poison and love.
The Red Book,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
THIRTY-TWO
The following night, with everything prepared, they dressed in the simplest clothes they could find between them. Still too fine and clean, but they would have to do.
Before they slipped into the tunnels, Meilyr belted the gwaed-steel dagger Osian had given him around his hips. They left the shackles under the pillows of the bed, bedchamber and parlour doors locked from the inside.
The drizzle had worked its way into the cloisters as they followed the path they had taken to visit Celyn.
‘I suppose this is the way Prince Wystan took,’ Meilyr said, failing to suppress the memory of what else had happened that night as they passedthatcorridor.
‘Most likely. Though I imagine he asked a gate guard nicely, rather than what we are about to do.’
They moved quickly through the brief patch of gardens, staying low. Visibility from above would be poor, but Meilyr’s chest remained awfully tight. Before they slipped into the shadow of the walls of the outer bailey, he caught Osian’s wrist under the cover of a row of hawthorns. ‘Wait.’
He stooped to grab a handful of dirty mulch before he caught up to himself. ‘We are too clean,’ he explained.
Osian stayed very still as Meilyr knelt and dirtied the hem of the prince’s cloak, and his boots, and straightened to dull the fine metal clasp on his cloak. After a beat of indecision, Osian knelt to return the favour, an act that felt far more personal than it should have.
Meilyr wiped his hands on the front of his own cloak, and the prince did the same with his. ‘Sorry,’ Meilyr said, cursing himself inwardly for the loose vernacular.
‘No need.’
Osian led them inside the outer bailey and up an incredibly narrow, musty staircase to the top of the outer wall. Beside them, the western barbican loomed. Ahead, over the imposing crenellated wall, the sloping town of Eascild hunkered in sea mist, swollen and dotted with washed-out points of light. Deceptively quiet.
There would be crownsworn on watch within the guard-tower beside and above them, but it would be incredibly poor luck to be spotted. Still, Meilyr barely breathed as they crouched against the wall and waited, listened. ‘I will go first,’ Osian whispered.
As he had explained, there was a series of small, far-apart stones built to protrude slightly from the outer wall, allowing a treacherous and slippery means of escape or entry – if you knew the exact location. The prince climbed over the battlements and out of sight with alarming swiftness.
Meilyr leaned as far as he could over the wet, gritty wall. Osian was almost halfway down, moving not exactly nimbly but certainly steadily. How many times had he done this?
With a glance behind, the prince let go and dropped the last half-dozen or so feet. He thudded onto the earthen slope beneath, going hard onto his back heel before steadying himself in the mud and blinking up at Meilyr through the damp.
Right. Nothing for it.
Meilyr lowered himself gingerly over the wall. His traitorous hands shook and failed to find decent purchase, as did his smooth court boots. He was also more than half a head shorter than Osian, and though he made it most of the way down, he could not find the final stone. Scrabbling blindly for nothing, his fingers lost their hold, and all the air bolted from his lungs as he fell into emptiness.
Strong arms caught him – pulled him away from the wall so he did not crack his head.
They both nearly slid over, but Osian stabilised them just enough, arms fierce around him, holding him tight.
The prince’s mouth was close to Meilyr’s cheek, where he had reflexively curled around him. Their breathing was ragged, close and heated.
The bond woven between them coursed fire through Meilyr’s entire being, making him infinitely aware of the man pressed flush against his back.
Osian stepped away, hands on him only long enough to ensure he did not stumble. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, at the same time Meilyr said, ‘I’m sorry.’
They scrambled down the remainder of the slope in the shadow of the barbican and dashed into the nearest street.
It was very strange to walk through the town of Eascild again. It had been months: no time at all, and yet it was like stepping into a different world. The claggy air and pressing scent of summer lingered in the cold and wet of the night, the salt and the refuse.
On the slopes closer to the castle, it was largely quiet, home to the houses of the lesser nobles and guild masters, most-well-to-do merchants and their businesses. As Meilyr led Osian steadily downhill, the town shifted gradually; the cobbles became more worn, the sounds and presence of night revelry snapping in pockets from windows or neighbouring streets, from the corner ahead, where people swayed in the pool of golden light from a tavern.
A pair of crownsworn marched uphill towards them. Meilyr took Osian’s arm and pulled them against each other, leaning into him so their hoods were close. ‘It is better we look as though we are together than two people with somewhere to be.’