Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Please’, the Fox begged,
‘do not look at me. Do not come near.’
For they were only brittle, wounded and lost.
But the man came anyway. Stayed, and waited,
a healing all of its own.
The Fox’s Tears,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
THIRTY-FIVE
Meilyr found himself near the stables. The scent of horse and leather eased the urgency of the roar, and he slowed his steps, fighting to catch his breath.
Every horse he passed stared at him. It was probably a good thing he had not risked disturbing the entirety of the gardens.
The stable hands greeted him with short bows and nods, though their worry was in the air. Once, they would have greeted him eagerly; it stung, but he had other troubles. The one he flagged down was overly accommodating when he asked if he might groom his horse.
In Cynefrith’s stall, he brushed her and talked to her quietly, steadying himself on her. She was intrigued by and glad of his presence, a little dissatisfied with breakfast, wondering if he had any carrots. The softness of her nose and the heat of her breath lulled his senses.
The wind still hushed if he listened. It had drawn away to the far hills, but was not quite gone.
There was a slight clamour somewhere out in the aisle of the stables, voices and motion. He stopped talking but kept brushing, hoping he would go unnoticed.
Steps drew closer. He kept his back turned as soft awareness unfurled behind him.
‘Forgive me for making you wait.’
His heart leapt in surprise and something else, and he turned.
Osian stood at the stable door, looking more hale and healthy than in days. ‘Give me a moment, and I will be ready. Bryn, could you fetch our saddles?’ He strode away, missing Meilyr’s befuddled expression.
How had he…?
Movement caught Meilyr in its wings. Pedr, Blythe, Macsen and Garrick were with the prince; all readied their horses promptly.
He tried to catch Osian’s expression, but this…
felt like a morning ride. As though the last days were merely a nightmare.
As though they had planned this for days, though neither wore their riding leathers.
The little party headed out across the cobbles of the courtyard and slipped through the southern gatehouse.
No one stopped them. Meilyr rode beside Osian, the prince cutting a fine form as always.
It was still early, and patches of dew clung where the sun had not yet reached.
Before long, the road descended into the scent of trees, quiet save for the hooves and huff of the horses.
How had Osian known where to find him? Why had he come?
Meilyr tried to read him, but he still would not look at him.
Civilisation melted away. Farmland opened into craggy hills and forest, the sounds of birds and trees. On a rise beyond a thick copse, the wind catching his hair, the prince turned to his knights. ‘Follow to keep us in sight, but no closer.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘Majesty.’
Osian finally met Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Shall we?’
Cynefrith caught the intent before he did. Osian and his grey plunged into the valley – and she dived after them, jarring Meilyr backwards.
A snap of shock. The roaring of the true wind, far too much like losing control.
Then the exhilaration came: Meilyr settled his hands and pushed his mare abreast of Osian’s. They thundered into the valley together, and up once more. The brilliant gust tore at his face, his hair. As they crested the rise, a glance from Osian told him everything he needed to know: After you.
He did not allow himself to question it, merely leaned back in the saddle and let Cynefrith open her stride. The air burned. Osian kept pace.
Cynefrith’s sharp breathing, rhythmic with her hooves and his breath. His blood. He had missed this feeling of flight, only him and his horse: a perfect bond, a perfect pace. Nothing but the wind.
He felt his face break into a smile, tears in his eyes, not just from the air.
On and on they went, dipping through valleys and hills, north-west, towards the foothills of Carnedd Cau, the sun blazing through spills of cloud.
Once, he glanced back. Eascild Castle had vanished.
Eventually, after what must have been bells, something glittered in the distance: a wide lake, caught at the lip of the mountains. They rode to its shores, where the surface glimmered like a hundred thousand tiny stars. Man and beast breathing hard, they halted to let the horses drink and rest.
Meilyr slipped roughly from the saddle, stumbling. Osian dismounted more artfully, joining him to stare at the vista. An easy silence spread, and Meilyr sucked in the air.
The edges of the roar were still there. Wade Bevan was dead. Something terrible he had no power to prevent was happening. He could still feel Haydn, and his flesh stirred unpleasantly with the ghosts of memory.
Damn all of this, the grief and the guilt.
A red kite flew above the lake, its fork-tailed form unmistakeable. They were deep in Cyngalon.
The notion came as to a child, spontaneous and wild.
Meilyr stepped away from the horses, undoing the fastenings of his collar. His over-tunic, his boots. He dropped them without looking back, without wondering what Osian might think, and climbed the high bluff of grass and rock that overhung the water.
He wanted to be free of it all.
The wind picked up in answer. It was a rather long way down. If the water was shallow…
It would not be.
Please, let this drown everything before it drowned him.
He jumped.
It was a long, fast, rushing fall. The sharp, slamming plunge that burst his ears and swallowed him whole.
The freezing deep took him, and he let go. Let himself sink, blinking through the torrent of bubbles to watch the shifting light in the clear, cold depths.
There was only black beneath. Disjointed, formless light above. Perhaps he should have been afraid of an afanc in the depths, or the webbed talons of a morgen, snatching him into the dark.
He let his lungs empty. Fell into the steady, thick beating of his heart.
A deep, distorted sound broke the monotony, disturbing the rivers of light.
Osian.
He had dived into the lake.
Under the water, he turned easily and swam to Meilyr. There was worry in him, unchecked. He reached, and Meilyr took his hand. Together, they kicked for the surface.
They broke the air in unison. Meilyr gasped and spluttered, stars shooting. They grasped each other for buoyancy, Meilyr drawn into Osian’s steady tide.
Osian blinked away water. ‘I thought you would stay down there.’
There was less humour in it than concern. The lake had washed away some of his mask, and this close, there was no mistaking the care mapping his features.
‘Not yet.’ Meilyr pushed a smile into the words. Pushed against the current and Osian’s chest to swim, and dived beneath the surface again.
His flesh still stirred. He had hoped the plunge would fix it, but then Osian—
Enough. Just swim.
Osian joined him in the deep. Meilyr turned over in the water to look at him, and Osian dived to swim under him.
Meilyr lost air to a surprised burst of laughter – swam lower, beneath Osian again, bubbles rushing free.
It was playful, to turn about one another.
To push their lungs to their limits, moving like otters in the bright, clear dark.
To hear nothing but the thrum of their hearts and the rustle of water. The breathing of the lake.
Finally, they had to break for air.
After gasping, Osian said, ‘You swim like one of the merfolk.’
Meilyr huffed a tired, giddy laugh. ‘Perhaps I am, sent to bewitch a handsome, unsuspecting prince.’
Oh, that was a mistake. The water had made him forget.
He had strayed too close to the truth.
Osian stared at him. For the first time since they had entered the lake, there was something unreadable about him. ‘Perhaps.’
They swam to the shore, and the horses and their things. The weight of his body made Meilyr want to sink back into the depths, but something had changed. His heartbeat was fast again, even as he tried to swallow it.
He was very, acutely aware of the man beside him.
Their skin was stung to gooseflesh. They tugged off their sopping layers on either side of their horses, shyly. Their over-tunics were dry, so they pulled those on and laid their other clothes on the bluff’s bare rocks to dry in the sun.
‘Shall we take a moment?’ Osian gestured to another set of rocks.
‘Of course. Are you all right?’
‘I am more than healed, thanks to you.’
Meilyr sat. Osian went to the horses and drew something from a pouch in his saddle. He returned, sitting on the rock beside Meilyr’s. ‘It is not much, but considering we had such short notice for our ride…’
It was several wedges of bread, with cheese as thick, and a pair of apples. Meilyr’s mouth watered as Osian handed him his share. He was actually hungry.
They ate together, staring at the lake.
Hot tears slipped down Meilyr’s cheeks, sudden and unbidden.
His breath shuddered, from surprise as much as emotion. The tears would not stop. He wiped them away – no use. It was as though his body had decided for him how much he could bear, and in the end, he set down his bread and covered his face with his hands.
Osian stayed, letting the grief wring him out silently, there on the lakeshore. Let him slowly come out the other side of it, sore-eyed and sniffing.
‘I am sorry,’ the prince said, before Meilyr could say the same. ‘Harlan told me. It will be dealt with, you have my word.’
That nearly set off the tears again. The water remained blurred. Beside Meilyr’s hand, a single red campion had turned sympathetically towards him. He took a long, unsteady breath and pulled away from himself. ‘I wonder how different your tales of the lake are to ours?’
Osian let him flow where he needed. ‘I have often wondered the same.’
His eyes were more brilliant than any lake, any sea. Meilyr had to look away again. The wind breathed across the water, stirring it into a living thing.