It was an oath Harlan swore with all the severity of the blood promise with Prince Osian.
‘Yes,’ Meilyr said, stomping down nausea. ‘I do.’
Dance lessons took up the majority of that day and the next. Meilyrwas not hauled off to a cell, though the threat of it hounded himconstantly. He felt about as functional as damp straw as the evening ofthe banquet descended and he found himself in another new set of clothes– the finest yet – foisted onto the prince’s arm and thrust into theheaving Throne Room.
It was huge: aisled rows of exquisitely carved stone pillars climbing to an intricate vaulted ceiling, strewn with Khaimlic banners and Osian’s golds and blues specifically: his oak-leaf crest interspersed with the White Dragon. The western wall was made entirely of archways, opening onto balconies and terraces and the gardens, providing snatches of blessed fresh air.
At the far end, a marble dais rose to a tall, singular white throne.
The throne of the Prince of Cyngalon. Osian’s throne.
Guests had assembled on either side of the central aisle, and as he and the prince entered, the space erupted. Applause and cheering, shouts and bowing. Meilyr involuntarily gripped Osian’s arm, and the prince covered his hand with his own.
It helped Meilyr make it to the dais beside him, where they turned to face the hall as the Master of Ceremonies had instructed. There, Meilyr dipped his head in supplication, glad to not have to risk catching the eyes that were not glad of his presence. Eyes that questioned it, doubted or suspected him.
This was certainly not the statement Osian had hoped to make by marrying him. Did the prince regret it?
The hall loosened into the night’s festivities: stringed music and boisterous conversation clawed for attention as everyone spread out, plates of food dispersed from a row of heaped tables at the edge of the room, drinks brought straight to their hands. Meilyr finished his first before he fully acknowledged its presence. Another was fetched immediately.
‘You seem troubled,’ the prince said subtly. Devastatingly handsome in his matching finery.
‘I am fine, Majesty.’ The volume of talk and the politics and the simpering beat against Meilyr’s skull. If only he had been able to get more sleep.
At least there had been no word of the king coming.
‘I’m saying,’ the Heir Apparent stated, after drawing them into an aside with Lady Demelza and Prince Wystan, ‘a yearly hunt here is the perfect thing to appease everyone.’
‘You’re singing this place’s praises after what just happened?’ Prince Wystan was deep into his wine, pale cheeks flushed. Aldreda shot him a silencing look, and he rolled his eyes. ‘Well, it isn’t Osian you have to convince but Father, and you know what he’ll say.’
‘Father will agree if we present a united front.’ She gripped Osian’s shoulder. ‘Besides, if it makes the nobles happy, he’ll have no reason to object.’
‘Save he hates the Denelands with his entire being.’ Prince Wystan looked over at Meilyr. ‘How you aren’t all more concerned how he’ll respond to… developments, I have no idea.’
‘Father loves Osian far more than he hates the Denelands.’ She said it with conviction, but there was a catch between the three of them. Wystan opened his mouth to retort, but his sister pushed on to discuss the promising stallion stock in the stables.
Meilyr glanced up at Prince Osian. His expression was levelled, revealing nothing.
‘I actually have a question.’ Prince Wystan interrupted his sister, still looking at Meilyr. ‘I’ve barely heard your consort utter a word. How is his Khaimlic? The Deneland accent is often so coarse.’
Several of the others moved to speak.
Meilyr’s overtired, wine-pickled tongue got there first. ‘My Khaimlic is quite finely schooled, Your Majesty. As is required of all Deneland-born children, since the implementation of the laws laid down by your great-grandfather.’
The words might as well have slapped the youngest prince.
The first wave of Meilyr’s common sense crashed into him. Oh,gods.
‘He has been rigorously schooled at Eascild’s doorstep,’ Prince Osian said, not missing a beat, ‘and his Khaimlic, as you can see, is as eloquent as yours. Also, do not forget, Wystan, that an accent does not constitute lack of study, or a failing in communication. You speak Raakic fluently but with a Khaimlic accent. That does not make you unskilled.’
If Meilyr’s words had been a slap, these were a punch to Prince Wystan’s guts. He was dumbfounded, flushed a new shade of maroon.
With visible effort, he bit back his venom and swallowed the last of his drink in a furious gulp. ‘Well. A rare find, then. If you excuse certain things.’ He turned away. ‘I need another drink.’
Princess Aldreda cracked into a near-jubilant, stunned expression. ‘I absolutely love you, Highness Cadogan. Osian, you have to let me dance with him right now.’
‘Majesty,’ Demelza said, pushing down surprised pride. ‘The first dance belongs to your brother.’
‘Then he should hurry, or I may forget myself. Meilyr – Highness Cadogan, that was positively flawless. Though, do at least consider forgiving my youngest sibling. He is rather naïve, but somewhere inside him there is a passably good person.’