Sunlight slipped in as a soft spill across the floor, stirring dust motes into a lazy dance. By the window, a white robe hung from a brass hook, the hem stirring as the breeze wandered in and out like a curious cat. Birds songs rising and falling with the wind.
Ciaran lay on his mattress, the linen cool against his skin. His hands were folded between his thighs for warmth, but the breeze sifted through his tangled hair and made his shoulders shake.
Half-asleep, he groped along the floor for the quilt he'd sworn he'd left within reach. His fingers brushed frayed cotton. Eyes still gritty with dreams, he dragged the quilt over his bare arms and chest.
Behind his closed eyes, the dream clung. A girl with a fall of black hair, eyes bright ran to him. When she saw him, she clutched his tunic as if she might drown without him. Then she smiled, and that smile fractured the dark. Her hand closed around his, tugging him toward a forest. Something waited there. Something he almost remembered.
Then palace bell thundered, once, twice and again. The ringing filling the corridors and shaking the dream out of him. He winced and pulled the quilt over his head.
"Ciaran!" Ewan's voice carried from the hall, too cheerful for this hour. Ewan, who had been his manservant since they were kids and Ewan, who never learned how to knock softly.
Ciaran rolled onto his stomach and groaned. "Stop shouting," he muttered into the pillow.
"You need to get up," Ewan said, already striding in. "You're going to be late for breakfast and your father would kill me." Curtains hissed as he drew them wide.
Light attacked even in his closed eyes. Ciaran squinted. "Can't you shut it?"
"The King demands your presence," Ewan replied, and smiled a little, as if the title might soften the blow.
"Can you tell them—"
"Them? You mean the King?"
"Tell them to stop ringing those bells at dawn. It's provoking!" Ciaran yawned as tried, and failed to sound regal mid-yawn.
"Those are the time—" Ewan started, but couldn't finish as Ciarain interrupted.
"That's an order, Ewan," he said, finding his regal voice.
"Yes, Sire," Ewan nodded and turned to leave the room when he paused, and looked back at Ciaran. "But they are under your father's command."
"And you are under mine," Ciaran snapped, voice gone blade-quick. "Now get out!"
Ewan dipped his head and turned toward the window. "Do you need me to take this out?" His fingers hovered over the white robe, the one that always hung there.
"Don't," Ciaran said. The word came too fast. His expression cooled as if a cloud had crossed the sun.
"I'm sorry. It's been there for too long."
"And it stays. You aren't allowed to touch it until I tell you to do so," he warned.
Ewan nodded. The robe still held a memory of a night Ciaran would never speak about. He didn't have to. The way his gaze fixed on it hollowed and distant said enough.
"Ciaran?" A woman's voice called from the corridor.
Jagoda. He could hear the soft rasp of her sandals on stone. Ciaran jerked his chin at Ewan like a silent command.
But Ewan pitched his voice toward the bath chamber. "What?"
Ewan leaned toward the door. Ciaran hissed, "Tell her I'm showering."
"Ciaran?" Jagoda called again. Ewan waited for the curtains to fall fully back across the window, then cracked the door.
"Jagoda," he said with laughter in his voice to cover Ciaran's flurry behind him.
"Ewan? Where is Ciaran?" She tried to peek over his shoulder. He lifted a forearm, polite but firm.
"He'll be out any moment. He—" A thud sounded behind them. Ewan cleared his throat. "Excuse me." He slipped out and closed the door gently in her face.
Jagoda had been physician and guardian to Ciaran and Isley for fourteen years. She knew the timbre of their footsteps, the sickle of their moods by ear alone. She also knew a closed door when she met one. She waited a heartbeat longer and then left.
The hall had warmed with candle-smoke. A long oak table stretched down the center, dressed in white cloth and silverware bright enough to throw back the morning. Ten chairs, though only three would be filled.
The women in white shifted quietly along the edges, scarves knotted at the napes of their necks, serving the dishes, honeyed bread, cured meats laid out, a tureen of steaming barley porridge that smelled like roasted nuts.
King Michail sat tall at the head, hands linked loosely, face softened by the hour.
"Good morning, father," Isley said with a laugh as she leaned to place a kiss on his cheek before she took her seat.
"Isley." His eyes brimmed with her. "Did you sleep well?"
"It was perfect, Father."
"That's good. Where's—"
"I'm sorry I'm late," Ciaran said, stepping in on the breath of a draft. He tugged his tunic straight and took the chair opposite Isley.
"It's fine," Michail said.
"Your Highness?" Hera murmured, gliding to Ciaran's shoulder with a decanter of wine. She poured for the King, then for Isley and when she reached Ciaran. Her hand steadied so carefully the stream didn't ripple. Her lashes lowered but he didn't look at her.
"So... how is training?" Michail asked, breaking the thread of silence.
"I heard Sir Isidore beat you yesterday," Isley said lightly, lifting her cup to hide her smile, but Ciaran saw her eyes laughing at him.
"I don't know where you heard that," Ciaran said. He cleared his throat just as his fingers brushed Hera's. The contact was brief and accidental but it burned like a remembered touch.
Hera withdrew, the line of her mouth pinched. Two weeks ago, he had taken her to his chambers in a haze of wine and loneliness; last night, sober, he'd let it happen again. Now the air between them was a taut string nobody wanted to pluck.
"Hera told me," Isley said, brightly. Hera coughed and moved away. Her face flushing as if she'd stepped too close to the hearth. Ciaran cut his sister a look that warned and pleaded at once.
"You shouldn't listen to everything you hear, certainly not from a maid," he said, glaring at Hera.
Everyone knew he'd die for Isley before breakfast, and yet here he was, swatting at her like she were a fly.
"Do you still have your sweet nightmares?" Isley teased, leaning back, smug as a cat in sunlight.
"That's enough," Michail chuckled, though his gaze slid, thoughtful, to his son. The word nightmares soaked into the table like spilled wine.
"I'm only saying...the one with the eyes." Isley's grin sharpened. "She was your lover as a child."
"What? What eyes?" Michail's brows rose with deep curiosity.
"You didn't know? Ciaran told me once he was in love—"
"I've lost my appetite," Ciaran said. He set his cup down carefully enough that it barely touched the table. The control was the only loud thing about it. He stood.
"Where are you going?" Isley asked, too fast to pretend she didn't care.
"Training," Ciaran said. He turned in the doorway and flashed her a smile that showed teeth. "And don't come."
"Whatever," Isley muttered, rolling her eyes for show.
"Tell me more about this crush," Michail murmured, amused.
"No, Father," Isley laughed, watching him leave the room. While Ciaran heard it trail him down the corridor like a ribbon.
As Ciaran arrived at his chambers. He found Ewan on his knees, but beside him was a bucket and a brush that seemed forgotten. Ewan also had sleeves pushed to his elbows, and his hair was damp with sweat. The smell of lye bit into the air. However, he looked like he was looking for something.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Ciaran asked, eyeing the grime water.
"I am cleaning," Ewan said, without looking up. "I clean every day." He plunged the brush into the bucket and scrubbed at a seam in the slate.
"Hmm? Then why are my boots muddy?" Ciaran stepped around the bucket and kicked at one of the offending boots and a crescent of dust shattered on the rug.
"Because you—" Ewan sneezed, sharp as a hiccup.
"Now you're sneezing in my chambers?"
"That's nature," Ewan said and then, as if he sudden recalled whom he was speaking to. He took a deep loud inhale before adding. "Sire."
Ciaran's mouth tilted, but only a little and vanished quickly. "Get my sword. I'm going hunting."
"Hunting?" Ewan repeated, glancing at the robe by the window and then away again.
"Me and Sir Haris," Ciaran said, already reaching for his bracers.
"Just you both?"
"Yes, dummy. And you're coming."
"Why?" Ewan questioned, almost as if he was questioning his existence. Hunting was never really fun for him.
"Because someone needs to carry my bow."
"And that's me?"
"Ewan, Goddammit!"