The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(75)

“What was that all about?” the forward boy in white asked casually.

His regal self-assurance was so like my brother Lleu’s that I realized who he must be: this was Wazeb, Caleb’s heir, whose kingdom Constantine was guarding. I noticed now that he was even crowned, after a fashion; his head cloth was boundlote: with a simple circlet of twisted grass, whose points met in a cross.

“Artos the high king of Britain is dead,” Constantine said in Ethiopic. He faced Priamos again. “For your safe delivery of the princess of Britain you have the gratitude of two kingdoms. But I must insist on your detainment here, until such time as you can prove to me surely that you are no threat to Wazeb’s sovereignty.”

Constantine turned to me. “And you, of course, my lady, we shall serve in any way we may, as best we can. We shall prepare you an apartment here—”

“Thank you, but I think not,” I answered. “I have already accepted the hospitality of my brother’s dear friends in the city. I think Kidane has less claim to royalty than Ras Priamos, and I trust you will not find my hosts guilty of any secret sedition.”

“Come see me tomorrow morning. I am up to my neck in negotiations with the Beja tribesmen this afternoon. We can talk more privately in the morning, and decide what there is for us to do. You could meet me for the service at St. Mary of Zion, then break your fast with me. You’ll like the cathedral.”

“All right.”

But our trust was in shards before it ever had a chance to set.

Other guards came in to escort Priamos out of the chamber. He nodded a farewell to me, his expression impassive. If he had tried to hold my gaze, I do not think I would have been able to look at him; I felt as though I had led him into a trap. But of course he did not try to meet my eyes. Our shared tragedy at Camlan, our conspiratorial flight from Britain, our partnered voyage, vanished like sea spray after a breaking wave.

Telemakos was waiting in the corridor.

“Have you met your husband? What did you think of him? Do you have to stay here longer, or will I bring you home to meet my mother now?”

I could make no answer. I watched Priamos being led away.

“Why is Ras Priamos under guard?”

I managed to collect myself, and answered with bitter anger: “Because he is Abreha’s brother, as you have pointed out. Abreha was kind to him in Himyar, and Constantine therefore thinks Priamos is not to be trusted.”

“Kind to him!” Telemakos exclaimed. “Ras Priamos was brought before Abreha naked and in chains after their battle. So say his warriors.”

“Yes, well, there is kindness and kindness. When your enemy sends you home alive and free it counts as kindness.”

“What did the viceroy say when you told him he was to be high king of Britain?”

“Told me not to conceive my own nephew, like Morgause the queen of the Orcades,” I answered impulsively and inappropriately. Medraut was after all the child’s father, beloved though never known, a legend; like Odysseus to Telemakos’s namesake.

The dark subtlety of my sarcasm was lost on Telemakos. He laughed, showing off his missing teeth. “Why would you need another nephew?” he asked. “You have me.”

I stared at him. He was the high king’s grandson, the only child of my father’s eldest son.

“Why, so I have,” I whispered.





CHAPTER III

Coffee and Frankincense


THERE WAS A LION sLIOpered.

The skin covered nearly an entire wall. Its sightless eyes stared upward at the ceiling over snarling, bared teeth; the mane was black. All the pelt was dark, but it had an edge of gold that made it seem always changing color when you moved past.

“Ras Meder killed this himself, with a spear, and no one to guard or help him,” Telemakos told me.

After a moment he added, “Gedar’s children across the street don’t believe that.”

“Gedar’s children never met your father,” I said. “But I believe it.”

Telemakos asked suddenly, “Did my father look like you?”

“We are alike, but not in looks,” I answered. “Most of my family looked like me, dark-haired, dark-eyed; but Medraut—what do you call him? Meder, Ras Meder, was more like you. His skin was fair as mine, but his hair and eyes were like yours.”

“He’s dead now,” Telemakos stated frankly.

I hesitated. “He was wounded in the battle of Camlan,” I said. “He was wounded in body and spirit, and we lost him after we buried our father.”