Kenelm Radnor smelled like lies and ulterior motives. It emanated from him like corpse flower bloom.
‘Even if the prince did harbour doubt,’ he told Meilyr compassionately, ‘he might need to conceal it from you. I hope that does not trouble you too terribly. He has his duty to uphold, and sometimes duty comes before the heart.’ He laid his hand to his own, gaze coy.
But Meilyr had attuned himself to toxins well enough to know this one by scent.
‘Oh, no, His Majesty has left me without doubt. He has been an immense comfort.’ He touched his own chest, mirroring the gesture. ‘I do not know what I would do without him. Anyone else might certainly suspect me, but Prince Osian…’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Kenelm Radnor lied. ‘If you were to find yourself alone, that would truly be awful. Still’ – he snapped a plume of tiny white flowers and offered it – ‘if you ever have need of another to confide in, I have been told I am an excellent listener.’
No doubt. ‘Thank you, Lord Radnor.’
‘Please. Kenelm.’
Meilyr glanced at Pedr, who understood and stepped forward. ‘Forgive me,’ Meilyr said, ‘I am late for my lessons. Until next time.’
‘Yes, until next time.’
Meilyr did not have to fake hurrying up the terraces.
Interesting. Was this Kenelm Radnor’s machination or someone else’s?
He found he wanted to tell Osian, though with Pedr behind him, word would probably reach the prince soon enough.
TWENTY
Once, it did not matter that our gods had different names,
our stories different heroes.
They were the same gods, and the same stories,
shared by the same fire.
Now, they banish our gods
and forbid our stories.
A land does not die in a day,
but through the slow exsanguination
of its soul.
Blood in the Sky: The Five-Hundred-Year Slaughter,
H. M
TWENTY
One morning, Meilyr was provided with a pouch of small black seeds: fox’s tears. Faint but healthy; they needed somewhere sheltered and moist, with occasional sunshine.
The tower-top would not do, so Osian came to help select the spot, Blythe and Pedr accompanying. Nelda – the bubbling Keeper of the Grounds – led the way, humbly suggesting places whilst nodding enthusiastically at Meilyr’s input. They settled on two spots, and she called over her assistant.
Haydn stepped out from behind a bursting-yellow forsythia and strode calmly towards them.
Meilyr tensed on Osian’s arm.
Haydn bowed, low and formal. ‘Highness. Your Majesty.’