By then, Osian had long shoved down all he had seen. All the fear, and the heartsickness, and the doubt. Their grandfather’s tales had always given him nightmares. But when he had returned from Cyngalon with his father, still a boy, it was with the knowledge that the real world was far more horrific than any story.
Sometimes, the knights and the kings were the monsters.
Meilyr laid out his various plant samples and paper on his desk, and did not pull back. Allowed himself what came naturally: the feeling of the rise of the fibres, tracing back through wet wadding all the way to well-tended trees.
Life is in all things, you only have to listen for it.
His mother’s words, soft and rolling like the hush of the waves in their native tongue.
His father’s ring sat firmly on his index finger, supple Cyngaleg gold, the most comfortable weight he knew save the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch. Both his parents had struggled, together, to raise the child who could tell from a taste what their leeks needed to grow healthier. A child who could hear the apples that were ripe.
The fields that were dying.
Neither of them had been true weavers – only Meilyr’s maternal grandmother, taken during the final hunts when Meilyr’s mother had only been a child. Still, they had done everything they could for him.
Had they been gifted an ordinary child, they would still be alive.
There was a knock on the door. He cursed his blighted nerves for making him jump, but it was Osian, also still in his tournament attire.
‘It is late,’ the prince said, ‘but would you care to take dinner in my rooms?’
They were not alone; Osian’s knights were beyond the frame of the door.
Part of Meilyr wanted to haul him into the room and tell him everything he suspected. But there was a real chance Osian would simply suspect him, and…
Oh, to the hells with it. He grabbed the front of Osian’s tunics and pulled him inside. The prince moved – unexpectedly pliant, almost stumbling into Meilyr’s chest. Meilyr swung the door closed behind them, loudly, shocked by the surprise and askance in Osian’s eyes.
Another two steps, and they were deeper into the room. Safer.
This was a huge mistake – but if he did nothing, he would be condemned anyway. And Osian did not want him accused, even if just to safeguard their lie.
‘I think I know a way to find out if the killer is someone with access to the castle, to the gardens.’
Osian’s expression changed, focusing without a flicker of suspicion. ‘What do you mean? How?’
‘I was… I remembered some old Cyngaleg stories, merely superstitions, but some of them allude to sorcery, and I believe with my background I might be of some use.’
He waited for the doubt, for the accusation.
Instead, Osian said, ‘What do you require?’
TWENTY-TWO
Bran’s Alder.
Only grows in Cyngalon. Named for the hero.
Tiny white flowers. Wood, when cut, turns white to red.
Symbolic of resurrection.
Plant lives to be water-bound.
Great for sluice gates, boats and almost everything else.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
TWENTY-TWO