Lady Faina went on, ‘Many have never set foot in theDenelands, though mercifully I imagine I can call it Cyngalon with you if we’re quiet about it. Prince Osian has been here before, of course, but the rest have likely done little more than hear their grandparents talk about old unrest, and are eager to see it all for themselves.’
The relief he felt at hearing her call it Cyngalon ebbed at the wordunrest. Unrest that had spread across every field and hillside of Cyngalon in the final bloody years of the conquest. A conquest that had supposedly ended after the final hunts, almost seventy years ago, though Meilyr knew first hand that was not quite the truth.
He stole a glance at Prince Osian, who listened to one of the nobles who had engaged both him and Highness Demelza. The firelight caught the simple band of gold he wore about his head, setting it aflame.
Not unlike thesaviourin the tapestry behind them.
Their bargain had not taken on the shape Meilyr had feared, but the prince still represented those who had spilled Cyngalon’s blood like rain. He should not forget who – and what – Prince Osian was.
FOUR
The killing of Y Ddraig Goch (c. Year 126 A.S.) marked the beginningof the end for Cyngalon. So was the last red dragon, that symbol ofCyngalon’s freedom and fight, slain by one who would take up the mantelof their forebear. One who would become king of all the Isles ofMhrydain.
The lands and rivers ran red with the great beast’s blood. It is thiswhich dyes the sky over Cyngalon each dusk and dawn, its peoples neverable to forget, and never able to forgive.
Dragon of White, Dragon of Red: Cyngalon, A History,
Gwydderig gan Brioc
FOUR
They left arm-in-arm through the doors behind the dais, into the close extravagance of the private halls of the inner keep. Elaborate candelabra lit their way up and out, past a rain-slicked courtyard, to ascend the westernmost tower, atop which the prince’s rooms resided.
Prince Osian bid his crownsblood goodnight and closed the door, leaving them alone.
Alone, and wed.
‘Would you care for another drink?’
The slow prickle of nervousness set in. Several tiny daffodils stirred from slumber in the window boxes, gold in the candlelight. The fire murmured in the hearth. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
The prince went to a decanter of dark liquid and poured two glasses.
‘Have you… news?’ Meilyr asked. During the feast there had been a small aside with some of the knights who had been present at the altercation.
‘Your brother is well, though refusing to eat. Would you like to see him?’
Impossibility whirled. ‘Yes? Please, Your Majesty.’
The prince left their drinks and headed for the bedchamber. Hope spluttered into confusion, but Meilyr followed.
The bedchamber was equal in size to the parlour, beautifully furnished and warm, draped with deep blues and more books. The prince went to the far wall, reached under the mantle of the dormant fireplace and pulled something.
With aclunk, part of the large rug between them raised an inch above the rest. The prince tugged it aside to reveal a hewn-out slab of stone from the otherwise solid floor and reached under the rim to pull it up.
A hidden hatch, releasing damp air.
‘Apologies if it is dusty.’ The prince lit a small lantern from the mantelpiece and met Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Stay close to me.’
He climbed down into the dark.
Meilyr stood transfixed, warring between good sense and hope. Hope won.
A short set of wooden steps levelled into a tight tunnel, before lurching into an ancient stone staircase, spiralling downwards. The prince descended with ease, the lantern guttering their tangled shadows across the musty walls. Their footfall echoed, just audible above Meilyr’s befuddled heartbeat.
Whatwas happening?
They climbed down and down, past closed doors and other passageways, the wall gritty beneath his palm. The prince offered no explanations, and Meilyr remained too shaken to ask for any. Eventually, the stairway ended with another narrow tunnel, containing several alcoves housing steps travelling upwards into rock. The prince stopped at one, set the lantern down and listened, before pulling a camouflaged lever in the low ceiling.