The subterranean hall deep beneath the castle’s chapel was so coldtheir breath fogged: a naturally occurring pocket of chill, perfect forits use as a chamber to store the dead.
Meilyr blew heat into his fingers, flexed them and stepped up to the stone plinth atop which rested Kenelm Radnor’s body. Osian joined him on the other side of it, the guttering torch the prince held cascading the walls in oddly stunted light.
They were very much alone, very much not supposed to be here.
‘Forgive us,’ Osian breathed, to the gods or to the deceased, it was not clear.
Meilyr drew back the top of the white shroud, uncovering the upper third of Kenelm Radnor.
It was not pleasant. The priests had tried their best, but pruning a corpse was not exactly in their repertoire. All the incense and dried fruit in Eascild could also not hold back the growing press of rotting vegetation.
Still, it was easy to find a little alder that could be broken off, since parts of the plant stilllived. Meilyr took out his small garden shears, snipped and held the cutting towards the light.
‘How will you tell?’ Osian asked quietly, his voice carrying unpleasantly in the catacomb-like space.
‘I have spent some time with alder.’ And almost every other plant he could name. ‘It has certain tells, a fondness for waterlogged soils. The fact this one has flowered makes it Bran’s alder, which is very rare outside of ancient forested regions to the west. That there is one in the gardens here is remarkable.’ He pretended to scrutinise the plant as he reached into a pocket and drew out a cutting he had acquired from said tree, then pretended to need to turn them both this way and that.
He had nicked his thumb with his dagger as they crept through the tunnels. It was easy enough to press his blood into the new cutting.
Sharp, bitter tang. A burst of violent sunshine – and the castle gardens.
He pretended to consider, pretended not to already know. Because the truth had been in his mouth as he had touched the plant that killed Kenelm Radnor. Having already woven with the alder in the gardens, there was no doubt.
‘They are the same,’ he exhaled, appalled and triumphant and terrified. He met the prince’s gaze over the body.
There was still no hint of suspicion in Osian. None at all.
‘So the killer is someone with access to Eascild Castle,’ the prince said. ‘You were correct. Which means…’
He left it in the air as they both looked down.
‘We should leave,’ Meilyr whispered, a shiver threatening the base of his spine. If he started, he knew he would not stop.
‘Yes. Let’s.’
The night air gnawed at them as they climbed out of the catacombs andinto the cloisters, footfall rebounding softly.
Carefully, at Meilyr’s side, Osian said, ‘I am sorry to have pulled you into all this.’
Meilyr slowed. The prince slowed to match.
‘It is hardly your fault, Majesty. You were not to know this would happen.’
And he had tried to protect Meilyr every step of the way.
‘You do not suspect me.’ There was surprise in the prince’s words.
Meilyr turned to him, shocked by his tentative relief. ‘Why would I?’
They stood close in the near dark, mere steps from the mouth of the corridor to the cloistered walkway and the hidden tunnels that would lead to Osian’s chambers.
Meilyr let himself look at him. Really look, as he had been too afraid to do for some time, tracing through their bond whilst studying his eyes. The subtle way he breathed. The life that burned so brilliantly it might chase away any chill just to move closer.
‘No,’ Meilyr confirmed. ‘I know you are not behind this. For a start, you are Khaimlic, but…’ Not only that. There was no trace of malicious intent anywhere within him.
Osian exhaled, quiet and thankful. ‘I thought perhaps certain rumours might have reached you. If there is any way…’ He trailed off.
They both heard it at the same instant. Footfall, growing louder.