Princeweaver

Chapter 34

THIRTY-FOUR

And may her name be hallowed as the earth upon which they spilled

the blood that destroyed the age of peace.

The Destroyer.

The Betrayer.

May her spirit never find rest.

Biography of His Holy Majesty King Uhtric Arden-Draca,

Holy Devotee Godwine Airaldi, 686 A.S.

THIRTY-FOUR

Curled towards Osian’s fireplace, Meilyr worried every overwhelming thought back and forth until his teeth hurt.

Someone was killing Khaimfolc in power, probably someone at or close to court.

Yew was almost certainly the next plant to be used for a killing, that parchment alluding to something truly terrible – tied to the symbol of Cyngaleg freedom, and the symbol of the one responsible for the Sundering.

He would have to look at it again, to try to understand what it meant, though frost stole into his skin at the mere thought.

Someone else, probably Prince Wystan, had tried to kill Osian. Lord Gelens had certainly had a hand in it. Deryn’s father might still die. Crownsworn had beaten Wade Bevan bloody. Cyngalon was a drought-riddled field with a torch set to it.

He had hurt Osian and had no idea how to make it better. And Haydn…

Haydn was the least of his problems, and yet the only one he could solve.

So, he made a decision. When watery light washed the walls, he rose quietly and approached the bed.

Osian was awake, no telling whether he had slept.

‘Forgive me, Majesty.’ Meilyr slipped into formality, in case Osian wanted it. ‘I must request a private meeting with Haydn Sayer, wherever that might be permitted.’

Osian left the bed and shrugged on his robe. ‘Of course.’ His voice was agonizingly neutral. ‘Your time is yours.’

Meilyr felt utterly wretched. Worse, as Osian left alone to attend his duties, smothering the weariness that still clung to him.

Redressing in the parlour, that damned thread in Meilyr’s chest began tugging, protesting the prince’s distance.

But Meilyr had made a decision. It would have been better in his own rooms, but at least this gave as much privacy as he could be afforded.

The tower was certainly being observed, but hopefully this would appear innocuous enough.

He sat on the divan and waited. The sharp feeling at the base of his ribs deepened. His blood rose to audible, searching for whatever danger made him uneasy.

Finally, Pedr opened the door. Haydn stepped in, confusion knotting his brow.

‘Thank you,’ Meilyr said. ‘That will be all for now.’

Pedr looked between them, and their silent question lifted Meilyr’s chest: Is this all right?

He nodded, hoping to convey enough. Pedr left.

‘Meilyr,’ Haydn began, approaching.

Meilyr raised a palm and stood. Haydn slowed.

‘Haydn,’ Meilyr said. ‘I know I am in no position to ask a favour of you, but please, might I be brought a small cutting of the old yew in the lower western terraces? And any others you happen to know of within the grounds.’

That was clearly not what Haydn had expected. His pause was heavy. ‘Of course. Meilyr, listen, about yesterday—’

‘What happened yesterday cannot happen again. Our lives – mine, yours, Celyn’s – they are forfeit if it does.’

Hurt mapped Haydn’s features. ‘I should have listened,’ he said, ‘when you asked to stop. I never meant to make you feel this way. I hate seeing you in pain.’

Meilyr’s edges softened. ‘I know, and I am sorry to have to do this, and to have made you feel as though this could happen. I never meant to hurt you, not now, and not before.’

Haydn exhaled quietly. ‘I know your… position here is complicated. I only…’ He grimaced. ‘Having to watch you be paraded on his arm? Thinking what he…’ He shook his head, ridding himself of the taste of the words. ‘I’m sorry, Meilyr, but he cannot own you. Not your heart.’

‘He saw us yesterday.’ Meilyr had hoped to spare this barb, but there was nothing else for it. ‘It is only by his mercy that you and I and Celyn are still breathing.’

‘He saw us? How? How could he possibly?’

‘He came to help, and saw. It cannot happen again.’

Haydn’s shock and panic rolled into something like frustration. ‘So, it’s his voice in your words? Is he making you tell me this?’

‘No, that—’

‘He cannot own your heart, Meilyr.’ Haydn moved closer, bristling. ‘If you… if you want to stop, then tell me. But say it with your whole damn chest, or I’ll know it’s only your fear. Only him.’

‘Only my fear? My brother’s life, your life—’

Suddenly, Haydn was close: tall and blistering. ‘He doesn’t have to know.’

He cupped Meilyr’s face and slipped his other arm around his waist, ducking his head—

Meilyr covered Haydn’s mouth with his hand, leaning away.

The memory of old laughter. Soft lips in soft grasses. Heat, beneath the whisper of autumn leaves.

Haydn wanted him, in all the ways that want had led them before. Until Meilyr’s own desire had burned out in a panicked instant when his heart caught up. When his mind screamed so loudly all the pyres went out.

But this was not just about that. This was about the other turmoil in his chest, aching so fiercely his blood rose in protective fury.

A petunia in the nearest window box twitched.

‘Haydn,’ he said, removing his hand. ‘Stop. Please.’

Haydn regarded him, surprised and hurt. ‘Gods, you… mean it, don’t you.’

Meilyr nodded, stiffly. His eyes stung. Haydn’s pain almost hurt more than staying silent, but only almost. He could not give in this time.

Not ever again.

Haydn slumped, only loosely embracing him now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry, Meilyr. I only, how we used to be…’

Meilyr gripped him slackly. ‘I know. I am sorry.’

‘Please, don’t.’ Haydn’s voice was gentle now. ‘Please don’t apologise for being honest with me. That’s all I want.’

Meilyr’s hands shook. The roar of his blood quietened, but he could still hear it: a great beast moving away through the wood.

Haydn pulled back. ‘Do you want me to leave? What do you need?’

Meilyr shook his head. He did not know. He did not want Haydn to hate him, did not want to lose him.

Haydn hesitated, then drew him carefully into his arms. The embrace was so different from before, Meilyr went limp and trembled.

‘Meilyr, I am so sorry,’ Haydn told him.

‘I know you mean it. I’ll leave the instant you ask me to, all right?

I can’t imagine how awful this has been.

Thank you for telling me before I… made it even worse. ’

Meilyr shook his head again. ‘I am sorry.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

You have nothing to apologise for.

Osian.

Meilyr flinched, stepped back from Haydn unsteadily and rubbed his face. ‘I am sorry,’ he repeated. ‘But thank you, for stopping. I am sorry I gave you the wrong idea.’

‘This is definitely my fault.’ Haydn pulled together a watery smile. ‘It was only, seeing you felt like a second chance. I never really stopped thinking about you. About us.’

‘It was good to see you,’ Meilyr admitted quietly. ‘To have you here. I… I am sorry.’

The words were desperate stones used to seal himself up, when everything he felt threatened to burst through any gap, taking the entire structure with him. Sorry, he was always sorry.

‘None of this is your fault,’ Haydn said.

‘Nothing ever is. Yesterday was awful, that look in your eyes… I wish you didn’t have to be here, no matter what that means for us.

I’d rather you were a thousand miles away.

Seeing you with him, knowing you have to…

’ Fury glistened. He bit it back. ‘I wish I could help, Meilyr. No matter what we are, I wish I could get you out of here, away from him.’

‘You do not have to. I told you, Celyn—’

‘A selfish fool, as always. I’d gladly floor him too, but not before getting you both away from here.’

‘I know,’ Meilyr said. ‘But it is nowhere near that bad. Celyn is safe. I do not need you to do anything, other than keep yourself safe. Osian is – the prince, he is trying to help, and…’

Haydn did not miss the slip. ‘You… Meilyr, you care about him?’

‘I do not,’ Meilyr lied reflexively. ‘He is just…’

Not what he should have been. So much more than he should have been.

Haydn tilted his head. ‘Meilyr, everything he is, everything he is making you feel…’

Meilyr’s ragged nerves bristled. ‘He is not making me feel anything.’

‘Tell me if he has hurt you,’ Haydn said. ‘That’s all I care about.’

‘No, I swear it. We…’

We have not been intimate, Meilyr nearly said. But heat blossomed.

The taste of Osian’s mouth. The warmth of his body. The breadth of his shoulders and his sea-swept eyes above Meilyr in the dark. The feeling of him.

Haydn’s gaze shifted to quizzical.

‘It is not what you think,’ Meilyr said. ‘None of it is. But he has not hurt me, not once.’

Realisation dawned across Haydn’s features: a stunned, sad ache.

‘Ah, well I suppose that makes sense. I believe you. Gods…’ He huffed a quiet, breathless laugh.

‘I’m glad you’re not in pain, but… try to be as honest with yourself as I wish you could have been with me?

As honest as you were just now. And if you ever need me, in any way, you know where to find me.

’ He let the last of his hurt out with an exhale and straightened.

‘If there is anything I can do for you, Highness, please don’t hesitate.

I will always be here. There is no one else I would rather break my heart. ’

That urge to reach for him, to stop his pain, rose again. Meilyr did not want to lose him. Would do anything—

No, not anything. Not anymore.

‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘Me too. Thank you, Meilyr. Should I leave?’

Meilyr nodded, that distressingly recognisable unmooring pressing at the edges of his mind. The trees in the distance swayed.

Haydn moved away and opened the door.

Pedr started – as Aldreda rounded the spiral staircase, on her way up.

Oh, gods.

Haydn did not miss a beat: bowed low to the Heir Apparent. ‘Majesty.’ He spun and bowed equally low to Meilyr. ‘I will see to your request immediately, Highness.’

He dared a secret wink with an apologetic smile as he straightened, and a little relief soothed Meilyr’s raked senses. Haydn slipped past Aldreda, bowed again and vanished down the stairs.

Aldreda looked at Meilyr and noted his missing cuffs immediately. He had forgotten to put them back on after he awoke.

But she only shook her head tiredly. ‘Osian ducked out, then. This works. Look.’ She leaned on the doorframe and glanced at Pedr. ‘Please tell Jocosa to find my brother. The taller, obstinately earnest one.’

The knight looked between them and, bless them, went to refuse.

‘It is all right, Pedr,’ Meilyr said. He did not know if it was, but Aldreda had a very different air to the last time he had seen her. She wanted to speak privately but was reluctant. Grim. Not about to run him through.

Pedr grudgingly marched down the stairs.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aldreda began, jaw tight, ‘about the other day. But that’s not why I’m here. The old man is dead. The one you knew. He was being monitored by our physicians, but, well.’

The world stopped. Like the wind dropping without warning, to stillness and absence.

Wade Bevan was dead…?

‘Sympathies,’ she said. ‘Take however long you need.’

She turned and descended the stairs, but Meilyr barely perceived her.

It rang through his mind like an awful bell. The old man is dead.

Wade Bevan’s kind, sun-rough face, beaming in greeting each time he hobbled into the apothecary. Over the decade or more Meilyr had known him, that expression had never changed, even as the lines deepened and his bones gave him more grief.

Sioned, his wife. His widow.

The old man is dead.

Wade Bevan’s smile, breaking into pain. Bloodied. Beaten.

Dead.

Meilyr’s mind twisted the image into the face of Deryn’s father. Into Idwal’s face, where he had died under Meilyr’s hands.

Twisted it into the lifeless, broken face of Meilyr’s father.

A single periwinkle shuddered. The one beside it. The two beside that. The high, ringing sound crawled back into Meilyr’s head.

Run—

His mother’s fierce press into his hair as she kissed his temple, as she set him down in the treeline, the world-rending schism of fire and emptiness behind her. Run, Meilyr. Don’t look back—

The life in the window boxes hissed as though a gale moved through them. A petal fell, then another. Another.

Meilyr covered his mouth, ears ringing. He listed towards the door, the stairs. ‘I am fine,’ he whispered, as though Aldreda might still hear him. As though to convince himself. ‘I just need a moment.’

But the old lie found no footing. He was not fine.

He needed to stay confined, needed to play the part of consort, needed to—

The old man is dead.

The plants began to shudder as the whining note in his skull peeled into a scream. He needed to get out of this room. Away from the plants. Away.

He placed a shaking hand on the wall and climbed down, one unsteady step at a time. His vision cracked as grief welled and welled and welled, until he almost fell, skirts hushing on the steps behind. His defences broke apart as he tried to hold back the flood with his bare hands.

On the landing, someone shouted after him. Aldreda’s voice responded, disembodied, echoing, ‘Let him go. Find Prince Osian.’

His blood roared, and he stumbled from the tower, past faces and bodies and halls saturated with people. The fullness pressed at the backs of his eyes, making them sting.

Wade Bevan was dead. Killed by Khaimlic crownsworn.

His parents had met the same end. A worse end. An ending he caused.

Was Wade Bevan dead because of him? Just as he could not save Idwal from the disease that had wasted him from the inside.

No matter how much weaving Meilyr had attempted – no matter how much Celyn had begged him.

Celyn – Celyn, who he also could not save.

Could not save from Khaim – Khaim, whose clothes he wore, whose heirs he smiled with – Aldreda – Osian—

Do not cry. If you cry, that’s it. Please, please do not cry.

Mam. Da—

Idwal. Celyn—

Osian—

He kept going. Allowed the castle to wash through him as the gust of his blood picked up behind, unrelenting at his back. Raising the hairs on his neck.

He needed to be away from people, needed to tamp this down where no one could see.

The roar caught the edges of his fear. Grew louder.

I am not in danger, he tried again. But it was impossible to lie to his own blood.

He wanted the gardens, but the sun shone for the first time in days, so they already teemed with staff and courtiers. He should not be here – had to be. Weaved towards the edges of the grounds as his blood pounded harder and worse the more he shied from it.

It had been a very, very long time since this had happened. All of the fright and all of the pain had coalesced into one singular demand: fight or flight, groaning against his skull. Rattling through him like a storm trapped inside a house.

He had to calm it. Now.