‘Hold on. Just a moment longer.’
The cool air struck his fevered flesh. There were people on the balconies, but the prince slipped through them, Meilyr propped up in his arms, away from the noise and the light, down several sets of steps. Across soft grass that gave a little under their boots, further, and up a different set of narrow stone steps, into the isolated folly overlooking the fragrant rear gardens and the sea. Where he deposited Meilyr gently onto a stone bench and knelt, hands firm in his. ‘Breathe, Meilyr. Breathe.’
Meilyr’s head tipped forward, and he breathed. Sharp, shuddering breaths. Had it not been for the immovable Osian before him and the cool, steady stone, he would have lost consciousness.
Damn the awful sensation where his nerves ripped his body to pieces. Damn it.
Slowly, the screech in his skull dropped. Sound came back, night-birds and wind. The wave of fire washed through him, leaving him empty and shivering with cold sweat. Boneless, picked clean on the shore.
Osian’s hands were wonderfully warm, clamped in his.
With a slow strike of shock, Meilyr remembered himself. Saw and felt how the aromatic wisteria, draped around the open arches of the folly, had begun to open and curl inwards behind Osian, towards them both.
‘Do not move,’ the prince said firmly, with care.
He had not noticed, thank the gods. ‘Majesty,’ Meilyr began.
‘If you ask for forgiveness for something out of your control…’ The prince did not need to finish. ‘Take the time you need.’
Meilyr let the protest slip away. It was not hard. He trembled, wretchedly, no matter how he tried to bite it back. Damn this weakness, here of all places.
The prince squeezed his hands, then gently pried his own free as he rose. To Meilyr’s horror, he unfastened his own belt and the exquisite silk tunic that fell to his knees, shrugged it off and laid it over Meilyr’s lap.
It, too, was wonderfully warm.
‘Majesty—’
‘Take your time.’
Meilyr wanted to liquefy through the bench into the earth. ‘I cannot—’
‘You can.’ That gentle not-command, agonizingly earnest.
Everything in Meilyr wanted to object, except his flesh, which sighed with traitorous relief at that damned pool of indigo silk in his lap. He gave up and pulled the tunic higher over his arms and chest, waiting for the sword to fall.
But the prince only stood, in his finely embroidered ivory-and-gold under-tunic, meeting his gaze. The wisteria had settled, heavy heads bobbing lightly amidst the colourful frescoes that marked the internal walls of the folly: nature scenes, wild animals, sympathetic people. ‘Do you require a physician?’
‘No,’ Meilyr answered immediately. ‘No. Forgive me, Majesty.’
Osian tilted his head.
Meilyr closed his mouth. Opened it again. ‘That merely… took me by surprise. What you said.’An Ectheid.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Meilyr focused on the gold embroidery covering him, his daft shivering calming. ‘It was merely the wine, I think.’ A lie. The wine had not helped, but sometimes when his nerves pushed towards breaking point, his body simply capsized. A traitorous infliction he had suffered since adolescence, similar to what had happened on the hunt. ‘Yes, I want to talk about them. Forgive—’
He caught himself.
There was no reprimand in Osian’s eyes, only understanding. The prince glanced towards the terraces, voice lowered. ‘My father will have sent Lord Gelens to investigate Lord Leighton’s death. I should have foreseen this; he detests sorcery above all things. There is no other reason he would agree to such a minimal public response.’
The wind picked up. The wisteria shrank.
‘Hopefully they can find the killer?’ Meilyr asked, chilled fingers deep in fine silk.
‘Yes. I am thankful your brother has returned home.’
So was Meilyr.