He should not have called him a fool, but dreigiau spare them, he was. A fool who jumped to conclusions. A fool whose view of the world was all the world could be. A proud, stubborn fool Meilyr had missed terribly.
Before he could find words, Celyn took his face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. ‘You are a fool,’ he breathed, despairing.
He let Meilyr go and strode from the room, shutting the dividing door behind him.
Meilyr rubbed his arms, flexed the fingers of his still-bloodied hand. He had washed it as best he could to help Pedr, but it definitely needed a more thorough cleaning.
Every point of contact between him and Osian ached. He should have dragged him with him, should have given him no choice, should have…
There was a dull tapping against the window, urgent and repetitive. A moth. He went numbly to unlatch it, and the chilled night air stole in, leaving him shivering.
Dread crept up to him in the dim. Familiar. Awful. That same sensation from the gardens, the warning the fox had given him, that same feeling when he had needed Osian close. The day he had been poisoned, the day Wystan had died. Only yesterday.
Osian was going to die.
In the morning, in a handful of bells, Meilyr and the others would travel west. They would linger a handful of days, then they would board a ship, and leave Cyngalon and Khaim behind forever.
But Osian was going to die.
He was going to die, and Meilyr had ignored the signs. He had denied the instinct, the scent through the trees, the snap of the twig. The blood upon the snow.
Osian was going to die, and Meilyr was running away.
How long before the news found him? How long before that earthquake? Would he still feel these marks, the firm and needing press of Osian’s mouth, his body? His gentleness. His voice, and his steadiness, undampened by sea-spray and distance.
Osian was going to die.
It tore through him from the tip of his scalp to the bones of his heels. He had to cover his mouth, his other hand instinctively moving to his chest – to the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch. For the first time in months, it was there. He pulled it loose from his layers, candlelight burning the silver and gold to russet, igniting the fire amber it curled around.
The way Osian had touched it, not even bells ago.
Clarity tilted the room. It was not even a decision, not really.
‘No fate, only choice.’
The Cyngaleg was an exhale. A declaration.
He tucked the dragon back inside his clothes and stepped into the other room.
They all agreed to take watches for the scant time they would sleep.They would leave before dawn, Meilyr and Pedr and Haydn out the window,Celyn and Deryn and Faina through the front door.
Meilyr demanded the first watch, to the others’ disapproval. Celyn argued hardest against it, but Meilyr won out, saying, ‘It always takes me longest to fall sleep, remember? If I take a later watch, I will barely have dropped off before it’s my turn.’
His brother begrudgingly acquiesced. ‘Keep the central door ajar.’
‘We will.’ Then, because he needed to, Meilyr embraced him, firm and heartfelt. ‘I am so glad you are here. Please, can you save being cross with me until we are all safe? Otherwise, you will not sleep either.’
Celyn hesitated, then returned the embrace, vice-tight. Into Meilyr’s hair, he said, ‘I can’t accept what happened, or believe you’re fine. But we are leaving. Just promise me we’ll talk more – promise me you will be safe and stop endangering yourself on the journey. I can’t lose you. Please, swear it to me.’
Meilyr’s throat constricted with what he had to do, the words bunching. But he replied, ‘I promise.’
Celyn stepped back and pressed their foreheads together, expression fierce. Then he moved into the other room, to watch over Faina and Deryn from the floor.
Meilyr and Deryn clasped one another’s hands. Faina gave him a squeeze before following.
‘I’ll take the floor,’ Haydn said, stiffly angling down.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Pedr. ‘You were beaten half to death.’