‘Majesty.’
Prince Osian stopped.
Meilyr went to him and offered back the book. ‘Perhaps it could stay here, for another night?’
Their fingers brushed, the slight raise of the healing cut stark in the base of the prince’s thumb.
Meilyr’s stung slightly.
‘As you wish,’ the prince said.
TWELVE
Iron remains the greatest weapon we have.
The otherfolk are allergic, and their accursed blood runs throughthe veins of these princes and their sorcerers. Use iron at any givenopportunity, and without mercy.
Part of a letter penned by King Everild of Khaim, 497 A.S.
Third war with Cyngalon: winter campaign.
TWELVE
Mist clung to the dawn. Its fingers wrapped around the trees and trailed across the hills as steam rose from the horses, their heat and their breath.
Meilyr had been given his own horse, for life. Whosoever’s was shortest, he supposed.Cynefrith: rich bay in coat, responsive and calm, with a soft dark nose and those big intelligent eyes that meant he loved her already.
Earlier he had been heaved, exhausted, into fine riding attire and marched to the stables, where Prince Osian waited. In a clamour, the party had ridden for several bells to the main encampment of the hunt, Meilyr behind the prince with Demelza and the rest of the royal household, hemmed between spurts of crownsworn.
The staging camp was a large area of roughly cleared ground amidst looming woodland, strewn with white tents and needless amounts of regalia. Dozens of braziers spewed the laden scent of smoke and men and food. Preparation had taken days, and the place was a congealing mess of activity and the bodies of humans and horses, hounds and falcons.
What would Arawn have made of this on their doorstep? The lord of the otherfolk had a storied history with trespassers, but would probably have left Khaim to their sport. Brutal sport was all it was, after all. Gods willing, it might even give the court something new to talk about.
The largest, most central tent was golden rather than white; the White Dragon had been meticulously stitched into the thick fabric of the roof, its maw wide in victory. The tent’s embroidered sides had been tied open, and the royal party dismounted outside, horses whisked away by nimble stable hands. The air was thick with anticipation.
Here, people hungered for blood.
Meilyr slid from the saddle and turned to Cynefrith. She smelled wonderfully of horse and nosed towards him, ears perked. ‘Thank you,’ he said, smoothing her long neck, allowing himself what came naturally: she was eager but steady. Intrigued by him.
‘I was hoping you would ride with the rest of us.’
Lord Leighton stood behind Meilyr, between him and the main tent.
‘Had I known, I would have ridden ahead to keep you company.’ There was a slick weight to the words that unmasked his intent. ‘Well, next time.’
Meilyr’s throat was almost too tight to speak. ‘Lord Leighton.’
‘Perhaps…’ The Earl of March stepped closer. Meilyr had a horse behind him, and his insides coursed with panic. ‘If His Majesty remains so busy, and you find yourself lonely—’
‘Lord Leighton.’ Prince Osian arrived like a burst of sun over frozen hills. ‘I believe your house are preparing in their tent. If you will excuse us.’
There was no mistaking the steel behind the words.
Lord Leighton bowed stiffly. ‘Majesty.’
The prince offered his hand and Meilyr took it, gladly. Someone finally came to take Cynefrith, and he and the prince walked to the main tent, Meilyr’s nerves sickly sharp.
Beneath the marrow-hued canopy, two of the prince’s knights – Ser Pedr and Ser Blythe – came to meet them, arms full.