Page 14 of A Tale of Ice and Ash
Onyx was as old as the mountains and almost as weathered. His once-black hair was now dark silver, his skin beaten and leathery beneath his whiskers. Only his eyes had any gleam left in them. His brother, Merry, was younger by a great deal, his skin not wrinkled to the point of pruning, his hair still mostly dark and his eyes bright and sunny. The only thing rough about him was his hands, from the years of building, carving and forging.
Onyx tapped his wooden leg on the floor, gesturing for Eirwen to sit. It was one of Merry’s creations, a polished piece of oak fashioned in the shape of a regular foot, but engraved with ancient dwarven markings. He never hid it with a boot or sock.
Eirwen sat. Ivy kissed her father’s cheek and slid in beside him. Juniper did the same next to Eirwen. Garnet and Merry dished out the bowls, and Wren came in to take her place. She poked Oakley in the ribs and asked him to pass down the bread.
Finally, Garnet and Merry took their places, and the meal began in earnest.
Oakley chatted about a new ointment he was experimenting with, while Merry praised hishusband’s cleverness. Garnetquizzed the twins on what they’d learnt that day. Wren tried to enthrall everyone with tales of her latest exploits in the hunt for the white stag, but they fell largely on deaf ears.
“And what of you, girl?” barked Onyx. “How has your day been? My children inform me you ran into an old acquaintance. Should we be worried?”
Eirwen bit her lip. She’d been hoping to avoid talking about Cole. She didn’t want anyone to fret over her, and the truth was, shewantedto believe Cole was telling the truth, that he’d keep her survival a secret.
“I think we’re fine,” she said.
“Good. Where’s the trinket, then?”
Eirwen raised her arm to finally unlatch it from her wrist, only it wasn’t there. Dread, anger and frustration gripped her.Cole.
Something in her face must have registered.
“No need to worry, eh?” Onyx shook his head. “Oh dear, girl…”
Eirwen swallowed, her throat tight. “See, Ivy?” she said. “Not all princes are charming.”
∞∞∞
Cole snuck in through the servants’ quarters, like he often did of late. There was far too much fanfare and fuss if he tried to enter through the main doors, and everyone had to bow as he passed by. As a boy, he’d enjoyed that, enjoyed the power of his mere presence, but lately…
He didn’t know precisely what had changed. It had been a slow, gradual thing, like his mother’s shift in temper. In his youth, she’d been patient and reserved, kind almost to a fault. It was hard to think that the same gentle fingers that had hovered over his, teaching him the piano, had slashed a servant’s face two weeks before.
His father used to accuse her of being too kind to them. Now, she was the exact opposite.
It got worse after Olwen had died. Whatever Snow said, it was plain to Cole that his mother had loved the king. Her tears had not been for show. Cole knew because he’d heard her sobbing late at night, with no audience around her. Something about his death had shattered her, snipped away something of the person she once was.
She had not cried at all after his father’s death, but then, he hadn’t shed many tears either. He was ashamed to admit that losing Olwen was harder on him, too. His own father had been distant and reserved. He went quiet whenever he walked in the room, as if Cole were a stranger invading in his home, a nuisance that he had to put up with.
When he died, Cole had been sad, but mostly he mourned for what had never been alive to begin with.
Olwen was different. Olwen had tried from the moment he arrived, had made time for him, looked him in the eye, taught him things, spoke to him about everything and nothing.
The people of the kingdom regarded him as a weak king, too gentle and out of touch with the common folk and the problems of the kingdom, and perhaps they were right. But of one fact, Cole was sure: Olwen had been a good man. He wanted him to be his father.
Footsteps sounded down the corridor. Cole stilled, wondering if he should duck into a room to avoid a confrontation with a poor servant. Once, they’d looked at him and his mother with respect, but ever since she’d become so unpredictable, that respect had shrivelled to fear. A fear mirrored towards him. He used to flirt with the maids, but now they turned their heads away when he entered a room, as though his gaze could cut them.
Before he could make a decision, a fair head and a bright smile appeared at the end of the corridor. Niamh. Snow’s former nursemaid. He’d been a bit too old for one by the time he arrived in Aberthor, but she fussed over him in a similar fashion, and was one of the few servants who hadn’t changed towards him.
“Niamh,” he grinned, “you’re looking as lovely as ever.”
Niamh sighed, shaking her head. “I’m over twice your age, I’m bony and greying, my hair’s a frank mess and I haven’t had a proper bath in weeks. What, pray tell, makes melovely?”
“Your smile,” he told her.
Despite herself, Niamh chuckled. “You’re a rotten flirt. It’ll get you into trouble one of these days.”
“Maybe. But it’ll get me into an awful lot of fun in the meantime.”
“One day you’ll meet a girl that doesn’t fall for your charm, and I can’t wait to see how that goes.”
