There was an eclectic mix: histories and philosophies, bestiaries, scriptures and texts on natural phenomena, not only from Khaim. Some focused upon places he had only heard of in relation to far-off trade routes, and he followed the edges of the shelves to see how far they might lead. ‘These…’ He remembered himself, but Prince Osian waited, open and interested. Meilyr went on, ‘Some of these are very old, Majesty.’
‘And some very well travelled. They are but a small measure of the collections within Khaim’s libraries and institutions, but you are welcome to them.’
Khaim. The city itself, across the Splintered Sea and beyond miles and miles of land. The seat of power that made decisions over every single Cyngaleg life.
Meilyr had never wished to see it, but now wondered what its libraries looked like.
Cyngalon had once had three grand libraries, before Khaim had burned them all.
Another ache: a grief older than he was, without a name. It turned over inside his chest and curled up once more.
His hand came to rest near a rough-edged tome, the letters of the slightly mottled green spine a faded gold. He glanced, and the prince gestured readily. ‘Please.’
The book was heavy. Its wonderful scent filled him, bringing memories of home. He returned with it to the armchair and showed and recited the cover: ‘Unusual Flora of Western Raak: A Textbook of Botany.’
‘An interesting choice.’
Meilyr placed it carefully on his lap. ‘I tend – I tended my family’s apothecary. A knowledge of plants has always served me well.’
In so many ways.
Something entered the prince’s expression. He covered it by adjusting his seat, recrossing his long legs. ‘It was my mother’s book. Do you alone tend the apothecary, or do you have assistance from others in your family?’
Meilyr should have let that go, but could not. ‘I did not realise. I can choose another?’
‘No, no. I have simply not thought of it in some time.’
Meilyr’s hands hesitated on the cover. ‘If you are certain?’
‘Very much so. Please, it will be good to see it read again.’
Meilyr tentatively opened the book. Between his fingers spread a beautiful botanical inventory, structured by type and species, with exquisitely detailed sketches and even some presses of each plant. It was a book crafted from passion, and love.
‘Your apothecary,’ the prince said carefully. ‘Has it been in your family long?’
‘Yes,’ Meilyr replied slowly. ‘It was in my foster-aunt’s care before it came to me, and before that it was her father’s, and his mother’s before.’
‘A family business. Your bond-brother… You have no other siblings?’
‘None, Majesty. Celyn… focused upon other interests, whilst I was very glad to be apprenticed early. I owe my family a great deal, and I love the work…’
Too much. He was sharing too much.
Even more startling, it felt easy. The prince’s presence waited to be breathed into, and he had begun to empty his lungs. ‘Forgive me,’ he said again.
‘No, I wished to hear of it. Is there someone who could care for the apothecary in your absence?’
The question re-muddled his mind. ‘I beg your pardon, Majesty?’
‘Did you have an assistant, or is there another who could take care of your patients in your absence?’
Heulwen was the obvious choice, but was it safe to implicate her in whatever this was? ‘I had some assistance,’ he said.
But he would be gone for months. More, if the marriage needed to stand beyond the coronation – longer still if the prince was lying.
If all went to plan, in less than six months Osian would be crowned Prince of Cyngalon fully, and once the aftermath had settled, they would amicably annul their union and go their separate ways. Between now and then stood a frankly ridiculous schedule of celebrations, religious ceremonies and reasons to be seen on each other’s arm. It was also a very long time to be away from the people who needed him.
‘For the present,’ the prince said, ‘there are those who will suffer without you?’