Disquiet as old as his bones stirred, but he answered as he had been taught: ‘Meilyr Cadogan.’
Except that familial name was a lie, and a mutilation.
‘Very well. I am Harlan, Eascild’s steward. As His Majesty Prince Osian has named you his consort, you somewhat fall under my… business. Gods, Majesty.’ They rounded on the prince. ‘No warning whatsoever? Not even a little warning?’
Consort.This was happening.
‘I gave you plenty of warning,’ the prince said. ‘Just now, downstairs.’
Harlan exhaled long-sufferingly. ‘Well, he is nice to look at, but Majesty, My Lord Prince, My Good Prince Osian. Forgive me for speaking openly, but…’ They let it hang.
The prince remained an ocean of calm. ‘I know how it will look, but this is my decision. Do what you always do so well, and make it less of a problem. Thank you.’
Harlan pinched the bridge of their nose. ‘Gods, fine! Majesty, your wish, as always, is my command. We will need a priest and…’ They glanced at Meilyr. ‘They will have to consent. I assume that will not be a problem?’
The silence lanced Meilyr back into his body. Mercifully, the plants in the window boxes did not stir. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that will not be a problem.’
In the set of rooms beneath the prince’s, thankfully devoid of plantlife, Meilyr was readied to be married.
A claw-footed tub in a tiled antechamber was filled with steaming water from screaming pipes as cream-clad staff under Harlan’s direction brought in armfuls of tunics, bottles of oils, powders and perfumes, and boxes and boxes of trinkets, all laid on any surface available. He was stripped and scrubbed and half drowned, dried, robed and deposited into a chair by the windows.
His long dark hair was combed and dressed, and fastened where it would now belong: half tied up, in the style of Khaimlic nobility and royalty, the rest thickly tumbling behind his shoulders.
There were also two small, intricate braids which met behind his skull, fixed with small bands of yellow Khaimlic gold.
Consort.
The symbolism had roots in traditions older than Cyngalon or Khaim: twin braids, one for the self, the other for another. The wearer was wed. Married.
Warily, he touched one of the braids. Any Khaimfolc – or any Cyngaleg – who saw him would know he was bound to someone. The brazen audacity of that truth, bared by his own reflection in the mirror, almost broke the dam.
He had been so certain he would never wear the braids. Even when he had considered courtship, even when he had been courted… It was impossible to truly be with someone when you had to lie to them. And Meilyr had to lie for his very survival.
His face was seized and made up, eyes outlined, then he was pulled to his feet and fastened into what would be his wedding tunics.
‘They will have to do,’ Harlan said. ‘For once, His Majesty’s impatience rivals that of the rest of his family.’
The tunics were stunning, gold-embroidered, honest-to-the-gods white and cream silks, a little broad in the shoulders, a little long at the ankle and slightly wide in the waist, though that was concealed with the pull of a broad cloth belt.
Were these the prince’s clothes…?
Consort, his befuddled mind repeated.Prince consort.
In the small royal chapel in the keep, beneath the stained-glass eyesof the Khaimlic god-saints, a white-and-grey-clad priest schooled theirexpression to nonchalance.
‘Rings?’ Harlan asked, as though enquiring if it were raining.
‘I will use mine for now,’ the prince replied, resplendent in matching creams and golds. His shoulder-brushing fair hair had also been braided at the temples. ‘If we could have others fashioned in the coming weeks.’
Rings.
‘Unorthodox, again, but…’ Harlan looked expectantly at the priest.
‘Very much possible.’ The priest bowed deeply. ‘Your Majesty. The vow and the witnessing are the most vital.’ To witness were Harlan and two of the prince’s crownsblood, Ser Pedr and Ser Blythe. ‘Are you ready to begin?’
‘Please,’ the prince said. ‘Thank you.’
Oak. Lavender. Juniper. Rowan. Blessed with incense and prayer, and woven together with pale ribbons, thick and earthy. They were set atop Meilyr’s hair, and atop the prince’s. Their hands were brought together and loosely bound with more ribbon, and the prince’s warm, lightly calloused fingers set a ring into Meilyr’s palm. Readied another in his own.