It clicked, then, what she meant. Why she’d said it.
Because Ellis would enlist. He would. There was no question of an eventual draft when it came to Ellis, because he’d already be gone.
“You still Dream for Elly. Or of him, at least.” Milo’s voice was hoarse. He swallowed the burn working at the bottom of his throat. “You knew what happened the other night long before anyone could’ve told you.”
She didn’t deny it. She didn’t flinch.
She knew. She’d Dreamed. And so, here she was, doing exactly what she’d just got done cautioning against—tweaking at a strand, setting it awobble.
Milo clenched his fists tighter. “And what if I’ve a duty to him, then?”
“Oh, anwylyd. Of course you do.” She looked sad. Full of compassion, but determined too. “Only it’s not the sort either of you would choose, is it?”
Save him, Milo couldn’t even look at her.
It was odd that, even after what happened with Cennydd, this was what decided him.
Or maybe crystallized what something inside him had already been resolved to do when Cennydd sat in front of him and told Milo things were getting dangerous for people like him.
Made of duty. Infected by it. And, well. Maybe so.
“You’ve Dreamed it all through. All the ways it could go.” Milo had to clear his throat. “And he needs to stay in Wellech.”
“Yes.” Not even a second’s hesitation, but an underpinning of urgency that rattled like a warning. “Wellech has to need him to.”
Wellech already did. But, it seemed, not enough just yet to convincingly outweigh the needs of Preidyn when the declarations started rolling. Or the needs of Milo when Ellis found out what Milo was only just now realizing he intended to do.
It was a lot to expect, a lot to ask, for Milo to even know how to set a finger on one side of an imagined scale, to know on which side to place it, how much pressure to apply. It was a betrayal of sorts to merely consider it, manipulation at best, and shocking hubris to imagine he even had the right.
The funny thing was, he already knew how to tip this particular scale where it needed to go. It… didn’t make it any less awful.
Milo nodded, slow and heavy, and looked away. “I need time.”
Lilibet set her hand atop Milo’s, her grip strong, almost safe. “You have some. Not enough.”
“Yeah, well.” Milo tried to swallow the thousand emotions tangled in his throat like snarled skeins of thread. Couldn’t. “It’ll have to do.”
ELLIS WAS the last to leave, and yes, Lilibet had been right—Milo had to argue him into it. Even though it had been over a week since Lilibet had left, and four days since Dilys had. Ellis had been in Whitpool for over a fortnight now, when usually he was lucky if Wellech could spare him four or five days.
“Elly, I’m fine. I promise.”
Ellis had already handed his bag over to a porter. He had his ticket fisted in his hand, as though he was contemplating just throwing it to the floor of the platform and stomping it. In fact, he probably was.
“Are you sure, though? I can stay for another—”
“You can’t. You know you can’t. You should’ve been back last week.”
“Maybe. Yes. But damn it, I’m bloody tired of everyone else getting to decide when and how much I get to see you.” Ellis took hold of Milo’s shoulders, careful not to squeeze or jostle, because even though Milo really was fine, mostly healed, the odd movement still set him to hissing when he was surprised into it. Ellis leaned in until his brow was set to Milo’s. “You’ve been hurt, Milo. You were attacked. If you need me to—”
“I know, Elly.” Milo set his hands to Ellis’s lapels and a kiss to his cheek. “I know. And thank you. But I’m all right. I promise.”
The fug of coalsmoke and engine grease was nearly overwhelming. Milo pushed his face into Ellis’s shoulder, breathed in the scent of him, because Ellis always smelled like summer. Sandalwood in his hair, and cedar on his coat, and a touch of freesia at collar and cuffs. Good sweat and expensive soap and always, always the faintest trace of river silt.
Milo never wanted to let go.
But he made himself pull back. Made himself smile. Made himself lift his chin.
“You’ll be able to make it to Tirryderch next month? You’re sure?”
The Coven would be meeting there. And Milo had some things he needed to say to them. It was a long trip for Ellis, and Milo hadn’t liked asking it of him. But he’d had to. Had to.
“Yeah.” Ellis nodded, firm. “Or I can just come back in a fortnight, if that would be—”
“Elly!” Milo grinned, a real grin, because Ellis could pull them out of him without even trying. Without even knowing from how deep he was pulling. “Tirryderch. Next month. Dillie’s already offered—”
“Pardon me, syr.” The same porter who’d taken Ellis’s bag was now trying very hard not to notice the rather public clinch. “We’re boarding now.”
“Right.” Ellis pulled back. “Right. Yes. I’m coming.” But he was still looking at Milo like he was only waiting for a sign that he should stay.
Milo wanted to give it to him. He was careful not to. “Next month.” One more kiss. One more hug.
“All right. Next month.” Ellis sighed, but he let go, backed up slowly, still watching, then turned and followed the porter.
Milo waited to wave him off, keeping his smile as Ellis lifted a hand on the other side of the window. Milo didn’t move until the caboose rattled past him, and the smoke got too think, and there was nothing left to see but empty tracks.
He made his way to the car—Howell’s car now, with Howell waiting behind the wheel, indulgent smile on his face and a chipper “Home, then?” when Milo climbed in.
“Not… yet,” Milo said, unable to meet Howell’s eyes.
He gnawed his lip, guilty, and thought of how Howell and Glynn had finished up the Sowing migration when Milo was next to useless, and did it without a qualm, without a second of resentment, because Milo was family and they loved him.
He thought of Dilys, who’d come running all the way from Tirryderch, because Milo’d been hurt and needed her sarcasm and refusal to accept he wouldn’t be all right.
He thought of Ellis, and how he wouldn’t leave unless Milo made him, how he’d follow if Milo didn’t stop him, because love was not to be defined by clauses and riders on paper but was a contract of the heart, and Ellis’s was the biggest and most generous there was.
He thought of the dragons, how they trustingly slurped from troughs offered by their kin, and how someone had found a way to twist that trust into something not only sick and despicable, but quite possibly world-changing if it couldn’t be stopped.
He didn’t think of Lilibet, drawing Milo a map of emotion to show him how not to drag her son to a place he didn’t deserve to be. How he was needed right where he was, and Ellis always stayed where he was needed.
He didn’t think of Ceri, out there somewhere and still trying to protect a young man who hadn’t been her little boy for a very long time, but would still nevertheless always be.
“Will you drive me to the Home Guard’s office, please?” Milo pulled in a slow breath for courage before he looked Howell in the eye. “I need to see Colonel-in-Chief Alton.”
Chapter 12—Countermelody
: a secondary melodic idea that accompanies and opposes a main thematic idea
The thing about Tirryderch that always got to Ellis was the landscape. Rolling greens and lush grassy hills that tumbled out and up into mountains that cycled from peacock to verdigris to deepest carmine, depending on the weather or the angle or the set of the sun. Not tall enough to be snow-capped except in the deeps of winter, but grand and sprawling all the same. It was gorgeous.
He’d been here a handful of times, most of them when he was a boy, back when long trips were more exciting adventure than inconvenient necessity. Though, he reckoned as the train rumbled through the last pass and toward Tirryderch
proper, he’d likely make it a point to visit more if the railroad had a more direct route from Wellech. As it was, Wellech up to the Kymbrygh Central Station then back down to Tirryderch took nearly an entire day and evening. (Because the Kymbrygh Central Station wasn’t central at all. If it was, it would be in Wellech, but that was a sticky argument Wellech was never going to win with Kymbrygh’s MP.) As a result, it was well into dusk when Dilys picked Ellis up from the Tirryderch Station.
“I thought Milo might be with you.”
“Well, haia to you too.” Dilys grinned, waving away Ellis’s apology as she snagged his small valise and left the larger bag for him. “He’s holed up with Tad and Steffan over some…” Dilys paused with a twinkle, leading Ellis from the platform and down to a waiting car. “Actually, I don’t think I’m meant to tell you. I think it’s meant as a surprise.” She tossed the valise in the boot, waited for Ellis to load his other bag in, then jerked her chin as she slammed it shut. “Get in, then.”
“Wait.” Ellis paused with his hand on the door, a sinking feeling burbling in his gut. “I see no driver.”
There was that grin again, rather pleased this time and full of wicked promise. Dilys put her arms out, caroled “Ta-da!” and hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Oh,” said Ellis slowly. “Well. Crap.”
“DAMN IT, Dillie, cars have headlamps for a reason!”
“Yeah, for great wibbly boys who have no sense of adventure. It’s not even dark!”
“Not— Are you—? The bloody stars are out!”
“Oh, fine, you massive whinger.”
“What are you—? Watch where you’re going!”
“D’you want the lamps on or d’you want me to watch where I’m going?”
“Both!”
ELLIS TOOK it back—the landscape was not gorgeous. The landscape was full of twisty roads and blind curves, and he’d be happy if he never had to see it again. Or Dilys.
His hands were still gripping the dashboard, fingers cramped into claws, when Milo opened Ellis’s door and stooped down to give him a welcoming smile and a pair of raised eyebrows.
“Haia, Elly.”
Rugged was the first thing Ellis thought. Milo was the kind of person who looked too young and too fair for even peach fuzz but could actually grow a beard by just thinking really hard about it. Still, this was more than the four-days scruff Ellis was used to. Full and thick though neatly trimmed, black beard on pale cheeks capped by dark blue eyes sparking open welcome. More sinew-strapped bone than bulk and brawn, but the lean structure of Milo was put together like a fine, elegant house built on a scaffolding of solid steel. No hat over black hair gone long and just gathering a slight curl at the ends, but the durable walking trousers and the shabby but still somehow natty tweed coat and the casually open shirt collar…
Ellis opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed. “Haia, Milo.”
“Are you, ehm…?” Milo was smirking. Because he was a terrible person. “Are you getting out?”
“Soon as I can trust my knees.”
Dilys dipped down next to Milo with a contemplative look. “Is that green, d’you think?”
“Nah.” Milo shook his head. “He’s too lush for plain old green. More like viridian.”
“That’s not a color. You made that up.”
“Didn’t. It’s still green but richer and with a tinge of blue. Deeper. More striking.”
Terrible. Person.
“You’re only saying that because you’re a sop and too twee for words.” Dilys looked back at Ellis, eyes narrowed, then tipped a sharp nod. “Green.”
Ellis unclamped his hand from the dash and latched it over Dilys’s face instead. He gave her a shove back.
“You are a vile minger who shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car, and I hate you.”
Dilys stumbled back, laughing. “That’s what Milo said!” she crowed, then popped the boot and skipped up the steps to Ty Mynydd with a bounce to her step that was just flat insulting.
Ellis glowered over at Milo, who was peering back at him with a glint Ellis really didn’t want to melt at seeing, but it couldn’t be helped. This Milo was a far cry from the one Ellis had left at the Whitpool station a month ago, still tired and shaky and far too pale then, and looking as though his world had been yanked from under him.
Then again, it rather had been.
It was dark, but the lamps on the drive and front step were lit, so Ellis had no problem seeing that Milo’s color was better. And the way he was still leaning down, relaxed and cheerful, told Ellis the sting and stiffness must be gone as well.
“Haia,” Milo said. Soft. Happy.
“Haia,” Ellis said back, smiling because he couldn’t help it, then finally hefted himself from the car.
He hadn’t been kidding—his knees really were a bit unreliable. And Dilys really was evil and shouldn’t be allowed to drive.
Milo waited for Ellis to straighten with a huff, before—smile crimping, eyes gone urgent—he moved in close and wrapped his arms around Ellis’s neck. Tight. Pressed together as though Milo were trying to fuse them into one person. Full of some fraught emotion Ellis could sense but didn’t entirely understand.
“I’m here,” Ellis said, gripping Milo back, and stuck his face into Milo’s shoulder, home again, no matter where he was. “Missed you.” Hushed and heartfelt, and said into Milo’s neck.
“Yeah. Me too.”
It lasted until Ellis heard Ty Mynydd’s front door swing open again, and one of the valets politely clearing his throat as he descended the steps. Milo pulled back, hands to Ellis’s arms, and gave him a bright-eyed grin as the valet took Ellis’s bags from the car and stood to wait.
“They gave you a room next to your mam’s.” Milo jerked his head at the valet. “I was hoping you wouldn’t need it.”
Lilibet had left Wellech last week to arrive a few days before the Coven. Ellis couldn’t help wondering if Dilys had driven Lilibet from the train station too, and if she had, if the experience had been as nerve-shattering as it had for Ellis.
Ellis made a show of thinking about Milo’s unspoken but quite obvious question, then shrugged. “Can’t think why I would.”
Milo grinned and shut the car’s door. He tugged at Ellis’s arm.
“C’mon, they held supper for you.”
THE PILE that was Ty Mynydd couldn’t be easily classified. There was an ancient longhouse underneath there somewhere, but each generation of Mosses had added to it according to their own tastes with no thought toward keeping one style harmonized with another. Thus, from the outside, it was as though a child had stomped through a pile of building blocks, albeit very expensive and well-made ones. On the inside, though, it was like walking through history in stasis.
The wing that belonged to Nia and Terrwyn and Steffan was expansive yet somehow cozy, predictably more modern than the rest but still warm and homely. Room upon room, each a lesson in taste and comfort. Bare-beamed ceilings lofted high over polished oak floors that lay beneath thick woven rugs in rich reds and deepest blues. Overstuffed couches and plump chairs sat in clusters around hearths, all of it accented with gleaming cherrywood tables and bookshelves overflowing with carefully chosen titles.
Supper had been simple by Dilys’s request and to Ellis’s delight. Rarebit made with a savory mix of sharp and mild cheeses, and a cawl so full of beef and lamb chunks and more vegetables than Ellis knew existed there was hardly room for the broth. Good, dark Tirryderch apple ale set it all alight on his tongue, and finally relaxed him enough he could unclench, unwind. And possibly ward off the headache that had started building on the train and Dilys hadn’t helped even a little bit.
Though Ellis couldn’t help but be pleased to see that Pedr and Prys, Dilys’s half brothers, apparently made it their business to torture her as much as she enjoyed torturing everyone else. The chatter over the supper table never stopped, the insults both far too intelligent for boys that age as well as proper hilarious. With
Dilys giving back as good as she got—with clear affection and a touch of sibling pride—it was almost like watching from the wings of a panto.
All of it eased Ellis into a wonderful warmth, and he was sort of sad to see it end when Steffan sent the boys off for baths. It seemed to be the signal for everyone to adjourn. Ellis barely remembered leaving the table, since he was now in the process of becoming one with the couch, oozing into the cushions, and merely watching the conversation around him rather than participating. Or really even paying attention.
“It’s not about politics, Mam.” Dilys sighed, retorting to something Nia had been saying about… Ellis had lost track again. The last time he’d been listening the conversation had been veering into… hm. Schools, maybe?
“Everything is about politics,” Terrwyn put in, diffident. “Our existence is political.” He gestured between himself and Steffan and Nia, then smirked with a jerk of his chin at Dilys. “So’s yours and your brothers’.”
And, well, that was true. Tirryderch had gone a bit insane, back when Nia (its Pennaeth for only less than a year at that point) and Steffan had pulled Terrwyn (too young to have won a seat on the parish council, but nonetheless won it he had) into their arrangement, skipped a courtship contract altogether and gone right for cariad. And then it rather exploded when Nia took advantage of ancient and very ambiguous bylaws in Tirryderch’s charter to change the Pennaeth position from an inherited post to an elected one, co-equal with Tirryderch’s council. Traditionally more of a support system for the Pennaeth than an independent body, the council stepped right up to its new remit, and was now more loyal to their Pennaeth than they’d been before.
The Sisters only just barely endorsed the cariad contract, but that was nothing new. Allowing the union of the magic-rich Rydderch bloodline with the Moss wealth and political stature, alongside the prestige of the Hill ancestry Steffan brought to the mix, was just asking to one day be deposed. Or, in Nia’s case, ignored. But as long as no one publicly or actively opposed the Sisters, they were content to pretend it was all their own strategy and let things lie.
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