He reached out with the roots of his blood, Terrell’s pulse a cacophony that threatened to split open Meilyr’s skull.
Nothing happened immediately. Terrell grabbed Haydn by the hair, forcing him to look at him as he pointed the dagger at his stomach…
And hesitated. Cleared his throat. Struggled to take a deep enough breath.
‘Terrell?’
‘Ser,’ Terrell corrected, a mangled wheeze. He stepped back, staggered. Tried to pass it off as nothing.
‘Ter—Ser Terrell?’
His breathing was laboured. He grabbed at his chest, eyes bolt-wide.
‘Ser!’
A bang beneath their feet. Raised, urgent voices, and more banging.
Meilyr’s concentration wavered.
One of the crownsworn threw open the door to shout, ‘What is it?’
‘Trouble!’ A muffled call from the lower floor. ‘Get down here!’
The crownsworn looked between the wheezing Terrell, the door and Meilyr. They grabbed Terrell’s arm and tugged – he threw them off, but all three thumped out and down the stairs, the door slamming behind.
More shouting from beneath. Meilyr shook his pounding head, blinked away the shadows and sucked in air. The roar spluttered to a gust.
‘Haydn? Haydn!’
The sounds of wood and motion and shouting. The light changed – doors opening? Boots and muffling – were they leaving?
Haydn groaned, limp and bloodied.
Meilyr heaved at the rope, rubbing his wrists raw. The knot only tensed. There was nothing in reach, nothing to help. The crownsworn could be back any moment.
The gust rapped at his hands.
Damn it, it was worth a try.
He sucked at his lip, set his jaw and focused on his fingertips. On how the threads of his blood moved, tight against his nails.
He had never done this – was it even possible? Would it cost him his hands?
If it could save Osian, save Haydn, did it matter?
Poppy, hemlock, henbane – useless, something else—
Oh,gods…
Meilyr clenched his eyes shut andnudgedat his own shape. It hurt far more than he could have imagined: tightness bunched the skin at the end of his fingers, small hot blooms as barbs of bone finally broke through from the inside.
Sharp – sharper—
He cut against the rope before they fully formed, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stopper sounds of pain, propelled by frantic, wild urgency. A whimper-hiss of frustration escaped through his teeth.
It was not sharp enough. Any instant now the crownsworn would return, and Haydn—
The rope twitched. Some of the fibres had severed. He tensed his arms and pulled – the rope jolted, coming loose. He fell forward with the momentum, threw the rope aside and tried not to look at his bloodied, warped hands.