Meilyr found himself near the stables. The scent of horse and leather eased the urgency of the roar, and he slowed his steps, fighting to catch his breath.
Every horse he passed stared at him. It was probably a good thing he had not risked disturbing the entirety of the gardens.
The stable hands greeted him with short bows and nods, though their worry was in the air. Once, they would have greeted him eagerly; it stung, but he had other troubles. The one he flagged down was overly accommodating when he asked if he might groom his horse.
In Cynefrith’s stall, he brushed her and talked to her quietly, steadying himself on her. She was intrigued by and glad of his presence, a little dissatisfied with breakfast, wondering if he had any carrots. The softness of her nose and the heat of her breath lulled his senses.
The wind still hushed if he listened. It had drawn away to the far hills, but was not quite gone.
There was a slight clamour somewhere out in the aisle of the stables, voices and motion. He stopped talking but kept brushing, hoping he would go unnoticed.
Steps drew closer. He kept his back turned as soft awareness unfurled behind him.
‘Forgive me for making you wait.’
His heart leapt in surprise and something else, and he turned.
Osian stood at the stable door, looking more hale and healthy than in days. ‘Give me a moment, and I will be ready. Bryn, could you fetch our saddles?’ He strode away, missing Meilyr’s befuddled expression.
How had he…?
Movement caught Meilyr in its wings. Pedr, Blythe, Macsen and Garrick were with the prince; all readied their horses promptly. He tried to catch Osian’s expression, but this… felt like a morning ride. As though the last days were merely a nightmare. As though they had planned this for days, though neither wore their riding leathers.
The little party headed out across the cobbles of the courtyard and slipped through the southern gatehouse. No one stopped them. Meilyr rode beside Osian, the prince cutting a fine form as always. It was still early, and patches of dew clung where the sun had not yet reached. Before long, the road descended into the scent of trees, quiet save for the hooves and huff of the horses.
How had Osian known where to find him? Why had he come?
Meilyr tried to read him, but he still would not look at him.
Civilisation melted away. Farmland opened into craggy hills and forest, the sounds of birds and trees. On a rise beyond a thick copse, the wind catching his hair, the prince turned to his knights. ‘Follow to keep us in sight, but no closer.’
‘Yes, Majesty.’
‘Majesty.’
Osian finally met Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Shall we?’
Cynefrith caught the intent before he did. Osian and his grey plunged into the valley – and she dived after them, jarring Meilyr backwards.
A snap of shock. The roaring of the true wind, far too much like losing control.
Then the exhilaration came: Meilyr settled his hands and pushed his mare abreast of Osian’s. They thundered into the valley together, and up once more. The brilliant gust tore at his face, his hair. As they crested the rise, a glance from Osian told him everything he needed to know:After you.
He did not allow himself to question it, merely leaned back in the saddle and let Cynefrith open her stride. The air burned. Osian kept pace.
Cynefrith’s sharp breathing, rhythmic with her hooves and his breath. His blood. He had missed this feeling of flight, only him and his horse: a perfect bond, a perfect pace. Nothing but the wind.
He felt his face break into a smile, tears in his eyes, not just from the air.
On and on they went, dipping through valleys and hills, north-west, towards the foothills of Carnedd Cau, the sun blazing through spills of cloud.
Once, he glanced back. Eascild Castle had vanished.
Eventually, after what must have been bells, something glittered in the distance: a wide lake, caught at the lip of the mountains. They rode to its shores, where the surface glimmered like a hundred thousand tiny stars. Man and beast breathing hard, they halted to let the horses drink and rest.
Meilyr slipped roughly from the saddle, stumbling. Osian dismounted more artfully, joining him to stare at the vista. An easy silence spread, and Meilyr sucked in the air.
The edges of the roar were still there. Wade Bevan was dead. Something terrible he had no power to prevent was happening. He could still feel Haydn, and his flesh stirred unpleasantly with the ghosts of memory.