The way Osian had pulled him against him. That flicker that had seemed protective, before Meilyr had the chance to dissect it. Osian’s breath against his ear, his tongue just above his collarbones—
Absolutely notthinking about that. Definitely not that.
It had just been a long time since he had lain with anyone. Seeing Haydn had reminded him how long, and—
Meilyr stopped thinking about it. The rain drummed on.
Twice, the prince had steadied him through the wreckage of his own nerves. Had witnessed him crumble in the Throne Room and had acted without hesitation, in ways Meilyr had not even knowncouldhelp.
How had he known what to do? And why had he done it so… tenderly?
Meilyr rolled over and cast that thought out with the rest. Pressed the near-healed cut in the base of his thumb until it stung, ignoring how easy it would be to feel the prince even in the next room if he tried.
He needed to keep a clear head. All of this was an act, nothing more. An act they had to maintain, especially now.
Fear and doubt raked through his already overstimulated mind. Eventually, he fell asleep grasping his sleep-clothes, where the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch should have been.
EIGHTEEN
Let it be declared that His Majesty Prince OsianArden-Draca,
Prince of Cyngalon and Duke of the Splintered Sea,
has wed His Highness Meilyr Cadogan of the Denelands.
The House of Arden-Draca and all of the Isles of Mhrydain send theirblessings, and good fortunes to the union.
Missive given to all heralds of the Isles of Mhrydain,
signed by Heir Apparent Her Majesty Aldreda Arden-Draca.
713 A.S.
EIGHTEEN
Drizzle worked steadily at the windows, bruised with morning light. Osian returned from his duties and drew out a small letter. ‘This was with one of my knights.’
It was a missive, with Meilyr’s name inked on the top: a hand and paper he recognised instantly. His fingers shook as he opened it, reading quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He tried not to clutch the paper. ‘Thank you, Majesty.’ He followed him to the desk.
The missive was from Heulwen, on paper from their apothecary. The contents were careful and brief: thankful he was well and hoping that continued. Hoping he was adjusting to life at court. Hoping to hear from him soon, if possible.
Careful, vague confirmation of Celyn’s return.
Heulwen was safe, and able to make contact with him. His chest swelled with unsteady warmth. ‘May I reply?’
The prince gestured to the prepared desk and watched as Meilyr sat and looked over the list Heulwen had written. ‘There may come a time when I can have her escorted here, or you to her. However, at the moment…’
‘Of course,’ Meilyr agreed, unreservedly. It was far better for Heulwen not to be anywhere near the court, and far better not to give Celyn more reasons to fret or act rashly. ‘Thank you – thank you, Majesty.’
He hesitated as he reached for the ink. There was still a voice in the back of his mind that worried for Heulwen. She had been a comfort in his life since his first visits to Eascild, not yet in his teen years, to see the workings of Lowri’s apothecary. Lowri, his foster-aunt: his teacher and confidant.
Heulwen’s nose pressed against the windows of the shop, misting them: a wild, always-laughing child of a neighbour, inquisitive and bright.
He wanted her safe, and it felt as though the prince wanted the same. Even if it was just to protect their façade, perhaps that was enough.
He set about replying.
‘If there is anything you need,’ Osian said, ‘please say.’