She was the king’s consort. Not yet his queen, of which there had been three. How had she come to be on his arm? She clearly and dearly cared for Prince Osian and the Heir Apparent, but there was something strained in her.
He looked across the assembled nobles, courtiers and others. Most remained in heavy conversation, or heavy drinking, content with only occasional glances at the dais.
Except for Lord Leighton, who stared at him despite being in deep conversation with a newly arrived young noble. The newcomer was objectively rather handsome but looked too much like a younger, dandier version of Captain Radnor, who had met them with a surprisingly affectionate embrace.
Catching Meilyr’s gaze, Lord Leighton’s leer increased.
Meilyr looked away. Took another drag of wine.
‘He is good to look at, I’ll grant you. Butconsort, Osian?’
Prince Wystan spoke rather loudly from his sister’s other side, voice thick from drink. ‘Could you not simply have bedded him and been done with it? I know you’re thePrince of Cyngalon, but just name him a concubine if you want no one else to have him. Do you know the situation we’re in now? My father will be absolutely livid if you’ve married a useless match. Honestly, you spend a few weeks in this backwater place, and what? Consort?’
‘You’re only jealous,’ Princess Aldreda said with a tired, amused edge. ‘You wish our father had givenyouthe Denelands, so you could roll about with all the pretty daffodils you wanted.’
Prince Wystan scoffed. ‘Jealous? Of this bog?’
‘You practically told me so yourself on the road, with all the complaining you did about how you would run things. So, yes, jealous. And you’re going to dip your sleeve in my stew if you keep leaning over me like that, so sit back and act like a prince.’
‘Fine.’ Prince Wystan sat back. ‘But you know how bad this looks, given everything else. The Denelands only go to the second-born heir because of that stupid law to protect the firstborn from being slaughtered in the night by Deneland peasants. You’re supposed to bring the Marches to heel, Osian, and prevent an uprising, make sure the populace knows they’re quashed, not snatch one up because you want to get your co—’
‘Wystan.’ Prince Osian’s voice was unflinchingly calm. ‘You are raising your voice. If you take issue with my choice, bring that to me in private. Not here.’
With extreme effort, Prince Wystan exhaled through his nose and took another deep, slow drink. ‘I’m only saying it’s a waste. All of it.’
‘Jealous,’ Princess Aldreda said.
‘I amnot—’
‘But I want to get to know him better.’ The Heir Apparent leaned around Osian, catching Meilyr’s gaze. ‘I want to know exactly what enraptured our dear brother so, and snatched him from all the nobles and courtiers who will be weeping alone in their beds each night. Highness Cadogan, have breakfast with us tomorrow – actually, lunch. I plan to have several very good reasons to sleep in.’ She glanced towards one of the high tables too quickly for Meilyr to follow her gaze. ‘Demelza, dearest, you as well. It’s been too long since I saw you.’
‘And I you, darling.’
NINE
The Khaimlic relationship with so-called magics has always intriguedand mystified me. They will, as a people – particularly the elite –employ any number of magically imbued items in their daily lives,especially those fashioned in Raak or elsewhere along the SpineRoad.
The same cannot be said for magics born naturally in other peoples, savethose peoples who can be drafted into Khaim’s service or bent to someusefulness: the Ectheid, or Seers, and other strange magics born ofRaak; the sky-wielders and element-shapers beyond. But not so forCyngalon, whose small populace of so-called sorcerers was decimated bythe edicts of King Uhtric Arden-Draca.
Khaimlic History and the Centuries of War with Cyngalon,
E. van der Vos
NINE
After the Great Hall broke into mingling, music and dance, Aldreda tucked Osian into an aside. Far enough from prying ears to ask what had been prowling around her mind.
‘Have you told Father? Or are you going to let that particular spear hit you from a safer distance?’
Osian kept his voice low, into his cup. ‘I suppose he will hear of it the same way you did.’
‘I’m sure he will love that.’
‘I could write him a letter, if you think that would help. Though, he will have heard by the time it arrives.’
His sister swirled her wine, surveying the room. ‘When he inevitably calls for you, answer. Tell him your ring ran low, but I’ve replenished you now.’
She tapped her layered ring pointedly against her glass. It was set with a striking dark red stone – at least, in appearance. In truth, the ‘gem’ was filled with their father’s blood. A twin to the ring on Osian’s thumb. A cousin to the one on Wystan’s.