He strode out of the cellar towards the others, struggling to swallow the lump in his throat.
Haydn’s expression was knowing. Thankfully, he said, ‘Ahead? There is…’
Meilyr slipped past him and saw.
Behind a tangle of bushes ran the low wall that encircled the edge of Eascild Castle’s grounds. It was lowest here, atop the cliffs, knotted with bindweed and climbers before falling into the sea.
Though all but invisible, over this wall were the remnants of steps and handholds, following the line of the cliff inland and away. They had stood since the castle before Eascild – the Cyngaleg stronghold, fortifying the town of Caer Tarian with warrens of secret tunnels. Escape routes should the castle ever be taken by the enemy across the Splintered Sea.
Meilyr had no idea how many people had escaped when the castle was razed. Now, this path was known only to Osian, and all of them.
‘Is it safe?’ The sea wind tossed Faina’s long plait over her shoulder.
‘Safer than staying here.’ Haydn peered over, then straightened. ‘Very happy to go first.’
‘I’ll go,’ Celyn said, moving into the space.
Meilyr touched his arm. ‘Wait.’ He laid his hands on the wet clumps of bindweed clambering over the pale stone.
Had it been this very plant that had been used to kill Prince Wystan…?
Far below, the crash of the waves reached out through the darkness. All these people were watching, but surely it was worth it. Surely now was the time, if there ever was one.
Meilyr faced them all. The words came out steadier than he felt. ‘I need you to know that I did not kill anyone. I swear it, on my own life.’
‘Meilyr,’ Celyn warned, tensed and protective.
‘They are about to find out, one way or the other.’ Meilyr tore free a shred of bindweed leaf and popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed the bitterness. He drew his hunting dagger – the gwaed-steel one Osian had given him – and pressed open the edge of his hand.
Blood bloomed, stinging. He pressed it to the bindweed and closed his eyes to focus.
It was less a roar than a stirring of the breeze. His breath.
If only he could have done this in time to save Wystan.
The bindweed eased towards him, as if turning to listen to a song he sang. A slight suggestion, a request to grow, and it began to spread. Down. Thick and strong. Lashing itself enthusiastically to the wall and the steady rock of the cliff with a tug through his blood, from the cut on his hand through his veins, up his arms, into his chest.
When it had reached as far as it could, he took his hand from the wall and looked at the others.
Celyn stood resigned, readied just in case.
The rest of them were stalled in different stages of shock.
Haydn was the first to find words. ‘Meilyr…Damn.’
‘I knew it,’ Faina squeaked, before covering her mouth. ‘I bloody knew it.’
Pedr and Deryn were speechless, until Pedr asked, ‘Did… Prince Osian know?’
Meilyr almost could not answer. ‘Yes,’ he managed. ‘From the very beginning.’
The weight of that truth spread across them all. Meilyr flexed his fingers, rain slicking his hair. Determination fortified his voice. ‘This is the only way. Follow me.’
He climbed over the wall into the dark, and once more did not look back.
They all followed, taking half-blind grips of wet bindweed to steadytheir descent down the slick, horrendously narrow steps in thecliff.
Meilyr’s chest was so tight it had moved past pain. As though he had left his heart with Osian, his body trying to make do with the absence.