by Aldrea Alien
Queen Fiona’s brows shot to their highest. “You want to enter one willingly?” She was silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully at a piece of pork crackling. “Tomorrow willnae be ideal. It’s a fortnight journey to the nearest cloister.”
“I understand,” Darshan murmured. Whilst most nations often lavished foreign royalty, he did comprehend her desire to see an uncloistered spellster shown the way out of her kingdom as swiftly as possible. Hammering out the negotiations immediately would serve that purpose.
“Actually, ‘Mish?” The prince consort swung to his son. “If you can hold off a few days, the ambassador could accompany you, along with a full escort.”
Hamish stiffened, then bowed his head in acquiescence. The man seemed altogether uncomfortable with the idea. Was it the waiting? The prospect of an escort slowing him down? Or had he been looking to distance himself from Darshan’s presence?
He ran a considering eye over the man. Hamish had shown little sign of unease whilst riding through the city. Not even shirking from laying a friendly hand on him. And if he was willing to travel to the cloister, then it couldn’t be Darshan’s spellster status. “I would not wish to intrude or put anyone out,” he insisted.
One side of Hamish’s mouth lifted, raising the hair on his cheek. His gaze rose from his plate to Darshan. “I can wait. The cloister isnae going anywhere.”
The rest of their dinner continued amicably. On the edge of his vision, he spied Hamish glancing at him every so often, a slight furrow twitching between his brows. Quite likely due to the way Darshan picked at his food.
He could identify quite a number of the dishes spread out on the table, at least in part. Surprisingly, he spied very little in the way of vegetables, mostly mashed turnips and potatoes. Of meat, there was plenty. A leg of pork—that he respectfully turned down—another of what the small hoof told him was venison, and a pale lump with a honeycomb texture that was buried in creamy sauce.
The eels were a little more familiar and he didn’t mind them, but back home they were usually served heavily spiced and lightly grilled. Certainly not in a pie. Fortunately, there was grilled fish to be had and he’d eaten a few mouthfuls of the flaky, white flesh before growing tired of the blandness. There was bread, too, in moderate abundance. Not as fanciful as back home, but serviceable.
What he couldn’t identify was the crumbly brown mass currently adorning his plate alongside the mashed vegetables. It had a vague meaty scent with the pungent aroma of clove alongside other spices he couldn’t quite put a finger on.
“You going to eat that?”
Darshan lifted his gaze from the plate, seeking the speaker from those sitting across the table.
There were four children sharing the long table alongside the queen’s adult children, three boys and a young lady. The girl seemed intent on her food, her auburn curls obscuring her face. She would reach over her shoulder to stroke the near-bald head of a large bearskin draped over her chair every so often, but as far as she was concerned, his presence was of no interest.
The boys were another matter. They appeared to be different ages—although he would hazard a guess at there being a scant few years between them—but they all had the same flame-red hair. Darshan had caught them eyeing him through much of the meal, each face screwed up as if they expected him to burst into flame with the next breath. Any one of them looked brazen enough to have spoken.
“Pardon?” Darshan softly enquired.
The eldest of the trio pointed at Darshan’s plate. “I said: are you going to eat that?”
“I cannot even be certain what that is,” he confessed. “You are welcome to it.” He went to push the plate the boy’s way, but the boy leant across the table and snatched up the dish before Darshan could finish talking.
“Bruce!” the sandy-haired woman snapped, instantly getting the boy’s attention. “Put that down.”
With his ruddy-brown cheeks growing darker, Bruce immediately returned the plate to the table.
“I’m sorry about that, your highness,” the woman continued, fixing the boy with a sharp look. Now that she had turned her attention to him, there was no mistaking her as being one of Queen Fiona’s children, not with her face a replica of the queen’s narrow jaw and high cheekbones. “The wee devils would starve you skinny and pick your bones clean if they’d half a chance.” She gave the boys another stern look, although her glower quickly softened into a fond smile.
“It is quite all right,” Darshan insisted, nudging the plate ever closer to Bruce until the boy was able to sneakily slide it on top of his own bare dish. “I rather doubt my ability to eat another bite.” At least, not without it coming back up.
“Really?” The woman eyed him as if he were some wretch that’d washed up in the last storm. “Pardon me for saying, but you look like there’s barely anything to you.”
“Nora,” Hamish growled, nudging the woman with his elbow. “Knock it off. He looks fine.” Panic flickered across his face and he glanced at Queen Fiona before lowering his gaze to his own plate. “I mean in a perfectly healthy sense,” he mumbled.
Darshan gnawed on the inside of his lip as he eyed Hamish’s plate. That has to be his third helping. Where was he putting it all? The man ate more than a ravenous spellster returning from battle.
The sandy-haired woman giggled.
“So, you are Nora,” Darshan said in an attempt to deflect the woman’s interest from her brother. The name had been mentioned in passing as he’d exited the docks and Hamish insisted she knew more about the kingdom’s trade than most. Odd how he hadn’t met her when the other children had been expected to greet his arrival.
“Have me brothers been talking about me?” Grinning, Nora gave both of the men a light-hearted shove. “Good things, I hope.”
“I believe so.” He glanced at Hamish, looking for any sign that he should stop speaking, but the man merely gave a faint smile as he met Darshan’s gaze before returning to his food. “I heard you have an excellent grasp on the trade records.”
Nora beamed, pride squaring her shoulders. “Aye, I do!” She steepled her fingers on the table, all attention focused on Darshan. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to enquire about them?”
“He was asking about linen earlier,” Hamish said around a mouthful of food.
“Linen?” Nora frowned at her brother, her brows knotting further in thought before she grinned. “You want to ken about the flax plantations? I can tell you a lot there.” She leant over the table, very nearly putting her bosom into her food. “You see—”
Queen Fiona cleared her throat. “Rein it in, Nora dear. We can discuss all this in greater detail tomorrow.”
Nora hung her head, a knuckle pressed to her lip. “Aye, Mum,” she mumbled.
“There is one thing I did wonder,” Darshan said. “Your brother mentioned much of the wares go by land, would it not be favourable to send them by ship?”
The gentle clink of plates and cutlery halted. Everyone grew still, some scarcely daring to chew the food still hanging out their mouths. One by one, their gazes left him to focus solely on Nora.
The woman’s face, which had been so cheerfully expressive a mere moment ago, was now wiped free of all emotion. “If you will excuse me,” she murmured, standing woodenly. “I’m a wee bit more tired than I thought.” The woman didn’t linger around for anyone to utter a word, opting to hurry out of the nearest door.
The three boys looked amongst themselves before scampering after her. Upright, they seemed a good deal taller than he had first judged, with the eldest looking as though he could easily rival the height of Darshan’s twin sister. Or maybe even himself.
“Well,” Queen Fiona said. “That was not quite the ending to dinner I was hoping for.” She stood, along with her husband who still towered over her even though she was a good half-foot taller than Darshan. She halted as they went to leave the table. “Do send your wee lass to bed, Gordon dear. Just look at her, almost asleep in her food
.”
Gordon circled the table to gently shake the auburn-haired girl and whisper in her ear.
The girl jolted upright in the chair. Those wide, green eyes surveyed the table, her brows lowering and her lips pursing. “Where’d everyone go?”
“Bed, lass,” Gordon said. “You should be off, too.”
Nodding, the girl dutifully hopped out of her seat—her height not far off that of the eldest boy. She gave the ghastly bearskin a brief pat before trotting off towards the same door the rest of the family had vacated through.
If only my siblings were as complacent. He had lost count of the times the palace servants had been reduced to chasing his half-sisters through the corridors. Did a lack of magical talent make children less likely to be unruly, or did his father merely have the ill-fortune to sire disobedient offspring?
Darshan waited until the girl was well out of earshot before speaking. “I am dreadfully sorry for upsetting your sister.” There was no question her exodus had been his doing. He stood and made for the main door alongside the two princes. It’d likely be for the best if he sought a different route back to the guest quarters. “But I must admit to a little confusion as to what I said wrong.” Anyone would be forgiven for thinking he had suggested roasting children alive by her reaction.
“Her husband used to captain one of the bigger trade ships,” Hamish replied, his voice low even though the room housed but the three of them. “It hit stormy weather just off the north-western coast some eight years back. He drowned attempting to rescue their daughter.”
A gasp slipped through Darshan’s lips before he could stifle it. “I… I had no idea she—”
Gordon clapped a hand onto Darshan’s shoulder. “And why would you have? It’ll be all right, lad.” He gave Darshan a few hearty pats on the back that almost had him sprawled face-first onto the floor. “She will understand.”
“It might be a touch difficult to discuss trade without mentioning ships, though,” he murmured. Especially as that was what his father sought to rectify. If he could find a way to have Tirglasian linen enter Minamist cheaply without buyers having to deal with land cartage taxes, then Minamist would only increase its wealth.
The older prince nodded. “I just think you took her by surprise. She’s usually more composed about it.”
Darshan gave a noncommittal hum. If the woman was worried about sparing her people a similar fate as her husband and daughter, then perhaps he could offer a spellster for every ship. There would need to be rules, though. He rather doubted Queen Fiona would allow foreign spellsters to roam her lands unchecked. “I wonder…” Old tales of Tirglas spoke of their spellsters being permitted beyond the cloister confines during extreme medical cases. Perhaps there could be some convincing into letting them aboard the ships. “Do you usually have to ask Queen Fiona’s permission to visit the cloisters?”
“Nae,” Gordon said, releasing Darshan to clap his hands on Hamish’s shoulders and give the man a little shake. “But me brother’s just about got to ask Mum permission to piss. He certainly cannae leave the castle without someone tailing him.”
Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, Darshan peered at Gordon. Whatever made the man think he would actually believe that? True, a lot of things about Tirglas had seemed mind-boggling until his tutors had presented him with proof, but that sounded a little farfetched. Surely the princes were allowed to venture into Mullhind unescorted. From what he’d seen of Hamish’s arrival through the castle gates, the man had been alone.
“That’s nae true,” Hamish blurted, a faint bloom of colour brushing the tops of his cheeks. The man shot his brother a death glare that Darshan had witnessed on a great many of his own siblings’ faces.
Chuckling and ruffling his brother’s hair, Gordon twitched his head to indicate the corridor. “Come on, we’ll escort you to your quarters.”
“I did that already,” Hamish said, rolling those sapphiric eyes of his. “He cannae have forgotten the way back that quickly.”
Darshan slowly turned his gaze to the surrounding walls. Grey, blank and dim. Still, he’d vague recollections of passing by the dining hall doors whilst trying to exit the castle proper, but not during his original entry. Spending the night wandering the corridors in search of his bed didn’t sound all that appealing. “I could do with an escort, if it is not too much trouble.”
Gordon grinned and wrapped an arm companionably around his brother’s shoulders as he guided them, with Darshan tailing the pair. “See, ‘Mish? You’re forgetting we grew up here and he was likely distracted by all the—” He airily twirled his hand before them. “—fine architecture.” Tipping his head, he gave Darshan a wink behind Hamish’s back.
The sight almost had Darshan stumbling as they veered up a flight of stairs. Yes, he had been very much distracted, but the older prince couldn’t have known that, or what by. It had only been the pair of them then. Had he somehow given some clue? He hadn’t needed to be discreet about his preferences so thoroughly before. Even so, how could he have possibly been noticed that quickly?
Clearly, he’d have to try harder to push such thoughts to the back of his mind. I’m here for a reason. He just needed to keep reminding himself that and get the negotiation details hammered out as swiftly as possible. Then he could return home where such things as the gender of his lover didn’t matter.
Darshan stared at the back of Gordon’s head. He toyed with one of his rings, twisting it back and forth. He couldn’t have misconstrued the act, could he? It had definitely been a wink and not something else.
Then why, if Tirglasians were against the idea of men being with men, had the older prince winked at him?
Thunk!
Hamish glanced up from checking his bowstring. That hadn’t sounded like a promising shot. Putting aside his half-fletched arrow, he ran a scrutinising eye over the archery range.
All three of his nephews stood before him, they had the range to themselves this morning and took advantage of that by spreading across its width. He leant against the low stone wall separating the area from the rest of the castle’s training ground.
His niece was meant to have joined them, but Sorcha was content being tucked against one side of the range, at the end farthest from her cousins where she could sulk in peace. She was well past the point of needing lessons from her uncle, but Gordon refused to let her hunt alone after the lethal fate that had befallen her mother and sister.
Hamish wouldn’t typically be here either, but he had promised his sister that he’d keep an eye on them to ensure they didn’t do something foolish like shoot one another in the foot. Which now seemed like less of an issue than Nora had led him to believe.
Bruce might’ve been just shy of a dozen years old, but he followed the rest of the family in being quick to master the bow. And Ethan, having only a year’s difference between them, would catch up to his brother sooner than Bruce likely thought.
Mac, however, was another story. With the boy being only eight years old, the weapon was new and unruly to him. Unlike the toy swords he had waved about since he could stand. But as Hamish’s mother was so fond of saying, a prince who relied on one weapon was a fool.
Hamish had heard snippets of the boy’s brothers trying to teach him the lessons they’d learnt, but Mac was too busy sulking to take in their words.
Watching the older pair try again reminded Hamish of his childhood days in this same range, when Gordon or Nora would attempt to correct him. He hadn’t been much for listening to his older siblings either.
“I cannae do it!” Mac roared, although the sound was far less fearsome than he likely intended; a bit like a puppy yapping next to the baying of a boarhound. He tossed the bow to one side and aimed an inefficient kick at it.
Shaking his head, Hamish dropped off the stone wall and strode towards the trio. “Is that any way to treat your bow?”
“I cannae hit the target,” the boy continued to wail. “I’ll never be good enough.” He glared at the abandoned w
eapon sitting in the grass. “Thing’s a bloody menace.”
“Language,” Bruce murmured, casting a covert glance at Hamish.
“There’s your problem,” Sorcha bellowed from her place beside the left wall. She waved a hand in their direction, pointing with an arrow that she gripped almost daintily between her middle and index fingers. “You cannae use your bow if you’re nae holding it.” Giving a decisive nod, she nocked the arrow, drew her bow full and loosed to the muffled thack of the target.
Shielding his eyes, Hamish peered down the range. The girl’s arrow had met the target about a few inches shy of centre. Given a year or so of training, and a good deal more hunting trips than she was currently allowed, she’d a fair chance of becoming more skilled than her mother. Just the sort of tale for a future queen.
But her abilities weren’t the ones currently being contested.
Scooping up Mac’s discarded bow from the dew-damp ground, he turned back to his nephews. “She’s right, you ken,” he said to the sulking boy.
“What does it matter?” Mac muttered. “It willnae shoot straight whether I’m holding it or nae.”
“He’s shaking all over the place,” Ethan said with his older brother nodding over his shoulder.
“Really?” Hamish offered the bow to Mac. “Show me, lad.”
His nephew glared at him through a mop of gingery red curls. All three of the boys had more-or-less the same hair colour, several shades darker than their mother’s almost reddish blonde locks.
Seeing that further insistence would only serve to frustrate the both of them, he knelt at Mac’s side. “You ken, I was pretty rubbish at this when I first started.”
His nephew eyed him warily, likely trying to picture a time when Hamish had ever not been capable of loosing an arrow and hitting his target dead-centre. Admittedly, the boy hadn’t even been a glimmer in his dad’s eye when such a statement was true, but maybe it would motivate him.