The prince squeezed Meilyr’s arm before letting go. ‘These are for you.’ He reached for the first item Ser Pedr held.
It was an exquisite yew horse-bow, engraved with oak leaves and horses, and a shaft of arrows fletched with black swan feathers. With them, a dagger almost an exact match to the one on which they had sworn their blood oath, which the prince unsheathed to show Meilyr the dark glimmer and sharpness of its edge: gwaed-steel.
Weapons for a hunt.
‘Consider them gifts of our union. You ride with me.’
There were many in the tent who had paused to watch, and Meilyr shared their surprise. Harlan had explained consorts and concubines generally remained at the rear of the hunt, if they partook at all. The prince had chosen a different part for him.
So be it.
‘Thank you, My Prince. It would be an honour.’
‘One you deserve.’
‘Ha!’ Aldreda marched over, grinning. ‘Excellent sport! I love it, Osian.’
That put an end to that. Even Prince Wystan, inspecting his own ornate weaponry nearby, shut his mouth with only a grimace of disdain. The almost equally well-dressed young noble next to him – Captain Radnor’s son, Kenelm Radnor – smirked and whispered something to the youngest prince.
Meilyr ignored them. In that tent bursting with Khaimlic royalty – with Khaimlic and Marcher nobles, squires and all their guards – he took the knife from Prince Osian. He could taste the subdued echo of the alderwood hilt, drowned by the iron worked into the tang: bitter, like blood on his tongue, giving the metal its Cyngaleg namesake:blood-steel.
A grim bur of anticipation snared him. He was armed now, in a way all could see.
He met Prince Osian’s gaze unflinchingly, and the bond between them thrummed in answer.
‘Come, then.’ Aldreda clapped her brother on the shoulder. ‘Whilst the air is fresh, and before these old sods fall asleep.’
Motion swept through the camp. The hounds and horses caught it sharply, and everything erupted into noise.
Meilyr followed the prince to their horses, readied beyond the tent. All had had their forelegs and chests slathered with red-tinted grease, to allow for smoother jumping and to mimic the blood Khaim hoped to spill.
The prince himself saw to Meilyr’s gear, strapped his bow and quiver to his saddle, checked the reins and stirrups and girth. All with the meticulous certainty of someone who had done it a hundred times, a thousand times, as easily as any stable hand or squire. He wore his riding attire the same way, not a costume but something with practised purpose.
Meilyr took that latest shred of information about the Prince of Cyngalon and turned it over in his mind several times. Tucked it away with the rest.
He fastened the knife belt to his own hip, the leather aged long enough he did not have to feel a trace of life.
Prince Osian took his hands, in a gesture becoming startlingly habitual. To anyone looking, it would appear a lingering, intimate moment in the open: the prince and his consort.
What was still very far from customary was how the prince leaned in to Meilyr’s ear, his voice low. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said. Not a threat but a warning. He hesitated, then tilted Meilyr’s chin softly with his hand and kissed where his jaw met his throat.
Meilyr’s heart stuttered.
Prince Osian stepped away, and the call to mount went up, repeated a dozen times around them.
Meilyr mounted, gripping a handful of Cynefrith’s mane for stability along with the reins. Ahead, the Khaimlic priest who had married them languidly swung an incense burner as they blessed the coming hunt, naming each of the god-saint Khaimlic forebears.
The warmth on Meilyr’s skin lingered. It was a ridiculous struggle not to reach and touch it.
It was an act, all of it.
Shame bloomed, sprouting thorns. Celyn would be furious—
Meilyr shoved it away. One of Princess Aldreda’s knights blew a deep, guttural horn, and the party set off. He focused on helping Cynefrith weave through the fray, staying close behind Prince Osian, the prince’s knights loosely about them. The usual faces: Sers Pedr, Blythe, Macsen, Garrick, Siddel and Bada.
The Heir Apparent rode up front with her brother, her haughty chestnut jostling the much calmer grey. Her own knights rode amongst Prince Osian’s, and as they all plunged into the wood, Meilyr drowned in the sound of men and horses and hounds.
But the floor was awash with bluebells, the air of living things in his lungs. It was good to be in the saddle; slumbering muscles would detest him later, but it was calming to have Cynefrith’s certainty beneath him.