Princeweaver

Chapter 44

FORTY-FOUR

Weaving is about connection. Exchange. When we offer our blood,

we offer our own nature. It is the oldest oath: blood to the

earth.

To be woven to another is to hold power over one another and trust

it will not be taken for granted. To hold life and decide to treasure

its course.

Personal writings of Morien Maend?r,

Last Prince of Cyngalon

FORTY-FOUR

Alone, Meilyr wrung his hands, pacing Osian’s parlour. Everything had been awash with confusion, and he had only been able to glance at Faina as he had been escorted from the hall, her tears streaming, lit with terror.

She had not done this. You could not fake fear that real.

He circled back to the low table by the divan, where he had laid the piece of horrific parchment. The scrawled translations. The sickening symbol of her, and Y Ddraig Goch.

He had now read it three times, barely able to touch it. Barely able to remain in the same room with it.

A betrayal of kin shall bindweed bud.

Wystan. Meilyr should have told Osian sooner. He should have told him everything.

Finally – finally, Osian came through the door. Any hesitance burned away in that glimpse of his shuttered grief, and Meilyr went to him. He touched his reaching wrist, his cheek, then wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Osian enveloped his waist, careful, then firm. As though afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself more.

Meilyr set himself down and touched his jaw. ‘I am so, so sorry. If I had moved faster, I could have…’

‘This is not your fault.’

‘That weaving was too powerful, but I should have—’

‘Meilyr, it was not your fault. It could never be your fault.’ Something relented, and Osian pressed his forehead exhaustedly against Meilyr’s, holding him tighter.

Meilyr’s torn-up nerves would not allow him to hold back any longer. ‘Osian, I need you to… not go further from me than this. Or as near to it. Whoever is doing this, they are too powerful. You—’

‘The king is coming.’

Meilyr drew back enough to look at him.

Osian’s gaze was transparent, pain in the pragmatism. ‘He will use you to punish me for my failing. He will name you the sorcerer. He will put you to death.’

Dread took the last of Meilyr’s warmth.

He could feel how Osian knew it to be true, even more painfully than he felt grief for Wystan. His own father would name Meilyr responsible. His own father would have him killed.

Meilyr firmed his hands at his chest. ‘Then we find the sorcerer.’

‘Meilyr…’

‘It has to be one of the people from the hall, and I realised, what if it is someone whose Cyngaleg heritage is not widely known? It would be the perfect cover—’

‘Meilyr.’ Osian cupped his face. ‘We do not have time. He is coming with the crownsworn, they will arrive tomorrow. You and Celyn have to escape tonight.’

Tonight.

‘What? How?’

‘I have sent word to an ally. There will be a ship waiting for you both. I should have done this a long time ago, I am sorry.’

A very different ache strained Meilyr’s chest. ‘No – no, I will not run.’

‘Meilyr—’

‘I am not leaving you.’

The admission stilled them both.

Osian recovered first and touched his cheeks, his temples, his hair. Fixed him with those devastatingly blue eyes. ‘I cannot lose you.’

The tenderness hurt in a thousand ways. ‘If we can find the killer,’ Meilyr said, leading him to the parchment, ‘you will not have to.’

‘Meilyr…’

‘This is what I mentioned earlier. I do not know if it was meant to frame me, but’ – he lifted it to show him – ‘this original script is in Old Cyngaleg. I’m not sure how good the translation is, but it speaks of retribution, and every plant used for the killings.

Rowan, alder, henbane, yew and bindweed.

Then fox’s tears, hawthorn and oak. Death, and gwehydd, and a sacrifice to avenge Cyngalon.

See the annotations? I think the killer is trying to enact a ritual. ’

Osian studied the page, close at Meilyr’s shoulder. Meilyr read the Cyngaleg translation aloud in Khaimlic, the silence afterward thrumming between them.

‘These symbols at the top,’ Osian said, ‘they are… familiar.’

‘Yes. This is the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch, the Red Dragon, and this one’ – terror stalled his tongue – ‘this is…’

‘The Black Wolf.’

‘Yes.’ Meilyr shivered, wishing he could drop the page and curl into Osian’s arms. ‘I have no idea why these symbols are together. Y Ddraig Goch is a symbol of Cyngaleg freedom, whilst the Black Wolf is…’

‘A symbol of the Sundering. The breaking of the world.’

‘Yes.’

Osian took the page, carefully. ‘Can you read the original Old Cyngaleg?’

‘Only patches. This does mean heart-blood, but I know it can refer to will, or resolve, or…’

The prince looked at him in awe, and something much more tender.

‘Idwal,’ Meilyr explained, ‘my foster-father. Celyn’s father, he… loved translation. Languages. He showed me an example of that exact phrase, once.’

Sadness, in him. In Osian. The prince set the page down. ‘Can this help us find the killer?’

‘I am not sure, but it might be proof enough that there is something larger at work. If we show the king—’

‘The king will likely not accept proof even if we find it. Even if we find the killer, he may still… to punish me, for Wystan.’

‘Why would he punish you for something you are not responsible for? He may be the king, but…’ He was still Osian’s father.

‘I cannot risk it. I cannot risk you, Meilyr.’

‘And you expect me to leave you? When the sorcerer just killed your brother? When the next logical step to take is you? Osian—’

Osian kissed him. It shocked a sound from his throat, stinging his healing lips and soaring want through him as it lingered, brief but desperate. Pleading.

The prince pressed their foreheads together, fingers on his jaw. ‘Meilyr, he will bring another Ectheid. He will find out about you, about Celyn. It is only a matter of time.’

Celyn.

Time. Meilyr had thought they would have more time.

He gripped Osian, pushing against his forehead. This was too cruel. ‘How am I supposed to…’

‘I have made arrangements for someone I trust to keep you hidden near Llwyn Diffaith until a ship arrives for you. There should be more than enough happening here to give you cover.’

Meilyr did not want to leave him. It stung like thorns through his chest. ‘Osian…’

‘You have to leave tonight. It is the only chance you both have.’

Both. Had it not been for Celyn, what would he have done?

He did not have to wonder.

‘What about you? The king will know you helped me, and the sorcerer—’

‘Aldreda has begun questioning those in the hall, and the king will bring another Ectheid to assist them. The sorcerer will be found, at least. As for my father, I am a useful enough piece to keep on the board. But I do not know what he will do to Cyngalon. Or what the Marcher Lords will do in response. You need to be as far away as possible, and keep yourself and Celyn hidden.’

A thousand acrid, aching emotions.

But another thought came, delivering a different form of horror. ‘All those of Cyngaleg blood in the castle… They are in danger, aren’t they?’

‘I believe so. Until the sorcerer is found, but perhaps after as well.’

‘Your plan to get us out of Cyngalon – would it work if there were more people?’

Osian understood at once. ‘Who did you have in mind?’

Deryn answered the summons swiftly, insisting on bringing the prince

consort fresh clothes from his rooms. She ferried things ferociously,

before pushing Meilyr into Osian’s washroom, where she helped wash the

dirt and blood from his face and hands and tugged his hair into place.

Outlined his eyelids. Fitted him into fine clean tunics: blue as deep as

midnight, flashing ivory and palest gold in the skirts beneath.

As he explained, her face moved through shock, doubt and wary consideration.

‘Highne—Meilyr, he is… still a prince of Khaim.’

‘And I trust him with my life.’

He knew it was true as he said it, and could not bear to even glance at the idea of leaving him.

‘My family are safely out of Eascild,’ she said. ‘I need to work.’

‘Osian believes Eascild will soon not be safe for anyone of Cyngaleg blood. We can send for your family, or you can join them. You can find other work, and have more of a chance than if you stayed here, waiting for death.’

It was cruel, but he did not want her to stay for false hope. There had already been staff who had fled; hopefully she would just be another, a drip from a leaking tap.

The choice worked through her. ‘The prince has always been kind. I always believed he cared, and perhaps, if he had not been born of his blood…’

‘He is not his blood. He is a good man, and he has tried for us, fought for us. He does not think it’s enough, but he means to help. To save us. Please, trust him. Trust me.’

Heat grew in his cheeks as she saw what he still could not admit.

She said, ‘I trust you, Meilyr. Tell me what to do.’

She waited for him as he slipped through the nearest tunnels. At the space Osian had described for him, he slid aside the loose stone beside the fireplace and stepped into the light.

Pedr was alone, their hand resting on their sword where they lay propped up in bed. They did not seem surprised to see him.

Meilyr had suggested Osian do this, but the prince was the only one who could attend to other matters.

‘I will stay,’ Pedr informed him after he explained.

Of course, but Meilyr was not done. He perched on the edge of the narrow cot where the injured knight convalesced. ‘Pedr, you would have died for your duty. That does not mean they will not kill you for your blood. Osian cannot keep protecting us much longer – we are running out of time.’

Pedr’s expression softened, a little sad. ‘You care for him. You also do not wish to leave.’

Meilyr really could not do this right now. ‘I trust him. He…’

‘You do not have to explain. I understand.’

They did.

Pedr’s smile was watery, a knowing glint to their gaze. ‘He has a way about him, does he not?’ They touched the top of their bandages, losing focus. ‘I think I would not have minded dying for him. Dying for the duty he laid in my hands.’

‘He would not have wanted that. He wants you alive.’

Their gaze returned to his. ‘I swore an oath to him. I swore my life.’

‘And he would have you keep it. He wants you to leave, to be safe. He wanted me to convince you. Do this for him, if not yourself.’

Conflict remained in their brow. ‘You know as well as I, he is vulnerable. Whatever is happening, whoever is doing this…’

‘We are no good to him dead. Would you cause him more grief?’

Cruel, again, but Meilyr was so very tired of death. So very tired of not being able to look at the welling mess of his own heart.

Part of him wanted Pedr to stay – the most loyal, truest knight to stand behind Osian, ready to lay down their life for him.

But Pedr could not stop the sorcerer, could not withstand the wrath of the king. Meilyr did not want Pedr to die, and neither did Osian.

Pedr’s fight ebbed. ‘I will think on it, if you will allow me to.’

‘Of course. Bring only yourself, and anything you cannot bear to leave behind.’

Much easier said than done.