THIRTY-ONE
Had it been only for Myrddin, those of weaver blood
might have faced better fortunes.
But the Sundering reshaped the world, in more ways than one.
Khaimlic History and the Centuries of War with Cyngalon,
E. van der Vos
THIRTY-ONE
Osian turned from what was left of the two crownsworn, knuckles bone-white around the hilt of his gwaed-steel sword. He refused to stumble even as exhaustion gripped his limbs.
‘Cover the royal line!Cover the royal line!’ Blythe drew her sword and strode towards him. Knights who had not already moved snapped to cover their lieges.
Meilyr – unharmed – was pale, meeting his gaze with a thousand fears and questions Osian wished he could gently brush aside like the fall of his hair. Aldreda – Edeva, Demelza, Wystan – all the others, also unharmed.
The courtyard was in utter chaos. They had to staunch the flow. ‘No one else moves!’ Osian shouted. ‘No one!’
It shocked some to stillness, but others fled.
‘Macsen, Garrick, Siddel,’ he began.
‘Arrest the prince consort!’ Captain Radnor shoved his way through the lines closer to the steps of the chapel, sword drawn. ‘That’s an order!’
Osian moved past Blythe without hesitation. ‘Knights.’
They reacted like a nerve in his wake, weaving through Aldreda’s and Wystan’s crownsblood like enspelled arrows. They formed around Osian as he gripped Meilyr’s wrist, pressed him behind him and levelled his sword before him. ‘Captain Radnor. Crownsworn. Stand down.’
It was enough to make most hedge. Radnor halted, livid with fury and pain. ‘Majesty! This is not a discussion!’
‘No, it is not.’
‘Have you lost your senses!’ Wystan, pallid with fear. ‘Captain, do as I order – arrest the prince consort. Crownsblood!’
His knights moved, but Osian’s stood fast. No one dared be the first to cross blades. A stalemate that at the slightest push could erupt into more bloodshed.
Aldreda’s crownsblood shielded her amidst it all as she clutched Edeva close, hand firm on her daughter’s head to prevent her looking anywhere.
‘No person could do this!’ An ageing priest’s voice echoed across the stone. ‘We made sure – King Uhtric made sure!’
‘Silence,’ Osian ordered, as knights firmed hands on swords.
‘Osian!’ Wystan’s panic burned with hatred. ‘Look – look at it!’ He gestured to the scene wildly. ‘How in the name of the gods are we supposed to stay calm! We killed them – we killed them all and now—’
‘Shut up, Wystan.’ Aldreda cleaved their little brother a verbal blow. Her dark eyes – wide with feral, protective love – found Osian.
It was the only apology she could afford to give him.
She walked to Demelza, put her daughter in her arms and unsheathed her sword. ‘Jocosa, Hawise. Escort Highness Cadogan to his rooms. Use force if he resists.’
Osian went to protest, but Wystan got there first. ‘That’s not good enough! Throw him in iron! You saw what just happened!’
‘And we still have no proof it was him. Osian, let me borrow Garrick and Siddel – Freda, go with them, and begin rounding up everyone who fled. I want a list of every person here, and for all gods’ sake, someone cover the bodies. Highness Cadogan—’
‘I said that’s not good enough!’ Wystan’s voice rang through the courtyard. ‘Are you waiting for us all to die? He did it!’ He pointed violently at Meilyr, through Osian. ‘We all know he did! Damn you all, damn this whole gods-forsaken place!’ Something in him snapped, and he rounded on Aldreda. ‘Damn Great-Grandfather for not finishing what he started! Damn Father for being so blinded by his favouriteson, and damn you for being too cowardly to follow his lead and do what you know needs to be done – what you should have done the moment Leighton’s sorry corpse hit the floor! What your precious bastard of a brother should have—’