The gems woven into a teardrop setting caught the sun brilliantly. They could be nothing else: fire amber. Not amber at all but an incredibly rare form of emerald, the stone shone with flecks and striations between dark green and fierce orange.
‘They match your eyes,’ Deryn told him, her own a little wide.
There was a story about the creation of the gems, giving rise to their name in Cyngaleg. The closest translation in Khaimlic wasdragon’s heart-breath.
The prince had chosen these for him…?
Before he could wrap his mind around that, Deryn went to remove the single other ring he wore – and he snatched his hand back.
The room stilled.
He lowered his hand, clenched bone-tight. ‘Forgive me. Might I be permitted to wear this? Or at least keep it. If His Majesty might be beseeched…’
All eyes turned to Harlan.
Harlan’s incredulity shifted to consideration. They came and raised Meilyr’s fingers, inspecting. ‘It is quite something. Cyngaleg gold. Yes, that should be fine.’ They let go of his hand and continued directing.
He should not have made any fuss, but had moved without thinking:Not that, his foolish and sentimental heart had begged.Please, not that.
It was one of only two things he had left of his parents. The other was stowed in the bedchamber.
‘You will be assigned staff,’ Harlan said. ‘Deryn, as your primary. Maitane and Parr, when they are rotated from attending His Majesty.’
All three of them beamed excitedly to each other, and to him.
‘As for the rest of the day—’
There was a knock on the door. It was one of the prince’s knights, Ser Pedr.
Pedr.Another Cyngaleg name in the confusion of Eascild.
Ser Pedr, who had seen Celyn escorted under Prince Osian’s orders. Pedr, with fierce dark eyes, pristine pale uniform accentuated by their dark skin. ‘His Majesty wonders if His Highness might join him for the remainder of breakfast.’
Harlan exhaled through their nose. ‘He can be spared for a while. His Majesty was the one to set a schedule, so I suppose it only fair he disrupts it.’
Something had happened. Meilyr could tell as he stepped into theprince’s parlour.
Prince Osian stood behind the grand desk at the side of the room, holding a paper missive. He too was dressed and readied for the day, strikingly handsome in tunics slightly more martial in cut than Meilyr’s but in fabrics that matched them exactly.
As he looked up and took Meilyr in, the knot of tension strung through Meilyr’s chest pulled painfully taut, then eased. The cacophony of the prince’s blood which had bloomed settled, and something like relief took its place.
Prince Osian nodded to Ser Pedr, who shut the door, leaving them alone. ‘The blacksmith awoke this morning,’ he said. ‘They are recovering, and have confirmed the crownsworn Bede pressured them repeatedly for additional… taxes.’
Unease stirred amidst Meilyr’s thankfulness: who else might the crownsworn have hurt?
Mercifully, the emotion was not enough to rouse the window boxes. Meilyr would keep control from now on.
‘What happens now?’ he asked.
‘As a member of the Royal House of Arden-Draca, you remain beyond reproach, as does your brother. Your names will not appear on any record, though Bede’s death has been marked at the hands of our house. Perhaps not a wholly fair punishment, but one few will object.’
Prince Osian set down the missive, crossed the room to Meilyr – andkneltbefore him.
‘Forgive me, and my house, for the negligence which allowed such events to occur. You and your brother were forced to take action against one sworn to protect you. This should never have happened, and I will do all in my power to ensure it will not happen again.’
Baffled, Meilyr was suddenly aware how soft the pale gold of his hair looked – how, this close, his honesty was a palpable ribbon of warmth, also within reach.
The prince rose and Meilyr snapped back into himself, pulling away from the bond between them. Uncertainty returned like the tide.