How thankful the Fox was, then,
for their spirit-silk body –
their gift to slip from form to form –
for human hands and human legs had never
until that night
made sense before.
The Fox’s Tears,
translated by Idwal gan Hywel
SEVENTEEN
Meilyr’s body responded. There was urgency in Osian’s voice, in his very being. Something almostpossessivethat sent too-pleasant heat roiling through him.
Osian stepped in more to Meilyr’s side and moved the grip on his waist and hands to mimic the starting position of one of the dances Harlan had hammered into Meilyr’s muscles – thankfully not far from several festival dances, though slower and more formal. At the next appropriate bar of the song, they began. The prince with his arm bracing Meilyr’s back, chin close to his hair.
What had just happened? How were his feet supposed to move? He nearly fumbled the first switch in footwork leading into a spin, but Osian led him through it, and their eyes met as the new steps brought them face-to-face.
Osian’s earnestness blistered through their woven bond. Through their shared blood, their clasped hands, and their contact. The prince wasagitated.
Meilyr wanted to ask what had happened, but at the next change of the song – before he could – the prince pulled him against his chest, in a step that did not belong in this sequence. Their temples brushed, and Osian spoke into his ear: hot and close.
‘Forgive me. Lord Gelens is an Ectheid.’
Fear blanched Meilyr, sharp and icy. Over the prince’s shoulder, he saw the king’s adviser watching him with a cool, pleased smile. He looked away. Trembled as Osian held him in the slow turn of the dance. ‘An Ectheid…?’
Ectheid.Seers whose power and schooling were tied to Raak, south-east of Khaim, beyond the Sea of Spires. It was said an Ectheid could read the truth from the eyes of anyone they touched, so long as that touch was given freely: a cousin-magic to weaving, but far more exacting. Meilyr could garner emotion, but Ectheid readthought. Magic legitimised by Khaim’s rule, because it could be useful to them.
Lord Gelens was an Ectheid. And Meilyr hadwillingly touched their hand.
Bile climbed his throat. He clung to Osian. Had Lord Gelens learned of his magic? Had they learned of Celyn? Oh, gods—
‘Breathe.’ Osian’s voice was a breath of air in the drowning tide. He held Meilyr against him, steadfast and solid. ‘It is only surface thoughts in the moments after contact. Focus on me. Only on me.’
Meilyr closed his eyes tight and pushed into their bond. Into the steadiness of the prince: his body, his breathing. He was anxious too, despite his words, though he was forcing it away.
His desire to protect Meilyr was like the sun against his skin, so genuine it hitched his breath.
Their eyes met again as the prince drew them into the last position of the dance. The end of the song burst into applause and sound –oh, people had watched them. People still watched, including Lord Gelens.
A high, whining sound threaded through Meilyr’s skull.
Would they have to return to the crowd? What if the king’s adviser tried to speak to him? What if someone else wanted to dance with him?
Osian stepped back, bowed and kissed his hand.
The floor tilted. Heat crawled inside Meilyr’s too-tight collar, and the voices in the hall – all the voices – muffled.
His vision cracked. Just like after the hunt. Next, he would—
Osian slid his arm around his waist and led him past the dancers, beyond the gathered guests, towards the open doors at the side of the hall.
‘Majesty,’ Meilyr tried, little more than a catch of his lungs.