‘A warning must be sent to the Denelands. Across the Marches. Since you are too weak of heart to do it, I will take that burden from you. I only pray you will learn from the lesson I must teach you. The lesson I learned when I lost your mother.’
‘Father—’
The visage of the king receded into the pool, which bobbed and lapped against the stones around it.
FORTY-FOUR
Weaving is about connection. Exchange. When we offer our blood,we offer our own nature. It is the oldest oath: blood to theearth.
To be woven to another is to hold power over one another and trustit will not be taken for granted. To hold life and decide to treasureits course.
Personal writings of Morien Maendwr,
Last Prince of Cyngalon
FORTY-FOUR
Alone, Meilyr wrung his hands, pacing Osian’s parlour. Everything had been awash with confusion, and he had only been able to glance at Faina as he had been escorted from the hall, her tears streaming, lit with terror.
She had not done this. You could not fake fear that real.
He circled back to the low table by the divan, where he had laid the piece of horrific parchment. The scrawled translations. The sickening symbol ofher, and Y Ddraig Goch.
He had now read it three times, barely able to touch it. Barely able to remain in the same room with it.
A betrayal of kin shall bindweed bud.
Wystan. Meilyr should have told Osian sooner. He should have told him everything.
Finally – finally, Osian came through the door. Any hesitance burned away in that glimpse of his shuttered grief, and Meilyr went to him. He touched his reaching wrist, his cheek, then wrapped his arms around his shoulders.
Osian enveloped his waist, careful, then firm. As though afraid of what might happen if he allowed himself more.
Meilyr set himself down and touched his jaw. ‘I am so, so sorry. If I had moved faster, I could have…’
‘This is not your fault.’
‘That weaving was too powerful, but I should have—’
‘Meilyr, it was not your fault. It could never be your fault.’ Something relented, and Osian pressed his forehead exhaustedly against Meilyr’s, holding him tighter.
Meilyr’s torn-up nerves would not allow him to hold back any longer. ‘Osian, I need you to… not go further from me than this. Or as near to it. Whoever is doing this, they are too powerful. You—’
‘The king is coming.’
Meilyr drew back enough to look at him.
Osian’s gaze was transparent, pain in the pragmatism. ‘He will use you to punish me for my failing. He will name you the sorcerer. He will put you to death.’
Dread took the last of Meilyr’s warmth.
He could feel how Osian knew it to be true, even more painfully than he felt grief for Wystan. His own father would name Meilyr responsible. His own father would have him killed.
Meilyr firmed his hands at his chest. ‘Then we find the sorcerer.’
‘Meilyr…’
‘It has to be one of the people from the hall, and I realised, what if it is someone whose Cyngaleg heritage is not widely known? It would be the perfect cover—’