‘Of course, Majesty.’ Meilyr did not care what sort of person was inside Prince Wystan. Let them stay there.
But he had cut across a prince of Khaim. ‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Majesty. My Prince.’
‘You merely responded to inappropriate questions,’ Osian said. ‘You were not out of line.’
‘You are Prince Consort of Cyngalon,’ Aldreda pronounced. ‘He was out of line for thinking so little of you. Anyway, pay him no mind. Demelza, love, you have to try the pork.’
Meilyr’s nerves remained jolted as the conversation continued. He needed them to stop refilling his wine; it was too easy to sip at the prop, the back-taste of faraway vineyards dulled to a perilous prickle.
He had to keep a better grasp of his emotions.
Though Celyn would have broken Prince Wystan’s nose, which would have been quite the sight. Speaking Cyngaleg was forbidden, and though many children learned in secret, an accent was something Meilyr could not afford. Of course his diction was adaptive; the Cyngaleg flow had been ground out of him, as if it were his bones between the mortar and pestle. Not justschooling– he had done it himself, over and over. Had done it for Celyn, and the memory of his parents, who had tasked him to live, and stay hidden.
As the night wore on, it was not only Prince Wystan’s words that hit their mark. The banquet was an opportunity for many nobles and courtiers, both Cyngalon- and Khaim-based, to have their first proper encounter with the prince consort. Not everyone was aware of what had really happened on the hunt, though he felt the stares and whispers of those who did the keenest of all.
What a find, several others said.His diction is quite excellent. Congratulations, Your Majesty.
Congratulations.
Celyn would have fumed. Would have torn the place apart.Like you’re a new horse at the royal stables, he would have said.Pranced out for their pleasure.
Thinking of him stung. He would be furious with worry in the apothecary, whilst Meilyr drank and felt sorry for himself because someone had praised the way he had been forced to fold himself away, as though it were a triumph. Something to be proud of.
At last, the dances began. How had the one Harlan had taught him started?
Princess Aldreda swept into the flow, dominating the space, and he watched how she and Lady Faina – partnering from the second dance – bubbled into laughter and smooth familiarity, lit from the inside like a home.
Harlan appeared smartly at Prince Osian’s side. Whatever they said was brief, and the prince leaned towards Meilyr’s ear. ‘Forgive me, I will return shortly.’
Meilyr had been leaning on him. The wine. His body unmoored itself unpleasantly as the prince left, but Demelza stepped in. ‘How are you faring?’
His face must have answered before he could smooth it clear.
‘Goodness, that well? You are doing fine, though. I remember my first…’
Her voice trailed off as a minor commotion touched the grand doors. A small group had entered, their presence a ripple through the crowding guests. The individual at their helm wore robes not far from that of a Khaimlic priest, though more fitted, with a preened and noble air. Whites and greys and golds, with black embroidery.
Their hair was dark and elegantly coiffed, with several shocks of iron grey racing through it. It was difficult to tell their age, and they moved with effortless importance. As they spoke to several guests, who bowed very deeply, one gestured towards the dais – and the individual’s gaze landed on Meilyr.
They floated closer with unhurried purpose, not breaking eye contact until they were right there, bowing low. ‘Highness Demelza. And Highness Cadogan, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.’ They offered Meilyr their hand. ‘I am Lord Gelens, First Adviser to His Majesty King Oswald Arden-Draca.’
Meilyr wanted to run. It bit into his flesh like instinct, like foresight. He did not want to be here, did not want this person to perceive him.
But he reached out his hand, as was expected.
The barest brush of his fingertips against Lord Gelens’, and—
Prince Osian caught Meilyr’s wrist, wrapped his arm around his waist and pulled him forcibly against him. ‘If you will excuse us, Lord Gelens. Highness Demelza.’
He swept Meilyr away, into the circle of dancers at the centre of the room.
‘My Prince?’ Meilyr asked, startled.
Osian secured him at the waist, his wrist still captured: firm but not painful. He leaned in from behind to whisper against Meilyr’s ear, ‘Dance with me.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Dance with me,’ the man said.