Chapter 4
FOUR
of the end for Cyngalon. So was the last red dragon, that symbol of
Cyngalon’s freedom and fight, slain by one who would take up the mantel
of their forebear. One who would become king of all the Isles of
Mhrydain.
The lands and rivers ran red with the great beast’s blood. It is this
which dyes the sky over Cyngalon each dusk and dawn, its peoples never
able to forget, and never able to forgive.
Dragon of White, Dragon of Red: Cyngalon, A History,
Gwydderig gan Brioc
FOUR
They left arm-in-arm through the doors behind the dais, into the close extravagance of the private halls of the inner keep. Elaborate candelabra lit their way up and out, past a rain-slicked courtyard, to ascend the westernmost tower, atop which the prince’s rooms resided.
Prince Osian bid his crownsblood goodnight and closed the door, leaving them alone.
Alone, and wed.
‘Would you care for another drink?’
The slow prickle of nervousness set in. Several tiny daffodils stirred from slumber in the window boxes, gold in the candlelight. The fire murmured in the hearth. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
The prince went to a decanter of dark liquid and poured two glasses.
‘Have you… news?’ Meilyr asked. During the feast there had been a small aside with some of the knights who had been present at the altercation.
‘Your brother is well, though refusing to eat. Would you like to see him?’
Impossibility whirled. ‘Yes? Please, Your Majesty.’
The prince left their drinks and headed for the bedchamber. Hope spluttered into confusion, but Meilyr followed.
The bedchamber was equal in size to the parlour, beautifully furnished and warm, draped with deep blues and more books. The prince went to the far wall, reached under the mantle of the dormant fireplace and pulled something.
With a clunk, part of the large rug between them raised an inch above the rest. The prince tugged it aside to reveal a hewn-out slab of stone from the otherwise solid floor and reached under the rim to pull it up.
A hidden hatch, releasing damp air.
‘Apologies if it is dusty.’ The prince lit a small lantern from the mantelpiece and met Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Stay close to me.’
He climbed down into the dark.
Meilyr stood transfixed, warring between good sense and hope. Hope won.
A short set of wooden steps levelled into a tight tunnel, before lurching into an ancient stone staircase, spiralling downwards.
The prince descended with ease, the lantern guttering their tangled shadows across the musty walls.
Their footfall echoed, just audible above Meilyr’s befuddled heartbeat.
What was happening?
They climbed down and down, past closed doors and other passageways, the wall gritty beneath his palm.
The prince offered no explanations, and Meilyr remained too shaken to ask for any.
Eventually, the stairway ended with another narrow tunnel, containing several alcoves housing steps travelling upwards into rock.
The prince stopped at one, set the lantern down and listened, before pulling a camouflaged lever in the low ceiling.
A square of dim light groaned out of the dark.
The prince pushed open another hatch; the abrupt air was fresh, and all was quiet save for small nesting birds somewhere overhead. He clambered out and offered his hand, and Meilyr took it.
A small cloistered courtyard lay before them, lined with worn grey pillars.
It was not far: halfway around the courtyard, down one of several twisting corridors, through a door the prince opened with a key. There, two crownsblood stood watch in a short hall. Meilyr halted reflexively, but they only tensed to attention.
‘We will not be long,’ the prince told them, leading on to a sturdy wooden door. To Meilyr he said, ‘I will wait here.’
Meilyr nodded, still in shock, and stepped inside. The prince quietly closed the door behind him.
The rooms were far more comfortable than the barren cell he had imagined: a nest of chairs by a tended fireplace, a comfortable bed against the wall, even a high narrow window. Books. A washroom beyond. He took them all in as periphery and focused on Celyn, who rose sharply from a chair.
‘Meilyr!’
Meilyr embraced him. Pulled back to grasp his hands, to look at him. ‘Are you all right?’
Celyn’s fury was jagged. ‘Are you hurt? If he’s touched you—’
‘No,’ Meilyr soothed. It took incredible effort to swallow the tremor in his voice. ‘I’m fine. Are you hurt?’
‘Swear it to me, swear…’
Celyn spotted the braids. Confusion and shock crawled across him, and he grasped Meilyr’s hands anew, turning them, taking them in alongside the white tunics. His agony welled. His focus snapped over Meilyr’s shoulder, steel-edged, towards the closed door. ‘I’ll kill him. I’m going to kill him!’
‘Celyn!’
‘Do you hear me, prince! I don’t care what your game is, I am going to kill you!’
Meilyr grabbed his face and forced him back to his eyes. ‘Stop it or you will get us both killed, do you understand?’
‘You married him.’ Celyn’s voice cracked.
‘It could be worse. I could be dead in that street, and you with me. This was our only choice.’
‘No, you could have let them kill me, Meilyr, for the love of—’
Meilyr clipped him lightly over the side of the head, just enough to shock him. ‘As though I could live with myself if I did that. Listen, this is temporary. The prince has elevated us to the royal household, so if anything goes wrong with the investigation, we are kept safe.’
‘Is that the lie he spun for you?’
Meilyr’s own doubt reared. He pushed it down for Celyn’s sake. ‘He needed to marry. He wanted to make a political statement and figured we could help each other. We can annul it when the coronation is complete.’
‘And you think he’ll honour that? Out of the goodness of his heart?’ The words were vicious, as Celyn’s hurt shivered through the rage. ‘How could you do this? He owns you, and I’m the one who…’
Meilyr cupped his face, as though he were still a boy. ‘It’s done. I need you to be calm, because I need you alive.’
Celyn pressed his hand over Meilyr’s and pushed his warm face into the touch. The short bristle of growth since his last shave was rough against Meilyr’s palm. ‘I let this happen, I did this. Meilyr, you know he’ll… he will…’ He could not say it.
‘This was our best chance, your only chance. Whatever comes now is better than what could have been.’
‘Meilyr.’ Celyn pressed his head against his, treasonous voice barely above a whisper. ‘You have to get out of here. I know you can. They wouldn’t be able to stop you – just leave me, save yourself.’
The notion raised sourness into Meilyr’s mouth. ‘You know I cannot do that,’ he said. For so many reasons.
‘You could.’ Celyn’s grip tightened. ‘I know you could. Just once. Just him. Then we could all be free, we could—’
‘Please do not ask me to do that.’ Meilyr shook his head, drawing into himself.
‘But all it takes is him, just him, just one death—’
‘Would you stop?’ Meilyr pulled out of his arms, dropping his voice. ‘If I did, then what? We just walk out of here? Listen, it will be all right. We just have to be patient.’
Celyn bit his bleeding lip, torn by his own worrying teeth.
His jaw worked as resentment fought with guilt, and it was a long count before he touched Meilyr’s arms more gently.
‘I’m sorry I suggested that. I know how you feel about it, but he’s lying.
I know you want to see the good in everyone, but he will ruin you, and then if you’re lucky, cast you aside.
Or kill you when he’s had his fill. He’s Khaimlic. ’
‘You expect me to watch you die instead?’ The tightness in Meilyr’s throat spread.
But he squeezed Celyn’s hands and willed forward their shared history, the weight tethered to his next words, which Celyn alone in all the world – dear, foolish, beloved Celyn – would understand.
‘There would be nothing worse for me than that.’
Agony bent Celyn’s expression. He slipped into their native Cyngaleg tongue, hopeless. ‘He’s lying, Meilyr. I can’t lose you.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Meilyr hissed in Khaimlic, moving to cover his brother’s mouth.
Still in Cyngaleg, Celyn said, ‘What will he do if I don’t?’ He switched back to Khaimlic – louder. ‘What will you do, prince? I know you’re lying! If you touch him, I’ll kill you!’
Meilyr grabbed him. ‘Stop.’
‘But he’s lying!’ The pain behind the fury glimmered as Celyn leaned close. ‘And it’s going to cost you everything, please see that.’
Meilyr could not reply, could not beg him to see. ‘I am sorry,’ was all he managed. He touched his cheeks and pressed his forehead to his again. ‘Swear you won’t do anything stupid. They will put us both to death, remember that.’
‘Meilyr…’
‘Please, Celyn.’ And then, because it would help him, he said: ‘In return, I swear I will not go easy to my death.’
It was not a lie. He would fight if he had to, but not in the way his brother hoped, using his weaving to kill the man who had saved them.
No, he would not use his blood for harm. Better his secret died with him.
Celyn’s gaze hardened. ‘The only thing I swear is that if anything happens to you, I will kill him.’
‘Celyn,’ Meilyr tried.
‘You can’t ask me for more than that.’
Meilyr knew he could not. Celyn was only pain and rage, retracted into that familiar sharp darkness where Meilyr could not reach him.
He pulled away, before he could not. ‘I’m sorry, Celyn.’
‘Meilyr!’
Meilyr opened the door. Prince Osian leaned against the wall outside, arms folded. He had definitely heard at least some of that.
‘You!’ Celyn made for the door.
Meilyr moved between them and looked over his shoulder at the prince. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. I have your word he will not come to harm?’ He dared make it a question.
‘You do.’
Meilyr turned to Celyn, whose fists were clenched bone-tight at his sides. ‘I will see you soon. Stay safe, please.’
He shut the door and tried to swallow the nettles in his throat, the sting in his eyes.