Chapter 40
FORTY
Names are the oldest magic in the world:
our very first gift,
and the one we carry longest.
The Book of Heart
FORTY
Pedr had garnered enough information to direct Osian straight through Eascild Castle. With his knight’s blood drying on his hands, he had stormed past the bewildered crownsworn and broken the latch of the locked door with such force it banged open.
Wystan’s gaze had sobered immediately. ‘Leave us,’ the youngest prince had told the two courtiers who had been giggling on the couch beside him. They fled, and Wystan took a drag of wine.
‘Where is he?’ Osian’s voice had growled thunder in his own ears.
‘I’m sorry, who?’
Osian moved across the room. Wystan stood sharply, mask falling. ‘Wait – what is this about? Stop—’
‘Meilyr. Where is he?’
Confusion, seemingly genuine. ‘What?’
‘One of my knights was all but run through, and their attackers took my consort and another member of castle staff. They were your men. Where have they gone?’
Wystan’s expression had worked quickly, calculating. ‘My men? How—’
‘It was Terrell, and the ’sworn captured is one of your favourites. Do not waste my time – tell me where they are, now.’
He had wanted to grab Wystan. Had wanted to put him at the end of his sword, or beneath his grasp to suffocate the truth from him. He had never laid hands on his brother, but he almost did then.
Wystan had seen it. He swallowed and recalculated. ‘Where is Gelens? They—’
‘Lord Gelens is conveniently absent. You know something, you tell me.’
Wystan had fidgeted, unmoored without his script.
‘Now, Wystan. If your hesitance—’
‘Stop! Stop, all right… They’ll be at the abandoned farm a bell westward. Take me to the gate and I’ll show you the way.’
Sharp confusion. ‘What?’
‘Now who’s wasting time?’ Wystan downed his wine with shaking hands and set the glass aside. ‘Shall I walk, or are you going to drag me down the stairs?’
Osian had read him for lies, for the half-truths he lived behind, which he breathed like air. There was nothing but fear and frustration. ‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Because this is not my move, Osian. I wanted your consort scared, but not this.’ He paused, grappling with something. ‘Poisoning you was also not my move. Quite the opposite. I told them… not that. Not you dying.’ He straightened. ‘Come, or you will lose him.’
Osian watched confusion shift through Meilyr’s features like soft
clouds over the hills as he told him of the exchange.
Their fingers had laced, faces close, the echoes of intimacy not quite dispelled.
‘What did he mean it was not his move?’ Meilyr asked. ‘Did he not give the order?’
‘I believe Gelens has overseen far more than we realised. I believe Wystan, and would not be surprised if he was little more than a figurehead for those who wish to keep Cyngalon for themselves. Those who wish to see him crowned king.’
Those who had controlled Wystan’s entire life.
‘So, Lord Gelens had us taken… had you poisoned…’
Carefully, Osian traced near the edges of the healing cuts on Meilyr’s fingertips and forced himself to remember he could not keep him.
Even this stolen moment should not have been his, even as his body remained ignited from the way Meilyr had pulled him on top of him, urging up against him, desperate and needing.
Osian had almost lost him. He had thought he had. That, coupled with this closeness, had almost broken the last of his resolve. But Meilyr had been through too much, must have been terrified and hurting, and Osian would not let his own feelings devour them. He would not let his want win.
Besides, Meilyr would likely never look at him like that again.
Not after this. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Gelens likely hoped to make it appear you had escaped, or to use you as a bargaining piece. They did not count on Pedr.’ Grateful pride filled his chest. ‘I believe that had Wystan been truly responsible – or even aware – he would have admitted it, or else lied. There is no self-serving reason he would lead me to you.’ Unless Aldreda had wrung it out of him before.
She might have, had she reached him first.
‘And Lord Gelens…?’
‘Has not yet been found,’ Osian confirmed. ‘Aldreda is overseeing the search, though likely they have fled to Sanford or Flintwick, since even the king is unlikely to give them sanctuary after this. I have ordered my knights guard Celyn, alongside Aldreda’s.’
Thankfulness lit Meilyr’s face. ‘Thank you.’ Their hands tightened. ‘But why would Wystan out Lord Gelens? And their other allies?’
‘A very good question.’
Wystan must have known it could only end bloody, yet had led Osian straight to it.
Reading him, Meilyr said, ‘When you arrived, there was a fight. Were they all… crownsworn?’
‘Most, yes.’ It burned Osian’s mouth too. ‘Those that surrendered were brought here alive.’
But many had not surrendered, ready to die in the name of their would-be king.
Meilyr moved to trace his brow but hesitated. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Those people should have been sworn to the Crown, including you. Instead, they…’ He made contact, emotion swimming in his eyes. ‘The same with those who aided Wystan, or shaped him. All these people…’
Osian tried to swallow the exhale at the touch, set his jaw so he did not lean into it. ‘Another price of power. There is always someone who wishes for more, and there is always collateral damage. Blood begets blood.’
He did not want to lose how softly Meilyr looked at him, but he had to tell him.
‘I killed those who resisted. I feel no remorse for it. They…’
The edges of the room blurred. Rain and blood pressed in.
Meilyr hooked a finger through the buttons at his chest to get his attention. ‘They tried to kill you, tried to kill Pedr.’
‘Are you trying to convince me my hands are clean, or are you trying to convince yourself?’
‘Neither,’ Meilyr said. ‘I am trying to convince you that your motives matter. You try to do good, every chance you get.’
‘But I do not succeed.’ Osian could not keep the bitter edge from the words. ‘I cannot. Good and rule – those things cannot…’ He exhaled slowly.
‘They can,’ Meilyr said. ‘You have shown me that.’ Colour bloomed in his cheeks.
‘Change only does not come because others overrule you, or refuse to listen. Everything you have done, you have done to try to make things better. And it matters that you try at all.’ He touched Osian’s cheek more steadily.
‘Osian, one good person can change things. So long as they do not stop trying.’
Osian allowed himself to look at him properly, as though Meilyr were the moon and he the tide, yearning endlessly for him. ‘You are… You should be impossible. How do you make me want to believe you, even when everything I have ever seen…’
Their faces were close. It was comfortable, yet piquing every fibre of him to the very edges of ruin.
For the second time that night, he knew Meilyr felt it too.
He had to pull away. He had to.
‘You have indulged me long enough.’
Meilyr’s fingers, with the slightest tensing, halted him. ‘My Prince.’ Guilt stirred. ‘There is something I have to tell you, about Haydn. Before we were taken, he told me—’
‘He had a hand in my poisoning.’
‘You… you knew?’
‘I had my suspicions. His feelings for you, his knowledge of plants…’ Osian’s traitorous hand traced one of Meilyr’s loose curls, soft as spirit-silk.
‘I cannot blame him for believing it was a means to keep you safe, albeit short-sightedly. I certainly cannot blame him for wanting to save you, or for being tricked into believing another’s offer of help. ’
He could not blame Haydn, either, for wanting Meilyr so desperately. Nor could he stop the small twinge at the care in Meilyr’s voice as he asked, ‘What will happen to him?’
‘I do not know. Wystan all but admitted to having him used. Pedr has sworn to his actions during the abduction, and… I will try to have that be enough.’ Try, always try. ‘I know he only did it because he cares for you.’
And because Haydn was, quite simply, a braver man than Osian.
Meilyr wanted to catch Osian’s doubt with his fingers, his lips.
But as they glimpsed the abyss, Osian withdrew. His touch lingered near Meilyr’s ear.
Tell him, part of Meilyr thrummed. Tell him you want to stay like this. Tell him…
Osian covered Meilyr’s hand with his own and kissed the inside of his wrist. ‘Your fingers are freezing. I will run a bath, and call for something hot to eat.’
Disappointment gathered as he slipped away without meeting Meilyr’s gaze, leaving him on his bed, more ruined than if they had—
Enough.
The shyness from the lake returned as they took turns to bathe. How easy it had been there to allow Osian’s current to pull Meilyr to him.
How easy it had seemed in the bed.
Nothing had changed, he reminded himself. It had been an awful day, in the midst of awful times – that was all. He needed to focus.
They dressed and readied for sleep, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Quietly, Osian said, ‘I will sleep on the divan.’
Meilyr did not want that: sharply, with an ache. ‘You are still healing, and…’
And he did not want to be alone. Not after today. He did not want Osian further than he could reach. The truth caught in his throat, but he knew he had to say it – knew Osian would think he was only placating him otherwise.
It still hurt to bare even that much of himself. ‘Could you… stay?’
Osian’s expression softened. ‘Of course.’
They both climbed into that vast, tiny bed, as close to either edge as possible. Meilyr did not dare speak stories into the space between them. Osian did not dare ask for them. They merely lay in the dark, exhausted, trying to breathe slowly.
Eventually, Osian asked, ‘Are you still cold?’
Meilyr was, though not as before. ‘A little,’ he admitted.
He moved his hand, as Osian moved his: slow and tentative, searching blind across the smooth coolness of the sheets. Meeting, their fingers linked, loose and then more firmly.
Heat spread, Meilyr’s entire body responding to that simple, easy touch.
If Osian had pulled him closer, he would have given him everything.
But there was a heady exhilaration in knowing Osian would not without his word.
Let that be enough, Meilyr thought. Just for now.
But his heart beat hungrily, and he found himself wanting. Wanting to give, selfishly.
‘Osian?’
Osian’s attention was immediate, wonderful.
This was the most intimate thing Meilyr had ever done, his pulse loud and heady: terrified, desperate and needing.
Into that slip of dark space between them, he spoke his true, given, Cyngaleg name. Like an oath: a spell, and a prayer.
There was a moment of suspended silence. Then Osian repeated it. The sound was like the sun cresting over the sea, breathing life and warmth across the meadows of Meilyr’s soul.
‘Thank you,’ Osian said.
Meilyr squeezed his hand, unable to say more.