Tree of the otherfolk. Arawn’s crown is said to be of hawthorn.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
ELEVEN
The day was bright and warm, the air cresting off the sea with a salty tang. The Heir Apparent was most keen to see the outer bailey, the battlements, courtyards and grounds, and paid particular interest to the training facilities, where dozens of crownsworn huffed and sweated in stringent rows.
‘Anyone promising? With Osian away, I’m positively itching for a brawl.’
‘I am right here, Your Majesty,’ the prince offered.
‘Oh.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘You want me to put you on the ground again? Because I will.’
‘You are both in your formal whites,’ Demelza reminded them, mild like a mother, bouncing Edeva on her hip. ‘And in front of company.’
‘At the hunt,’ the Heir Apparent enunciated, ‘I am going to wait until everyone is heinously drunk, then trounce you in front of your precious consort. Understood?’
Prince Wystan, nursing a hangover, looked ready to put himself on the ground. ‘You are both an embarrassment to the Crown.’
‘Says the one who can’t hold his drink.’
‘You did this on purpose,’ he grumbled. ‘Gods, can we get out of this sun? I thought it was supposed to be perpetually cloudy here.’
They did leave the training grounds, though not with any swiftness.
In the gardens, the small party dispersed, stopping in clusters here or there to admire the view or the flowers. Edeva eagerly dragged both Prince Osian and Meilyr along, asking about giants and dragons. As they moved through the rose beds, it was Meilyr’s hand she clung to, his other arm tight around the prince’s.
A barb of shock pulsed through her babbling, and Meilyr startled. It was not his own feeling but someone else’s. He turned towards the source, and familiarity blossomed, so discordant with reality he froze even before his eyes fully focused.
Haydn.Stock still, staring at him, caught between awe and shock. He was dressed in the whites and creams of the castle staff, beside the rosebush he had been tending.
Haydn. As clear as though he had stepped out of a memory.
Prince Osian followed Meilyr’s gaze. ‘Is something wrong?’
Meilyr forced himself to loosen his grip on the prince’s arm. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I merely thought I saw something.’
He had, but needed to pretend otherwise. He let Edeva drag them further, focused on her chatter so he would not look back, fighting to shutter his panic.
His former lover, there in the castle gardens, was not something he knew how to handle in his current state.
The rest of the day gave him no chance to calm down. Everywhere therewas talk of the coming hunt, a sprawling, five-day affair off in thewestern hills. Though it would be a hunt in the most traditional senseof the word, that great and noble sport of flushing out animals to killfor sport, Meilyr could not help at each mention being reminded of theother historical connotation of the term: the hunts of King Uhtric andhis descendants, when it was weavers and anyone suspected of being onewho were hounded to a bloody end.
At dinner, he drank more than was sensible; his senses blurred, but he was too on edge to find relief in it. Instead, thoughts of the last time he had drunk this heavily – with Haydn – distracted him to the point where he jumped when Prince Osian took his arm to retire from the Great Hall.
It had begun to rain. He hoped he could bury himself in his bed, but the prince continued the climb to his own rooms and deposited Meilyr in the middle of his parlour.
One little daffodil twitched. He was far too aware of his own body.
‘I wished to speak about your brother’s release,’ Prince Osian said, preparing tea.
Meilyr shivered. ‘Yes?’
‘He will be escorted surreptitiously from the castle after we depart for the hunt, if that is what you wish?’
Meilyr sat on the armchair, seized with surprising confliction. He wanted Celyn released, beyond words, but what would his brother do with his freedom? Quietly go home and behave himself as Meilyr had asked? He wanted to hope, but hope felt abruptly feeble and perilous.
Celyn hadfriends, which he kept separate from Meilyr. Friends who shared his hatred of Khaim. Meilyr had told him more than once not to entangle himself in anything dangerous, but Celyn was Celyn.