It hurt more than he could have expected.
‘She will come around,’ Highness Demelza said quietly at his side. ‘She is only shaken, as everyone is.’
She watched him not meet her eyes, struggle to make a dent in his food.
Unobtrusively, she placed a slim slice of her vegetable pie on his plate. ‘When it happened, I was terrified. Not for him, but for you and Osian. You were right there. If something had happened…’
Memory flared. The last of his appetite crumbled like dried leaves.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I too barely wish to think on it, but please, if you have need of someone, you are not alone.’ There was not a trace of suspicion in her eyes. Fear, yes, but not of him. For him. Fear for those she loved.
‘Thank you, Highness,’ was all he managed.
She could feel it, too. The inevitability of accusation. Of bloodshed.
That night, Prince Osian gestured for Meilyr to ascend to his rooms.Ensconced in the parlour, that thread of tension in the prince strainedmore visibly; as he poured their drinks, Meilyr felt his exhaustionthrough their bond. ‘The searches of nearby farms and towns have yieldednothing so far.’ He sat on the divan, and Meilyr took the armchair.‘They will continue for another day or so, at least.’
They would likely find nothing. ‘What happens then?’
‘There has already been a strengthening of the guard. If nothing is found, it is likely Captain Radnor will demand more thorough methods.’ The prince stared into his wine before drinking.
Again, Meilyr wanted to tell him it was likely someone with repetitive, close access to Lord Leighton that had killed him – for the sake of the innocent Cyngaleg peoples who had felt terror descend as Khaimlic crownsworn rode to their doors.
But he could not, not without calling more suspicion to himself.
At least Celyn remained undiscovered by the search. The world had upended as a rowan tree had broken through Lord Leighton’s skin – as Meilyr’s repeatedly scarred-over fears had ruptured into being. He was being investigated, a breath away from being outright accused. But Celyn was safe, and the prince had vouched for Meilyr. Whether for his own motives or not, he seemed genuinely adamant Meilyr not be blamed.
Yet their act and their bargain could only protect him so much. There would probably come a time when the prince had no choice but to side with the court and condemn him. For now, he needed to focus on pretending he had no power in his blood, just as he had his whole life.
At least he did not have to play the part of consort here in the prince’s parlour.
Under Ser Pedr’s escort, he returned to his own rooms. They werechilled and stale even with the fire freshly tended.
Certain he was alone, he retrieved the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch and clung to it in the emptiness of that still-unfamiliar bed.
The rain hammered. At the edges of the chamber, the shadows became the encroaching press of trees, the shape of twisting branches that had once been flesh.
In the night, or in his memories, a fox screamed.
SIXTEEN
Magic never seems the right word. In Cyngaleg, they call itweaving.
Weavers.
Gwehydd.
For they weave the natural world along its course as adepts oflooms draw patterns from the air. Those I have met have a beautiful,symbiotic relationship with the world. They are tenders, and menders,able to heal the soil and sometimes even its people.
I truly believe we have a great deal to learn from them, and agreat deal that could be gained from a unity with these rare, caringpeoples.
Personal writings of Adair Arden,
then-future First King of Khaim
SIXTEEN
The rain held off long enough for Princess Aldreda to order them all into the gardens. It only made sense: they had to pretend to the rest of the court that everything was normal.