The Book of Heart
FORTY-EIGHT
Meilyr slipped through the streets as seamlessly as a spirit: one of the ysbrydion, woven with a single purpose. Back through the trees and the night, across the pale spill of sand, to that single lip of rock that looked more like a fall in the cliff than a path. His bindweed lingered, blooming here too, and this time he did not fear the path ahead or what might follow.
Promise me you will be safe.
He had sworn to Celyn only bells ago.
The storm rattled above, keeping it dark. Keeping everything slick and black.
He had to keep moving. He had to hurry, or Osian would die.
By the time he made it up the cliffs and over the wall into the grounds, he was beyond exhaustion, had reached the place of clarity where his nerves had already torn themselves to shreds. The voice of the sea ebbed, the swathes of grey gardens starkly lighter than before.
It was quieter than a barrow.
He brushed past the dripping rhododendrons, weighing whether it would be better to slip through the cellars or forgo all caution and make for the terraces.
‘You came back.’
The fox stood beside the wall, amidst the bowing heads of black dahlias. A stray shoot of fox’s tears.
‘I had to,’ Meilyr said, breathing hard. ‘I have to save him.’
The fox sat, folding their tail around their paws. ‘You have the chance, though a choice in a chance is all you have. There is an end ahead that you may still run from.’
Meilyr shook his head. ‘I cannot let him die.’
The fox nodded, wistful. The dark markings trailing from their eyes could easily have been tear tracks. ‘So it is. Heart-blood and home, as your forebears’ footsteps preceded. If this is your decision, you do not need me to lead you to him this time. Go swiftly, he is fading.’
Meilyr ran through wet leaves and rustling trees, up the terraces. Inside Eascild Castle.
It was early. Osian would be awake, but perhaps still in his rooms, dragging out time to keep Meilyr’s escape secret. When it was discovered, the prince would have to disavow him, but Meilyr would get to him first. He would drag him, bodily, if he had to. The others were safe, or safe as they could be. He would not leave Osian to die. He would—
He stopped with his hand on the cold stone wall beside the back stair.
Osian was not upstairs. The knowledge came as certainly as he knew his own name.
He turned from the stair and walked deeper into the keep.
Something made him run again.
No one met him. No sound found him save the pounding of his own boots, the slam of his pulse. It was as though he had passed into a story, the world emptied of all other peoples.
Except the reality was far, far worse.
The crownsworn outside the doors of the Throne Room lay dead. Mutilated, their bones broken through their crumpled bodies.
Meilyr’s blood drummed, awfully alert.
One body lay separate. A crownsblood. Dreadful recognition hauled him closer.
Blythe.
Her punctured lungs gasped in a terrible sucking sound as he rolled her over, her eyes wide and terrified. Furious. Then she recognised him, and grasped his hand. ‘H… Highn…’
There was nothing for it. He ran his thumb through the blood at her chest and sucked it. Steadied her shoulder as the connection wove, his senses burning in all the places she feltwrong.