‘Thank you for telling me,’ Osian said.
‘The story or the truth, My Prince?’
‘Perhaps both.’
There was no blade at his throat, no call for the crownsworn. Only Osian, and their closeness on the bed, and the heady haze of something forbidden.
That night, over more cawl and golden henbane, talk brought themagain to stories.
‘There was one about a forest coming to life?’ Osian remembered, brimming with an almost boyish excitement and energy that would have seemed impossible the night before. ‘And a battle, I think?’
The relief at his progress alone made it easier to reply, though Meilyr still refused to look at his reasoning closely. ‘That one is older than the tale of Blodeuwedd, and perhaps even more of a fable.’ He could feel Osian’s eyes, and did not dare meet them. ‘If you would care to hear it?’
‘If you would care to share it.’ Osian was careful, dampening his interest even as it glowed fiercer than the hearth.
Something stirred closer through the dark. A secret. A danger.
A hope.
‘Once,’ Meilyr began, ‘before the gods and the spirits slipped away to the Green Wastes of the west, a sorcerer angered Arawn, the ruler of Annwn. The Otherworld…’
He told the tale of Cad Goddeu, the Battle of the Trees. The tale of a sorcerer using their blood and ancient words of power to command an entire forest to march for them: to fight Arawn and the Tylwyth Teg.
It was certainly no more than a story. An entire forest manipulated was unimaginable, even with every drop of a body’s blood spilled. But it had always been Celyn’s favourite.
Osian was quiet beside him after he finished. ‘There are stories of Khaimfolc who once found ways to communicate with trees,’ he said at last. ‘But awakening them with blood…’
Surely Meilyr had shared too much. Surely the prince knew.
‘This sorcerer,’ Osian said, careful. ‘A forebear of… Myrddin, or something altogether different?’
Meilyr’s breath caught. No one from Khaim would call him Myrddin, surely.
Osian looked almost sheepish. ‘It helps to know a little of the old names.’
Meilyr regathered himself. ‘Myrddin was a… gwehydd, yes. A sorcerer. It is likely his power expressed itself differently, but…’
‘Gwehydd.’ Osian tested it on his tongue, rolling it perfectly. Just as his mouth had perfectly formedMyrddin.Pedr. Macsen.
Meilyr.
Meilyr had kissed that mouth not so long ago.
He looked away. ‘It meansweaver. It is the Old Cyngaleg word for those with… magic.’
His heart was very fast, for several reasons.
‘Thank you,’ Osian said. ‘For the story.’ His ensnaring eyes were brilliant in the dim: starlight and fairy-fire off water. ‘May I ask something else?’
‘Something else, My Prince?’
‘About… Cyngalon. Cyngaleg.’
The rain hushed on the windows, the wind holding its breath.
Meilyr’s pulse rebounded in a vestigial warning. ‘You may ask me anything.’
‘I was thinking about names. Myrddin has a part in Khaimlic stories, but under a name bent to our tongue.’ Osian paused, then came at it directly, careful but unflinching. ‘I know Cyngaleg naming traditions were forbidden by the ruling of King Uhtric, my great-grandfather. You have this look whenever someone calls you… Cadogan. Is there another name that you would rather be called?’