Meilyr stared at the far tent wall, then at his eyelids. Something had eased between them, despite the severity of their talk. Warmth gathered inside the blankets, emanating from the man behind him. He allowed himself to nestle deeper, fractionally closer.
The sounds of the camp muffled further as the faintest press of the wind stirred. Forest noise, the breathing of trees. The subtle life of the wild – of Cyngalon, out there in the dark beneath the clouds and the stars.
Meilyr slipped into sleep, not even troubled by dreams.
The forest perspired in the damp afternoon. It was a relief to breakat the river for a midday meal, giving riders and horses a chance tocool off.
The party remained indifferently jovial, but Meilyr’s gaze returned to the trees.
The steady breath of the broad beeches, the ash and the oak, was… different. The waves of bluebells bowed their heads without their usual bobbing laughter. The knitted dark of the depths seemed drawn back – deepened, like the shore heralding a tidal wave.
His blood thumped.
Surely it was only the odd weather and his unease at the hunt miring his senses. Trees, after all, generally remained indifferent, especially in woodland as old as this. They had lived long enough to know little could affect them beyond the slow-crawling invasion of disease, and that calm apathy generally did not waver.
Of course, any number of bwystfilod might still call these lands home.
Beasts.
The ancestors of this forest had been the backdrop for countless stories, as all old forests in Cyngalon were. The coming of Khaim had pushed back the wild but could never destroy it. Meilyr himself had been born just within the borders of the Green Wastes. Though the strangeness he felt now had to be of his own mind, he knew all too well that there could be any number of things in the hollows and the bark that did not care for trespassing humans.
‘Ghost stories,’ a crownsblood scoffed, not far down the bank. ‘You Denelanders are so suspicious.’
‘You are telling me there is nothing in Khaim that makes you think twice about sending your children into the woods?’ Ser Pedr stood beside their horse, fingers twined in their mane. ‘It is not ghost stories, merely fact.’
The other crownsblood, one of Prince Wystan’s – Terrell, maybe? – sighed and splashed his face with river water. ‘I’m just saying, don’t get yourself on edge. There’s nothing that could come out of those trees that we couldn’t handle.’
As Terrell clambered up the bank, Ser Pedr met Meilyr’s gaze. Recognition stirred between them both.
‘Damn dogs and their gods-forsaken barking.’ Lord Leighton hauled violently on his reins and thudded furiously from his horse, far too close, before almost dragging the animal to the water.
Cynefrith’s nostrils flared, ears back, giving Meilyr an excuse to turn into her neck to soothe her. Even though the revulsion was mutual.
Prince Osian guided his grey mare in beside them, separating them from Lord Leighton. Without a glance, the prince went to refresh his waterskin.
He had been further down the river. Thankfulness blossomed in Meilyr’s chest.
The horn-call to mount came, Princess Aldreda’s eagerness unabated.
The sounds of the hunt crowded everything else as the royal party led; the two eldest heirs were flashes of dark gold and cobalt at the helm, their hunting garb more muted than their court colours.
The ground dropped, steadily then sharply. Meilyr had to sit back almost flat to keep his seat as the undergrowth knit close, making it difficult to find a path.
‘Return to the rise,’ Princess Aldreda called. ‘Find another way down!’
The command rolled audibly up through the bunched riders, those at the rear turning to pick their way back.
In the small commotion, Lord Leighton brought his horse beside Meilyr’s. ‘Do you require assistance, Highness Cadogan?’
‘No, thank you, Lord Leighton.’
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me accompany you on the climb.’ He reached over and grasped Meilyr’s reins, urging their horses on.
Meilyr had no time to object. Cynefrith flattened her ears to her skull, shoved against Lord Leighton’s horse as the two made the ascent in great strides, further from the other riders.
As soon as they were on flatter earth, Meilyr pulled at his reins.
Lord Leighton did not let go. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Their knees were wedged together, their horses jostling unhappily. ‘You act as though I startled you.’