‘His Majesty should take better care of hisconsort.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard.’ Vociferousprotection, echoing the way Haydn had always argued with Celyn, the barbs of their rage splintering Meilyr’s senses.
‘Haydn, stop.’ He unfolded himself from him, squeezing his hand as he let go. He could not bear this, not now. ‘I am fine, both of you. I have things to collect.’
‘Let me,’ Haydn said.
Meilyr raised an unsteady hand. Let it drop. ‘I want to go alone. I’m sorry.’
Haydn had helped, but conflicted guilt and strain and Haydn’s own longing pushed at the backs of his eyes.
‘Alone with them?’ Haydn asked of Pedr. Regretted it. ‘I didn’t mean that. Just be safe. Call for me if you need me.’
Meilyr listed away, focused on the plants he needed. On the hushed sound of his court boots through the grasses. The call of starlings in the bushes. He needed Bran’s alder, past the folly – needed to be alone, or as alone as he could manage with Pedr.
Ena’s Folly emerged from the foliage: the single-floored stone tower at the edge of one of the terraces overlooking Cyngalon, where Osian had brought him after Lord Gelens’ arrival. Where Meilyr had tasted the prince’s throat, and had allowed himself to be tasted in return.
He had passed it a handful of times since, and always it brought memory-heat to his skin.
Today, Aldreda’s crownsblood Jocosa waited leisurely outside, and he noticed her too late. The Heir Apparent’s rich voice called from above, ‘Highness Meilyr Cadogan. A moment?’
Of course this could not be simple. Rankled trepidation coiled as he ascended the short curve of stairs to enter, Pedr waiting with Jocosa.
The folly’s encircling wall was made entirely of archways, painted beautifully on the inside with murals of a golden-haired maiden amidst intricately detailed wildflowers: poppies and daisies, lavender and snowdrops, a swathe of forget-me-nots. They were all the more colourful and stunning in the daylight, framed by the fiercely flourishing wisteria.
Aldreda leaned against one of the lightly dripping arches as he stepped inside. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t look as though I’m about to bite your head off. You’re still the most interesting thing to happen to our little court for a very long time, even with the recent stint of murdered nobles. So, how are you faring? Quite a change from your old life?’
Not what he had expected.
‘It certainly has been a change, Your Majesty. But change is inherent to life, so I only hope I can meet the occasion.’
There was something dark in the curve of her mouth. The doubt that had run fissures through her the day before was still there. ‘I like that.Change is inherent to life.You ran one of the apothecaries down there, correct? A good deal of old Deneland remedies? Did you tend the entire populace, or only those of your blood?’
He swallowed the shard of fearful irritation that tried to lodge in his tongue. ‘Anyone who sought assistance, Majesty. And not merely Deneland remedies, though with Deneland plant matter easiest to source, there were a good deal of them, yes.’
‘Do you miss it terribly?’
‘It was all I had known for a long time,’ he admitted.
‘Your foster-father died when you were eighteen, so I hear. Natural causes?’
Unease, sharpened by shock. ‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘No home remedies that could help?’
‘No, Majesty.’ Ever-present pain and guilt. ‘For some things, there is no cure.’
No matter how much he had tried. No matter how much it still hurt that, once again, he had not been enough to save someone he loved.
Something changed in Aldreda’s eyes. She buried it swiftly. ‘How very true. I am sorry for your loss. And your birth parents, the same?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
She nodded, lifting off the wall to walk the space, gaze on the greenery beyond. ‘My mother went the same way, did you know? Osian’s mother too, though that was… Well, these things happen, and we are supposed togrow, seemingly.’ Her path brought her smoothly to him. ‘Apologies for baiting you so openly, again, but I wanted to see something. And now I want to ask something. Do you truly have no idea how this sorcerer is killing our nobles? Surely there is something that might reveal the truth, some whisper or old ghost story?’
He had been tossed about enough by the conversation – by that entire morning, not to mention the last few days – that he could not drown the words in time. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it was Khaim who hunted and slaughtered those capable of sorcery in the days of your great-grandfather, far before my time.’