Chapter 46 #2
Though all but invisible, over this wall were the remnants of steps and handholds, following the line of the cliff inland and away.
They had stood since the castle before Eascild – the Cyngaleg stronghold, fortifying the town of Caer Tarian with warrens of secret tunnels.
Escape routes should the castle ever be taken by the enemy across the Splintered Sea.
Meilyr had no idea how many people had escaped when the castle was razed. Now, this path was known only to Osian, and all of them.
‘Is it safe?’ The sea wind tossed Faina’s long plait over her shoulder.
‘Safer than staying here.’ Haydn peered over, then straightened. ‘Very happy to go first.’
‘I’ll go,’ Celyn said, moving into the space.
Meilyr touched his arm. ‘Wait.’ He laid his hands on the wet clumps of bindweed clambering over the pale stone.
Had it been this very plant that had been used to kill Prince Wystan…?
Far below, the crash of the waves reached out through the darkness. All these people were watching, but surely it was worth it. Surely now was the time, if there ever was one.
Meilyr faced them all. The words came out steadier than he felt. ‘I need you to know that I did not kill anyone. I swear it, on my own life.’
‘Meilyr,’ Celyn warned, tensed and protective.
‘They are about to find out, one way or the other.’ Meilyr tore free a shred of bindweed leaf and popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed the bitterness. He drew his hunting dagger – the gwaed-steel one Osian had given him – and pressed open the edge of his hand.
Blood bloomed, stinging. He pressed it to the bindweed and closed his eyes to focus.
It was less a roar than a stirring of the breeze. His breath.
If only he could have done this in time to save Wystan.
The bindweed eased towards him, as if turning to listen to a song he sang.
A slight suggestion, a request to grow, and it began to spread.
Down. Thick and strong. Lashing itself enthusiastically to the wall and the steady rock of the cliff with a tug through his blood, from the cut on his hand through his veins, up his arms, into his chest.
When it had reached as far as it could, he took his hand from the wall and looked at the others.
Celyn stood resigned, readied just in case.
The rest of them were stalled in different stages of shock.
Haydn was the first to find words. ‘Meilyr… Damn.’
‘I knew it,’ Faina squeaked, before covering her mouth. ‘I bloody knew it.’
Pedr and Deryn were speechless, until Pedr asked, ‘Did… Prince Osian know?’
Meilyr almost could not answer. ‘Yes,’ he managed. ‘From the very beginning.’
The weight of that truth spread across them all. Meilyr flexed his fingers, rain slicking his hair. Determination fortified his voice. ‘This is the only way. Follow me.’
He climbed over the wall into the dark, and once more did not look back.
They all followed, taking half-blind grips of wet bindweed to steady
their descent down the slick, horrendously narrow steps in the
cliff.
Meilyr’s chest was so tight it had moved past pain. As though he had left his heart with Osian, his body trying to make do with the absence.
Every gust threw them into rock. Every sound forced a struggle not to crane around and peer back through the sharp rain.
Were they being pursued? Salt burned his eyes and his lungs, the cuts on his hand, his lip and all the others.
There was nothing but blackness beside him, and behind, and beneath.
If he let go, he would probably fall into the dark forever.
Save that the sea growled, nearly deafening.
Every thirty or so paces, he gave the muffled call to hold as he reforged more bindweed.
The effort plucked at the nerves behind his eyes.
He was so out of practice, so thoroughly exhausted from the night.
His fingers were raw, and after the second pause, he no longer needed the knife to draw blood.
He could not slip. If he slipped, they were all dead. The thumping of his pulse fell into the monotony of not falling. Of securing his hands, his feet, pressed and drenched against the stone.
Finally, something flat and grey emerged out of the nothingness.
When the so-called steps ended, he fell to the pale sand, limbs molten.
Faina dropped beside him, helping him to his knees and touching his shoulders. ‘Meilyr, are you all right? You did brilliantly – breathe, darling, breathe.’
‘I’m all right,’ he managed, as the others made their unsteady way to the strip of beach. Deryn helped Pedr. Haydn saw Celyn down before moving to Meilyr. ‘I am all right,’ he repeated. ‘Everyone else?’
Affirmations of life and exhaustion. Pedr suppressed a grimace.
‘This was well timed.’ Haydn breathed hard. ‘The tide is coming in, isn’t it?’
‘That is why we had to move when we did.’
Why Osian had planned this to the bell stroke.
The sour, metallic taste clung to Meilyr’s mouth, and he swallowed, moving off. ‘That way, now. Not far. Do we need a moment?’
‘Ready as anyone,’ Pedr said.
Haydn hesitated, then lifted Pedr’s arm and stepped into their side, securing them. ‘Sand is a pain,’ he said as way of explanation.
Pedr gave a tight, thankful nod.
Meilyr led on.
Osian stared at what little he could see of the shoreline, long past the point of exhaustion. The rain had relented slightly. The barest definition clawed free of the storm.
Had Meilyr made it down the cliffs? He had to have – he had. Osian would know if he had not. He told himself over and over that he had done the right thing, ignoring the agony beneath his sternum.
There was a knock at the door. He tensed. Had word already spread?
It was Blythe, hurriedly covering a yawn. ‘Sorry, Majesty. His Majesty the King is due to arrive in the earliest bells of the morning, and Highness Demelza has requested you and Her Majesty be readied and prepared, to greet him privately in the Throne Room?’
The question was there, not expecting an answer.
‘Thank you, Blythe.’
Strange, for Demelza to request they meet privately, and not in the solar.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb,’ Blythe said, regarding his surely bloodshot eyes, or other tells. ‘I can steal you both another bell, if…?’
‘It is all right. Though I will be excusing the prince consort from the morning’s activities. My father will understand.’ He would not, and there was an echo of that in her gaze. She covered it well.
It did not matter. Osian would drag out the farce as long as he could, until Meilyr was safely across the sea. Safely rid of them all.
‘Majesty,’ Blythe said.
Osian closed the door to prepare.