Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Golden Henbane.
Not to be confused with its far more poisonous cousin, regular henbane.
Golden henbane is a medicinal spirit-nectar, irreplaceable in a
healer’s repertoire.
Caution: Still incredibly poisonous if used foolishly.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
TWENTY-SEVEN
Meilyr updated Pedr and Blythe with a handful of requests, including that Aldreda be informed, then found himself pulled back to the bedchamber by a fear that had curled up in the cage of his ribs.
Osian shifted: eyes heavy, voice hoarse. ‘What… happened?’
Meilyr moved the basins and returned to his place on the edge of the bed, where he soaked and wrung out a fresh cloth for the prince’s forehead. ‘You were poisoned. Fox’s tears, and a very high dosage. You should be dead.’
Osian’s gaze intensified. ‘Fox’s tears…’
‘It is the plant I asked you to grow in the gardens.’
There was no surprise, only a grim edge. ‘So.’ He coughed dryly, painfully.
Meilyr helped him drink, which made him cough more. ‘You need to rest.’
‘I will. Someone – someone is making it appear you tried to kill me.’
‘I could not say. It could merely be that someone recognised the plant and had access to your goblet.’
Exhausted, cool amusement. ‘Perhaps a stretch.’
Meilyr forced down the feeling stirred by that look. ‘So is believing someone is trying to implicate me. Surely anyone trying to blame me would know I could come up with better means to kill you.’
‘They underestimated you. How rude.’
‘I… did not mean—’
‘You did, and it was… good.’ Osian’s smile was crooked but overwhelmingly warm. ‘You should be offended to be framed so poorly. Whoever—’ He coughed himself out of words.
Meilyr moved to soothe him, and the prince gripped his arm reflexively.
‘Damn,’ Osian croaked.
‘Your insides are likely to feel raw for a few days. It is far more pleasant than the alternative, I promise you.’
‘You speak with experience.’
Meilyr hesitated. ‘Not personal, but yes.’
Osian’s eyes closed, grip loosening. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Sensing he was at the very edge of sleep, Meilyr said nothing.
Moments later, Osian jolted, fingers tight. ‘Do not – do not go anywhere without Pedr. Please. Someone has failed in this, and…’
Meilyr laid a hand over his. ‘Of course. Rest, My Prince.’
Osian drifted, their hands touching.
Some unknown time later, there was a soft knocking at the outer door. Meilyr slipped from the bedchamber, crossed the parlour and retrieved the bundle from Pedr’s arms.
He had only done this a handful of times, shown often as a child by both his parents but only with sporadic chances to put it into practice.
Twice when Celyn had been poorly – several times when Idwal had been dying.
The process was a loaded, heavy thing, brimming with love and pain and memory – to prepare and mix and bring to boil, to stir and wait, and taste.
When he returned to the bedchamber, it was an easier muscle memory to slip onto the bed and refresh the cloth on Osian’s forehead. Once more, the prince leaned into the touch.
‘Your cawl is ready, you should try to stomach a little.’
He had added golden henbane, dandelion and more burdock root, with just enough weaving to rouse the life left in them: unconventional, but hopefully it would not offset the taste too much.
Together, they propped Osian up. Meilyr spoon-fed him, brushing aside his feeble attempts to help. The prince spluttered the first mouthful, then managed more smoothly.
‘Ugh,’ he intoned.
‘It will pass. You are incredibly lucky.’
‘Luck has… nothing to do with it.’
Meilyr looked away. ‘That will do for now, I think. You should sleep.’
At least there was more colour in his cheeks as Meilyr set the bowl aside.
‘Cawl,’ the prince said thoughtfully.
Meilyr froze. He had used the word without thinking. ‘Forgive me – a slip. It will not happen again.’
‘No,’ Osian said. ‘I was merely thinking how everything sounds better when you say it. Tutors always… Ugh.’
‘Tutors?’
A small, tired nod. ‘When I was… younger. Beseeched my father for lessons – born to be named prince and all that, so I reasoned… we never would be able to destroy the language. Better I knew what was being said. Ha. Took months, but he conceded, for a time.’
Osian’s careful, near-perfect accent. The care he took over every Cyngaleg name.
‘I had no idea,’ Meilyr said.
‘It was kept very quiet. I always meant to tell you, but…’ Their eyes met. ‘When you speak, I remember more of it. Your voice…’ He coughed again. Groaned again. ‘This is abysmal.’
Meilyr had to smile. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You did not poison me.’
‘You are so sure.’
‘I am,’ Osian said. ‘If you had poisoned me, I would be dead.’ A pause. His hand moved towards his lowest ribs. ‘I was hit by an arrow, here, during my first battle. Forced to lie in bed for a week. This is worse.’
Meilyr felt his mouth quirk higher. ‘I will update my notes. Fox’s tears, worse than an arrow to the abdomen.’
‘Good, it is vital information.’
‘Truly.’
‘The populace must be warned.’
‘Absolutely.’
Osian’s weary, endearing amusement – whatever this was – felt so natural it was only then that Meilyr stumbled and glanced away.
The prince’s expression sobered. ‘You do not have to nurse me. You have done more than enough.’
It was true, but the thought of leaving him felt… wrong.
‘Perhaps better I am seen as an attentive consort. If you do not die in the night, it might even convince others I did not poison you.’
Osian studied him, then gave up the fight. ‘I suppose.’ He exhaled, long and quiet. ‘Might I… be allowed a bath?’
‘You should sleep, My Prince.’
‘I will, I simply…’
The effort to ask drained him, but it would be its own form of help, Meilyr knew. He went and told Pedr and Blythe not to panic if they heard the pipes, and they came to help prepare the bath, desperate to be useful. Soon the filled tub steamed invitingly, and Meilyr politely sent the pair out.
‘I can attend myself,’ Osian insisted.
He stumbled as he tried to stand.
‘Stop, please.’ Heat blossomed as Meilyr unfastened the small buttons down the front of his tunic: a memory-mirror to the night of the ruined hunt, echoing with the night in the folly.
He needed to shut himself away. This was all still a lie.
The burn from Osian’s fevered skin seeped into his hands even without touch.
‘Thank you,’ the prince said.
Meilyr pushed the tangle of emotions into a wry smile. ‘It is somewhat my duty.’
‘Please read, or rest. Anything you need. I will not drown.’
‘Is that the swearing of another royal oath?’
‘More than that.’ Their fingers brushed as Osian stepped clear and took himself beyond the partition to the bath.
Meilyr fretted, uselessly. Settled on the divan but strained to listen: the soft scuffing of fabric, subtle entry splashes.
‘I am in. I have not drowned.’ A cough.
‘Thank you for telling me.’ He meant it.
Sometime later, ‘I am still breathing.’ Another small cough.
‘I am pleased to hear it.’ He was.
Later, the muffled splashing of getting out. No thud, just dripping and scuffing.
Meilyr rose as the prince came around the partition in a long, thick robe. His damp hair was going riotously curly, and there was blessed colour in his skin. He looked almost human.
‘That was an excellent decision, if I say so myself.’
‘I am glad. You should sleep now, Majesty.’
‘I will. The water is still quite hot, if you…’
It felt more suggestive – more intimate than the way the robe hung open past his inviting collarbones, the strong but vulnerable curve of his throat.
Meilyr’s lips tingled. ‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I will think on it.’
They stood close, achingly aware of each other. Meilyr could still feel the hum of Osian’s blood, the warmth of his bath-heated body, even these generous two paces apart. He could all but taste him, his flesh remembering the corridor wall. The folly.
This was a lie. This was all a lie.
‘Thank you,’ Osian said, as though not wishing to break something. ‘For so very much. Could I – is there any more cawl?’
‘Yes. I will bring it to you, Majesty.’
‘Thank you.’
Meilyr moved through an unsteady breath on his way to the fireplace, flexing his hands where his fingers still felt wrong and frozen. A bath was a wonderful idea.
Cawl first. He brought it back to near-boil and could not have taken long, but when he edged back into the bedchamber, the prince was fast asleep on the covers.
There was something heart-wrenchingly drained about him, which was still better than when his breakability could have ripped Meilyr’s chest open.
It felt like it had in the Great Hall.
The world was a different place now. Only that morning, the fact Osian could look this fragile would have seemed impossible.
He remembered the dread that had crept up to him in the gardens. Had something tried to warn him?
The magnitude of that possibility was too much.
His own exhaustion had him skewered and dried out in the rafters, but Osian was not dead, and looked more at rest than he had all night.
So Meilyr stopped hovering in the doorway and set the cawl on the bedside table, in case the prince awoke ravenous anytime soon.
The fire was well tended, wrapping the room in a comfortable balm; Osian needed to be kept temperate, but a bout of unbroken rest was more valuable than disturbing him yet.
Pedr and Blythe tensed as he opened the outer door.
‘His Majesty has bathed and is sleeping. He should be through the worst, but I will watch over him.’
‘Thank you, Highness.’ Blythe’s eyes were red. She and Pedr looked wrecked.
‘Thank you for moving so swiftly,’ Meilyr told them. ‘For doing so much.’
Blythe shook her head. ‘You saved him, Highness. Thank you.’
Pedr could not speak; their jaw worked, pained.
Neither of them could have harmed Osian, he was sure of it.
When he returned inside, he checked on Osian before moving to the washroom to add more hot water to the tub and undress, too aware of his own skin. He lowered himself gingerly into the steaming water, hissing at the temperature.
Good. Let it burn everything away. It chased the chill from his hands as he submerged to his chin, to boil or drown the last lingering sting of poison.
Rain patterned against the windows. He angled his knees and dunked his head. His eyelids seared. His hair drifted, the longest it had been since before his parents had died.
He slipped his eyes and nose back out of the water, covered his face with his prickling hands and fought back a sob.
It was harder than pulling the poison from Osian’s veins. Harder than stomaching Cadogan, and all the whispers and comments. His exhausted body shuddered with the need to come undone, to crack open like a dying tree, the sap exploding under pressure and pain upon pain upon pain.
No. If he cried, that would be the end of it. He pinched his nose and rolled on his side, burying himself in the water like a child under blankets. A body in a grave.
He would not cry. Everything was fine – Osian was not dead, Celyn was free, Wade Bevan would be fine. Everyone would be fine.
He thumped the basin, a slowed, unsatisfyingly muted frustration.
The last of his air bubbled sideways. The susurrated roar of his heart slowed.
He got out of the bath and into the heavy, soft robe left for him. By the time he stepped past the partition, he had swallowed himself back into some semblance of functionality and merely had a dull, nagging headache.
The divan was immensely inviting, but he needed to check on Osian.
The prince was exactly where he had left him. Meilyr tended the burned-down fire; the room was still pleasant, but Osian – also only in his robe – should be beneath the covers.
Meilyr stood over him, conflicted. He needed to wake him, so he reached over him for the bedcovers, other hand gently pressing his shoulder. ‘Majesty? Majesty, you—’
Osian surged like a storm wave. He grabbed Meilyr and heaved him sideways onto the bed, tumbling with him – pinning him, sudden and jarring.
Everything shifted in the stillness as Osian’s gaze cleared and the assailant before him became Meilyr. Meilyr pressed beneath him, his wrists pinned above his head, the weight of the prince’s heated, firm body affixing him to the sheets.
Dark embers lit in the depths of Osian’s eyes.
Meilyr’s shock burned away in raw desire. The bond was almost a cacophony as Osian tangibly held back the flood of his own want, almost enough to unmoor them both.
As the prince spoke very carefully, he could not quite dam the hunger from his low, poison-torn voice. ‘You should not sneak up on someone raised to expect assassins around every corner.’
Meilyr’s heart thundered. ‘I did not sneak up on you, My Prince. Though perhaps you should be more suspicious of the contents of your cup than corners.’
They were only in robes, Meilyr’s perilously bared thigh against Osian’s mercifully covered one. With vivid and decimating clarity, he imagined how Osian’s strong, warm hand might splay across his exposed skin and grip—
The prince moved to let him up. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.
Meilyr remained, wrecked by possibility, before pulling himself up on his elbows and adjusting his robe. ‘The fault is mine, Majesty. I should not have woken you.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘No, I merely thought you might freeze if left out of the covers.’
‘Ah.’
Osian had left an imprint of himself on Meilyr’s body, treasonously suggesting it would be easy to reach for him. To pull him close again and plunge into the ever-present waters that had beckoned him even since before that devastating kiss.
Meilyr took hold of the sensation, once more resolutely threw it into the ocean and moved from the bed. ‘Your cawl will be cold. I will be right back.’