Meilyr shuddered in a breath as Faina took Demelza’s place. She purposefully held them still until the others had moved out of sight. ‘Be careful of him.’ All mischief and sparkle had left her voice. ‘My cousins told me stories. When they were younger, they visited Sanford March. He was…’ She gripped his arm, intense and opaque concern and revulsion radiating from her. ‘He likes to destroy things. Likes the power it gives him, to take something and own it by ruining it. He’s never liked Prince Osian, and the way he looks at you—’
Harlan burst around the hedges in front of them, knocking petals off an orange blossom. ‘Deryn!Deryn, you—’ They stumbled to a halt. Snapped into a bow and out again. ‘Some of the royal house have ridden ahead and will be here very soon. Come,now.’
‘Of course they have.’ Faina released him, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Be gentle with him.’
‘Come,’ Harlan ushered, ‘you must be made ready, Highness.’
EIGHT
There is an ancient power in names.
Once, we marked ourselves by those who came before.
Descended from.
They took our names and bent them,
bowed them to their brittle tongues so even in
our own naming – our final bastion of identity –
we would be forced to live without power.
Without home.
Blood in the Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year Slaughter,
H. M.
EIGHT
Meilyr would have classed himself alreadyready, but it seemed he was wrong.
An air of intense urgency and yet more new clothes greeted him in his rooms. Again, finely woven silks were tugged flush to his frame, his hair freshly combed and bound, his eyes freshly outlined. Deryn and Parr saw to him, pushing aside his attempts to assist.
Meilyr caught Deryn’s gaze. ‘I do not suppose you have any advice?’
‘I’m afraid not, Highness. The Royal Majesties…’
‘His Majesty Prince Osian has never so much as taken a concubine,’ Harlan stated. ‘Neither has he named a lover, or made any inclination towards any union offered him. The questions his kin will throw your way are likely to make mine seem a light rain to their torrent of arrows. Remember yourself, and your position.’
How could he forget. Hispositionwas crumpled at their feet, hoping they merely stepped on him. ‘Thank you,’ he managed tiredly.
Harlan hesitated, then said, ‘You mistake my meaning, Highness Cadogan. You are prince consort. His Majesty chose you, and he is not a man who chooses anything lightly. Be humble, but remember that. And stand up straight; anyone would think you were trying to hide in your collar.’
As the storm of preparation rolled around him, Meilyr turned that new information over in his mind a few times. Filed it away with the scant little else he knew about the prince.
He was trotted from his rooms and down the tower, out into the main courtyard overlooked by the inner bailey. There was already a large gathering of assembled staff, courtiers and crownsworn, which Harlan led him sternly through.
Was Lord Leighton there? Meilyr hoped he would not have to stand close to him.
He was thrust out in front of the group; it was a relief to catch sight of Prince Osian, whose gaze found his instantly. He was resplendent in whites and blues so dark they were almost black, the exact shades Meilyr was dressed in.
Prince consort.
Riders were entering the sprawling north gate. Trumpets peeled and drums beat, white banners streaming, eye-wateringly bright in the shafts of sun. Harlan deposited him at the prince’s shoulder, then melted into the lines of staff.
Meilyr was absolutely not meant for this. Give him his apothecary, a quiet field, anything but this.