The sleigh dropped them off behind the palace. The driver snapped his whip and the oryx snorted, pulling the sleigh a hundred yards away before stopping. Jaime looked up at Maxim, wondering why they were at the edge the forest with pine trees and slumbering oaks as far as the eye could see. The mountains loomed above the trees, just the cloudy pinnacles and sheer sides visible over the treetops. Wisps of clouds raced and pooled around the faraway peaks, and Jaime marveled at how fast the winds must be moving to make clouds look like rivers of snow.
They had already seen the Royal Guard barracks, where guards and city soldiers saluted Maxim, a few calling out in greeting to the prince as they passed in the sleigh. Then the gardens, coated in snow, but the landscaping was easy to see and a marvel. The palace was huge, far larger than Jaime had guessed from his previous, brief glimpses. It was easily the size of a small city and about as large as Marlec Point, the city where Jaime was born and raised in Eistrea. He had seen so much, and the palace’s many wings and buildings passed in a blur. He was unlikely to remember it in any detail, and he was foreseeing many days spent wandering about, lost. He was afraid to hope that he would one day know it well.
Maxim adjusted his sword on his hip, and leather creaked in the cold. Jaime tugged his cloak in tighter and was grateful for the borrowed clothing. Maxim gestured for him to follow, and Jaime did so, treading behind Maxim as the prince broke through a pristine layer of snow. It was not deep; the field that abutted the forest was wind-scored, drifts collecting in the leeward side of large trees and rocky outcroppings. It was at one such outcropping that Maxim stopped after a few minutes.
As tall as Maxim, the rock came out from the field at an angle, and Jaime scrambled up the side after the prince. It was easily twenty feet wide, and the surface was free from snow with some minor patches of ice that Jaime stepped around.
“What are we doing?” Jaime dared to ask, and Maxim sent him a sly glance before the prince went back to examining the rock under their feet.
“Sometimes they use this field to sun on during the winter. The wind is not as chaotic down here at sea level, and the sun has a chance to warm the rocks. Sometimes they leave behind presents.” Maxim explained, though Jaime was confused.
“Who? What?”
“Aha!” Maxim crowed and scooped something from the ground.
Sunlight caught on the feather, shining like golden glass. Cream colored and as long as his forearm, the feather was rigid with a thick, deep red spine along the center that drew the eye. Maxim came to him, and Jaime took the feather, mouth agape. His tried to speak, but he couldn’t, and Maxim chuckled. Jaime held it aloft, marveling at how, even removed from the giant beast that dropped it, the feather still caught the wind enough to tug against his fingers. The edges were smooth and clean, the spine unbent, and it had a faint spicy odor that reminded him of cinnamon.
“There was…there was a gryphon here? This close to the palace?” Jaime finally got out. Maxim nodded, looking back at his home before turning to the mountains.
“Yes. There’s no hunting allowed here, and the guards won’t bother the beasts if they don’t mess with the livestock. They’ve learned to avoid humans, and we haven’t had a mishap in several years. They’re as safe here as they are in their mountains. The forests behind the palace all the way to the mountains are off limits to everyone but the royal family and the guards.”
Jaime eyed the size of the feather. He doubted anyone would want to come back here even if the grounds weren’t restricted. The creature must be the size of a warhorse. Jaime sent his gaze back to the mountains. The sky was bright, the horizon blue and clear, clouds touching the mountaintops. A part of him wished he could stay in this field forever, until he got to see one of the gryphons, perhaps even the beast who shed the feather he held. He wondered what it looked like—if its colors were the same as the feather he held, or if the wings were one color while the body another. Were they like birds of prey in their colorations or like songbirds? Did the genders share colorations or were they different?
He lost track of how long he stared at the mountains, hoping to see a small dot soaring in the sky amongst the peaks. He blushed and sent a sidelong glance at the prince. Maxim was gazing at him and not the sky with a soft, wondering expression in his eyes and a smile.
The trip back to the infirmary was taken in a daze. It might have something to do with the feather in his hand, or maybe the soft, almost chaste kiss the prince pressed to his lips before parting at the door to the healers’ wing.
“Our prince is a smart one, for certain.”
Jaime snapped his head up, eyes widening. Greaves smiled at him from a nearby table. Jaime had stopped in the middle of the great room, absentmindedly gazing down at the feather. “Smart? I guess, or he seems to be, I mean. Drat. You know what I mean.”
Greaves smiled wider, standing and walking over. Jaime handed him the feather, and Greaves had a soft, awed expression in his eyes. Jaime was glad he wasn’t the only person to be so moved by something as simple as a feather. “He took you to the field behind the palace, didn’t he?”
Jaime nodded.
“No one goes there but the youngest prince. King Llyr went often as a young man, hoping to befriend a gryphon, but eventually duty and old age got in the way of dreams. Prince Maxim has gotten close, I hear. The guards bemoan his sense sometimes.”
“Prince Maxim got close to a gryphon?” Jaime squeaked. “It could have killed him!”
Greaves shook his head, handing back the feather. Jaime took it, concerned for his foolish prince. Greaves must have deciphered his expression, since he went on. “Gryphons won’t attack a human unless provoked or their fledglings are in danger. A sunning gryphon is a gryphon feeling lazy. No more dangerous than a steer or stallion.” Greaves gave Jaime a wink. “Besides, Prince Maxim is a canny hunter. He knows his prey and how to approach a skittish creature.”
Jaime blushed harder. He hated his complexion sometimes—it revealed his state of mind far too often for his comfort. “Are you saying…Prince Maxim is hunting me?”
Greaves’ eyebrows went up. “I perhaps said that wrong. He’s a kind man. Not predatory in an inappropriate way. He’s had a few lovers, but nothing serious and nothing recent. He isn’t the type to seek out a tasty morsel and then move on once consumed. Please ignore my teasing, I am dreadful at it, as is obvious.”
“Does he…Does the prince…” Jaime couldn’t finish. He was too unsure. He didn’t know Greaves at all, and the man varied between serious and awkward.
“Well, I asked for it,” Greaves mumbled to himself. He put his shoulders back and spoke clearly. “I honestly believe Prince Maxim cares for you deeply. He searched for you for hours when you got lost. He carried you here to the infirmary himself. He talks to you, takes you to the library, tries to get you out of your room. I believe his affection to be sincere. And I am not saying this because he is my prince and a favorite among those who live in the palace. Jaime, you are worth his regard and more. If you didn’t have doubts before, don’t let me give you any. I’m sorry.”
Jaime stared at Greaves for a long time, picking apart his words. Greaves met his eyes and his expression stayed earnest. Jaime nodded, and Greaves relaxed a bit. “Right. Now that I have pulled my foot from my mouth, want to get some work in? A messenger from Corinthia sent your healing kit from the Academy.”
“They did?” Jaime was surprised. In his haste to get home to his father, Jaime had left behind his robes and the healing kit he spent three years building. Filled with tools, small books of herblore, and remedies, potions, medicines, and more, it had been a costly sacrifice when he left the Academy. “How did it get here?”
Jaime followed Greaves to the table, and sure enough, his kit from Corinthia was laid out on the surface, including the metal scalpel that bore his initials imprinted in the steel. He put the blade down and gazed in wonder at his belongings, seemingly having appeared from nowhere. The only thing not present were his textbooks, but that made sense. They were the property of the Academy, and he was half a world away. They were likely given to another student, and Jaime had the royal library.
Greaves returned to his seat and sat with a grateful sigh. “We have a few magi here in the employ of the royals. Their type of magic is beyond my understanding, but they can communicate across long distances, and somehow, small things, like scrolls, messages, and small parcels, can be summoned across the seas. I asked a magi once, and her reply was so far beyond me I just fall back to ‘it was magic.’”
That sounded daunting, so Jaime filed that question away for later. He grew up in Eistrea—there was a mage school in the capital, Meadowtown, but the mages were strictly controlled by the crown. Anyone with magic who didn’t want to belong to the select few who answered to the High King eventually left the country, willingly or not. Too many, like Jaime, fell victim to the superstitions held by the general populace. His father once said the only reason the people were so distrustful of magic was due to the crown’s habit of sequestering those with magic away from the rest of the country. No real information got out; so rumors and fear spread. Anyone who didn’t belong to the crown was vulnerable to violence and discrimination. Jaime felt that first hand, though he knew he was luckier than most. Many people died.
What he could do was magic. He knew that, he truly did. His gift was something he could control, and it had limits. He didn’t know how he felt about the seeming unlimited power of those called the magi, but he appreciated the freedom they seemed to possess. Greaves implied the magi were paid by the crown—in Eistrea, a mage either did as the crown commanded or faced violence, death, or exile. There was one school, the Mage College, on the palace grounds at Meadowtown, and anyone who attended owed their lives to the crown.
Jaime took in the wide, brightly lit room. The atmosphere was quiet, one of contemplation, but he could hear the echo of friendly chatter and the sounds of a few patients in the next room. There was the usual worry of the ill and injured, but he got no sense of stress or fear. The healers here were not afraid. Greaves spoke like a man who did not worry for his next meal, for the lash of a whip, or even if he would be homeless the next time he crossed paths with the wrong person.
Pyrderi was not Eistrea.
Jaime was in a new place. Safer. The world was brighter. The wounds he bore had faded to scars, and perhaps one day, breathing the fresh, cold air of Pyrderi would help heal the scars on his heart and soul. Maxim’s soft smile and kind hands didn’t hurt, either.
“Grab some rags and some vinegar spray,” Greaves said, motioning to the equipment on the table. “Let’s get this cleaned up then we can talk through some basic surgery principles.”
Jaime smiled. He went for the cleaning supplies with a spring in his step. A place that fit him, and the potential for more. Maxim filled his thoughts as he let his hands work through the old familiar rhythm of rag and steel.
Jaime frowned down at the list in his hand. The infirmary was short some medicinal roots, and a few of them were edible; so Greaves reasoned the kitchen might have what they needed. The last two days had been spent in a flurry of training, healing, and nights short on sleep. A small storm had rolled in, short in duration but long in fury, and ice blanketed Taliesin City and the palace. More ice meant more falls which meant more broken bones, and the palace infirmary was at capacity. The sharp dip in temperatures also brought on more illnesses, like hypothermia, frostbite, and oddly enough, dehydration. The winter air dried out the moisture from the nearby sea, chapping skin and lips, and exposed portions of the body, like noses and tips of ears, cracked and peeled.
“The Healer’s Guild here in the city is full, and the palace takes in overflow when needed. We have more gifted healers in the palace, and the few in the guild hospital are overtaxed. They need more hands,” Greaves had told him while packing kits for the handful of volunteers. Jaime had asked why he and Greaves weren’t going, but Greaves shook his head and motioned down toward the infirmary, which was full of patients. “We’ve got plenty of people here to care for, the healers going into the city used to work down in the guild hall hospital, so they are better suited. Now get the rest of those bandages.”
That was a handful of hours ago, and Jaime clutched the list as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen. He stood out in a way he hadn’t before, his healer novice robes were a stark contrast to the kitchen staff’s homespun clothing. A servant Jaime recognized stopped and smiled at him, and Jaime took a few more steps inside, careful not to get in the way. The kitchen was buzzing with activity; the Solstice Festival was in full swing and the palace was packed with celebrants. The Ball was a few days away still, but there were events and festivities every day that required food and drink.
“You look far happier,” the servant teased with a crooked smile. Jaime thought the woman’s name was Rula, but wasn’t certain. “Those robes fit you laddie; better than kitchen linen.” She winked. “What’s got you back here? Heard your lot were stuffed to the gills with broken hips.”
Jaime ducked his head, the teasing making him feel more shy than scared. “Rula! Quit your flirting and let the boy through.” Cook’s familiar booming voice made them both jump, and Jaime smiled ruefully at Rula before she blended in with the crowd. Cook lumbered up to him, shirt covered in red stains and flour, but his hands were clean and his smile wide. Jaime found himself smothered in a bear hug, and he hugged back, resting a cheek on Cook’s wide chest.
“Ah, my boy, you’ve got smiles in your eyes and more meat on your ribs. Have you found your place, then?” Cook’s voice rumbled under his ear. The man smelled of berries and sugar. Must be pie filling the air with sweetness and warmth.
“Yes, sir.” Jaime said softly, but Cook heard him, chuckling deep in his chest.
“Good, good.” Cook pushed back enough to look down at Jaime, and his wide smile turned wicked. “I thought for certain you might fit with Captain Marcus, but you snagged our youngest prince. Rumor has it someone made an appearance at the opening ceremony.”
“I didn’t snag him!” Jaime said, aghast. He wasn’t a greedy social climber, looking for the best marriage option. “Prince Maxim is a sweet, kind man who…who likes me.”
“Easy, boy.” A big hand smoothed back his hair, like his father used to do when he was little. His indignation calmed, and he could see the delight in Cook’s expression. “I meant nothing by it, Jaime. Our young prince is a favorite of ours. The crown prince and the twins travel to the summer court for half the year, but the king remains, as does Prince Maxim. King Llyr is too fragile to travel long distances; so the prince remains with his father. His heart is set here in the north, with the mountains and ice and his faraway gryphons. He sneaks in here often enough when we aren’t feeding a few thousand people a day, stealing pies and blushes from the staff. He hasn’t done it since you arrived, but then King Llyr had a setback about the time Captain Marcus brought you to us. Prince Maxim is a good lad, and you couldn’t do better.”
Jaime bit his lip, looking down, cheeks burning hotter than the six-foot-tall flames in the grand hearth. “You know a lot about what goes on in the palace,” Jaime mumbled, embarrassed. Cook’s booming laugh made his ears feel like popping. Big hands rubbed his head once more, before Cook put a hand on his shoulder and led him to a nearby collection of stools along the wall. When it got busy, most stations in the kitchen were too active to sit, so the stools were moved out of the way. Cook nudged him to sit, and Jaime did, Cook folding his huge frame onto a stool that groaned in complaint.
“The kitchen of any noble house is the hub of the rumor mill, my boy. Servants are everywhere, and we hear everything. Not to mention the staff of visiting nobles love to gossip. Apparently, the court is atwitter with the news that Prince Maxim may be the first of the king’s children to wed. Unexpected, of course, but then Prince Janis and the twins have had plenty of opportunity to march down the aisle.”
“Marriage?” Jaime squeaked. “Marriage! Oh no, no no no.”
Cook shook his head, chuckling. “Easy, boy. Rumors are only that—very few have more than a hint of truth to them. The more accurate version is that our young prince is smitten, and courting a shy young healer from faraway lands with a mysterious past. Everyone is quite curious about Healer Buchanan.”
“I’m still a novice! An apprentice!” Jaime rubbed his face, and the paper crinkled against his cheek. “That sounds like I’m this amazing person who swept the prince off his feet!”
“Ah, boy. Easy.” Cook pulled his hands away from his face. “Don’t be like that. The late queen was a ship captain’s daughter, Prince Janis’ mother. She wore breeches, wielded a saber, and rousted pirates from the Triplets in the strait. She died when Janis was a wee lad, but the point I’m making is, if a buccaneer can wed a king, a healer still in training robes won’t even make a ripple across the collective conscience of Pyrderi.”
“The first queen was a buccaneer? Truly?” Jaime asked, awed. Cook nodded, no sign he was teasing. Cook snatched the paper from Jaime, who shook his head to dismiss the images of a saber-wielding woman wearing a crown. She sounded marvelous, and he mourned the loss of a woman who died years before he was born.
“She was indeed,” Cook confirmed as he read the list from Greaves. “There’s books by the bushel about her exploits in the library, and perhaps Prince Maxim can even tell you some tales. Queen Marsalan, The Buccaneer Bride. Her ship was the Pride of Pyrderi. On her death, it went to Crown Prince Janis. She wasn’t Prince Maxim’s mother, though—he and the twins were birthed by King Llyr’s current wife, Queen Amal.”
Cook waved down a passing undercook and handed off the list. “Bring those roots in a box, and a trolley for Novice Buchanan, please.” The undercook gave a short nod and scurried off, leaving Cook and Jaime to talk.
“You…” Jaime hesitated, wondering how to ask what he wanted without giving offense. “You were always nice to me, but you and I never…we never…” He motioned between them, at a loss.
“Talked like this?” Cook asked, tilting his head. Jaime nodded. “Couldn’t very well do so before, not while you were one of mine. Fosters jealousy. I was careful with you as I could be, though. A blind man could see you were still fragile, but that shield of glass you had around your heart and mind is all but gone. You’re smiling, boy, even when people aren’t looking at you.”
Cook nodded, a firm confirmation in answer to the questioning wonder on Jaime’s face. Cook stood from his stool, looming over Jaime before offering a hand and helping him to his feet. “You come back and see me, you hear? You need friends, boy, and I’ve already invested a fair share of my time in making sure you found your feet.”
The undercook returned, pushing a trolley laden with a large wooden box, piled high with the roots Greaves requested. Jaime eyed the golden roots, dried for storage over the winter months, but that was to be expected. Greaves said fresh or dried.
“Thank you for the roots,” Jaime said. Cook reached out, engulfing Jaime in another spine-bending hug. A few weeks before, and Jaime would have flinched in fear. He marveled at himself—he hadn’t flinched once since he got to the kitchen.
“You’re welcome,” Cook replied, and Jaime knew that was meant for more than just the roots.
He wasn’t hiding anymore. Everyone knew who he was and what he could do just by looking at his robes, and here, it was normal and respected. Jaime returned the hug, happy to be smelling like berry pie filling and sugar for the rest of the day.