‘Yes, but Khaimlic common law already exists in Cyngalon, ergo a relocation will not affect the cases brought before it or the writ discussed.’
‘The Council has stood in Khaim since its inception. Since the time of your grandfather, His Majesty King Aldrich.’
The prince smiled slightly. ‘I am well aware. But I am not my grandfather, and to live in the past is to shun progress. Let us put it to a vote, if we may, Lord Speaker.’
‘Certainly. All those in favour.’
More than half of the king-appointed officials’ hands rose swiftly into the air. The other half joined them more slowly, as did the bishops’.
Only the four Justices representing the Marcher Lords did not raise their hands.
‘It is settled, then,’ the Speaker declared. ‘Henceforth, the Court of the Council in the Dominion and Principality of the Denelands, and the Marches of the Same, shall convene in Eascild, under His Majesty Prince Osian Arden-Draca’s stewardship. Are there any further motions to be presented to today’s session?’
There were not.
The Council adjourned, and the four Justices muttered furiously to each other. No doubt seething over the prince’s push for power. The underhandedness of the Crown against its own Marcher Lords, who had shielded Khaim from the wilds and wickedness of the Denelands since the conquest itself.
The prince watched them as he turned the ring on his thumb idly with the fingers of the same hand: a tell as much as a habit.
Let them say what they wished. Today, both he and the king had got what they wanted.
ONE
And so their song began, as most things do,
with blood
and with flowers.
The Book of Heart
ONE
Cyngalon, Year 713 A.S.
Meilyr was the reason his own family was dead.
He carried that truth with him, buried deep in his chest like an arrowhead: long scarred over but never removed. Bringing him pain even when he least expected it.
Perhaps one day it would kill him as well. Perhaps it should.
The sharp, earthy scent of golden henbane still sought to take him back to that night. It had been the last thing his mother had helped him crush with their worn mortar and pestle. Nearly twenty years later, and his connection to the plant still made him feel as though he was right there.
But no matter how keenly his blood could make him relive it, he could not change the past. He could only live, as they had made him swear to do.
‘Come on,’ Celyn said, returning him to the present. ‘You can finish that later.’
Meilyr tipped the last of the ground gold-flecked dust into its little jar with practised precision, and genuine amusement at his bond-brother’s huffing. ‘I have not seen you so eager to be off to the faire since we were children. Kind of adorable.’
Celyn flushed. ‘Hardly. Now hurry up, or I’ll leave without you.’
He was definitely on his way to meet a girl. Many things made Celyn impatient, but few things would make him eager to venture further into town, today of all days. ‘All right,’ Meilyr said, hiding his smile, ‘almost done.’
He sealed and tucked the jar inside the cloth-wrapped bundle for the Bevans, enough for five days’ worth of tonics for Wade Bevan’s rheumatism. Then he scrubbed the last of the sparkling powder from his hands, the scent evoking the faintest image of another, smaller kitchen. His mother’s bubbling laughter. The pop of the fireplace.
Swallowing the visual, he hung up his worn apron and tugged off the kerchief that kept his long dark hair from his face. He refastened it into a messy tail as he checked the flames in the burners were extinguished and all the glasses quite cool, the other jars were sealed, and the windows were latched. Then he refreshed the saucer of cream before the hearth.
‘If anyone sees that…’ Celyn began.