The initial charge wore off and the company slowed, conversation flourishing. Demelza was some distance behind, caught in talk with a pair of Khaim-based nobles. Meilyr sat back, content to listen. Glad to not have to find words.
His discomfort dulled, and the day wore on with several false alarms of frenzy. Aldreda called a halt along the banks of a wide, partially exposed stream, and the party broke to rest and drink.
Meilyr dismounted heavily, stretched his already-aching body and saw to Cynefrith at the water’s edge. It was beautiful, if one ignored all the Khaimlic regalia. The gloriously clear water caught every droplet of sun, and for an instant everything was lush and green and Cyngalon, in a way that hurt as much as it healed.
This stream would have its source deep in the mountains, some little spring or brook that perhaps no Khaimfolc had ever seen.
Had Celyn been released? Was he safely back at the apothecary?
‘You ride very well.’ Princess Aldreda led her horse in beside his. ‘I admit I’m a little surprised.’
Meilyr looked away, prying burs from horsehair. ‘My family tended a small farm, for a time.’ He had learned to ride as soon as he could walk, had been sat on a horse even before that.Learn to ride, and ride well, his father had said when he was old enough to understand.Learn to ride, and to run.
‘Did they now?’ She was genuinely interested. ‘Osian, your favourite really is full of surprises. You’ll have to bring him home at some point; I’m going to miss him more than I’m going to miss you.’
Prince Osian, fussing over a set of very happy hounds further down the bank, caught his gaze.
Meilyr focused on Cynefrith. He would not go to Khaim. Not unless Celyn’s life was at sword-point to force him across the sea, and only then. He would never set foot in Khaim.
The afternoon melted into the haze of riding and voices – until a shout sounded and the company erupted into mayhem.
Cynefrith plunged automatically after the leading horses. Meilyr did not so much as reach for his bow. The trees screamed with baying hounds, everywhere awash with noise and the cloy of hunger.
They burst through a tangle of undergrowth, and it happened.
Prince Osian killed the stag. Clean, and swift, and without pleasure.
The sensation hollowed out Meilyr’s insides as red blood lit the forest floor. The acrid bite of iron climbed into his mouth as the soft bloom of life burst into absence, and cold.
A new wave of sound crashed over him as the surrounding riders shouted and cheered, emptying him still further.
Unobserved in the eye of the storm, the prince dismounted and knelt. Mumbled, as though to the stag, or perhaps something beyond it.
Could it be…?
Silently, Meilyr breathed the words in Cyngaleg: the thanks for a life of the land, to sustain the land. His eyes stung, but he did not look away. His duty was to the stag. To Cyngalon.
To Cyngalon, until his own blood returned to her as well.
THIRTEEN
Yew.
Symbolic of death and immortality.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
THIRTEEN
The feast tables in the main tent overflowed with food. Atop the central one, the prize of the day: Prince Osian’s buck, prepared and readied to be picked clean.
A Cyngaleg stag slaughtered for the pleasure of Khaim’s nobility. For no more than sport, to be devoured without the need for food.
The irony was not lost on Meilyr. He could not help glancing at its glassy, sightless eyes.
Oblivious, raucous frivolity stifled the air. Many sat in the arms of lovers or would-be lovers, shouting over games of talon beside their plates, or mingled and clapped shoulders and thighs of friends and brethren. Music and drums and song shivered, the braziers biting back the chill of the night.
Prince Osian had been the centre of much attention. His consort sat against him, demure and quiet, losing track of how many times they refilled his cup.