and these humans believed the only good fox
was a dead one.
The Fox’s Tears,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
THIRTY-EIGHT
Distant thumping dislodged itself from the beating of Meilyr’s heart.
Pain followed, pulsing with every thud. The back of his skull, the skin around his wrists. His mouth and throat – damn, his throat.
‘You awake, lovely?’
The room swam. He shied from the light and tensed, his back tight against something solid, his hands bound behind him with sharp rope.
‘Meilyr—’
Haydn’s voice cut off in pain as someone hit him.
The image swayed. Meilyr bit his tongue bloody, grounding himself.
They were in the loft of a barn or storehouse. Worn floorboards let through dim light and glimpses of floor below. Rain drummed above and dripped through the rafters. A single door, likely concealing a staircase. Boxes, covered with old sheets. Dust clung to the air and his dry lungs.
Haydn was tied to metal rungs on the far wall, Meilyr to a supporting post in the middle of the space – three crownsworn between them.
No, two crownsworn. Onecrownsblood knight.
They all wore masks but had discarded their cloaks. Their uniforms were dirtied by earth or blood.
Pedr.
The world sharpened.
‘You weren’t supposed to wake up yet, but this might be fun.’ The crownsblood moved closer. ‘Why don’t we have a little story? Just us?’
‘Oi,’ said one of the crownsworn, the one who had hit Haydn. ‘Aren’t we supposed to blindfold him? Remember what—’
‘Quiet. Our orders are to keep him alive and fetching until we’ve taken care of Osian, then his nicely fresh dead body will be the last piece we need.’
Osian.
Meilyr’s blood thudded louder, straining. He had to get to Osian. He had to warn him. ‘You will not get away with this,’ he bit, hoarse. ‘Osian knows about your plot.’
‘Oh, it’s not enough for him to know,’ the knight said. ‘He still has no idea how deep it runs, or how long this has brewed. Besides, even if he tries to stop us, you’re the perfect little bargaining chip.’ They stopped before him and removed their mask.
Meilyr had not needed them to. He had guessed who they were sworn to, though the face sparked bitter recognition.
‘Looks like you remember me, I’m honoured. I’m Ser Terrell, sworn to His Majesty and future king, Prince Wystan.’ He gave an exaggerated bow.
If only he was closer, so Meilyr could kick him in the head.
‘Now.’ Terrell straightened. ‘I promised you a story. It’s the tale of star-crossed lovers, destined to be separated by the lust of a weak, bastard prince. One of the lovers –yourlover, lovely – your dutiful gardener here, confides his pain in an old friend, who promises he has a way for you both to escape the clutches of the evil prince.’
Haydn spat blood. There was more on his head, and down his front. ‘You lied to me – you all gods damn lied!’
The crownsworn hit him again.