Now Milo understood the hostility from those Wardens when he’d come to Wellech last year. And he was starting to understand the resentment in that woman in Brookings.
It didn’t make any of it better. It rather made it a bit terrifying.
“If they’re refugees,” Folant said, “explain to me how they’ve so much coin to throw around.”
“Because fleeing for one’s life doesn’t necessarily preclude taking a bit of money with you?”
Folant snorted, derisive. “Fleeing for their lives. Feh. More like trying to manipulate us into fighting a war they’ll happily profit from, and making our Preidynīg Isles their janissary, as well as a dumping ground for the scum they don’t want. Crime in Llundaintref is already out of control because of them, it’s no wonder—”
“For pity’s sake, they’re either so unfairly wealthy and elite they deserve to be hated, or lowlife criminals who deserve to be hated—pick one!”
“Well, now you’re just trying not to see reason.” Folant leaned in toward Milo with a confidential air. “C’mon, boy, you’re Dewin. You know. You can admit it.”
Milo turned his eyes away, refusing to respond, because clearly anything he said was a waste of breath and somehow fuel for Folant’s fire. Teeth clenched, Milo did his level best to hold back a growl.
He concentrated instead on the glow of the colored lanterns. When had it got dark, anyway? He peered up at the sky; no stars tonight, only thick cloud cover and the threat of rain in the next day or so, but not tonight. It wouldn’t dare spoil Ellis’s birthday party.
He’d been trying, Ellis had. Really trying to make things between him and his tad less caustic. For the good of Wellech, he’d told Milo. So he’d let Folant throw him a birthday party. And more or less begged Milo to attend.
So here Milo was. Here Folant was. And there Ellis was, dancing with everyone else—everyone else—and leaving Milo to… this.
“Ah, now that one’s a better fit. Nice local girl. Look how nicely her head fits just beneath his chin.”
And look how nicely my foot fits up your arse.
Milo loosened his tie. If he thought he could move without keeling over, he’d just lose the bloody thing, and his coat along with it, but the only part of his body that seemed willing to work was his arm and that had been busy with the chore of getting his drink from the table to his mouth. Which was doing a semi-adequate job of dulling his senses but wasn’t helping at all with the fact that it was bloody hot and that, in turn, was not very helpful insofar as Milo’s temperament. Then again, neither was his “drinking partner.”
“Nice and plump, that one.” Speaking of whom. “He likes them plump. More to hang onto. But then, I don’t suppose that’s something he’d discuss with you.” Folant paused with a self-satisfied chuckle. “Milo-lad, you’re looking peaky. Are you quite well?”
The problem, as Milo saw it, was that he wasn’t drunk enough yet. “Just… brilliant.”
Folant had always been a narrow-minded pill—or, as Glynn would put it, a proper minging sheephead—and Milo was well aware his own insecurities tended to sabotage him. Only, Folant knew a weakness when he saw one, and always had a spanner ready to throw into whatever works he felt like mucking up for his own entertainment. Ellis knew how to shut him up or ignore him, whichever was more effective at any given moment. Milo, not so much.
“How’s your mam, by the way? Ohhhh. Sorry.”
He was like a shin just waiting to be barked, a toe aching to be stubbed. Milo gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead.
She hadn’t come back for the coven in Greenhaven after Sowing migration was over. That was the thing. Ceri Priddy had never missed a coven. At least as far as Milo knew. Certainly not since she’d become Offeiriad. Meistr Eluned had presided, with Lilibet as Second Chair, and though everyone had carried on as though it was only a small inconvenience, it had thoroughly unnerved Milo. He didn’t think he’d really stopped being unnerved since. And considering a great deal of the meeting’s business had indeed been dedicated to discussing how they might help their sister covens—how they might even go about finding missing members to help them—it didn’t exactly do anything to cool Milo’s anxieties.
He slouched in his seat, picked up the shot glass and knocked back his fourth shot of grain liquor. Or maybe it was his fifth. Let’s see, there was the mead he’d started with, still half-full and looking altogether forlorn, sitting next to the almost empty tankard and the three completely empty shot glas—
Three! Three on the table, one in his hand.... All right, so it was his fourth shot. Wait. Hadn’t someone come by a while back and collected a few empty glasses? Maybe it was closer to seven. That might explain why Milo was having a difficult time remembering when the wineglass had appeared in his other hand. And that was nearly empty, too. Huh.
“Aye, the girls surely do love him.”
Milo clenched his teeth, found his eyes unwillingly following Folant’s gaze where they lit upon, and refused to turn from, Ellis. No more than a blur of gold and green at the moment, his colors smearing into the blue and bluer smudge of one Efa Owen dy Pryce, third granddaughter to Jac Pryce, he of the Pryces of Littlederch.
“That’s my lad.” Folant was unbearably smug.
My lad. Fie! As if Folant had anything at all to do with the remarkable way Ellis had turned out. As if Folant hadn’t done everything in the world possible to try to turn the gloriousness that was Ellis into a pale shade of Folant’s own ignoble self.
A sharp jab to Milo’s ribs and this he couldn’t ignore. Because ow.
“Why settle for one or three when you can have ’em all, eh?” Folant leered.
This as Ellis swung away from Efa and straight into the bosom of—
Well. Damn. Alys Hughes dy Evans, she of the too-gorgeous-to-be-real eyes of deep-shot amber, and chestnut curls swinging down to her pert—bloody pert!—bottom, and a waistcoat that never seemed strong enough or big enough to effectively hold the bounty in its charge.
“Good Wellech stock, that one. No magic hiding in her family tree. And no Dewin taint, which is—”
“No, sorry, what?” There wasn’t enough liquor in the world for Milo to let that one go. “Taint? Are you out of your blinkered mind? You sound like those nutters in the Purity Party.”
“Those ‘nutters’ make an awful lot of sense if you—”
“You really think you’re somehow better than—”
“Oh, quit your righteous grizzling, boy. I don’t mean you, of course.” Folant held up his hands, all blameless virtue. “You were born in Kymbrygh, can’t argue that, even if it was on the wrong side of a contract. Have some bloody pride in that, yeah?”
“Pride in what, exactly? Being born somewhere isn’t an achievement, Folant. You think being born here makes you special? Makes you better? You didn’t do anything, you didn’t earn anything. You were lucky enough to be birthed in the right place. You did nothing but not die or kill your mam when you slithered your way out. You had no control over any of it. If that’s all you’ve got to be proud of, p’raps you’d best start looking hard at your life.”
Which would really help everyone in Wellech quite a lot, and especially Ellis.
“And yet that earring of yours…” Folant grinned, wicked, when Milo narrowed his eyes, but he held up a hand. “Peace, lad, we’re not talking about me, or you, or even all Dewin, comes to it. Only, it’s the gutless vermin from down-continent crashing our borders and giving you all a bad name.”
“If you mean the refugees accepting our Queen’s offer of asylum because their countrymen have turned on them, perhaps you’d best check your definition of ‘vermin’ and apply it to those who’d see their neighbors, sometimes their own families, turned out of their homes, arrested, attacked, spat on”—Milo couldn’t help how his teeth clenched—“and all because they were born into a sect you happen to—”
“See, that’s what I’m saying, lad! A person can’t help how they were born. I ken it pr
oper. Only, that doesn’t mean they should be mixing with their betters.” Folant’s expression turned to ostentatious sympathy. “I mean, you do know, lad, that this courtship”—he said it with a roll of his eyes—“is only a bit of cotting, yeah? You’re not setting your heart on him, I hope.” He stuck his lip out, moving like he meant to set a hand to Milo’s shoulder; Milo ducked away, jaw clamped so hard it was aching. “Aw, you are.” Folant sighed dramatically, then waved at Ellis, still dancing with Alys. “Poor lad. Here you are, gambling above your class, and there he is, laying in better bets.”
And that was it, just it.
“Something you know quite a lot about.” Milo kept his tone aloof and casual. “Or maybe I should say you know very little about it. Tell me, Folant: was it a pair of threes or three deuces you held when you lost Lilibet’s plum orchard? Or, well, tried to, I guess. Not like she’d ever allow you to co-own anything. I heard the to-do over your attempt to forge the contract was almost as impressive as your decades-long strop when she turned down your cariad contract. All eight times. That I know of. Although, the gossip about the orchard was only all over the Whitpool pubs for weeks, as opposed to years, so not to worry. It was hilarious, though. Oh, sorry, I meant distressing. It was all horribly… distressing.”
Milo’s smile was thin and careful as he took a slow sip from his wine.
Perhaps it was cruel. Ignorance should be pitied. Perhaps Folant didn’t deserve so much pent-up malice simply for his endless stream of sarcastic jabs at Milo tonight—all night—and his very plain insinuations that Ellis would be better off without Milo hanging on his too-good-for-the-likes-of-you coattails. But he definitely deserved it for putting Ellis through such a scandal. And for his awful, gut-turning bigotry.
“Ah, there it is.” Folant raised his glass in an ironic toast. “That’s one of the few things I like about you Dewin. You always go for the throat when you’re cornered. Like the treacherous, nasty little sneaks you are.”
It just… didn’t stop. Milo had forgot just how dreadful Folant could be, the years since Milo had spent time in Wellech softening the memories into something less vicious, less deliberate. Now all the sneers, all the jibes, all the small-minded, petty little cruelties rammed about in Milo’s brain, took a dip into the liquor already sloshing about in there, and came dripping from his tongue like so much acid.
“You know, I’ve often wondered how low you could sink, and I suppose now I know. Then again, I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, for pity’s sake, Folant, anyone else would be proud to have a son like Ellis, but no, not you. You pretend to care about him just enough to keep him trying, but really all you want is for him to keep cleaning up your messes while you impersonate a real Pennaeth. Probably still hoping Lilibet will one day lose all sense and stop noticing how her onetime sperm contributor can’t seem to understand the word no, and on that glorious day she’ll finally let you call the banns and the three of you can play happy families. Well.” Milo shrugged. “At least until you gamble everything out from under them, I reckon. Anyway.” He downed the rest of his wine. “All things considered, the fact you’re a raging bigot and just a really awful person besides shouldn’t be all that shocking.”
Smiling, all teeth, Milo put his glass down with rather more force than he’d meant; the stem snapped with a small chime. He ignored it, dropped the rest of the glass to the table and tried to stand, but Folant’s meaty hand closed on Milo’s forearm, wrenched him back down. Milo’s palm flattened on the broken glass but he ignored that, too.
“That arrogant tongue of yours is going to get your skinny arse flattened one day, you mark me on that. You need a bit of Rees in you before you can think to get away with talk like that in Wellech.”
A slow smirk worked its way unbidden to Milo’s face. “I’ve plenty of Rees in me any time I want it. Seems to me that’s what this is really about, anyway.”
Drunk and somewhat stupid or no, Folant couldn’t miss that one.
“What did you just say to me?”
“I think you heard me. Or maybe you didn’t. I reckon it would be difficult to hear with your head up your arse like that.”
“You shifty little by-blow witch. You’d best watch that mouth of yours, my lad, else you might find it one tongue and a few teeth lighter.”
Milo tried to heave his arm back, couldn’t. “I am not your lad and I will thank you—”
“What in the world…” Ellis’s voice and, with no small measure of ugly satisfaction, Milo watched Folant’s eyes widen. “Milo, your hand!”
Milo dragged his glare away from Folant’s hateful stare and looked down. It wasn’t until Milo saw the small blossom of blood seeping into the white tablecloth that the pain flared through his palm and began to throb up his wrist.
“Oh. Well. That’s… sort of pants.” Milo shrugged out of Folant’s by now looser grip and stood.
“Just got a little clumsy.” Folant never took his eyes off Milo. “Priddys never could hold their liquor.”
Maybe not. But at least they could hold onto their money And their pride.
Ellis snagged up Milo’s bloody hand. “You’ve a shard or two stuck in there.” There was tension beneath the smooth tone.
Milo shot a quick glance to Ellis’s face.
Ellis wasn’t looking at Milo; he was looking at Folant. His brow was drawn down, eyes narrowed down to chary little slits. Keeping his gaze on his tad, Ellis dug a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it gently over Milo’s palm.
“Don’t press it just yet.” Quiet. Concerned. “We’ll want to get the glass out first.” Ellis finally turned his gaze to Milo’s, his eyes instantly softer, though sharp and watchful. “You’re pale. And your hands are shaking. What’s going on?”
Folant’s hostile gaze was burning holes into Milo’s nape. Ellis’s too-observant one was burning holes into Milo’s conscience.
“Tch!” Folant was still lounging in his chair at the table, sneering now. “Careless and clumsy as he ever was. Useful as a fart in a jam jar, him.”
Milo pulled at his hand. “Elly, it’s fine, I’ll just—”
“I know anyway.” Ellis tightened his grip. “Just say it out loud and I’ll fix it.”
Fix it how? Ellis could kick Folant’s arse from here to the nether and back, and Folant would still think Milo was scum for no other reason than he’d been born Dewin. There was no fixing that.
Milo tugged at his hand again. This time, Ellis let go.
“You can’t fix everything, Elly.” Milo couldn’t quite meet Ellis’s eyes. “Nor should you have to.” He stepped back. “I’d better go and get this cleaned up.” He kept his back to Folant as he angled out from between them and turned for the kegs.
He shouldn’t have come. He hadn’t even planned to; in fact, he should right now be in Whitpool, getting ready for the Reaping migration season since Ceri wasn’t there, but.... Well. Ellis had been so convincing, damn it all, and it had been a whole month since they’d managed a visit to Brookings, and Milo had missed him and… and he was a bloody pushover, all right, fine, and when Ellis had asked Milo to come to Wellech for his birthday, Milo had wanted to say yes and… and so he had.
He hadn’t even spared a thought to Folant. Which only proved that Milo was a gormless nit whose brain spent most of its time in his trousers.
At least the… whatever it was with Folant had sobered Milo up. All right, almost sobered him up, but he certainly wasn’t as drunk as he’d been—only angry and stupid and a little bit in pain, and he really just shouldn’t have come.
His hand rolled into a fist and he almost yelped out loud. He turned it down to a quiet hiss as he slipped into an empty space between the kegs and waved down one of the men tending the taps. He requested a dipper of water from the melted ice, but then thought better of it and changed the request to a pitcher. There was an empty table on the outskirts of the party; Milo took his pitcher to it, flumped into a chair, and trickled some water over his palm. It wasn’t so ba
d; the cuts were rather deep but the shards were large and easy to see. Once he got them out, he could stop the bleeding with the handkerchief and the worst of it would be that he’d have to wear gloves next week out in the pastures. Maybe do without his violin for a bit. His shirt was ruined, though.
“That shirt is ruined.”
Ellis set his broad hand to Milo’s shoulder as he angled around the table. Diffident, he pulled up a chair and set it in front of Milo.
“Here, let me see.”
Milo didn’t look up. “I’ve got it.”
There was a long sigh from Ellis. “Milo, just let me have a look, all right? I can see your eyes crossing, for pity’s sake. You’re only going to drive it in deeper and make it worse.”
And why did that seem to Milo as though it had more than the one meaning? Cold anger washed through him, and it made no sense, damn it. He didn’t know what he was angry about exactly, or at whom, but it filled his chest and thumped behind his eyes.
“I said I’ve got it,” he grated, poked a little too vehemently, and bloody damn if he didn’t sink the sliver deeper.
“Blight it all, Milo, stop being such a bloody stubborn child and give me that hand!” This time Ellis didn’t wait for Milo to surrender his hand—he merely snatched it up, and yanked it closer to the pool of yellow light thrown by the lantern.
Milo tried to pull back but Ellis’s grip was tight and insistent. “’M notta child.” Sullen. Peevish. Embarrassing.
“Right, yes.” Ellis squinted, carefully prodding at a chunk of glass. He paused at Milo’s hiss and flinch but didn’t let go. “Because the adult thing to do here is to stomp off and try to do this yourself with no help, even though you’re so sauced you can’t see straight.”
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