Princeweaver

Chapter 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

‘Help me,’ the Fox tried to shout.

But their mouth had returned to a maw,

and these humans believed the only good fox

was a dead one.

The Fox’s Tears,

translated by Idwal gan Hywel

THIRTY-EIGHT

Distant thumping dislodged itself from the beating of Meilyr’s heart.

Pain followed, pulsing with every thud. The back of his skull, the skin around his wrists. His mouth and throat – damn, his throat.

‘You awake, lovely?’

The room swam. He shied from the light and tensed, his back tight against something solid, his hands bound behind him with sharp rope.

‘Meilyr—’

Haydn’s voice cut off in pain as someone hit him.

The image swayed. Meilyr bit his tongue bloody, grounding himself.

They were in the loft of a barn or storehouse. Worn floorboards let through dim light and glimpses of floor below. Rain drummed above and dripped through the rafters. A single door, likely concealing a staircase. Boxes, covered with old sheets. Dust clung to the air and his dry lungs.

Haydn was tied to metal rungs on the far wall, Meilyr to a supporting post in the middle of the space – three crownsworn between them.

No, two crownsworn. One crownsblood knight.

They all wore masks but had discarded their cloaks. Their uniforms were dirtied by earth or blood.

Pedr.

The world sharpened.

‘You weren’t supposed to wake up yet, but this might be fun.’ The crownsblood moved closer. ‘Why don’t we have a little story? Just us?’

‘Oi,’ said one of the crownsworn, the one who had hit Haydn. ‘Aren’t we supposed to blindfold him? Remember what—’

‘Quiet. Our orders are to keep him alive and fetching until we’ve taken care of Osian, then his nicely fresh dead body will be the last piece we need.’

Osian.

Meilyr’s blood thudded louder, straining. He had to get to Osian. He had to warn him. ‘You will not get away with this,’ he bit, hoarse. ‘Osian knows about your plot.’

‘Oh, it’s not enough for him to know,’ the knight said. ‘He still has no idea how deep it runs, or how long this has brewed. Besides, even if he tries to stop us, you’re the perfect little bargaining chip.’ They stopped before him and removed their mask.

Meilyr had not needed them to. He had guessed who they were sworn to, though the face sparked bitter recognition.

‘Looks like you remember me, I’m honoured. I’m Ser Terrell, sworn to His Majesty and future king, Prince Wystan.’ He gave an exaggerated bow.

If only he was closer, so Meilyr could kick him in the head.

‘Now.’ Terrell straightened. ‘I promised you a story. It’s the tale of star-crossed lovers, destined to be separated by the lust of a weak, bastard prince.

One of the lovers – your lover, lovely – your dutiful gardener here, confides his pain in an old friend, who promises he has a way for you both to escape the clutches of the evil prince. ’

Haydn spat blood. There was more on his head, and down his front. ‘You lied to me – you all gods damn lied!’

The crownsworn hit him again.

‘Stop!’

‘Not your story to tell, lad.’

‘Stop,’ Meilyr bit. ‘Let him go, you have what you want.’

‘No,’ Terrell drawled, ‘we don’t. But we will, and you’re going to play such a sweet part.’ He stepped close and tipped Meilyr’s chin with a bloodied finger. ‘I can definitely see what all the fuss is about, even with you being one of them. The bastard is a lucky man – or was.’

‘Don’t you dare touch him—’ Haydn’s growl broke as they struck him across the head.

‘Stop! Leave him!’

Terrell’s grip tightened on Meilyr’s chin.

‘How touching. He confesses to aiding in the attempted murder of your husband, and you still want him alive. Neither satisfying you, darling? That’s a real shame.

’ He pushed Meilyr’s head against the post, igniting pain where his skull had hit the ground.

The knight’s desire, carnal and base, burned through his hand.

‘I love a pretty thing with an appetite.’

‘Ser,’ the second crownsworn warned, gaze fixed on Meilyr. ‘Watch it, maybe? He could still be the sorcerer.’

‘Don’t be stupid, that’s what we’re making them believe. Look at him – you really think he could kill anyone?’

These people meant Osian harm. They had stabbed Pedr. Haydn’s head hung low, and blood slipped from his mouth.

Meilyr’s own blood ground against his bones.

‘That’s a fine look.’ Terrell turned Meilyr’s face, forcing him to look at him. ‘I wonder…’ He moved his thumb to Meilyr’s lips. ‘What might you look like if we kill him in front of you—’

The word broke in a shout of pain as Meilyr bit Terrell’s thumb as fiercely as he could.

Flesh and iron and dirt—

Terrell tore free with a scrape of skin. ‘Whoreson!’

Agony burst as the knight backhanded Meilyr across the face. His temple and cheekbone exploded in pain, but he bit his lip so as not to spit in shock.

Terrell shook out his hand, then laughed. ‘Gods, what a shame. Your face is awfully lovely, but I suppose we can say you wanted to add character to it before the end. A little blood is very becoming.’

He had no idea.

Meilyr swallowed, and the tang of iron worked its way down his throat. The pain pulsing through his head muffled beneath the gale that swept out from his heart, rattled his ribs and pooled into the tips of his fingers, his toes.

His lip was split, painted with mingled blood as he raised his head.

Something changed in the room. The crownsworn felt it as vestigial prey instincts pointed them to the cause. It was the crawling fear of a man who hears twigs snap in the dark forest, and remembers he is only an animal.

‘Let us go,’ Meilyr said, the roar so loud he could barely hear. ‘Now.’

Terrell was the sort of man who believed sharpened steel and bravado were enough to frighten off anything foolish enough to hunt him. He laughed. ‘And who’s going to make me do that, gorgeous?’

The roar brimmed at the edges of Meilyr’s skin, baying for release. ‘Let us go, or you will regret it. This is your only warning.’

Terrell sneered. Cruelty lit his eyes. ‘No. In fact, I’m starting not to care that we’re supposed to keep you looking nice. I think you need to be taught some manners from your betters.’

There was a wince – a whine of doubt within the maelstrom as the blood oath Meilyr had sworn to his parents struggled against the gale. Had he been alone, it would have been enough to stay his hand. His own life had never weighed much against those he had lost.

But Osian was in danger. Pedr might be dead.

Haydn struggled to raise his head, and Terrell’s mouth split into a grin. ‘I know where we’ll start.’ He drew the long gwaed-steel dagger from his side and, holding Meilyr’s gaze, moved towards Haydn. ‘Let’s hear how sweetly you beg.’

Meilyr did not beg. Even as fury lurched his body forward, a red kite taking flight into the storm.

Forgive me, Mam. Da. I am so sorry.

He reached out with the roots of his blood, Terrell’s pulse a cacophony that threatened to split open Meilyr’s skull.

Nothing happened immediately. Terrell grabbed Haydn by the hair, forcing him to look at him as he pointed the dagger at his stomach…

And hesitated. Cleared his throat. Struggled to take a deep enough breath.

‘Terrell?’

‘Ser,’ Terrell corrected, a mangled wheeze. He stepped back, staggered. Tried to pass it off as nothing.

‘Ter—Ser Terrell?’

His breathing was laboured. He grabbed at his chest, eyes bolt-wide.

‘Ser!’

A bang beneath their feet. Raised, urgent voices, and more banging.

Meilyr’s concentration wavered.

One of the crownsworn threw open the door to shout, ‘What is it?’

‘Trouble!’ A muffled call from the lower floor. ‘Get down here!’

The crownsworn looked between the wheezing Terrell, the door and Meilyr. They grabbed Terrell’s arm and tugged – he threw them off, but all three thumped out and down the stairs, the door slamming behind.

More shouting from beneath. Meilyr shook his pounding head, blinked away the shadows and sucked in air. The roar spluttered to a gust.

‘Haydn? Haydn!’

The sounds of wood and motion and shouting. The light changed – doors opening? Boots and muffling – were they leaving?

Haydn groaned, limp and bloodied.

Meilyr heaved at the rope, rubbing his wrists raw. The knot only tensed. There was nothing in reach, nothing to help. The crownsworn could be back any moment.

The gust rapped at his hands.

Damn it, it was worth a try.

He sucked at his lip, set his jaw and focused on his fingertips. On how the threads of his blood moved, tight against his nails.

He had never done this – was it even possible? Would it cost him his hands?

If it could save Osian, save Haydn, did it matter?

Poppy, hemlock, henbane – useless, something else—

Oh, gods…

Meilyr clenched his eyes shut and nudged at his own shape. It hurt far more than he could have imagined: tightness bunched the skin at the end of his fingers, small hot blooms as barbs of bone finally broke through from the inside.

Sharp – sharper—

He cut against the rope before they fully formed, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stopper sounds of pain, propelled by frantic, wild urgency. A whimper-hiss of frustration escaped through his teeth.

It was not sharp enough. Any instant now the crownsworn would return, and Haydn—

The rope twitched. Some of the fibres had severed. He tensed his arms and pulled – the rope jolted, coming loose. He fell forward with the momentum, threw the rope aside and tried not to look at his bloodied, warped hands.

But his body was settling. The new bone drew back inside the confines of his flesh as he let go of the roar, night flowers closing with the press of dawn.

He left red streaks on Haydn’s face as he touched him. ‘Haydn?’

He was breathing, but shallowly. Pained. None of his injuries felt immediately life-threatening, but he mumbled a hopeless version of Meilyr.

Meilyr untied his wrists and stumbled beneath his weight as he came off the wall. ‘Haydn, I am going to get you out of here, but I need you to walk. Can you help me?’

Haydn put his feet down and swayed. Meilyr pulled his arm over his shoulders, braced as much of him as he could and made for the door.

A dark, steep set of steps led down. Somehow, agonizingly slowly, they made it without falling, Meilyr’s senses straining for signs of approach.

But the storehouse beneath remained silent. They fell down the last step and had to steady themselves against the wall.

There was no one inside, only more dust and boxes lining the walls. A small lit brazier with mugs and dirtied plates. One of the nearest double doors was partly open, night air stealing in – voices distant but there.

There was nothing else for it. Meilyr tugged Haydn more securely and pushed off towards the rain.

Hewn shapes of stone outbuildings reared in the dark, the sounds of men and horses and steel abruptly amplified. Meilyr slipped in the mud as the ground veered, and he pulled them uphill, away from the noise and the glinting, moving shadows at the bottom of the slope.

There was a clutch of trees near the far building – far better than getting caught in whatever fighting was happening.

But through the rain stinging his eyes, they came like the Tylwyth Teg. Mounted otherfolk, outlined against the rise. The first rider was carved from white moonlight and gold.

Meilyr’s heart keened.

Osian tore down the hill, slipped from the saddle without halting and closed the distance between them. He touched Meilyr’s face with his free hand, the one not gripping his bloodied sword. ‘Blythe,’ he summoned, thunderous.

Blythe leapt from the saddle and took Haydn easily across her shoulder, moving him towards the other knights.

Osian’s eyes had not left Meilyr, absorbed his bloodied lip, his bleeding temple, the blood and dirt on his hands and clothes.

His voice was liquid fury. The sea at storm.

‘Who did this to you?’

There was a tempest in Meilyr’s chest. ‘Osian…’

The prince let him go and leapt back atop his horse. ‘Blythe, get him to Eascild. Now.’

‘Osian, wait!’

Blythe grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, he’ll be fine.’ Her expression said it was everyone else Meilyr should be afraid for.

But it was not. He needed Osian to be no further from him than this – needed him not to walk into danger alone.

‘Osian!’

‘Come on, we’ve got your friend to take care of.’

It was almost not enough.

Meilyr tore his gaze away and saw Haydn safely up behind Macsen. Allowed Blythe to haul him into the saddle behind her and craned to try to make out the glow of Osian’s body and his horse even as she set off fiercely, away into the dark.

There was nothing but the rain. Nothing but the fury pooling through Osian’s blood, burning the world to a distorted haze. Suffusing his body with lightning.

Not a flicker of hesitance slowed his sword. There was only the rain, and uniformed fabric meeting sharpened gwaed-steel, as thunder roared above.

There was nothing but the rain – and the thought of Meilyr.