The moment lingered. Wildly, Meilyr wondered if he was supposed to invite the prince to come in. But he did not, and His Majesty made no suggestion that Meilyr should follow him upstairs.
‘There was a lot of attention on you tonight,’ the prince said, at last.
‘It was fine.’ A reflexive answer. ‘I expected that. Highness Demelza and Lady Faina say it will calm down, eventually.’ Meilyr was talking too much. Sometimes he talked too much when he had been drinking, and the prince was standing very close, looking at him rather intently in the dim light.
Shouldhe invite him in?
‘I hope they are right,’ Prince Osian said. His voice was soft, and pleasant. Less distracting than the wave of conflicted reluctance that rolled through him, which dissipated as the prince made a decision. The jolt of emotion through their bond was so sudden it left Meilyr wondering if it was merely the wine tangling his perceptions. ‘Sleep well,’ the prince said.
And he turned away, leaving Meilyr drunk and slightly confused.
TEN
Over a century after the Sundering, the first king and unifier, AdairArden (c. 103–? A.S.), began the noble line that would, in his name,become known as the line of Arden-Draca.
His descendants would put an end to the Denelands’ heretical princes,and King Uhtric Arden-Draca (581–644 A.S.) would begin the hunts tofurther rid the lands of the wretched blood which brought about theSundering – that great and terrible breaking of the world.
He was succeeded by his son, King Aldrich (614–672 A.S.), who was inturn succeeded by the illustrious King Oswald (652– A.S.). Through hisbenevolence and might, our lands have known great peace, and growingprosperity. Blessed are we by his noble children, under whose guidancewe shall one day be led.
Biography of His Holy Majesty King Oswald Arden-Draca,
Holy Devotee Godwine Airaldi. 686 A.S.
TEN
Meilyr awoke before dawn, just in time for the castle staff to bustle in.
He was hoisted into another new set of clothes: more dark blue silks, embellished with pale golds; boots still a little stiff. His hair was dressed, his eyes lined, his throat and ears and hands set with jewellery.
A costume, he thought. To help play the part.
Breakfast was whisked away before Deryn could finish scolding him to eat. She protested, a little of her accent slipping in, ‘Hold on, what—’
Harlan strode in, and she closed her mouth. ‘Highness Cadogan,’ the steward addressed. ‘You are to take breakfast with Her Majesty, the Heir Apparent.’
It was a command, not an invitation. Meilyr was bundled from the room, out of the tower and across the keep. Harlan led the way through the exquisite corridors behind the Great Hall, up several flights of stairs, down a short hallway to a beautiful mahogany door and into the Heir Apparent’s apartments.
They were even larger than Prince Osian’s. Like the rest of the inner keep, they were built more for comfort than the martial outer keep and its towers. The parlour spread to the size of both the prince’s and Meilyr’s put together, and he wondered vaguely why the prince had not claimed these rooms, since the castle was his.
Fortunately, there were no living plants present. Only cuttings, their bright, severed heads still alive enough for him to feel but likely not enough to out him, even if he did lose his grip on his emotions.
Her Majesty sat leisurely on the floor at a low table, popping grapes into her mouth. She was meticulously put together, in pristine whites and creams and golds that showed off her athletic figure. The waves of her hair had been dressed back with more gold, twin-braided. Her strikingly outlined eyes pierced him, her smile sharp and alert.
Her daughter was fast asleep in a nest of cushions beside her knee.
‘Highness Cadogan, good morning. Sit. I cannot possibly eat all this myself.’
Meilyr bowed, mouth dry. ‘Your Majesty.’
The table between them was overrun with dozens of small dishes. Fruit, both fresh and dried, and various types of nuts, cooked and cold meats, and copious jams. Three types of bread and four varieties of cheese. There was also a steaming pot of something which smelled both delicious and familiar, which an attendant poured into a small bowl for Meilyr before retreating to the side of the room.
‘Cawl, I think, is how you say it?’ Her Majesty watched him carefully. ‘I asked the Deneland chefs to make it especially. Apparently, there is some difference from our stews, and I must say I’m rather fond of it already. Please, sit.’
Meilyr sat.
‘You will have to tell me if it does it any justice.’
Trying to keep his hands from shaking, he brought a spoonful of the rich, home-smelling broth to his mouth and blew.