FORTY-ONE
‘Forget-me-nots,’ the Fox said, winding the little wreath.
‘For love that outlasts death.’
‘And what of these?’ asked their love of the petals as black ashearts’-blood.
‘They were left for us by the gate.’
‘Not those, Beloved,’ said the Fox, after being quiet for some breaths.
‘A gift they may be, but flowers speak a tongue all their own.’
Dahlias in particular, the Fox knew.
If only they had said it, instead of putting it from their mind.
The Fox’s Tears,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
FORTY-ONE
It was possible to make out the streams of people going about their lives in the town of Eascild, even through the rain. The wind threw clipped barbs of it at the tower-top, stinging Meilyr’s eyes.
But he watched. It was all he could do.
Osian placed a fur-trimmed cloak around his shoulders. His hands lingered, and they stood close, his chest near Meilyr’s shoulder.
‘How soon before they arrive?’ Meilyr asked.
‘Tomorrow.’ Osian’s voice was dampened. ‘Perhaps the day after.’
More troops from Khaim, come to prevent therebellionpredicted to erupt, and to assist in enforcing the curfew of Cyngaleg peoples the king had ordered. Osian had also surmised they would come to prepare for civil war, if the Marches rose against the Crown.
Meilyr wanted to be down there, wanted to find Heulwen and Sioned, Wade Bevan’s widow. He wanted to find everyone. Somewhere, Deryn’s sick father was being aided by neighbours and her far younger siblings to a village a day’s walk away, after Meilyr had slipped Deryn a note Osian had pretended not to notice.
They had sent another to Heulwen. Hopefully it would reach her in time.
‘Do you think Lord Gelens will return before that?’ he asked.
‘Unlikely, if they have gone to ground.’
Neither spoke it, but it sat uncomfortably. Lord Gelens’ disappearance could only mean trouble.
The old parchment burned through Meilyr’s mind where it waited, stuffed in that book in the parlour. There had been no time to decipher it further, and whilst he wanted to show Osian, he hoped to have a better understanding of what it meant before he did. Osian could not read Cyngaleg, and showing it to him without more information would only deepen the prince’s worries and add to his mounting burdens.
Meilyr wanted to spare him that. He had woven himself with yew, which might be enough to somehow help if the killer did strike again soon. Tonight, he would read the page more thoroughly. He would ascertain more of what it meant, and then he would show Osian.
‘Either way,’ Osian said, returning him to the present, ‘the survivors will be questioned, as will Wystan. Hopefully enough can be gleaned to have Celyn released.’
The wind bit fiercer and Meilyr resisted the urge to press into him, the desire to pry that bur of discomfort from his features. ‘If you spoke to Wystan, would it help? If you could find out why he aided you?’
‘I am not sure. I may not get the chance, especially if Aldreda has already cornered him. You may have noticed, but she is not always gentle when it comes to family.’
The punch to Wystan’s guts, in stark opposition to the tenderness with which she held Edeva. If Aldreda suspected Wystan had been part of the attempt on Osian’s life, how quickly would she choose between blood and spilling it?
‘Try to keep warm,’ Osian said. ‘If you need anything, Blythe is right outside. I will return as soon as I can.’