has left me without doubt. He has been an immense comfort.’ He touched his own chest, mirroring the gesture. ‘I do not know what I would do without him. Anyone else might certainly suspect me, but Prince Osian…’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Kenelm Radnor lied. ‘If you were to find yourself alone, that would truly be awful. Still’ – he snapped a plume of tiny white flowers and offered it – ‘if you ever have need of another to confide in, I have been told I am an excellent listener.’
No doubt. ‘Thank you, Lord Radnor.’
‘Please. Kenelm.’
Meilyr glanced at Pedr, who understood and stepped forward. ‘Forgive me,’ Meilyr said, ‘I am late for my lessons. Until next time.’
‘Yes, until next time.’
Meilyr did not have to fake hurrying up the terraces.
Interesting. Was this Kenelm Radnor’s machination or someone else’s?
He found he wanted to tell Osian, though with Pedr behind him, word would probably reach the prince soon enough.