Chapter 2
TWO
Oak. Lavender. Juniper. Rowan.
Used since ancient times for the binding of oaths, the weaving of
hearts and spirits.
Oak. Yew. Alder. Rowan. Bindweed. Iron. Bone.
Used since ancient times for the binding of evil, the severing of
flesh from spirit.
The Book of Heart
TWO
Keep your head down. Stay small, stay quiet.
That was how Meilyr had survived. That was how he had kept those he loved safe.
Unfortunately, it did not matter how low you kept your head when you rode pillion behind the gods-damned Khaimlic Prince of Cyngalon.
The steep, narrow roads the prince chose were quietened by festivities but not empty.
Meilyr kept his face close to his back, fixed on the tight-knit weave of his cloak.
It was not enough to blur all the bodies, to muffle all the voices.
Even at their brisk pace, Meilyr would be seen – he would be noticed.
All too soon, they turned into the shadows of a vaulted stone gatehouse then back into searing light. The world fell away on either side of a narrow bridge, and Eascild Castle speared the sky ahead.
Eascild. Nothing but a bitter taste on every Cyngaleg tongue forced to swallow it.
There had always been a stronghold here atop the cliffs, even before the days of the princes.
The castell of Caer Tarian had endured for centuries atop the bluff, stone gifted by one of the last great cewri, its own gigantic body laid down for the foundations.
A castle that had endured against the enemy across M?r Astalch, the Splintered Sea.
A castle finally asphyxiated, razed and reanimated with bloodless Khaimlic stone.
Eascild Castle was an abomination, a monster grown from the bones of what had been Cyngalon’s final hope. The first castle raised in the Ring of Iron, the encirclement of Khaimlic fortifications to secure Cyngalon.
In his more than nine years in the city, Meilyr had barely dared glance at it. Now, as they approached the jagged portcullis of another gatehouse, it unhinged its jaw and consumed him. High pale stone opened upon reams of people and standards, noise and movement.
Meilyr tried to let the sound of hooves and countless Khaimlic voices drown him, but it did not work. Everywhere eyes followed, whispers buzzed louder than the barks of the heralds proclaiming the return of the prince, the weight pressing in and in.
They halted in a central courtyard, where the prince helped him dismount before leading them into a lavish hall.
There were so many people – carrying boxes or trunks, hanging cluttered tapestries, the blaze of white wings towering over red, people talking amicably arm-in-arm, staff and courtiers and nobles – glimpsed in an instant of flow.
Their entry was a stone tossed into the water. Eyes turned to Meilyr, speculating. Measuring.
As they neared a wide stairway, the prince turned to his close-following retinue. ‘Have him shown to my rooms.’ He strode away, without looking back.
Meilyr had expected to be sent to a cell, but this suggested something else entirely about their budding arrangement.
One of the crownsblood gestured. ‘This way.’
Meilyr went, even as his blood still hammered for him to run. He would do as he was told, to whatever end.
They travelled deeper inside and up Eascild Castle, stairways and halls growing in splendour before becoming cool, narrow, bared stone once more.
Atop many tight and twisting steps – near what had to be the full height of one of the castle’s towers – the stairway abruptly ended in a solitary arrow slit and a heavy-duty wooden door as thick as the span of his hand.
A considerable, comfortable parlour spread beyond.
Nature-themed tapestries lined the walls, ensconcing couches and chairs and a large, low-burning fireplace.
Several half-emptied trunks nestled nearby, suspended in the act of filling the already-brimming bookcases.
The air was thick with their papery press and the pleasant cloy of the fire, and even in his state, Meilyr noticed: so many books.
The crownsblood closed the door, leaving him alone. Alone in the prince’s rooms.
Panic reshaped itself. He wrung his ever-chilled hands, raised them instinctively to his chest, to clutch at the comfortable weight of—
Oh, gods.
He spun in a panicked circle, searching. He had to hide it. Before the prince came back, before anyone had the chance to find it.
The bookshelf – if he moved those books, perhaps… There, that would have to do. Please let that do, just for now.
His fingers shook as he stepped back into the centre of the parlour, hoping. Praying.
There were several small plant boxes in the window alcoves. Through the corner of his eye, he watched their various inhabitants slowly, inexorably turn towards him.
Not good.
There was a knock at the door. It groaned open and Prince Osian stepped inside, closing it behind him.
‘Your brother has been quietly placed under guard, for his own protection.’
The air rushed back into Meilyr’s lungs. There was truth in the prince’s words; reading intent was a blessing and a curse of Meilyr’s blood, made easier through touch, or other forms of weaving. But he needed to control his emotions. If the prince looked elsewhere…
Prince Osian moved deeper into the room. ‘This incident should never have happened. Hopefully, when the blacksmith awakens, they will remember enough to confirm your story. But there are those who will attempt to decry this as a member of the local populace killing a crownsworn in cold blood.’
Fear sharpened. Several of the closer daffodils twitched.
Really not good.
Meilyr stepped away from the windows, closer to the prince. ‘You have to tell them it was my fault. Please.’
‘I am hoping it will not come to that. However, if I release you both, I fear it will be difficult to keep you safe.’
Deep-rooted terrors thawed to the surface. If he and Celyn were known to Khaim, if they were hunted…
Meilyr already lived every day in fear of discovery. But having Khaim truly come after him, come after Celyn, twisted all the numbness into thorns and memory.
‘What can I do?’ he asked, damning the flora. ‘Your Majesty, I will do anything to keep Celyn safe.’
He would, a thousand times over.
Prince Osian settled on something. ‘There is perhaps one way.’ He turned – towards the windows.
‘I had my knights perceive I knew you, so I might later vouch for your character without them having to break their oaths and lie.’ He stood in the golden light streaming in, oblivious to Meilyr’s panic, one hand resting on his sword and the other tight behind his spine.
The plants, though facing inwards, had blessedly stilled.
‘I am to take up the mantle of Prince of Cyngalon. I have moved my holdings, and the Council governing Cyngalon, here to Eascild.’ It was strange to hear someone Khaimlic, especially of such high rank, not refer to it as the Denelands.
His pronunciation was also flawless: kun-galon, smooth and flowing.
‘In order to receive my father’s support for this change, he has requested that I marry before my coronation.
A political marriage, to strengthen bonds and solidify the court governing a populace he fears may still be…
volatile. None of his proposed matches interest me, and I wish to make a different kind of statement. ’
Meilyr’s senses still suggested the prince told the truth, but he was withholding something.
‘Members of the royal household are considered above refute,’ Prince Osian said, ‘able to enact judgement without trial or punishment. It is not just, but it is the law.’ He turned back, illuminated, eyes like the sea.
‘You swore your life for your brother. I would ask for only a moment of it, to make you all but unreachable. Both of you. To make certain you are protected.’
Meilyr’s heart beat faster, heady beneath that gaze.
The prince exhaled quietly and said it. ‘Become prince consort. Marry me.’
The world fell away beneath Meilyr’s feet.
A petal fell from a primrose.
‘I had hoped to marry from within the Cyngaleg populace, as a political statement. My father would never approve, but if we act swiftly, it will be too much scandal for him to undo it. Stand by my side until after the coronation, then we will annul our union, and you and your brother will be free to continue your lives. If we do this, you would become members of my household, elevated beyond reach. There will still be an inquest, but any move made against you would be quashed before it began.’
A thousand thoughts buffeted Meilyr. One tore free. ‘Why…?’ This was a prince of Khaim, and he was an irrelevant Cyngaleg peasant. He would have believed himself hearing things if not for the absolute conviction with which the prince had spoken. ‘Why me?’
The prince’s jaw worked: a tell of tension as he came to stand closer. ‘I believe you and I can help each other. I know this is sudden, and for that I am sorry. But this…’
This was so far removed from reality Meilyr could not catch up.
This was the Prince of Cyngalon. Khaim’s monster, set upon Cyngalon to remind them they were a people quashed. His blood beat with a lineage that had devastated countless Cyngaleg lives, generation after generation. A lineage of murderers, oath-breakers and dragon-killers.
Meilyr’s reading of him was muddied: conflicted. He could not pretend to understand the political delicacies, but this might be the only way to help Celyn, even if it cost Meilyr his own life.
He swallowed. ‘I have your word Celyn will not come to harm. Any blame will be placed on me.’
‘I swear it.’
Truthful enough. ‘He will be kept from this, from being exposed and endangered.’ All things Meilyr would suffer for him.
‘Yes, I swear it.’
Meilyr would have died for Celyn. This was something far less instantaneous, and perhaps all the more painful.