Every gust threw them into rock. Every sound forced a struggle not to crane around and peer back through the sharp rain. Were they being pursued? Salt burned his eyes and his lungs, the cuts on his hand, his lip and all the others. There was nothing but blackness beside him, and behind, and beneath. If he let go, he would probably fall into the dark forever.
Save that the sea growled, nearly deafening.
Every thirty or so paces, he gave the muffled call to hold as he reforged more bindweed. The effort plucked at the nerves behind his eyes. He was so out of practice, so thoroughly exhausted from the night. His fingers were raw, and after the second pause, he no longer needed the knife to draw blood.
He could not slip. If he slipped, they were all dead. The thumping of his pulse fell into the monotony of not falling. Of securing his hands, his feet, pressed and drenched against the stone.
Finally, something flat and grey emerged out of the nothingness.
When the so-called steps ended, he fell to the pale sand, limbs molten.
Faina dropped beside him, helping him to his knees and touching his shoulders. ‘Meilyr, are you all right? You did brilliantly – breathe, darling, breathe.’
‘I’m all right,’ he managed, as the others made their unsteady way to the strip of beach. Deryn helped Pedr. Haydn saw Celyn down before moving to Meilyr. ‘I am all right,’ he repeated. ‘Everyone else?’
Affirmations of life and exhaustion. Pedr suppressed a grimace.
‘This was well timed.’ Haydn breathed hard. ‘The tide is coming in, isn’t it?’
‘That is why we had to move when we did.’
Why Osian had planned this to the bell stroke.
The sour, metallic taste clung to Meilyr’s mouth, and he swallowed, moving off. ‘That way, now. Not far. Do we need a moment?’
‘Ready as anyone,’ Pedr said.
Haydn hesitated, then lifted Pedr’s arm and stepped into their side, securing them. ‘Sand is a pain,’ he said as way of explanation.
Pedr gave a tight, thankful nod.
Meilyr led on.
Osian stared at what little he could see of the shoreline, long past the point of exhaustion. The rain had relented slightly. The barest definition clawed free of the storm.
Had Meilyr made it down the cliffs? He had to have – hehad. Osian would know if he had not. He told himself over and over that he had done the right thing, ignoring the agony beneath his sternum.
There was a knock at the door. He tensed. Had word already spread?
It was Blythe, hurriedly covering a yawn. ‘Sorry, Majesty. His Majesty the King is due to arrive in the earliest bells of the morning, and Highness Demelza has requested you and Her Majesty be readied and prepared, to greet him privately in the Throne Room?’
The question was there, not expecting an answer.
‘Thank you, Blythe.’
Strange, for Demelza to request they meet privately, and not in the solar.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb,’ Blythe said, regarding his surely bloodshot eyes, or other tells. ‘I can steal you both another bell, if…?’
‘It is all right. Though I will be excusing the prince consort from the morning’s activities. My father will understand.’ He would not, and there was an echo of that in her gaze. She covered it well.
It did not matter. Osian would drag out the farce as long as he could, until Meilyr was safely across the sea. Safely rid of them all.
‘Majesty,’ Blythe said.
Osian closed the door to prepare.
FORTY-SEVEN