The otherfolk remain highly discerning.
In recent times in particular,
it is only very rare individuals
who have drawn their attention.
Of Bwystfilod and Ysbrydion,
Rowynn gan Dafydd
THIRTY
There was a dull tapping against the westernmost window of Osian’s bedchamber as Meilyr returned inside, having helped the prince prepare for a morning bath.
It was a large grey-brown moth, beating itself against the inside of the glass. He unlatched the window and ushered it carefully out, to fly haphazardly to freedom.
The mist moved over the mountains, steady and deliberate. He rested against the arched sill for a moment, feeling closer to Cyngalon than he had in a very long time, there in the prince’s rooms in Eascild Castle.
It was the stories, the wind from the hills. The breathing of life into parts of himself he had tied off so tightly long ago, to stop from bleeding.
From the subsiding drizzle, a starling landed directly onto the sill before him and looked at him with large, perfectly black eyes.
He forgot to breathe. The starling hopped about, holding his gaze – chirruped and dived from the window, calling loudly as it sailed towards the gardens.
Meilyr.
The voice was so clear he started, clutching at his chest for something not there. It was as though the wind and the starling had snatched the thread of his heart, pulling him in a way he recognised, like a call to return home from across the fields as the sun set.
He ran to the parlour and almost into Osian, dripping in his robe. ‘My Prince, there is something I – might I gather something from the gardens?’
Osian was mildly dumbfounded. ‘Of course. Please take Pedr with you.’
‘I will return immediately, I – please, stay here.’
He did not want to leave Osian, but could not risk ignoring this.
That familiar voice. The starling. This feeling, wrapped around his entire chest.
By the time he reached the gardens, the sensation had ebbed. He stood still until sound lost all touches of humanity, became birdsong and bees, the hush of leaves. He did not want little stones beneath his boots. He wanted grass that he could dig his toes into and to free himself from the cage of his body. Exactly as he had done as a child, whenever the world grew too loud.
‘Highness?’ Pedr asked gently.
Meilyr shut his eyes, pretending for a breath longer.
‘Forgive me,’ he began. But then a rustle of wings brought a starling onto the hedge beside his head, where it looked at him and whistled. Darted away, deeper into the grounds.
The wind followed, brushing him with the clean summer scent of life.
‘That was a starling?’ Pedr half asked.
‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
His feet moved before it mattered if it was wise or dangerous to listen. He wound his way briskly through the criss-cross of well-tended hedges, trying not to run.
The starling reappeared, hopping from one branch to another before diving away, singing. Meilyr’s tunic clung under his arms in the humidity, but on and on the starling led, disappearing only to reappear, merrily directing his pursuit like a game. So wild, he laughed – did run, Pedr keeping pace.
Until the starling led him out into a small clearing next to Ena’s Folly, and dived beyond the low wall of the gardens, towards the sea.