They swam to the shore, and the horses and their things. The weight of his body made Meilyr want to sink back into the depths, but something had changed. His heartbeat was fast again, even as he tried to swallow it.
He was very, acutely aware of the man beside him.
Their skin was stung to gooseflesh. They tugged off their sopping layers on either side of their horses, shyly. Their over-tunics were dry, so they pulled those on and laid their other clothes on the bluff’s bare rocks to dry in the sun.
‘Shall we take a moment?’ Osian gestured to another set of rocks.
‘Of course. Are you all right?’
‘I am more than healed, thanks to you.’
Meilyr sat. Osian went to the horses and drew something from a pouch in his saddle. He returned, sitting on the rock beside Meilyr’s. ‘It is not much, but considering we had such short notice for our ride…’
It was several wedges of bread, with cheese as thick, and a pair of apples. Meilyr’s mouth watered as Osian handed him his share. He was actually hungry.
They ate together, staring at the lake.
Hot tears slipped down Meilyr’s cheeks, sudden and unbidden.
His breath shuddered, from surprise as much as emotion. The tears would not stop. He wiped them away – no use. It was as though his body had decided for him how much he could bear, and in the end, he set down his bread and covered his face with his hands.
Osian stayed, letting the grief wring him out silently, there on the lakeshore. Let him slowly come out the other side of it, sore-eyed and sniffing.
‘I am sorry,’ the prince said, before Meilyr could say the same. ‘Harlan told me. It will be dealt with, you have my word.’
That nearly set off the tears again. The water remained blurred. Beside Meilyr’s hand, a single red campion had turned sympathetically towards him. He took a long, unsteady breath and pulled away from himself. ‘I wonder how different your tales of the lake are to ours?’
Osian let him flow where he needed. ‘I have often wondered the same.’
His eyes were more brilliant than any lake, any sea. Meilyr had to look away again. The wind breathed across the water, stirring it into a living thing.
‘There is one story in particular,’ Meilyr said, ‘if you would like to hear it.’
He could still feel Osian’s gaze as the prince said, ‘Please.’
He began with the tale of the sword: the gift of it, and the curse.They discussed where the Cyngaleg differed from the Khaimlic, and Osianquietened when the story shifted into the return to the legendary lake.The passing of the First Prince, the Eternal King.
The death that had, according to legend, led to the Sundering.
Clouds rolled across the sky, chasing shadows over the far hills. The roar had quieted, though there was still… something.
He should tell Osian about the page he had found. The fact yew was likely to be used next. But as the skies darkened, he found he could not evoke the horrors they had left behind at the castle. He needed to understand it better himself first, and would tell Osian when he could show him – when the beast of Khaim swallowed them whole once more.
‘It will rain soon,’ he said. ‘I suppose we…’
Osian rose and offered his hand.
Their clothes were passably dry, and certainly better than riding without them. They dressed back-to-back, but at the last, Meilyr fumbled about, cursed internally and turned.
Osian had found his belt, turning to tell him. ‘I think—’
‘It must have—’
They stopped. Meilyr exhaled another laugh and retrieved the thick fabric, trailing it through Osian’s fingers.
The red kite called. Both of them watched it above the lake.
A thought bloomed, small and devastating. If only they did not have to return at all. If only they could stay here, like this.