Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Bindweed.
Symbolic of protection, and dangerous obstinacy.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
TWENTY-FIVE
‘This is a bad business.’ Demelza’s thumb idly smoothed Meilyr’s cuff as they walked arm-in-arm under the dappled shade of the hydrangeas.
The air hung with the summer scents of grass and greenery, fresh buds and clear air; birds sang, insects hummed, and the little stones of the path crunched under their boots.
Ahead, Faina and Aldreda had ensconced themselves in a private world with Edeva laughing and swinging between their arms, her tiny shoes scuffing each time she kicked off. The love between them was as tangible as the life of the flora. Though, Faina seemed a little out of sorts.
‘Osian was right to come down hard,’ Demelza continued. ‘Although…’
The tangle of thorned emotions still hemmed around Meilyr, like bracken in the undergrowth. Concern for Wade Bevan. A thousand other shapeless fears. ‘Although?’ he asked, hesitant.
‘I worry for him. One of the reasons I came here was to… assuage doubt.’
‘Doubt? About Osian?’ There were those who disagreed with him – wished to undermine him. But this was something else.
Concern lined her tired eyes. She was exhausted, fighting valiantly to hide it.
‘You must understand, he has always seen the world differently. Black and white where others saw grey, and the reverse. He has a kind soul not meant, perhaps, for the burdens he must bear, as I’ve no doubt you have seen. ’
He said nothing. Felt the truth of her words like the subdued rock of the waves vying to drown him.
‘It would make him a truly great ruler were the world half as understanding. Alas, especially in times such as these, when fear is rampant…’ She slowed, feigning interest in the withering petals.
Meilyr lowered his voice. ‘What is it, Highness?’
She squeezed his arm. ‘There are whispers of his… sympathies, in regards to you, to Cyngalon. He has always felt this strongly, but people will gossip. The Marches fear his power over their autonomy, they and the court crave someone to blame, and there are… rumours that have never helped him.’
Meilyr was afraid to ask, but had to. ‘What rumours?’
The close scuffing of pebbles – Edeva skidded to a halt before them, grabbing Meilyr’s sleeve and hand. ‘Black flowers! I found black flowers! Faina says they’re dahlias!’
They were both willingly dragged, until something across the lawn made Meilyr slow.
Edeva stopped and looked with him. ‘What is it?’
‘Highness Cadogan?’ Demelza asked.
The dappled shade beneath the small rowan tree stirred in the breeze. The sharp barbs of golden henbane nodded. For a moment, it had seemed…
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I thought I saw something. Where are these dahlias, then?’
Edeva scrunched her nose, not believing him.
Faina called from further down the path, ‘Darlings, hurry now!’
That spurred Edeva on.
But as Meilyr looked back, he could not tell if the way the light fell beneath the tree caught merely leaflitter – or fur.
He kept his eyes on the undergrowth as they continued on, until a natural lull allowed him to say, ‘I will just be a moment, I need to check on something for a tisane.’
He stepped over an edging of bright yellow poppies onto the lawn, threading his way under the cherry trees and back. He had to have been mistaken, but something other than his rational mind set his boots on the grass.
Something was calling him, pulling on an invisible thread in his chest.
Something familiar. Hauntingly, achingly familiar.
Sunlight streamed through the branches. There was the top of the rowan, the henbane-edged shadows beneath. The dappling of light and shade, catching hues of umber and mottled jet. Keen eyes of brilliant gold, waiting—
‘Meilyr?’
Meilyr spun, then turned back.
The fox was gone.
‘Sorry.’ Haydn’s expression was slightly strained as he stepped off the path to join him. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Meilyr said, too quickly. His nerves scraped across a different nervousness, twisting him back to the present. The one day he did not want to see Haydn. ‘I was distracted. Apologies.’
Haydn tilted his head: that handsome, characteristic way. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Absolutely. You did startle me. How is everything?’ He needed to stop talking. Otherwise, Haydn would know, as though Meilyr came out and told him.
‘Are you… sure?’
‘Yes. I’m fine.’
He was fine. He could not still feel Osian, could not still taste him. Had not been driven to distraction multiple times by the feeling of his body pressing him against the wall. ‘I am fine,’ he lied.
Haydn searched his face, concerned, taking a step closer. ‘You’re sure? You seem… nervous. Has something happened?’
‘Nothing at all.’
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
Haydn did not believe him. Worry and intrigue vied. ‘Meilyr, what happened?’
Meilyr looked away. ‘I should go. If we are seen together too much—’
‘We’re only talking,’ Haydn said. ‘There’s no harm in talking, is there?’
His eyes offered more than talk, as they always had.
‘I should go.’ Meilyr turned away so he meant it.
He ran into Pedr, who had a leaf stuck in their hair from shooting after him.
‘Apologies,’ Meilyr said hurriedly. ‘I thought I saw something. Shall we?’
But as he returned to the others, he could not shake the disquiet. The roots of a strange, nameless dread. It crawled through his body like ivy through cracked stone.
Suddenly, and more sharply than the pull towards the fox, he needed to find Osian.
Meilyr excused himself again when able, ignoring the concerned
glances and questions. But when he reached his and the prince’s part of
the Eagle Tower, Prince Wystan stood in the barely lit gloom outside
Meilyr’s chambers. ‘I hoped I’d catch you without Osian present,’ the
youngest prince greeted. ‘Small mercies you could detach yourselves from
each other for a moment.’
Meilyr stopped on the stairs. Pedr’s tensing at his back was more tangible than if the knight had moved between him and the youngest prince. ‘Prince Wystan.’ Meilyr dipped a short bow. ‘To what do I—’
‘Your bodyguard will wait downstairs. I don’t care if either of you run to Osian the instant I’m gone, but I need to have a private word with my… brother-in-law.’
Pedr finished the stairs beside Meilyr, shielding the slight space between them. ‘Forgive me, Prince Wystan,’ they said, ‘but that cannot be permitted. I have been given orders—’
‘If you disobey me,’ Wystan said simply, ‘I will report you for treason. I’m a prince of the realm.’
‘Yes, Majesty, but I am not sworn to you. My vows and duty are—’
‘To the Crown,’ Wystan corrected.
‘To His Majesty Prince Osian,’ Pedr completed. ‘I am not to leave his consort’s side.’
‘Pedr.’ Meilyr laid a hand on their arm. ‘It’s all right.’
Their eyes met. Wary understanding dawned.
Pedr loosened enough to move, glancing at Wystan before guardedly descending the tight spiral of stairs out of sight.
In the gathering quiet, Wystan waited. Meilyr’s blood thudded against the roof of his mouth, warning: Danger. Danger.
But it would have been worse for Pedr if they had stayed. Much, much worse.
Wystan took one singular, measured step towards him; in the confined space, it was closer than Meilyr wanted.
He had witnessed the youngest prince drunk more than sober, both apathetic and callously cruel. This was something else, almost someone else: a mask removed, something certain and calculating where there had not been before.
Without theatrics, Wystan said, ‘I know your secret.’
Panic tensed Meilyr’s ribs. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Now, there, that’s a lie.’ Wystan’s measured indifference was chilling. ‘Very well, I’ll lay it out. I know all about the blood on the hands of your dear bond-brother.’
Meilyr’s heart lurched into his mouth. This was worse than what he had expected.
‘Yes,’ Wystan said, ‘I know about Celyn. Don’t worry, though, I don’t care about some Denelander peasant rotting in your little apothecary whilst Osian beds you.
I don’t even care about that dead crownsworn.
I just need you to know that I know, and that I could ruin both of you – all of you – if the whim took me. ’
Meilyr’s shredded nerves steeled. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told you, I want you to know I have leverage over you.’
‘Why? I have done nothing—’
Wystan stepped forward.
Meilyr stepped back, his boot finding the lip of the stairs. Any further, and he would have to retreat down them, or fall.
But that was enough; Wystan’s intent was cold but devoid of hunger.
Instead there was something empty, and immensely more dangerous about this Prince Wystan.
‘You offer a tantalising scapegoat, if the need arises. It would be wise for you to remember what you have to lose, should certain things come to light.’
Some of the pieces clicked into place. ‘What were you doing near that courtyard, last night?’
‘Gelens suggested we slip out to sample the local delicacies.’ There was the hunger. Sated, and smug. ‘After all, that’s all Osian is doing with you.’ He moved past Meilyr, too close in the narrow space, and started unconcernedly down the stairs. ‘I trust we have an understanding.’
Fear held Meilyr for a further instant, before he turned. ‘How did you find out?’
Wystan halted at the turn of the spire, considering. ‘Whispers of the blood,’ he said, and left.
Aldreda insisted they all make an appearance in the Great Hall for dinner.
Appearance was the only thing keeping Osian from damning everything and taking Meilyr to his chambers, away from all these eyes and whispers.
It was the only thing keeping him from dragging Wystan into a deserted corridor and demanding he explain what he was doing.
Slippery snake. He sat beside Aldreda, unusually quiet, drinking himself into a flush on the biting wine.
Pedr’s words hung heavy. The knight had caught Osian’s arm before dinner, as he had descended the stairs.