‘Edeva,’ Prince Osian said. ‘This is—’
‘His Majesty Prince Wystan Bastiaan Arden-Draca,’ the herald reattempted. ‘Duke of the Middle Counties.’
The hall’s relaxed air stiffened.
The youngest royal heir was an altogether different creature to Princess Aldreda and Prince Osian. Somewhat shorter than them, he was paler-skinned than Prince Osian – than Meilyr – his hair the colour of damp wood, artfully curled. The confident jut of his chin and cheekbones was more that of a petulant child than a regal prince. He was in his later teenage years, if Meilyr remembered correctly, and carried himself with a self-affirmed air not present in either of his siblings’ effortless presence.
Though Meilyr was rather biased against the Khaimlic royal family in general, he knew instantly that every negative word he had heard about Prince Wystan had been true.
But he bowed as required as Prince Osian’s younger brother approached the dais.
‘I almost expected you all to be out on the hunt already. Osian.’
‘Wystan,’ the prince greeted, imposing regardless of the child perched on his hip. ‘You look well.’
‘I may start to feel it once I’m back home, but not here. Dreary place.’
‘I like it,’ the Heir Apparent said. ‘Much fresher than home, and I hear there are still honest-to-the-godsmonstersin the deep woods bordering the Green Wastes. Now that would make for good sport – even you’d agree, Wystan.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Come on, smallest sibling, leave that attitude on the road. Have some food, it’s very good, and you can drink until you feel better.’
The youngest prince went to reply, then spotted Meilyr. ‘Is this him?’
The note of resentment was palpable.
‘Prince Wystan,’ Prince Osian began. Was it Meilyr’s imagination that made the words slightly edged? ‘Allow me to introduce my consort—’
‘Meilyr Cadogan,’ Prince Wystan supplied. It was the harshest pronunciation yet, delivered like a crossbow quarrel. ‘Yes, I heard about him on the road.’
The youngest prince had entered with the captain of the crownsworn, Captain Radnor. No doubt he had heard all about Meilyr.
‘Oh, come and eat, Wystan.’ Princess Aldreda sat with finality and picked up another chunk of bread. ‘We can tease our brother about his rather stunning conquest when we all have full stomachs and a good deal more wine in our blood, not before.’
Prince Wystan rolled his eyes, but sat. The other nobles and courtiers who had entered behind him began to do the same, conversation regrowing.
Meilyr lowered himself back into his chair.
Demelza touched the back of his arm. ‘You did very well. Remember to breathe.’
He went through the motions and tried to force himself to eat. But his stomach had twisted, senses pinching everything his tongue touched into jarring sharpness. The hall became stifling. His collar was too tight, the silk of his tunic too thick. He could feel every stare, every murmur.
‘Were you born here?’ Edeva’s brilliant green eyes tugged him in.
‘Edeva,’ Prince Osian said softly, ‘remember politeness.’
She nodded thoughtfully, staring at Meilyr, a thick crust of bread in her hands.
‘I was,’ he managed, hurriedly re-stringing himself. ‘I was born in the Denelands, yes.’ It was safest to use the common Khaimlic name, though it stung as always.
‘Your eyes are very pretty,’ Edeva told him.
‘So are yours.’ Painfully like his mother’s. ‘Is this your first time here?’
She nodded enthusiastically, hair bobbing.
‘Do you like it?’