Osian pulled away, staggering.
Confusion bleached the pleasure. Meilyr almost tugged him back, but Osian breathed heavily, expression ragged with desire and… doubt?
Meilyr blinked, raw-lipped and disoriented. Had he been wrong? Had he done something wrong?
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder than his pulse. The prince’s knights were approaching at speed.
Osian let him go and stepped away to meet them.
‘Majesty, forgive us.’
‘What happened?’ There was no anger in Osian, only intensity.
Meilyr felt it too. Something was wrong.
Pedr wore a falconry glove, and a dark shape circled above. ‘An urgent missive from Eascild, Majesty. You are needed at once.’ They hesitated, as if wishing to spare the fall of the sword. ‘There has been another killing.’
THIRTY-SIX
The truth is that there is no great uprising of sorcery inCyngalon, and you know it.
The princes defended themselves because we gave them no choice,after we pointed the blame of the Sundering unfairly upon theirblood.
When it was as much our folly as theirs.
I know you are angry and hurt, but I pray – stay your hand. Donot strike a blow that cannot be unmade. You taught me we must be as ashield – so let me, now. Please. Before innocent blood runs this greenland red.
Personal letter from Hereward Arden-Draca,
Second Heir of Khaim, to their brother, King Uhtric. 612 A.S.
THIRTY-SIX
The noise reached them as they approached the southern gate, and Osian turned his horse. ‘Take Meilyr to my rooms—’
‘No,’ Meilyr said, seeming to startle himself. His expression firmed. ‘I will come with you.’
Osian should deny him, for his own safety. But something made him not want Meilyr further than this, so he nodded to Pedr and set off across the cobbles, away from the castle, towards the town.
He could still taste him.
They followed the sound. Familiarity hit as they passed parallel to the street where he had found Meilyr and into a small, packed square.
The amassed crowd was agitated, craning and crammed together, murmuring and shouting. Crownsworn pressed them away, and Osian waded through, the bow wave of their arrival rippling out.
A crownsworn at the head of the mess cursed in relief at the sight of him. ‘Majesty, thank the gods! We’ve kept them back, but…’
Osian followed the hands pointing upwards, the focus of the crowd’s attention.
He heard Meilyr’s sharp intake of breath.
Hung by a rope from the dragon-spire of the Khaimlic church was the body of a crownsworn. Slashed and beaten, blood marked their face like tears from cuts carved into their eyes, their wrists opened, painting their slack hands red.
A fake crown, the kind sold at festivals, rested atop their head. A long, dirtied white sheet drifted like a cloak about their shoulders. It caught the wind like the banners on the church’s walls and around the square.
There were scrawled marks on it, red as their hands. Words, perhaps, though it was too far to see.
‘You just missed Her Majesty, she rode back to the castle. Gave instruction to get them down, but…’ The crownsworn gestured, utterly out of their depth.