Osian gestured beside him, and Meilyr sat carefully. ‘This one,’ he said. ‘Translated, it meansmidnight spear.’
‘You speak Raakic?’
‘Only enough for the names of plants. May I…?’
‘Please,’ Osian said. A pause. ‘It would mean a great deal, to see the pages again.’
Meilyr swallowed the slight fumble in his chest and turned the page, feeling the prince’s warmth more intensely than the hearth.
Before he left that night, Osian placed two keys into his palm. ‘So you may traverse all three floors, however you wish.’
‘All three…?’
A narrow set of steps in the prince’s parlour led to the Eagle Tower’s flat roof: encircled by a high, crenellated wall, it was dizzying, but lined with plant boxes stuffed with fresh, waiting soil.
‘It is perhaps not the best place to grow anything,’ the prince admitted, watching Meilyr take in the space, the wind whipping through them both. ‘But it is yours.’
‘It is perfect,’ Meilyr told him. ‘Thank you, Majesty. I love it.’
The admission shivered through him, the blood rising in his cheeks.
There was a sharp crack of thunder and the rain returned. They hurried below, but not quite fast enough to escape the downpour.
The flora in the gardens and on the tower-top shifted gradually,giving Meilyr new ingredients. New remedies, new experiments. He gaineda steady slew ofpatrons: mostly staff, though some youngercourtiers also approached him. Perhaps they were all encouraged by thelack of charge, or the ease of having an apothecary onsite.
His hands shook less. Purpose carried him through every demanding dinner, every new set of court dances, every eerily patient glance from Lord Gelens. They had not made any attempt to touch him since their initial arrival. Meilyr remained constantly vigilant and on edge, yet it felt as though the king’s adviser was content to wait. They had likely surmised Osian had told him of their abilities, and certainly knew him for what he was: a bird in a cage, a rabbit in a snare.
Still, he came to know almost every inch of the gardens and found respite in knowing he could be there with good reason. Days like this where his lessons were complete, the tournament grounds were readied and Osian was busy with councils and duties. Bathed in birdsong, he plucked more nettle and ever-useful golden henbane, all laid in Haydn’s battered kerchief, the skirt-hems of his tunics brushed dark with damp.
‘Here you are, Highness.’ Kenelm Radnor, too meticulously dressed for a stroll in the rain-threatening grounds, sauntered towards him down the path. He bowed with a flourish and offered his hand. ‘Assuming you are finished with the staff, might I walk with you a while?’
Haydn had helped earlier. Meilyr had sent him to gather firethorn. A slight turn to Kenelm Radnor’s mouth suggested he had observed for some time, and Meilyr fought down a wave of panic.
‘Thank you, Lord Radnor.’ He had no choice but to accept the offer, and let the captain’s son pull him onto the path and take his offered arm, though it left a sour taste in Meilyr’s mouth.
‘An interesting hobby.’ The Marcher heir referred to the bundled kerchief. ‘Poisons?’
Asked like a joke, without being one. Meilyr laughed, from tension and the need to match the tone. ‘Goodness, no. Supplies for a tea.’
‘Oh? Might I try it?’
It was some relief to have Pedr keeping pace behind. To not be fully alone with this man, whose very presence exuded falsehood. ‘I am afraid it might not be ready for some time. Lord Radnor, might I ask why you approached me?’
‘Ah, to the point, I suppose. I actually wished to apologise, for how my father and everyone has treated you of late. The suspicion placed on you is simply dreadful, and I can only imagine how awful it has been.’ He slowed beside a flourishing alder, as though to admire it. ‘What interesting petals. I’ve heard you know a thing or two about plants – what is this one?’
‘Alder, Lord Radnor.’Bran’s alder, to be precise. The only alder to truly flower, its namesake was found in a forbidden Cyngaleg story Kenelm Radnor had certainly never heard. Meilyr held the secret close, silent and safe.
‘Please,’ the young lord said, ‘call me Kenelm.’
Meilyr could think of few things worse. ‘My Lord.’ He retrieved his arm under the pretence of adjusting the kerchief. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I am perfectly fine.’
‘Of course. Still, you should know not everyone believes you are…’ He lowered his voice as an excuse to lean in. ‘…the killer. I certainly do not, and I hope His Majesty, too, knows of your innocence?’
There it was. Phrased sympathetically, like a balm.
Faina’s words at lunch the other day surfaced:He’s obsessed with secrets. Feigns being a flirt with an eye for pretty, wispy boys he can coax into bed or against a wall with pretty, wispy words.
But it was all an act. ‘I’m sure he’s epicurean enough to enjoy it,’ she had told him, ‘but secrets are his currency, and he’s an expert at making people comfortable, making them trust him, even as his aunt pulls the strings. He’s ambitious – would do anything for his family, to elevate their March and their position at court. He was one of the potential marriage options for Prince Osian, did you know? His Majesty saw right through him though, barely let him say three words at him. Bit of a delicious slight on the family when you came along.’