Fyskar

Chapter 25

They entered Eoin's chamber. It was a fourth the size of the prince's, but comfortable. His pharmacy lay in the room next door to it. He had allowed Fearchar and Seonaid a peek inside. A year since he had seen the inside of those two rooms, and memories flooded him with a sense of loss and need. Most of his herbs would have to be harvested all over again, but it was worth the sacrifice. His short apothecary cabinet rested on the desk. He'd restock the materials the next day.

Fearchar and Seonaid stared around in awe at Eoin's bed-chamber, twice that of their own house they had left back on the isle. Rugs and pillows covered the bench in myriad colours and patterns. The grate of the window repeated six-pointed stars and squares with intricate bevels and floral cutouts. It overlooked a courtyard with trees and fountains, leaving the chamber cool and sweet-smelling.

Eoin approached the chest stacked on his old clothing trunk. He caressed the swirled carving as he opened the box once more. He pulled from it the leather folio and held it out to the prince. Mirza took the folio and carefully extracted the document. He read through the long sheet slowly. "This land size..." Mirza paused a moment, rereading the dimensions once more, the descriptions of the hills and the coastline, the included docks and pastureland. "It's larger than the mountain region of my father's domain," he breathed out, looking up at Eoin in awe.

Land is nothing without people if one is to rule as sovereign. Eoin shrugged and turned back to the chest.

"I'll have it stored in the treasury room when we leave here," the prince muttered. "Your children will surely want this one day." He slipped the velum sheet back into its leather protection.

Eoin nodded and sighed before turning back to his trunks. I need to speak with your musicians. I need a bodhran made. He pulled from the chest his white robe and shook it out. Retrieving a long straight staff set with a small hook in the centre from the second room, he slipped the robe over the wood and hung it on a peg, pulling wrinkles from the wool.

Mirza approached the garment, fingering the embroidery along the edge. "You need to find that key first," the prince muttered in his ear. Eoin glanced at the man before he continued pulling out his kilts. Tossing pillows from the bench, he laid out the immense length of fabric, trying to let the textile relax its creases. "I'll have a servant take it to the washroom and have someone there straighten it for you." Mirza approached the fabric.

Really, you don't need to do that, Mirza. Give it a couple days to air, and it'll stop being wrinkled. Eoin, unsettled at the action, stood back as Mirza gathered the robes and kilts up.

"You'll need it for tonight." The man turned to him.

It's already night. Eoin pointed out the dusk.

"Just sunset. Even more reason to hurry. Where's your key?" the prince demanded. Eoin took a step back at the snap and looked around for his duffel. It was sagging beneath a mound of pillows. He rifled through the pack. Near the bottom, he found the strip of leather he had tied the necklace to and pulled it out to show the prince. The man held out his hand for the tiny instrument and ring. Eoin dropped it into Mirza's hand, a fleeting grimace running across his lips.

The prince looked over the ring, curious at the etching. "It's like your..." He looked up at Eoin and then looked again. "Where's...?" The prince touched Eoin's collar bone, right at the centre of the torc.

"It's my signet ring, a symbol of my position, same as that document, the crown, my tattoos, my hair. I left my husband and wife's signet pendant at his grave." Eoin touched the vacant spot where the prince rested his finger.

"I'm so sorry, my little White Bird. Truly I am," whispered the prince. Mirza turned and disappeared out the door, calling to a guard.

Eoin popped his head out to witness the guard dash down the hallway. He shrugged and walked back into the room. Before he could protest, a hand settled on top of his head and pulled his crown from his white locks. He looked up at the prince, confused. Mirza?