If you hurt my brother, you will regret it. I will make you regret it. If only I had the strength to stop you, I would. I wish I could. I would.
Whether it had been enough to dampen the truth, he could not be sure. But Lord Gelens had released him and kept Celyn. Meilyr flexed his hands over and over, trying to swallow back the surge. Trying to think.
Pedr led them to an overlook; the patchwork, rolling hills of Cyngalon lay drained of their vibrancy by the haze of late-afternoon rain.
Hopelessness gathered like the clouds. It was in Pedr too.
Meilyr asked, because what else could he do, ‘Have you ever thought of leaving? Never looking back?’
Pedr gazed out. ‘A knight swears their life to their prince. To the Crown.’
Meilyr had sworn many oaths. They had only brought him pain.
To his surprise, Pedr continued, ‘Sometimes, yes.’ They turned, earnest. ‘But His Majesty is a good man. Please, believe that.’
The thing Meilyr had suspected shone in Pedr’s eyes and through their very being where the two of them touched, aching alongside their genuine desire for him to believe. The knight had feelings for the prince. Meilyr could not blame them, even as the lake and Osian’s body felt an entire world away. Another life away.
The leaflitter-sound of someone approaching at speed made them both tense.
‘Meilyr!’
‘Haydn?’
Haydn pulled up short. Glanced at Pedr, wild urgency in his gaze, in every muscle. He wet his lips, made a decision and grasped Meilyr’s wrist. ‘We need to talk.’
‘You will let go of His Highness!’
‘You will stay here if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Haydn.’ Meilyr pulled back enough to slow him. ‘What is it?’
‘Meilyr, please, I have to tell you before—’
‘Before what?’
Haydn swallowed, looked around. He was nervous – more than nervous. He was afraid.
‘What is it?’
Another furtive glance, another decision. ‘Fine, all right, bring your knighted escort – but please come with me. Now.’
Nothing had ever made Haydn afraid. Meilyr went willingly, the fingers around his wrist uncomfortably tight. Pedr followed.
They were led into cover, deep into the backstitching hydrangeas. Into the wilder reaches of the gardens, heaving with summer bloom.
When they had gone quite far, Haydn turned and gestured for them both to stop and stay silent.
They all listened, but there was only the rustle of soft wind.
‘I’m sorry,’ Haydn began, focused on Meilyr. ‘I should have told you sooner, and…’ He fumbled. Breathed a curse in Cyngaleg.
‘What is this about?’ Pedr demanded, gaze flitting to where Haydn still gripped Meilyr.
‘I’m getting to that, just – wait over there. Make sure no one is coming, please. You’ll be able to hear, and then you can arrest me or throw me from the castle wall, or whatever you want.’
Meilyr gave Pedr a look. ‘It’s all right.’
Pedr went to say something, probably about how that was what he said last time, but did not. They stalked to the edge of the leaves of a camelia, glaring outward.