‘Meilyr.’ Osian cupped his face. ‘We do not have time. He is coming with the crownsworn, they will arrive tomorrow. You and Celyn have to escape tonight.’
Tonight.
‘What? How?’
‘I have sent word to an ally. There will be a ship waiting for you both. I should have done this a long time ago, I am sorry.’
A very different ache strained Meilyr’s chest. ‘No – no, I will not run.’
‘Meilyr—’
‘I am not leaving you.’
The admission stilled them both.
Osian recovered first and touched his cheeks, his temples, his hair. Fixed him with those devastatingly blue eyes. ‘I cannot lose you.’
The tenderness hurt in a thousand ways. ‘If we can find the killer,’ Meilyr said, leading him to the parchment, ‘you will not have to.’
‘Meilyr…’
‘This is what I mentioned earlier. I do not know if it was meant to frame me, but’ – he lifted it to show him – ‘this original script is in Old Cyngaleg. I’m not sure how good the translation is, but it speaks of retribution, and every plant used for the killings. Rowan, alder, henbane, yew and bindweed. Then fox’s tears, hawthorn and oak. Death, and gwehydd, and a sacrifice to avenge Cyngalon. See the annotations? I think the killer is trying to enact a ritual.’
Osian studied the page, close at Meilyr’s shoulder. Meilyr read the Cyngaleg translation aloud in Khaimlic, the silence afterward thrumming between them.
‘These symbols at the top,’ Osian said, ‘they are… familiar.’
‘Yes. This is the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch, the Red Dragon, and this one’ – terror stalled his tongue – ‘this is…’
‘The Black Wolf.’
‘Yes.’ Meilyr shivered, wishing he could drop the page and curl into Osian’s arms. ‘I have no idea why these symbols are together. Y Ddraig Goch is a symbol of Cyngaleg freedom, whilst the Black Wolf is…’
‘A symbol of the Sundering. The breaking of the world.’
‘Yes.’
Osian took the page, carefully. ‘Can you read the original Old Cyngaleg?’
‘Only patches. This does meanheart-blood, but I know it can refer to will, or resolve, or…’
The prince looked at him in awe, and something much more tender.
‘Idwal,’ Meilyr explained, ‘my foster-father. Celyn’s father, he… loved translation. Languages. He showed me an example of that exact phrase, once.’
Sadness, in him. In Osian. The prince set the page down. ‘Can this help us find the killer?’
‘I am not sure, but it might be proof enough that there is something larger at work. If we show the king—’
‘The king will likely not accept proof even if we find it. Even if we find the killer, he may still… to punish me, for Wystan.’
‘Why would he punish you for something you are not responsible for? He may be the king, but…’ He was still Osian’s father.
‘I cannot risk it. I cannot risk you, Meilyr.’
‘And you expect me to leave you? When the sorcerer just killed your brother? When the next logical step to take is you? Osian—’
Osian kissed him. It shocked a sound from his throat, stinging his healing lips and soaring want through him as it lingered, brief but desperate. Pleading.