He wanted to curl into a ball by Osian’s fireplace in his bedchamber, or here on the parlour floor. But that would not help anything, so he peeled off his makeshift peasantry clothing down to hisconsortunder-tunic, hung the rest by the fire and grabbed the first stack of books Faina had brought for him. Set them on the divan and joined them.
He would not think about Haydn. He would not think about Osian. He would not think about Deryn’s father, or Idwal, or Celyn, or his parents – he would not think. He would not.
He wanted a bath, hot enough to burn out his senses. Instead, he plucked the first book from the stack and leafed through it both desperately and carefully.
Khaimlic children’s bed-stories. Edeva had asked, one rainy day in the solar, if he could tell her a story different to the ones Aldreda, Faina, Crowned-Consort Nabeel, Osian, Demelza, Jocosa and Freda told her. Faina had not been raised Cyngaleg, but knew well enough the position he was in; this book was probably a thoughtful backup.
Osian had listened to his tales with such genuine, fervent interest.
Meilyr set the slim book aside and reached for a heftier one. It opened naturally near the middle, where something had been pressed towards the spine. It was a piece of parchment, old and worn…
His scalp prickled. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up.
The parchment was battered but perfectly legible. The central text made little sense, until Meilyr realised it had been written inOldCyngaleg. Several hands had scrawled annotations around it, and there were scribbled modern Cyngaleg translations beneath each line. Key words leapt as horrors from dark waters: Rowan. Bran’s alder. Henbane—
What was this…?
Suffer not Cyngalon to fall
Recover thy past with help from us all
Blood, stone and iron shall mastery make
Steps of retribution you shall weave in my wake
Roots of rowan entwine, as taut as can be
Bran’s alder sanguine, corrupt for a thousand eyes tosee
With henbane restrain, and slow their path to the grave
With righteous yew, cleave dark secrets in twain
A betrayal of kin shall bindweed bud
Thy forebears’ footsteps cause fox tears to flood
Crowned in hawthorn, judge the faults He hath made
Beloved the oak, when death comes, be ye not afraid
A weaver’s heart-blood to turn back the tide,
restarting the blood that forged the wildest skies
Meilyr’s fingers trembled, his mind unable to take in anything save what lay beneath henbane:With righteous yew, cleave dark secrets in twain.
Was this what the sorcerer was doing? Rowan, Bran’s alder, henbane – did that mean yew was next? He did not dare touch the page. Could barely follow the words, because it was not only the text which pooled icy dread up through his bones.
The top of the page was emblazoned with two symbols, the first in ink still the colour of blood: a red dragon, curled towards its own tail.
The second was a wolf as black as pitch, leaping around the edge of the dragon, so they were all but curled about each other.
Meilyr wanted to shove the book away from him and shrink into the back of the divan. Run from the parlour. He clutched at his chest for something that was not there and nearly yelped when he knocked the children’s bed-stories onto the floor.
What washeremblem doing beside the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch?
What was this? This abomination?