Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
And for poor Blodeuwedd, no release, or ease.
Always the taste of iron and flowers on her tongue,
Always the bitter tang of being made for a purpose she never
chose.
Only with Gronw did her petals unwind.
Only with him did her mouth finally know
sweetness and peace.
The Red Book,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
TWENTY-THREE
Ache and worry clung to Meilyr as the night drew in. As it drew closer to the time he and Osian had agreed upon.
The Marches called for his head, and who could blame them? He was such an obvious suspect, it was laughable. And then there was what Aldreda had said.
Do you miss it terribly?
As though anything was that simple.
He missed the ease of his routine, yes. He missed the people more: Celyn, Heulwen, his foster-aunt Lowri, when she was not far-flung for months or even years on end, the regular stream of faces who frequented the dim little shop, and the scents and spaces he and Celyn had made their own.
But even as he had tried to lie to himself, to bury it beneath routine and a thousand little tasks that needed him, each day the ache had only spread.
Even content, he had always been grieving. Always missing something he was not certain had a name. His parents, yes: the embrace of safety he had felt with them. But it was more than that. So very much more.
He must have shown signs of strain, because before they descended to dinner, Osian drew him aside. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Nothing, Majesty.’ But there was so much, he almost did not have the stomach to pretend. ‘Merely thinking about tonight.’
Dinner dragged. Meilyr’s nerves frayed further. Finally, Osian said, ‘Shall we?’
Meilyr leaned into him. ‘Please, My Prince.’
They bid those around them goodnight, declined Aldreda’s staunch invitation to the solar and departed arm-in-arm.
Ensconced in Osian’s rooms, Meilyr moved towards the bedchamber, but the prince paused. ‘One moment,’ he said as he went to the mantle and retrieved a belted dagger.
Not just any dagger: Meilyr’s, from the hunt.
Osian laid it in his hands. ‘Keep this with you, somewhere close.’
‘Majesty…’
A thousand questions whirled.
‘You are wondering why I would hand you something you could use against me,’ the prince said. It was not a question.
Meilyr looked at the dagger. ‘And you know why I am not asking.’
‘Do I?’
A flicker of coyness; Meilyr’s pulse responded. He tamped it down. ‘Yes. If I so much as unsheathed this in your presence, not only would you certainly overpower me but I would never leave the room alive, let alone the castle.’
Osian’s eyes strayed to the knife. ‘I do not know about that first part…’
Carefully, allowing Meilyr to withdraw if he wanted, he entwined their fingers and unsheathed the blade.
The metallic bloom of iron pressed into the roof of Meilyr’s mouth.
‘I am not foolish enough to believe you are as delicate as everyone seems to think,’ Osian said. Their eyes met. ‘I hope you never have need of it.’
He let him go, turning his back without a flicker of doubt.
The dark metal glinted with liquid midnight in the light from the fireplace.
Meilyr sheathed it and fastened the belt around his hips. The prince moved straight to the lever in the bedchamber fireplace: the earthy clunk, the rug pulled aside, the hatch lifted to expose the dark. Finally, he lit the small lantern and descended first.
Their shadows danced in the dim. It was still strange to wind through the tunnel, to clamber down the tight spiral of stairs, dark and musty from stale air, down and down through the tower, passing the outline of other doors, other boltholes in the warren of Eascild Castle.
‘There are so many of them,’ Meilyr mused aloud, one hand on the stone, the other holding his bunched tunic skirts away from his feet.
Osian hesitated before saying, ‘They were a defence mechanism of the old Cyngaleg stronghold. Not all of it was torn down, and these tunnels were secretly built into the architecture of what now stands.’
Their boots drummed a muffled, echoing rhythm.
Meilyr’s thoughts pooled, silently. The way the hatches all but disappeared, indiscernible from the stone around them…
No, any Cyngaleg weaving left here would have died with the old masters of the destroyed castle, whose blood would have wrought the secret. Clever mechanics was all this was.
The subterranean hall deep beneath the castle’s chapel was so cold
their breath fogged: a naturally occurring pocket of chill, perfect for
its use as a chamber to store the dead.
Meilyr blew heat into his fingers, flexed them and stepped up to the stone plinth atop which rested Kenelm Radnor’s body. Osian joined him on the other side of it, the guttering torch the prince held cascading the walls in oddly stunted light.
They were very much alone, very much not supposed to be here.
‘Forgive us,’ Osian breathed, to the gods or to the deceased, it was not clear.
Meilyr drew back the top of the white shroud, uncovering the upper third of Kenelm Radnor.
It was not pleasant. The priests had tried their best, but pruning a corpse was not exactly in their repertoire. All the incense and dried fruit in Eascild could also not hold back the growing press of rotting vegetation.
Still, it was easy to find a little alder that could be broken off, since parts of the plant still lived. Meilyr took out his small garden shears, snipped and held the cutting towards the light.
‘How will you tell?’ Osian asked quietly, his voice carrying unpleasantly in the catacomb-like space.
‘I have spent some time with alder.’ And almost every other plant he could name.
‘It has certain tells, a fondness for waterlogged soils. The fact this one has flowered makes it Bran’s alder, which is very rare outside of ancient forested regions to the west. That there is one in the gardens here is remarkable.
’ He pretended to scrutinise the plant as he reached into a pocket and drew out a cutting he had acquired from said tree, then pretended to need to turn them both this way and that.
He had nicked his thumb with his dagger as they crept through the tunnels. It was easy enough to press his blood into the new cutting.
Sharp, bitter tang. A burst of violent sunshine – and the castle gardens.
He pretended to consider, pretended not to already know. Because the truth had been in his mouth as he had touched the plant that killed Kenelm Radnor. Having already woven with the alder in the gardens, there was no doubt.
‘They are the same,’ he exhaled, appalled and triumphant and terrified. He met the prince’s gaze over the body.
There was still no hint of suspicion in Osian. None at all.
‘So the killer is someone with access to Eascild Castle,’ the prince said. ‘You were correct. Which means…’
He left it in the air as they both looked down.
‘We should leave,’ Meilyr whispered, a shiver threatening the base of his spine. If he started, he knew he would not stop.
‘Yes. Let’s.’
The night air gnawed at them as they climbed out of the catacombs and
into the cloisters, footfall rebounding softly.
Carefully, at Meilyr’s side, Osian said, ‘I am sorry to have pulled you into all this.’
Meilyr slowed. The prince slowed to match.
‘It is hardly your fault, Majesty. You were not to know this would happen.’
And he had tried to protect Meilyr every step of the way.
‘You do not suspect me.’ There was surprise in the prince’s words.
Meilyr turned to him, shocked by his tentative relief. ‘Why would I?’
They stood close in the near dark, mere steps from the mouth of the corridor to the cloistered walkway and the hidden tunnels that would lead to Osian’s chambers.
Meilyr let himself look at him. Really look, as he had been too afraid to do for some time, tracing through their bond whilst studying his eyes. The subtle way he breathed. The life that burned so brilliantly it might chase away any chill just to move closer.
‘No,’ Meilyr confirmed. ‘I know you are not behind this. For a start, you are Khaimlic, but…’ Not only that. There was no trace of malicious intent anywhere within him.
Osian exhaled, quiet and thankful. ‘I thought perhaps certain rumours might have reached you. If there is any way…’ He trailed off.
They both heard it at the same instant. Footfall, growing louder.
Someone was coming.
Panic engulfed Meilyr’s chest. There was already so much suspicion surrounding him, if they were found here at this time, it would truly be damning.
Osian shifted to shield him from whoever approached. But would that be enough? He was the prince, allowed to be anywhere, but explaining this when the court was already so rife with rumours?
The sound of boots drew closer. They had seconds, less than seconds.
Was there any reason to be down here? What could they possibly be doing in this damp, deserted—
Oh. Oh.
Meilyr grabbed the front of Osian’s tunics, pulled himself up against his chest and kissed him.
Shock froze the prince as motionless as a mountain. Then he melted, deepened the kiss as though it was the most natural thing in the world: instinct burned physical.
That same instinct made Meilyr reach around his broad shoulders to bury his hands in his hair, pulling him closer. They stumbled, and Meilyr’s back met the wall with a thrill of pleasure as Osian’s body fixed him there, his mouth devastatingly warm and soft.
Instinct slipped Meilyr’s tongue past his lips.
Instinct made the prince respond in kind, a surge of motion and a small, unleashed sound of frustrated want as he pressed against Meilyr more firmly, one hand tangled in his hair, the other grasping the small of his back, as though even this contact was not enough. As though he needed more.
The sun blazed through Meilyr, burning away everything else, replacing it with this. With Osian.
The footsteps that rounded the corner stopped sharply.
Osian stiffened, going deathly still.
‘Really, Osian?’ Prince Wystan sounded tired and annoyed. ‘You couldn’t have waited until you made it to your rooms?’
Osian withdrew his mouth with undisguised frustration. His voice was low and rough, sparking fresh hunger in Meilyr’s flesh. ‘Do you very much mind, Wystan?’
A pause. ‘Not really.’ The youngest prince strode off. ‘It’s your castle, I suppose.’
They listened intently for his footsteps to disappear. Silence returned to the corridor.
Osian stepped away. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, a hint of raw heat still in the words.
Meilyr’s body sang with want. The distance between them was an ocean, and he had to swallow, tamping down the treacherous pull to plunge and grab Osian. Heave him back to his mouth, his body. ‘No,’ he managed. ‘I – forgive me, Majesty, I should have asked.’
Osian shook his head, not looking at him. ‘No, it was… a good idea. A good solution. I am sorry I… took it too far.’ His hair was tousled by Meilyr’s fingers. His lips kissed-pink and perfect, too far away—
Enough. Meilyr took a long, unsteady breath. Gods, he could still taste him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You responded – I mean, it worked because you responded.’
‘We should… leave.’
‘Yes,’ Meilyr agreed.
‘Now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right?’ Osian asked abruptly, genuinely concerned.
‘What? Yes – yes, I am fine, just very glad that did not go… worse. It could have gone worse. A lot worse. He could have…’
It came into Osian’s gaze the same instant Meilyr thought it.
They both stepped into the cloistered courtyard to look the way Wystan had departed. Alone, in a deserted part of the castle.
There was no sign of him.
‘What else is down there?’ Meilyr whispered, ice in his blood.
‘The gardens, and a side route to the armoury. Not much else.’ Neither of them said the rest, but it was in Osian’s expression as he finally looked at Meilyr. ‘We should leave.’