Princeweaver

Chapter 39

THIRTY-NINE

Almost seven centuries since the tragedy of the Sundering.

Almost six hundred years of bloodshed and war since.

We know so little,

and have lost so much more.

Dragon of White, Dragon of Red: Cyngalon, A History,

Gwydderig gan Brioc

THIRTY-NINE

In Osian’s rooms, Meilyr let the royal physician look him over, numb.

He had asked after Pedr immediately: ‘They are alive,’ the physician had told him. ‘The wound is deep, but they are strong. The night will tell.’

Haydn had also been seen to and would recover. Meilyr’s hands still trembled as the physician’s assistant washed away the blood. ‘These cuts might scar,’ they said, ‘but thank the gods you’re all right.’

‘You two will be the death of me,’ Harlan informed him, fastidiously neatening cushions, eyes bloodshot.

When they had all finished, Meilyr asked to be left alone. Asked to be told should anything change with Pedr or Haydn, or if there was word from Osian.

Everyone, including a reluctant Blythe, departed.

He flexed his frozen fingers and swallowed the urge to scream. The urge to crumple and cry and hyperventilate and choke. He needed to focus on something – something he could touch.

Pedr.

He went to Osian’s desk and the apothecary supplies there, and spotted the new addition immediately: a small cutting of yew, no more than a handful of connected needle-like leaves. A folded missive that said, Highness Meilyr Cadogan, apologies this took so long. Please forgive me.

Haydn.

Meilyr broke off a strip of needles and ate them. Winced, and went to wash it down with a shock of wine. The sample was bells older than he would have liked, but he was woven with the old tree in the gardens now. Perhaps that would be of help when the killer next struck.

He returned to the desk and inventoried what was there. Almost the right things.

Blythe jumped as he heaved open the door and made an uncertain face as he made his request. ‘Highness, I’m definitely not supposed to leave you.’

‘It’s for Pedr. Please.’

Her expression changed. ‘I’ll rouse someone, but you go back behind that door and lock it, understand? I’ll shout when it’s done.’

‘Thank you, Blythe – thank you.’

Deryn came, hands full of supplies. She waited until they were alone, then threw her arms around him. ‘Gods! When we heard, I thought…’

He squeezed her arms as she stepped back, her cheeks flushed, eyes welling.

‘I am all right,’ he said, the old stone of the words truly crumbling. ‘How is your father?’

‘A bit better, thanks to you. I came to tell you, and then all this happened.’

‘I am so glad to hear it. Could you… help me with this? My hands…’

She put her own to her mouth as she saw. Moved as if to touch his chest, then got to work.

It did not take long and was certainly easier with the two of them; her steady, un-cut hands followed his instructions carefully. Her focus reminded him of Heulwen.

Heulwen. How was she? Had she heard about Mister Bevan?

About Celyn…?

He pushed that aside, to ambush him with the rest of his thoughts later. At the door, Blythe made another face, but had the physician fetched.

‘Please, humour me,’ Meilyr said after he explained to them. ‘I in no way mean to overstep.’

‘Ser Pedr needs all the aid they can get.’ The physician took the poultice without pause for ego. ‘Thank you, Highness. I’d pray, as well, if you feel inclined.’

They left, as did Deryn. As did Blythe.

Meilyr floated to Osian’s bed and slumped on its edge, the last of his strength poured into that poultice. He stared at the wall, unseeing, pulse still pitched towards panic.

After what felt like an age, the far door opened.

Osian strode inside.

Meilyr stumbled, Osian ran, and they came together outside the bedchamber.

Or almost: Osian reached, but stopped, pain in his eyes. ‘Did they…’ He was stricken. Furious, his voice barely above a low whisper. ‘Meilyr, what did they do to you?’

Gods, he was afraid to touch him.

Meilyr understood with staggering certainty and took hold of his fingers, his arm. ‘No – no, My Prince, they did not. I’m all right.’

‘Swear it to me. Please. Do not keep it from me, if…’

Meilyr touched his chest, his cheek, and exhaled it like an oath. ‘I swear it. I swear, I’m all right.’

Some great, knotted beast left Osian’s flesh. He drew a shaking breath and lifted his fingers once more. ‘May I…?’

Meilyr nodded, dazed.

Osian took Meilyr’s face in his hands, oh-so gently. Something twisted in the prince, so close to breaking. ‘I thought…’ He could not finish it.

Meilyr’s hands were on the front of his tunics, on the fine beading there, Osian’s life blazing through what remained of the chill. ‘No,’ Meilyr assured him. ‘No, they did not.’

Osian ghosted a thumb over his lips, burning away Terrell’s cruel pressure. His other fingers were lightly at Meilyr’s jaw, his neck, his gaze mapping him back into reality.

He must have been able to feel Meilyr’s heart hammering.

‘Osian…’

The very edge of the cliff waited at their feet, so close Meilyr could taste the salt of Osian’s skin.

‘Forgive me,’ Osian whispered. ‘Forgive me…’

Something in him gave way, and he pulled Meilyr against him, lifted him with the same motion. Several fierce, stumbled steps and he pitched them both onto the bed.

The air rushed from Meilyr’s lungs, desire igniting.

‘Forgive me,’ Osian repeated against his ear. He did not move other than to hold Meilyr there, beneath him on the sheets.

Meilyr clung to him. He was so warm, so present, it made his head spin. More than the other night. More than when he had kissed him. Here was Osian so utterly bared – so earnest. The press of his body, the weight Meilyr wanted to fix him here, to the prince and to the world.

After a long, dizzying moment, Osian pulled back to meet his gaze.

There was no way the prince could miss it. Meilyr watched recognition light in the depths of his eyes as he saw just how much – disarmed and raw – Meilyr wanted him.

Gods damn him, he did. He wanted him so much he forgot how to breathe.

Osian stared, breath and muscles stalled. Seeing it, knowing it.

Heart hammering, Meilyr pressed three times with his finger, near the prince’s shoulder blade.

Slowly, slow enough Meilyr could still have stopped him, Osian leaned in and kissed his throat where his heart-blood flowed strongest. The barest, utterly maddening press of his mouth. ‘This is enough,’ Osian said against his pulse, chasing want through every part of him. ‘This is enough.’

It did not feel enough. Not at all.

Meilyr’s hands were vices at Osian’s shoulders, his entire body tethered at the precipice.

And he wanted to fall. He really, truly did.

Osian rolled onto his side, pulling Meilyr with him, not quite entangled but facing each other. His hands were in Meilyr’s hair as he breathed him in before placing his lips to his forehead. ‘Forgive me, this is more than enough.’

Meilyr clung to him. This had to be enough – beyond it, there was only… He had to steady his breathing. His needing flesh already tried to betray him, Osian’s scent a profusion, his heat thawing the frost Meilyr had been made of.

Enough. This had to be enough.

He forced his eyes closed and bit his damaged lip. He had to talk to Osian. He wanted to talk to him.

‘Are you all right?’ The close, quiet depth of Osian’s voice. ‘Do you need me to stop?’

Meilyr opened his eyes.

Osian meant it. He would have withdrawn and given Meilyr the bed, the room, any space he needed, even as desire broke him apart from the inside.

But Meilyr did not want space. He brushed his fingers close to Osian’s lips, devouring the way desire limned the prince’s eyes, his breath tingling already-healing skin.

It was seamless to shift his knee, to slide and hook his leg around Osian’s and draw him closer, shift their bodies so they fitted together. Osian’s thigh settled between his own, and his lungs hitched.

Tentatively, Osian traced his shoulders, the curve of his spine. Their breathing was shallow, hot against Meilyr’s fingers.

Everything in him wanted to move his hand and kiss Osian, move his knee higher around his hip and tip him on top of him. It was harder not to, the feeble, final barrier of his fingertips beginning to shake.

Osian trailed his hand around Meilyr’s waist, down his arm, and lightly touched the back of his hand, just enough to kiss each finger under the cuts, with care and intimate devotion.

Gods, damn it.

Meilyr took hold of his wrist and pulled – rolled, so Osian came with him, having nowhere to go but on top of him.

Their fingers laced, foreheads touching as they settled into the weight. The gravity. Meilyr’s hips moved, chasing it, craving the pressure of Osian’s thigh – the feel of his want. Osian met the rhythm, and a sound of need built in Meilyr’s mouth.

It slipped into the fraction of air between them as Osian’s free hand cupped his face.

It was only the final, desperate shred of restraint that kept him from Osian’s lips. Even as their bodies moved, they both knew; if they kissed, that would be it.

Osian pressed their temples together, knuckles white. ‘Meilyr, I thought…’

‘I know,’ Meilyr murmured into his jaw, close to his ear. ‘I know…’

A pained catch in Osian’s lungs. He kissed Meilyr’s forehead, his cheekbone, his jaw. Hovered above the sensitive skin of his neck, where his fingers had trailed. Again, he must have been able to feel Meilyr’s pulse, fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

‘Osian…’

The prince tensed. Like by the lake, something in him staggered.

He pulled back unsteadily, to his hands and knees to sit on the sheets. ‘I – I am sorry.’

Meilyr could barely move, the feeling of Osian burned into his body. Confusion radiated. ‘Why are you sorry?’

Tension had locked Osian in place: doubt, and worry. ‘So much has happened to you tonight, and I…’

Meilyr tamped down longing and sat up, touched Osian’s cheek, coaxed him to look at him. ‘Osian, I… Please, do not be sorry. If you wish to stop, you only need to say.’

Osian took his hand and kissed the base of his thumb, as though he remembered where they had sworn their blood oath. ‘It is not that. I should not have pushed you into proximity.’

‘You didn’t.’ Meilyr had pushed him, surely. ‘And I did not mind, at all.’

The furthest thing from it.

His exhausted mind stumbled over that fact. A little brightness stole its way back into Osian’s gaze, and Meilyr tried to push the truth forward, even as it dismantled him.

He had wanted Osian on top of him. Had wanted to kiss him. Still wanted it.

He had wanted it by the lake, and before. Gods damn him, he wanted him.

And Osian wanted him too.

But admitting any of that, laying it out between them on the sheets felt impossible. It caught in his mouth, tangled him up like bunched roots. ‘Please,’ he said instead, ‘there is nothing to forgive.’

They stared at one another until Meilyr looked away, belated heat in his cheeks. ‘Could we… if Your Majesty would not mind staying…’ He pulled Osian’s hand closer, then let go and lay on his side: an invitation to return to how they had been.

He did not want Osian to withdraw. Not unless it was what Osian wanted.

Slowly, Osian mirrored his position. They did not touch, but something eased.

‘My Prince, what happened? How did you find us?’

Osian exhaled quietly. ‘Pedr. Pedr is the reason I found you. They overpowered their attacker and called for aid. Were it not for them, who knows how long…’ His hands tensed.

Meilyr touched his knuckles. ‘You have a truly remarkable knight.’

‘I do. I am told they crawled to the edge of the gardens and had me summoned. Their attacker was out cold, but Pedr had heard and seen enough to tell me everything I needed.’

A shadow moved through Osian. Meilyr gripped his hand. ‘What is it?’

He was sure he already knew.

He was only half right.